His Christmas Fantasy. Jennifer LabrecqueЧитать онлайн книгу.
was the happening place at Christmas because Monica had had a heck of a time finding accommodations. She’d lucked out on a cancellation and managed to snag a two-bedroom cottage at a resort in the middle of Sedona. Serendipitous. Finding a sub willing to travel this close to Christmas would require one more dose of serendipity. She reached for her day planner.
“We’ll just have to find a replacement,” she said.
Monica stopped her. “That’s the good news. Darren’s already lined up his replacement.”
“Good, maybe I won’t kill him before New Year’s Eve,” Giselle said with a laugh. What was her problem? She should’ve known Darren wouldn’t leave her hanging. Her problem was she was making herself crazy about this trip because she was so ready, okay, desperate, to get over Sam McKendrick. “It won’t be the same as working with Darren because we’re used to one another, but he wouldn’t stick me with someone he didn’t trust, especially on this assignment.”
Monica stepped closer and cast a furtive glance about, as if Darren might be lurking in the potted plant down the hall. “Okay, he told me not to say anything,” Monica said, lowering her voice, and Giselle bit back a smile. Darren knew that was a surefire way to get Monica to pass along the info. Monica liked being the one in the know. “But he says this guy is hot. And single. Oh, yeah, and straight,” definitely a salient point “…you know, available. He said it was a shame to waste all that vortex voodoo.”
Giselle perked up. Hope sprang eternal. Normally, she was the last person looking to be set up with someone, but if the guy was even halfway decent, and Darren tended to have excellent taste in men, she was more than happy to drag him along to the magic vortex with her. If she showed up with her own potential love match, then all the better to rid herself of her Sam McKendrick fixation.
It couldn’t happen soon enough. Out of the blue, Sam had called. Two weeks ago she’d gotten home from work, and without any forewarning, she’d unsuspectingly punched the blinking button on her answering machine. She’d dropped her grocery bag and totally ruined a dozen eggs when she’d heard, “Giselle, this is Sam. I…uh…just wanted to touch base…maybe catch up. Call me.”
Right. Maybe when hell froze over. She’d sunk to the sofa and hit the Repeat button and listened again, despising herself for her weakness, for the instant heat that rampaged through her at the mere sound of him, the way every cell in her body seemed to soak up the richness of his voice like a dry sponge in a spring rain. And then she’d leaned forward, her finger poised over the Delete button, and…she couldn’t.
She still hadn’t. But she would when she got home today. This time she really would. And she wouldn’t hit Play and listen again before she deleted it. Yep, Sedona was all about healing and starting over—that had to be why she’d found the online thread two days after Sam’s phone call—and if she happened to haul along her own potential candidate, where was the harm?
Hope and enthusiasm buoyed Giselle’s mood. “Hot, single, and available—what’s not to love?”
Monica beamed in relief and waved her hand. “And Darren was all worried you’d be pissed.”
“I prefer him because I’m used to him, but if he’s lined up a decent photographer who’s all of the above, I’m good with that.”
As a general rule, men didn’t fall all over themselves around Giselle. She’d grown up the brains, her sister the beauty. Giselle took too much after her father’s side of the family to be a man-magnet, but hey, with all the energy and stuff floating around Sedona, who knew? Anything was possible, wasn’t it?
“Darren says this guy’s dropping by around,” Monica checked her watch, “well, now, to go over the assignment particulars with you.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “I can’t wait to get a look at him. In fact, I think I’ll have lunch at my desk so I can check out your new love slave.” She did a Groucho Marx waggle of her eyebrows. “That is what this vortex thing is going to do, right? Turn him into your personal love slave?”
Giselle laughed, more excited than ever. She had a funny feeling in her tummy, a knowing, all doubts gone. This trip was about to change her life.
“I’ll let you know when I get back.” She picked up her note file from her desk.
Monica turned to leave. Giselle stopped her, grabbing a pen. “Wait a sec. I can probably figure it out on m yown since good-looking strangers don’t drop by my home-away-from-home cube every day, but does this camera-carrying paragon of manliness have a name? He probably won’t answer to love slave until after we get to Sedona.” She was terrible with names. This way she wouldn’t have to stress about remembering his when they met if she already had it written down. She flipped open the file folder, ready to jot his name on the inside flap.
Monica wrinkled her nose and Giselle laughed.
“You’re just creating a cheat sheet,” Monica accused. Okay, everyone in the department knew Giselle was bad with names. “Sam McKendrick. But he might like it if you call him Love Slave.”
Giselle swayed on her feet and for a second thought she might pass out. No, no, no! Anyone. Anybody. Just not him. “Son of a bitch,” she wailed. “No!”
Darren was deader than dead.
As if conjured from the depths of hell or every fantasy she’d had for the last two years, the devil himself sauntered into her cubicle. A laconic smile crinkled the corners of his hooded blue eyes. Stubble shadowed his rugged jaw and his dark brown hair looked as if he’d run his fingers, rather than a comb, through it. He’d paired a crisp white collared shirt with a well-cut jacket and jeans. Just as she remembered him. Equally familiar, her pulse raced and an illicit tingling raced through her body, leaving frantic heat in its wake.
Sam.
Her folder and pen slipped through her hands; papers scattered across the floor.
“I thought I heard my name, but just for the record, Love Slave works for me.”
2
SAM TOOK her son of a bitch and my-worst-nightmare-just-walked-through-the-door expression as good signs. If she was that emphatic, that reactive, then Darren was right and she was interested.
“It’s been a long time, Giselle.”
She knelt to gather her papers. “Not long enough, Sam,” she said, but scrambling around on the floor sort of ruined her haughty tone.
He squatted to help, bringing him that much closer to her. He breathed in her scent and drank in the sight of her. Despite the passage of time and all the water under their respective bridges, he felt the impact of her in his gut, the same as he had the first time he’d met her. Back then, she’d worn her brown hair long and pulled up in a clip. Now she sported a sleek chin-length bob with red highlights. “I like your hair, it suits you.”
“That’s a load off my mind,” she said without looking at him. She leaned forward to pick up the last piece of paper but he beat her to it. He held it out. Her eyes met his, and the rest of the world faded to nothingness. Once again, he was lost in those hazel eyes, and despite her sarcasm he recognized the flare of desire in their depths.
“Obviously, you’ve met before,” the other woman in the cubicle said, jerking him back to the rest of the world. Sam had forgotten she was there.
He stood and slipped his hand beneath Giselle’s elbow to help her up. She straightened, shrugging off his touch. His gut knotted from just that brief contact with her.
He turned to the other woman and extended his hand. “Sam McKendrick, Giselle’s new love slave.”
The woman snickered. Giselle glared.
She shook his hand. “Monica Dixon, department secretary extraordinaire.”
Monica Dixon radiated curiosity.
“Sam