His For Christmas (22 page)

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Authors: Fiona Shin

BOOK: His For Christmas
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When Mrs. Chang was home.
When there was another person to stop him before he made a complete fool out of himself.
Yes, that sounded about right.
She cleared her throat delicately. “I'm afraid this will not wait.”
Briefly, Elliot entertained the thought of staying silent. Would she stay out there for an indefinite period of time? Would she simply just barge in? What type of person was Ivy Stevens?
But his conscience could not let him do such a thing.
Better to get it over with.
Mentally steeling himself, he grabbed a pen to look as though he'd been interrupted. “You might as well come in, Miss Stevens.”
The doorknob swiveled and when she stepped in, he was almost nonchalant. Actually, he was quite proud of his gruff facade. Damn, maybe he’d missed his calling as an actor. “Yes?”
She closed the door softly behind her and turned to face him, a nondescript expression on her pale face. “I'm sorry to bother you.”
I'm sorry to bother you.
A million replies ran through his mind. “No bother.”
Gazing at the floor, she rubbed at her face in a distracted manner. “There is something I must ask you, Mr. Whitley. I hope you can forgive me for my forwardness in advance.”
He nodded, warily. “What can I do for you?”
She bit the corner of her red lips and his groin tightned.
Damn.
“Why do you hate me?”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
A wave of pink rushed up her cheeks as she took a step forward. Too close. “I'm not an idiot. You can't stand me. You can't even look me in the eyes. You speak to me as though I am a simpleton.”
Astounded. Gobsplattered. A myriad of like emotions whirled through his head. “You...a simpleton?”
Ivy crossed her arms, drawing his attention to her breasts and he was ashamed he couldn't seem to look away. “I understand how you must feel. I am an interloper in your home. And I am sorry. If you would just let me work off my debt to you -”
He held up a hand, effectively stopping her from going any further, coming any closer. “I don't hate you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And now you're lying.”
“I'm not lying,” he replied and leaned back in his chair, not entirely sure what to say. “Christ, Ivy, for such a beautiful thing, you sure can be a fool.”
She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with steady eyes he didn't, couldn't trust. “Beautiful? Perhaps in the past. But you've seen me at my worst.”
“Doesn't matter. I see you now, in front of me.” He took a deep breath, decided to take a plunge. If a gruff exterior didn't scare her away, perhaps truth would. “You're a pretty little thing. I can't help what I feel. I'm only a man.”
Inwardly, he winced at his callous words, callous tone, but her expression did not change a whit.
“Were that true, then you would not look at me as though I were refuse found on the bottom of your shoes.”
He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and then shut it. She had him there. What the hell was he supposed to say to
that?
She was in front of his desk now. Too close. If he moved his hand just a fraction, he could touch her.
“Please be honest,” she said quietly, so quiet he barely heard her over the roar of the blizzard. “If you can't stand me, I will leave.”
No.
Don't go.
But how could he say something like that? He swallowed the lump in his painfully dry throat. “Ivy. I'm just a man. That's something you ought to know. I am not...
safe.
You're an extraordinarily beautiful woman.” He took a deep breath. “It's only natural that I would feel...something.”
Yes. Best to say all of this now.
He prayed it was enough to scare her away.
“You want me,” she said. “Is that what you mean?”
Somehow, he found the courage to meet her steady gaze. “Yes.”
***
He wanted her.
The breath left her in a rush and she felt her palms sweat.
“I thought you despised me.”
His eyes were haunted as he threw up in hands in exasperation. “Of course I despise you! You make me feel things I thought were long dead. I don’t want to remember anymore. I don’t want to know, don’t want to feel anymore. There was a woman. Before. When she left me, she took everything. She left me a broken man, and I’m damn sure I won’t be able to live with myself should I let it happen again.”
Ivy clenched her hands, tight enough she felt the brief pain as her fingernails dug into her skin. She was grateful Mrs. Chang had taken Timothy with her to the gathering. This was a conversation that needed to happen. “I’m not her.”
“No,” he said. “I wish you were. I wish you were, so I could pontificate on the many ways I’d like to see you burn in hell. It wasn’t right what she did. And it’s not right for me to still hate her, after all this time, but I do. I'm not a saint.” He sat down heavily on a chair, head in his hands. “Can’t you see? She’s taken everything from me. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of her. She ruined me.”
“No. Don't say that.” She knelt at his feet, taking care not to touch him. She had to see his face, had to see the dark, enigmatic eyes that burned into her heart, her very soul. “I am not her, Elliot. I’m so sorry she left you in such a despicable manner. But please, you must know I am not her, that I will never be her.”
He shook his head, hands over his face, groaning under his breath.
And it broke Ivy’s heart to see the gruff, stoic man reduced to this. Oh, if that Meredith woman was here, what she wouldn’t do that evil woman!
She stared down at his polished black shoes, neatly tied and buffed to a shine. “When I first opened my eyes…when I first saw you, I thought you were an angel.”
He laughed, although it was not a happy one. “If I’d known what sort of trouble you’d cause me, I would’ve carted you straight to Doc Warner’s and let him take care of you.”
Her throat felt heavy, like she was choking. “Why didn’t you?”
His body shook ever so slightly. What she would’ve given to see his face, see his eyes, know what was going through his complicated mind. “You were so small. I thought you were just a child. You know the situation with Timothy. Apparently, I’ve got a soft spot for orphans.”
She nodded, although he certainly couldn’t see it, not with his hands over his face. “You’re a very gentle man.”
“I’m a fool, is what I really am,” he replied. “It was Christmas. You looked like a child and I couldn’t imagine not having a place to go, a table to sit at and be warm. Timothy never told me about his life before he met me, but I can imagine. In fact, I’ve got a pretty good imagination when it comes to that particular scenario. I promised myself that were I to see another child in his situation, I would do my damnedest to help.”
But he got her instead. “I am not a child.”
Finally, he drew his hands away from his face and the look in his dark, almost black eyes made the breath catch in her throat. “I know you’re not. But God, I wish you were.”
For the longest time, Ivy had cursed her beauty, wished she had inherited less of her mother’s fine features and more of her father’s blunt, craggy looks. Beauty did not win her any friends, did not get her anything, except for the endless string of proposals from men who seemed insincere to say the least.
But now, perhaps it would do some good.
Perhaps beauty would save her this time.
She took hold of his hands, felt the tensile strength in his long fingers, wrapped her fingers around his. “I want to thank you. Were it not for you, I…I don’t know where I would be, what I’d be doing. I might even be dead. Certainly, anyone out in such a storm would not be able to survive. I owe you everything. Thank you so much.”
He stared down at her hands, and she expected him to wrench away.
He did not.
“I don’t want your thanks.”
She let out a slow breath and set her knees into the wooden floor.
Put her hands on his cheeks. Tilted up his chin so she was looking into his face.
The muscles jerked under her fingertips and suddenly, he reminded her of a wild horse, unwilling to believe, unwilling to trust.
She would not let him look away.
“Then, what do you want?”
***
He felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
Then, what do you want?
What did he want, indeed.
What he wanted was right in front of him, kneeling before him, her hands on his face, looking at him intently with eyes the color of African violets.
But how the bloody hell could he say something like that? “You need to go.”
Exactly the opposite his body wanted, but he couldn’t let his body dictate its wants and needs.
He was a civilized man, not some kind of crazed, lust-ridden barbarian.
She shook her head, tendrils of dark hair curling about her narrow shoulders. “No. I won’t. I owe you my life, Elliot Whitley. And…” she paused. “I’m not a fool.”
Maybe not, but he was.
A fool for not tearing away.
A fool for not running away.
Not when his body burned for hers. Not when he wanted to bury himself in the warmth of her body and never come back out.
“I’m not a fool,” she repeated, words coming in a rush, almost as if she was afraid to stop. “When I left New York, I was just a child. I am older now.”
Her fingers shook as she slowly ran a hand down his face, traced the shape of his unmoving lips. “You saved me. I have nothing to offer in gratitude. But I know what happens between a man and a woman. We live in enlightened times, Mr. Whitley. You want me, or rather you want my body. I can see that.”
His mouth was dry, so dry, it was a wonder he could say anything at all. “You have quite a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
His attempt at a joke fell flat and she merely gazed at him with those maddeningly calm, peaceful eyes, the eyes of a siren with wisdom beyond comprehension. It scared him. “It is not an opinion. I know, Mr. Whitley. I want to thank you. But I have nothing to offer.”
But I have nothing to offer.
He tried to wrench out of her grasp, but somewhere between his brain and his hands, the command got lost.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “You have much to offer. Don’t waste yourself on me.”
And let me go, he wanted to say, but again, somehow the words just never made it past his lips.

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