No Christmas Like the Present (8 page)

She lowered her hands, shaking her head. “I can't. It's a three-hour movie.”

“Maybe we could watch it together.” He bit his tongue. As he'd been so recently reminded, time was short. A three-hour movie with Lindsay just wasn't in the offing. And she had him sidetracked again. Still, it seemed to him that this light, meaningless conversation did her more good than poking away at things she obviously found painful.

Apparently not. He had his orders. Even as he sat considering them, he saw the laughter fading from those light gray eyes, back toward her customary serious expression. How could Lindsay's best interest run so contrary to his own instincts?

Somewhere along the line, she'd demolished all but one of the chicken bits. Lindsay edged her chair backward. “I've got to go. If I hurry I might be able to get some Christmas shopping done before I have to get back to work.”

“There you go again. If you
hurry.
Your thinking is all wrong. Besides which, you're going to chase your way to an early coronary before you reach thirty.”

“I've got too much to do.” The crease between her brows reappeared.

“Come shopping with me tonight. I promise you'll get twice as much done.”

“I really need some time alone.”

At least that was honest. “Understood. Just one thing, before you go.”

Lindsay looked at him quizzically, halfway out of her seat. He held her eyes with his until she settled back into her chair.

Fred leaned across the table, resting his fingers lightly against her temple. “Close your eyes.”

She hesitated, then did as he asked. Fred extended his thumb to rub at the fine little crease between her brows, willing away that tension, trying to get at the source of it. He could feel it, but he couldn't see it. After a moment it eased, and Lindsay's shoulders visibly relaxed. He lowered his hand. “That's better. You've had this little frown between your brows all afternoon and it's been driving me out of my mind.”

She opened her eyes. She looked more relaxed, more like the woman he'd left on her couch last night. “What did you do?”

“Nothing major. Just getting rid of some of the tension. You could pay someone a lot of money to rub your neck and shoulders for the same result.” He frowned, trying not to take it personally. “You still don't trust me, do you?”

She didn't answer. Her eyes were twin gray mirrors of confusion.

Fred reached up again and gave in to something he'd wanted to do for some time. He sank his fingers into that light brown hair of hers, gently smoothing it back from her temple. It was softer and lighter than he'd imagined, softer and lighter than the scarf he'd given her. He searched for more tension to soothe away, but this time he found himself caught in his own web. A sense of warmth, of peace, descended on him, made him want to stay there indefinitely. It had its effect on Lindsay, too. She closed her eyes again, like a cat being stroked.

“Don't worry.” He let his voice caress her along with his fingers. “I can't hypnotize you and I can't read your mind, more's the pity. My work would be a lot easier if I could.”

At the mention of work, her eyes opened again. Drat. Why had he put it that way? Probably for the best, he decided. Better for all concerned if Lindsay thought his feelings for her were purely professional.

He broke the contact and did his best to make his tone more matter-of-fact. “So, I'll leave you alone for the afternoon. But you and I have an appointment to go shopping this evening. Understood?”

She nodded, like someone slowly awakening, and stood with her tray. “It's a deal,” she said, and moved away. Fred tried to keep his eyes from following her as she dumped the contents of her tray into a waste bin and walked away. That preoccupied look stole over her face again—whether because of her friend Jeanne, or the overwhelming task of buying Christmas gifts, he didn't know.

He'd help her tonight. He grinned at an image of himself struggling under a stack of hatboxes. Or was that only in the movies? His cultural references were muddled, formed out of vague impressions that weren't even memories. No wonder the poor girl was confused.

Fred sat back in his chair, lingering in the food court to sample the bustling atmosphere of the mall around him. Some of it was happy. Much of it was frantic. The low rumble of voices nearly buried the Christmas music playing over the sound system.

He thought of Lindsay and her talk about deadlines. How had mankind managed to turn the birth of a savior into this?

Only one way to find out. Jump into the thick of it. And he knew the perfect way to do it. While she was still at work, he'd go shopping himself, and find Lindsay a Christmas present. But not with the help of any special skills. He'd do it her way—the hard way—and take a walk in her shoes.

After two hours, he began to understand what Lindsay was up against.

Producing the perfect striped scarf at a moment's notice was child's play compared to finding the right gift at a shopping mall. A hundred stores under one roof, and everything seemed either too personal, or not personal enough. And all of them, somehow, far too ordinary for Lindsay. Though money wasn't a consideration—if he found the right thing, he would find himself with the right amount of money—he didn't want to choose something too cheap, or too expensive. The value of a gift implied an underlying meaning, despite the fact that it shouldn't.

So. Fred dropped his shoulders, momentarily at a loss. He'd take this exercise one step further, and ask for help. Not from a salesperson, though. His eyes fell on a woman with a stroller, who'd paused to rest on a bench in front of one of the mall's little fountains. She looked about Lindsay's age, and with a baby in tow, she wasn't likely to misunderstand his motives for approaching her.

As Fred walked up, the baby kicked and squealed under powder-blue blankets, and her mother rolled the stroller back and forth, trying to shush her.

“Are you giving your mother a rough time of it, young lady?”

Both heads turned toward his voice. From the light in the mother's eyes, it appeared he'd already scored a point.

The woman smiled. “Usually people think she's a boy, especially when I take her out in the blue blanket.”

“Unthinkable.” Fred regarded the little face in the stroller. About six months old, at a guess, with sparkling eyes and a barely visible tuft of blond hair. Enchanting. “I'll bet she already has her father wrapped around her little finger.”

A faint shadow crossed the woman's face, but it didn't dim her curiosity. “Where are you from?”

“Camden. It's an older part of London. But I think I'm as lost in this mall as I've been anywhere since I got here.”

She laughed, and her brown eyes lightened. “I've lived here two years, and I still get that way.”

“I was hoping you might be able to shed some light for me. I'm trying to find a Christmas gift for a young woman. I haven't known her very long, but I'd still like to make it special, and I wasn't sure what would be appropriate.”

She frowned, apparently more than willing to tackle a shopping question. “So, probably not jewelry.”

“Probably not.”

The baby jabbered excitedly. Fred frowned at her with mock sternness. “You're interrupting, young lady.”

She kicked her legs with glee. And was quiet.

The woman tweaked the baby's chin, and a teasing gleam rose in her eyes. “Is this something you'd like to turn into . . . more?”

“Not in the cards, I'm afraid.” To his surprise, the words came out with some difficulty. “I'll be . . . out of the country again in a few days. But I'd still like it to be something she'll remember.”

The realization blindsided him with the force of a freight train. He'd just told her more than he knew himself.

“Hm,” she said. “That's a toughie.”

Fred's heart twisted. He tried to shake it off, the best way he knew how. “How about you? What do you want most for Christmas?”

Some color came into her face. “A date with my husband.”

“Really? And I would have guessed he was the one who thought you were too caught up in the baby.”

Her color deepened. “I've been afraid to leave her with someone else so soon.”

“Oh, she's ready. See that gleam in her eye? It says, ‘I've got two helpless adults at my beck and call.' Do you have family in town?”

“My sister,” she admitted.

“It's definitely time. Invite your husband out. I promise you he'll be thrilled.”

Well, that handled things for one of them.

A few minutes later, with no new inspiration, Fred wished the woman a merry Christmas, and continued on his fool's errand.

He had a problem a lot bigger than finding the right gift. The only reason why he, the holiday expert, should be at such a sudden loss. Because it was so important. In a few days he'd be gone, and he wanted something for Lindsay to remember him by.

Chapter 7

“You're hoarding the tape again.”

Lindsay looked down to her left, and sure enough, the roll of adhesive tape was on the carpet beside her, right where Fred couldn't reach it. Unable to think of a snappy retort, she settled for a mock glare and tossed it back over to him where he sat, suitably enough, at the foot of her Christmas tree. Fred snatched it from the air with his free hand, then secured the green-and-gold flap on the present he was wrapping.

The shopping had gone better than she'd ever expected, despite the insane crowds at the mall. Crowds seemed to have a way of thinning for Fred, lines got shorter, and the harried clerks at the register tended to brighten after one look at him. Lindsay couldn't say she blamed them. He'd been making her laugh all evening. She could almost chalk the successful shopping up to Fred's natural charm, and a bit of good luck. If she didn't think about it too hard.

She found she didn't want to think about it too hard. It felt too natural to have Fred helping her in the perennial ritual of scissors, tape and ribbon, and he made it much more fun. Even her qualms about Jeanne's engagement had faded, for now at least. Maybe she'd just been projecting her own experience with Steven, after all.

The TV tray full of cards still stood in front of her sofa, looking down at them like a disapproving sentry. Tonight, Lindsay refused to worry about it. She was so late with them now, one more night of neglect barely seemed to matter. She probably wouldn't feel that way tomorrow. But she felt that way tonight, under the influence of the Christmas carols on her stereo, a successful evening's shopping, and the bright red and green wrapping paper strewn around her living room floor. Not to mention the presence of a relentlessly jolly man named Fred.

He hadn't even mentioned Steven. Lindsay entertained a flicker of hope, probably a naive one, that he might have given up on the subject.

“Who else is left on your shopping list?”

“Well, Jeanne. I suppose I should make it some kind of engagement present.” Lindsay concentrated on the box she was now wrapping for Phil, a kitschy clock in the shape of a ship's wheel. “And then there's Matt—”

Fred snorted. “He's not getting what
he
wants.”

Lindsay felt herself blush. She'd nearly forgotten Fred's comment the night of the Christmas party. “You were wrong about him, you know. The one he's got a crush on is Jeanne.”

“I never said he didn't. Men are notorious window shoppers. I still say that given the least bit of encouragement, he'd—” He lowered his head and busied himself fixing the already-perfect gold bow on his package. “Never mind. You can't fault a man for having good taste.”

Lindsay's heart responded with an unexpected
thump
of excitement. She held her breath.

Fred held up the box for her inspection. “There. How's that?”

She felt her face go a deeper red. “Beautiful.” He'd made a light, flirty comment, that was all. It had meant nothing. But as Fred set the present under the tree with the others, her heartbeat had trouble slowing. She felt an urge to pay him back. “So what should I get Matt?”

“My dear, I don't have the faintest idea.” His head remained turned away, apparently intent on finding just the right spot for this gift.

“You're the one who spotted the clock for Phil. And that sweater for my dad. He's always so hard to buy for.” Fred still didn't answer. She needled, “You must have
some
ideas for Matt.”

“Oh, I do.” He turned back to her, the customary smile well in place. “But being a gentleman, I can't say them.” He clasped his hands around his knee. “Have we wrapped everything?”

“Just about.” Defeated, Lindsay turned her attention to the bow for Phil's present. With someone else to help, she'd gotten more elaborate with some of the packages tonight, adding on more ribbons and curlicues than she usually did. For this one, she slapped on a blue adhesive bow and slid the box across the floor to Fred. “Done.”

Once again, he spent a long careful moment finding the right spot under the tree. Maybe he'd realized, as she had, that with the wrapping done, there was no other real pretext for him to stay.

“I suppose,” Fred said, turning back to her, “with Jeanne getting married, Matt
really
isn't getting what he wanted for Christmas.”

The teasing note had left his eyes, and his voice. “I suppose,” Lindsay agreed.

He'd stopped avoiding her eyes, too. “How is it that you've never gotten married?”

Lindsay's heart did it again.
Thump.
She'd never known it to sound so huge, or so loud. “I'm only twenty-nine.”

“Come on.” A teasing flicker returned to his eyes, a very gentle one. “Ten years on the market, and no one's been smart enough to snap you up?”

Thump thump. Thump.
Lindsay tried to keep her voice normal, but it was hard to hear it over the noise of her heart. “I don't go out much. I haven't really been looking.”

“Ah, but love is hardly ever found by
looking.
”

“What are you saying?”

“Just stating a fact. And I just hope you've never doubted that you have something special to offer.”

Lindsay's racing heart gave a huge
thud,
as if for the last time.

Oh, great.

Fred wasn't flirting. He was giving her more amateur pop psychology. A boost to little Lindsay's self-esteem, his good deed for the night. When what she really wanted—

She launched herself to her feet and started wadding up stray scraps of wrapping paper with a vengeance. Then she made a beeline for the trash basket in the kitchen without looking at Fred.

She wanted him to kiss her.
That
was what she wanted. How humiliating.

When she finished stuffing the gift wrap as far down into the kitchen trash as it would go, and turned back around, of course he was standing right there. “Lindsay—”

He stopped. At least he knew better than to ask what was wrong. But he didn't know better than to keep his hands off her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, and something about the warmth in his touch kept her from shaking him off.

“Lindsay,” he said again, and there was no way to avoid those dark eyes, so dangerously, annoyingly filled with understanding. “Listen. I'm supposed to know the right thing to say, and the fact that I'm botching it up so badly has to mean—”

That allowed her to jerk free. Clearly, he was still on the clock, and she didn't want to hear any more about his job description. She didn't care what kind of heavenly realm he came from; she didn't want to be a project anymore.

Lindsay strode to the door and picked up his overcoat from the back of the couch, where he'd tossed it when they came in. She wheeled around to hand him his coat; once again, as expected, Fred was standing right behind her. But this time he wasn't looking at her. He was looking up.

At the mistletoe, directly over their heads.

He met her eyes with a look that glimmered with promise. Then he took the overcoat from her hand and tossed it, lightly, onto the back of the sofa once again.

Everything seemed to slow. His intentions were clear, and she had plenty of time to step back. Yet Lindsay did nothing to stop him when he took her chin in his hand, tipped it upward, and brought his lips down to hers, as purposefully as if he'd meant to do it all along.

Lindsay could have sworn she heard bells.

She closed her eyes. She couldn't help it. At first the kiss was feather-light, but his lips closed more firmly over hers, drawing her closer, drawing her in. Her heartbeat, the one that had threatened to stop a few minutes ago, was making up for lost time. Fred's fingers wandered from her chin, reaching around the back of her head, slowly entangling themselves in her hair. His other arm slid around her waist, and Lindsay had never felt so completely
held
before.

When Fred lifted his head, he half-expected her to skitter away, but she stayed in front of him, her face still upturned, soft brown eyelashes lowered. It would have been impossible for him to pull back. So he brought his lips down to hers again for a deeper kiss, and a sensation that was so indescribably sweet it nearly took his knees out from under him. He savored her, like long, slow sips from warm, spicy mulled cider. He heard a loud thumping noise, and wondered if it was her heart or his. No, it had to be his. He felt the corresponding vibration in his chest.
This isn't supposed to happen,
he thought. But how could it be anything but good?

Fred raised his head again and stepped back, as if to get out from under a spell radiating down from the mistletoe. Lindsay stared at him numbly. He was backing away. Actually backing away.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing up and nodding at the mistletoe over her head. “Just following regulations.”

Still dazed, she followed his eyes upward. “And what's the penalty for ignoring mistletoe?”

“Struck by lightning, I think.” The familiar smile glimmered at her once again. He made it to the door and turned the knob behind him. “Good night.” And he left, with his overcoat still hanging over the back of her sofa. Not that he needed it.

If Lindsay hadn't known better, she would have sworn her nineteenth-century Englishman had just given her a modern American brush-off.

 

 

The cold night air did Fred good. But not nearly enough good.

He'd kissed Lindsay with his whole heart, the only way he knew how to do anything. How was he going to let go of her after that? Once he'd had her in his arms, stepping back had felt like tearing off a little piece of his soul. It wasn't just the intoxicating physical sensation. It was the sense of something that was right, something that was meant to be.

But no. He was supposed to spend time with Lindsay, enjoy her company, help her handle her inner demons, all to hand her off to someone else. Someone who'd apparently never even bothered to come after her himself. Not much of a man in Fred's book. Yet he'd been assured that reconciling Lindsay with Steven was in her best interest.

What about
Fred's
best interest?

That was traitorous thinking. Nothing good could come of it.

He had to speak to Headquarters. Have them reassign him to a nice little old lady who didn't hear from her grandchildren often enough, or something like that.

He continued on his path, just off the sidewalk, listening to his feet crunch in the brittle remains of the snow.