A Miracle For Christmas. Grace GreenЧитать онлайн книгу.
She saw his eyes widen, as if she’d caught him by surprise. ‘I’ve been there three years. The first couple were tough, but business is quite brisk now.’ She smiled. ‘If you’re ever in Boston, you must pop by. My place is called the Warmest Fuzzies Toy Store.’
Stephanie knew it was a whimsical name—which was why she had chosen it—and usually, when people heard it for the first time, they smiled. McAllister didn’t smile. For a long moment, he stared at her, his eyes suddenly as glassy as the bear’s, and then his black brows lowered in a scowl, a dark scowl, as if she’d said a four-letter word.
She put down her mug. ‘What’s the matter?’
He shoved back his chair and got up. ‘Nothing.’ His voice had become as churlish as his scowl. ‘If you’re finished eating,’ he added tersely, ‘refill your mug and take it through to the other room—I’ll tidy up here.’
What on earth had she said or done to change his mood? Had he thought—heaven forbid—that her invitation to pop by her store had been...a come-on?
Oh, Lord...
Cheeks pink, she got to her feet. She shifted her plate to the sink, refilled her mug and made for the door. McAllister leaned against the counter, arms folded impassively over his chest, waiting for her to leave.
She carried on by him into the living area, walking so quickly her coffee almost lipped over the edge of her mug.
As she crossed to the picture window, she heard a great clattering from the kitchen...an angry clattering... as if he was giving vent to whatever frustration he was feeling, by directing it toward the dirty plates and the frying pan.
But if he was annoyed with her because he thought she’d been making a move on him, perhaps, she reflected defiantly, she should have reminded him of the moves he had made on her. When she’d told him in all innocence that she’d been planning to bring his coffee up to his bedroom, hadn’t he said, in a suggestively inviting tone, ‘Had I but known...’? And then, when they’d bumped together against the wall, hadn’t he looked down at her from under his long sooty lashes and said, in a smoldering voice, ‘My, you are a pretty one!’
Huffily Stephanie turned from the window and crossed to the nearest bookcase. After a few moments’ deliberation, she chose the hardback copy of Untimely Graves, a thriller she’d been meaning to read for the past several years. She carried it with her to a nearby sofa. Curling up in a corner, she tucked her feet under, and then paused, staring into space, with her fingers curved around the closed book.
Damian McAllister obviously didn’t want her company.
So...from now on, she would make it just as obvious she didn’t want his!
With that thought firmly in mind, she opened the book.
And saw, inscribed on the inside front page in graceful copperplate, written with a fine-nibbed black pen:
To darling Damian, with all my love, Ashley.
‘Miss Redford—’
Stephanie almost jumped out of her skin. She was well into the fourth chapter of Untimely Graves, and McAllister’s voice had slashed into her sharply just as the murderer was creeping up on his second unsuspecting victim. She wrenched her head around, her pulse racing, and saw her host standing behind her, just a few feet away.
He was swinging an ax in his hand.
Her stomach turned over.
She held the book pressed to her chest for protection and felt her heart thud violently against it. ‘What...?’
‘I’m going out back to chop some wood for the fire.’
Her grip on the book slackened. Slightly. ‘Shouldn’t you...be...taking it easy today?’
‘I need to get some air.’
The blade of the ax glinted in the light from the overhead lamp. Stephanie swallowed.
‘Off you go then,’ she said, and if he wondered why her reply came out threadily, she didn’t care. She was cursed with an overactive imagination, that was all.
With a brusque nod, he turned and departed along the narrow lobby leading to the back of the house. A few seconds later, she heard a door slam shut.
Her breath hissed out with the sound of a deflating balloon, and she gave a shaky giggle. What an idiot she was! She was quite safe here with McAllister. It was only that the creepiness of the novel had put her in a nervous mood, and his coming up behind her had caught her off guard.
Putting down the book, she got up and stretched. She, too, felt like getting a breath of fresh air... and had he invited her to go out with him, she would probably have gone. But he hadn’t. He’d wanted to be alone.
She walked absently to the window...looked out on a land blanketed in white...and gasped. Good Lord, the snow had stopped! The sun was shining from a cloudless sky and streaming through the icicles that daggered down from the eaves above, transforming them into brilliantly colored prisms. Dazzled, she gazed beyond, and saw a wide sweep of valley adorned by frozen forest, river and lake. A winter wonderland, she thought with awe; Vermont at its very best.
Smiling, she whirled around and made for the phone.
She dialed the Grantham Towing number, and when Bob Grantham came on the line, she said quickly, ‘Mr. Grantham, this is Stephanie Redford again, calling from the McAllister place. I see the snow has let up and I was wondering—’
‘They’re ploughing the Tarlity roads this afternoon, miss. I’ll have somebody out your way by early evening.’
Thank heaven, Stephanie thought, as she hung up the phone after asking a couple more questions. She couldn’t wait to get home...
Yet...despite McAllister’s gruff demeanor, she couldn’t help worrying about him. Certainly he wouldn’t welcome her interest, or her concern...but she knew she’d be thinking about him over Christmas. Wondering how he was faring. Wondering what he’d be doing, here on his own.
Who was Ashley—the woman whose name he had murmured in his fever, the woman who had given him the thriller... along with all her love?
Was she still in his life? If so, why wasn’t she here with him? And if she wasn’t still in his life, why did he dream about her, and whisper her name in his sleep?
It was a mystery, Stephanie thought regret-fully... and would probably remain a mystery.
But it piqued her curiosity mightily.
McAllister didn’t come in again till the sun had gone down and darkness was falling.
She heard the back door slam, heard the purposeful tread of his booted feet in the lobby as he approached.
Face ruddy, and bringing a blast of cold air with him, along with a pile of chopped wood, he gave her only a glance as he made for the hearth. Bending over, he rolled up some newspaper, set kindlers on it and put a match to the paper. Once it had flared up, he added several logs. Within minutes, flames were leaping up the chimney’s wide throat.
Only then did he take off his parka, fling it down on a chair and swipe his palms down the side of his jeans.
‘So,’ he said in a cool tone, sniffing the aroma coming from the kitchen, ‘you’ve been busy? What’s cooking?’
She shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s only a macaroni and ham casserole. It’s time you went grocery shopping, Mr. McAllister. If you don’t die of pneumonia, you may well die of starvation.’
He grunted. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘A drink?’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘As in...?’
‘As in Scotch, wine, you name it?’
She wanted to snub him, but the prospect of a glass of wine was just too tempting. After