Winter's Tale (3 page)

“This is a surprise,” the teacher said.

“I brought the paper.” December held out the
pages. “I wanted you to have it on time.”

Miss Westin took the printout and flipped
through it without expression. Dressed in a tweedy suit that might
have been a Chanel, she had the same underfed appearance as Nina’s
crew. December’s mother liked to say fifty wasn’t old. Possibly she
was right, but starving herself at her age wasn’t doing the French
teacher any favors. Her looks were haggard rather than chic, her
features too sharp and her cheeks sunken.

Then again, maybe being stuck at this
third-rate girl’s school had worn her out.

“Well, you didn’t buy this off the Internet,”
Miss Westin acknowledged grudgingly, done with her page flipping.
“And clearly I can’t improve your fluency. This is admirably
colloquial.”

The comment felt like an accusation, one Miss
Westin’s cool gray eyes seconded.

“I’ve attended schools in French speaking
countries,” December said.

“Quite a few of them, I gather.”

To this, December had no retort. Not prone to
blushing, she waited as stoically as she could under the teacher’s
stare.

“Fine,” the woman at last relented. “I’ll
draw up a list of assignments. Turn them in on time and acceptably,
and I won’t demand that you attend class.”

December refrained from pointing out that if
she decided to ditch, no force on earth could compel her
differently. “That’s . . . decent of you,” she said, surprised that
she meant it.

“
Decent
is my middle name,” Miss
Westin said dryly.

Her tone was odd, as if she didn’t like this
quality in herself.

“Well,” December said, not knowing how to
respond. “Thank you for understanding.”

Miss Westin waved her away and returned to
her papers. Knowing she was dismissed, December began to leave. At
the last moment, she turned back impulsively. “Miss Westin?”

“Yes?” the woman said, swiveling back to
her.

“Do you know much about the graveyard behind
the school?”

“The graveyard.” Miss Westin’s face settled
into pinched disapproval.

“It seems . . . very colorful. And the
statuary is interesting.”

Miss Westin leaned back in her chair,
steepling her hands as if December had amused her. Skinny or not,
as she crossed her legs at the knee, December noted her calves were
world class.

“So,” the teacher said, her lips curved in a
faint smile. “You’re going to be one of those.”

“One of those?”

“The girls who fall for our naked statue.
He’s quite the rock star around here.”

December’s cheeks felt hotter than normal.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked stubbornly.

Miss Westin didn’t quite pull off her Gallic
shrug. “As far as I’m aware, no one knows anything about him. Lots
of girls call him Hans, but whether that’s actually his name, I
couldn’t say.”

December was abruptly certain the teacher
could. She could tell if adults were lying almost as easily as she
knew when her peers were. “Are there histories of the school I
could check?”

Miss Westin’s eyes iced over. “Mrs. Blake
would know. She’s the librarian.”

December nodded and left for the second time.
As she stepped into the hall, her knees didn’t want to move
smoothly. She realized she must have locked them against
shaking.

They’d steadied by the time she took a seat
at the back of her first class. This was a prep course for college
qualifying tests. Parents probably liked that Rackham offered it,
but she didn’t see the point. Minds were meant to
think
. If
all a school trained students in was how to take exams, it might as
well close up shop.

Nina and her crew seemed to view the class’s
mission as life and death. They clustered in the front row, knees
pressed prissily together as they peppered the young instructor
with questions. No doubt they hoped to trade this humiliating
educational backwater for a spot in the Ivy League.

December had no clue what her scholarly
future held—or even if she had one. She suspected she could go Ivy
if she wanted, despite her inability to last in one place. As long
as the school was prestigious, her parents would pony up. And
teachers seemed to enjoy bemoaning the gap between her potential
and performance.
If you’d just apply yourself, they’d say, you
could
be
something
. They didn’t
understand that until December knew what she wanted, applying
herself to things that didn’t naturally interest her was
impossible.

Her head now weighing a ton with boredom, she
laid it on the desk. If she didn’t decide on a career path, she
could try being a cat burglar. She’d steal evil corporate secrets
and sell them to the media. She bet her father hid a few skeletons
at the family conglomerate. Or maybe she’d concentrate on
reclaiming conflict diamonds. She’d fund scholarships for too-smart
smartasses with the proceeds she didn’t need. None of her mother’s
friends would have a bauble left. Smiling at that idea and too
tired to fight the urge, she let herself doze off.

She snapped into the dream like a stretched
rubber band contracting, without warning or transition.

She stood in a forest a recent snowfall had
frosted. White thickly heaped the branches, but she thought the
woods were the same that circled the school’s graveyard. The sun
shone above the treetops, its disk bright but not blinding. As she
squinted, a cardinal darted across her field of view, its plumage a
vivid red. The forest was so quiet she heard each soft downbeat of
its wings.

“These are Dire Woods,” a low male voice
informed her from behind. “They’re the closest I come to going home
these days.”

Heart beating in her throat, December turned
slowly. The statue man faced her. Though he was dressed and in
living color, she’d recognize his lovely solemn face anywhere. His
sad eyes were ice-washed blue, his shaggy hair a slightly darker
golden brown than his skin. His clothes would have made an
excellent get-up for a woodsman at a medieval fair. A
lace-up-the-front brown tunic topped thigh-hugging buckskin pants.
His shirt was clean white linen, puffing between his vest’s leather
ties while mysteriously still coming off as masculine. His face and
form were so perfect he hardly seemed a real person. For a drawn
out moment, he stared without blinking into her eyes.

Since she was staring back the same way, she
had no basis for complaining.

“I wasn’t sure I could summon you,” he said.
“So many girls don’t make it all the way.”

“You didn’t summon me,” she corrected. “I
fell asleep voluntarily.”

He smiled, amused, but his manner struck her
as cautious. He stood maybe ten feet away and made no move to come
closer. His shoulders were wider than they had any right to be. His
hips were narrower than hers. December strove not to be annoyed by
that.

“Will you stay with me a while?” he asked
shyly.

She wasn’t certain she bought his shyness. He
couldn’t be unaware that he was movie star handsome. “If I do,” she
hedged, “I’ll need to know what to call you.”

“Hans,” he said.

She shuddered just a little. “Hans what?” she
insisted, ignoring the deja vu.

His smile broadened, brightening his
sad-gorgeous face. “Names have power. How do I know you won’t use
mine against me?”

“I’m called December.”

“December what?” he teased.

December folded her arms, the conversation
making a dreamlike sense to her. “Uh-uh. You’re the one who wants
company.”

Hans’s amusement faded. He considered her for
a few seconds. December didn’t try to look trustworthy, merely like
she wasn’t about to budge.

“Very well,” he relented. “My surname is
Winter.”

“Hans Winter,” she repeated musingly.

“You could give me your family name as
well.”

December flashed a grin of her own. He
frowned at that, then surrendered with a shrug. “As you wish,
though I’d appreciate you not sharing my confidence. I wouldn’t
want my identity reaching the wrong ears. Would it please you to
stroll through these woods with me?”

Still not stepping closer, he extended an
ungloved hand. December sensed that accepting it committed her to
something. “You won’t try to keep me here against my will?”

“I don’t have that power. As it is, my
opportunities to enjoy . . . company are limited.”

His voice had dropped huskily. As she stared
at him in surprise, fire flickered into his ice blue gaze. The look
was unmistakably sexual. This man knew what he wanted to do to
her—and how to do it well. December’s nipples tightened behind her
crewneck sweater. She realized she wasn’t the least bit cold, even
without a coat. In spite of this, she shivered.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he said softly. “I
promise my intentions toward you aren’t hurtful.”

The implication that she might be afraid
goaded her to prove she was not. She wasn’t Nina, hiding her head
in a pillow when things got interesting. She crossed the snow to
him in two strides, wrapping her own hand around the one he held
out.

Possibly she did this too firmly. He looked
like he was about to laugh.

“You’re a brave one,” he observed
admiringly.

His palm was warm, his fingers bigger and
harder than hers were. The unusual smoothness of his skin
notwithstanding, his most definitely wasn’t a boy’s hand. His grip
was too confident, and his thumb turned the simple act of rubbing
her knuckles into foreplay. Tingles ran through her at the
contact—not subtle ones either. December’s already toasty body
heated between her legs, liquid arousal welling from deep within.
She couldn’t remember a male having this strong an effect on her,
not when he’d done so little. Her cheeks began to sting with
self-consciousness.

Her companion’s breathing changed when he saw
that.

“God,” he said, deeper color washing his face
as well. “What I wouldn’t give to kiss you again.”

“Do you kiss every girl who visits you?”

He dragged his gaze reluctantly from her
mouth. “Only if they kiss me first. I can do nothing without
that.”

“Are you powerless unless I kiss you
now?”

The effect this conversation had was more
dramatic than it should have been. Hans was panting, every muscle
in his body seeming ready to leap on her. He didn’t leap, but his
hands held hers almost painfully. “Do you know how long I’ve been
waiting here? Can you even conceive of it?”

“How long?” she asked weakly.

“Lifetimes without knowing true pleasure,
without a woman accepting the fullness of my desire.”

The rasping of his voice mesmerized her.
Waves of sweltering heat swept her body, and her knees literally
weakened. She and the former statue were toe to toe. They would
have been nose to nose if he hadn’t been so tall. He wet his lips,
clearly imagining kissing her. December wanted to lick the shining
surface in the worst way.

Careful
, she told herself. Only a fool
would trust a man this seductive. Hoping to avoid disaster, she
pulled her hands from his.

“It sounds as if any willing female could
give you what you need.” She meant to sound flippant but was too
breathy. For the second time in minutes, he had to drag his eyes
upward.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said. “I wish any
female could.”

“Then what sort can?”

“Only the bravest. Only the truest. If I
can’t find her, I’m doomed to burn forever.”

December’s spine shuddered with longing.
“Because of your cruelty,” she whispered, remembering the
inscription of his pedestal.

His expression tightened with anger, though
the lust in it didn’t fade. “Kiss me,” he commanded, the arrogant
order of a prince. “Put your lips on mine, and I’ll show you how
cruel I am.”

She’d never seen a look as intense as his.
Frustration colored it, and pride, and a fury so impotent it seemed
a cousin to despair.

She didn’t kiss him. She slid her hands up to
cup his cheeks instead. His skin was hot and recently shaven,
leaving not a hint of bristle beneath her palms. The strangest
tenderness rose in her. The simple pleasure of stroking her thumbs
beside his mouth blanked her thoughts for a few seconds.

“I may be brave,” she said, “but no one’s
ever accused me of being true.”

This wasn’t what he expected her to say. He
blinked, startled. His lips spread in a surprisingly sweet smile.
“If you’re true to
me
, that will be good enough.”

His hands slipped under her sweater’s hem,
his warm thumb and fingers gently rubbing her bare waist. He made a
humming noise and looked to down to where he touched her. His lids
were heavy with enjoyment of the caress.

“Please kiss me,” he requested more
humbly.

“Lean down,” she responded.

He slid his arms around her as he bent. A
shock ran through her when their mouths met. His kiss was
delicious: firm, pliant, the tip of his tongue tickling wetly as
its tip slid between her lips.

“More,” he murmured. “Kiss me as hard as
you’d like me to kiss you.”

Maybe he couldn’t kiss her back without that.
The idea unraveled her inhibitions. She leaned into his chest,
pressing eagerly at him with her mouth, with her tongue, with the
wild unexpected passion he stirred in her. He moaned low and
hungrily. The muscles that held her contracted to lift her off the
ground. Her legs were dangling, but her weight seemed easy for him
to support. As he kissed her voraciously, his hand closed around
her bottom, squeezing it and rubbing the seam where her jeans
curved around the cleft.

She guessed he liked the squirms this
inspired. His second hand joined the first in clamping her butt
cheeks.

“Up,” he pleaded, tearing his lips from hers.
“Climb my waist and ride me.”