Cold Feet at Christmas. Debbie JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
last thing Rob expected to see when he opened the door was a woman. No, not just a woman – a bride. A very, very beautiful one at that. Even shaking in her stupidly inappropriate heels she barely scraped five three, but what she lacked in height she made up for in curves. Curves he could clearly see under the satin dress that was soaked onto her like paint; curves that were currently covered in goosebumps; curves that were in fact starting to turn blue. Blonde hair, piled up on her head in a tiara, trailing around her face in tendrils; huge eyes gazing up at him like he was the second coming. Lord, those eyes. The colour of the whiskey in his glass. Pure amber. Lashes tipped by ice flakes; lips parted and shaking as she stared. The Snow Queen looking for her groom.
How on earth had his mother managed this? She was a resourceful woman, but surely even she hadn’t been able to deliver a wife for Christmas?
Before he had time to pull a sentence together, the blue-tinged bride on his doorstep muttered one word – he wasn’t sure, but it might have been ‘Hallelujah’ – and fell forward against him. The whiskey glass was knocked from his hand, splashing him with wildly expensive booze and smashing to the floor.
He scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her inside, using one foot to kick the door shut against the howling wind and gusts of icy sleet trying to get in and join the party.
He gently laid her down on the sofa, stroking the melting snow from her cheekbones. She was so pretty…And so cold. Tearing his eyes away from the ample breasts that were now almost peeking out of the strapless satin sheath she was wearing, he grabbed one of the crocheted woollen blankets that were draped on the backs of the furniture, and covered her up. She was in danger of hypothermia. And he was in danger of developing a self-worth problem if he carried on letting his eyes go where they had no right to be. This was not an appropriate time for his libido to come out and play.
He rubbed her hands, leaned over her. Heat. She needed heat. The fire was roaring. The blanket was warm. And he was feeling surprisingly hot himself. Her fingers were like icicles in his grasp, and the breath coming from her lips was still so cold it was clouding into steamy gusts in the air. He edged closer – inches from her face, searching for any kind of response. Suddenly, her lids snapped open, and those amber eyes latched onto his.
He expected to see shock. Fear. Anxiety.
Instead, she murmured ‘thank you baby Jesus, Amen’. Kissed him full on the lips. And promptly passed out.
“Am I dead?” Leah asked almost 16 hours later, when she finally swam back to consciousness.
She’d woken when God walked into the room. He was dressed in faded Levis and a black jersey T-shirt that clung to the muscles of his arms and torso like liquid. He looked suitably celestial, and to top it off was carrying a mug of hot chocolate. With squirty cream on top. For some reason, the words ‘squirty cream’ and ‘torso’ blended into one in Leah’s brain, resulting in images that were far too vivid to be about God. Positively blasphemous, in fact. If this was Heaven, it had been worth all those years of Sunday school…
She was cocooned in a million tog duvet, her body – naked, which she didn’t want to ponder too closely - stretching and writhing beneath the warm fabric, luxuriating in the sensation of soft, cosy heat. Her hair was dry; her fingers had regained a full range of movement, and she could even feel her long-lost toes again. As if that wasn’t enough, here he was – her saviour. Sex on a stick and bearing sinful hot beverages. She squeezed her eyes shut, gave her head a shake: Heaven. Must be. The last two days had certainly been enough like purgatory.
“I certainly hope you’re not dead,” he answered, perching on the side of the bed, long thighs stretching on forever. “Or I wasted a heck of a lot of good whiskey in this mug.”
“You’re American. I never thought God would be American…” Leah muttered, struggling to sit up straight then realising she had no clothes on and wriggling back down.
“I am,” he replied. “American that is. Not God. Although some would say I had delusions of grandeur on that front as well. Glad to see you’re feeling well enough to talk. All you did last night and the best part of today was sleep, and sometimes shout about the Hollandaise sauce curdling. Very mysterious. Would it be too much to ask a few questions? Like who you are? And how you ended up here? It’s Christmas Day. In the middle of nowhere. And you were definitely dressed for a very different kind of occasion…”
As he finished speaking, Rob saw her eyes flicker over to the hard-backed chair in the corner of the bedroom, take in the fact that her wedding dress, panties, stockings and suspenders were draped over it. He steeled himself for some kind of female hysteria. Because even he – a dumb male of the species — could tell that outfit had presumably been expected to accompany the best day of her life, not one where she nearly died and woke up in a stranger’s bed. Buck naked. He’d been trying very hard not to focus on that bit, but as soon as he thought of the words, he felt a familiar twitch in his groin that he knew could embarrass him anytime soon. Should’ve brought a copy of the paper in with him, ideally a broadsheet.
Leah was quiet for a moment, a small frown marring the milky skin of her forehead as she pieced together the parts of the puzzle. He expected only one possible conclusion: tears, screaming, and possibly physical violence.
Roberto Cavelli took a deep breath in, coiling his muscles ready to run for cover if needed. There was a time to fight, and a time to hide in the broom cupboard, and a wise man knows the difference. Over-emotional women had him sitting on the sweeper every time. He’d leave the cocoa, and run for his life.
Instead, she looked back at him, and smiled. Just like that. A big, gorgeous, open-hearted smile. No shouting. No screaming. No tears. Not even a quivering lower lip. He exhaled, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Wow. Maybe she really was from Santa…
“My name’s Leah Harvey,” she said, sticking her hand out to shake. She kept the rest of her body covered up, managing to awkwardly extend one warm, soft-skinned arm and still look cute. He took her hand in his. It was rude to refuse a handshake, and the Cavelli boys had been raised right.
With the first touch of those soft fingers, he knew he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t be touching this woman at all, even in a hazmat suit. Not with her all warm and curvy, and nude, under those covers. And him with a rapidly developing Crotch Crisis of the first degree. He was going to come across as an utter pervert, damn it.
As her hand clung to his, a tiny spark shot right up his wrist, crawling under his skin like electricity. She felt it too. He could tell by the way she jumped at the sensation. It made the bits of her showing above the duvet jiggle around in a way that did nothing to deter Mr Happy down below. Rob pulled away as quickly as was polite, and crossed his legs.
“Ooh! Did you feel that?” Leah said, giggling and rubbing her wrist. “Must be some kind of weird static thing!”
Yeah. That’d be it, he thought, watching with way too much interest as she manoeuvred herself upright, clutching the sheets in front of her breasts. Her creamy cleavage was mainly hidden by the bedding, but not quite enough to stop a slight spillage of generous flesh over fabric.
Lord, think of something disgusting, he said to himself. Like your brother’s sweaty jock strap. Like your 98-year-old Great Aunt Mimi in a bikini. Anything but that killer body in front of you. Not that he hadn’t seen it all last night when he’d put her to bed – but that had felt different. That was for medicinal purposes only. He was merely applying correct first aid by stripping her bare of those sodden clothes, that was all. And anyway, he did most of it with the lights off, averting his eyes like a gentleman. None of which had been easy.
“So, what’s your name?” she asked, her pink tongue peeking out from between generous lips to lick the cream off the top of her drink. Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi.
“Rob,” he snapped, sounding a little more