One Night Before Christmas. Robyn Grady

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      Mud caked the soles of his expensive leather shoes as he made his way to the door of the modern log structure. It looked as if it had been assembled from one of those kits that well-heeled couples bought to set up getaway homes in the mountains. Certainly not old, but neatly put together. From what he could tell, it was built on a single level with a porch that wrapped around at least two sides of the house.

      There was no doorbell that he could see, so he took hold of the bronze bear-head knocker and rapped it three times, hard enough to express his growing frustration. Additional lights went on inside the house. As he shifted from one foot to the other impatiently, the curtain beside the door twitched and a wide-eyed female face appeared briefly before disappearing as quickly as it had come.

      From inside he heard a muffled voice. “Who is it?”

      “Leo. Leo Cavallo,” he shouted at the door. Grinding his teeth, he reached for a more conciliatory tone. “May I come in?”

      * * *

      Phoebe opened her front door with some trepidation. Not because she had anything to fear from the man on the porch. She’d been expecting him for the past several hours. What she dreaded was telling him the truth.

      Backing up to let him enter, she winced as he crossed the threshold and sucked all the air out of the room. He was a big man, built like a lumberjack, broad through the shoulders, and tall, topping her five-foot-nine stature by at least four more inches. His thick, wavy chestnut hair gleamed with health. The glow from the fire that crackled in the hearth picked out strands of dark gold.

      When he removed his jacket, running a hand through his disheveled hair, she saw that he wore a deep blue sweater along with dark dress pants. The faint whiff of his aftershave mixed with the unmistakable scent of the outdoors. He filled the room with his presence.

      Reaching around him gingerly, she flipped on the overhead light, sighing inwardly in relief when the intimacy of firelight gave way to a less cozy atmosphere. Glancing down at his feet, she bit her lip. “Will you please take off your shoes? I cleaned the floors this morning.”

      Though he frowned, he complied. Before she could say another word, he gave her home a cursory glance, then settled his sharp gaze on her face. His übermasculine features were put together in a pleasing fashion, but the overall impression was intensely male. Strong nose, noble forehead, chiseled jaw and lips made for kissing a woman. His scowl grew deeper. “I’m tired as hell, and I’m starving. If you could point me to my cabin, I’d like to get settled for the night, Ms....?”

      “Kemper. Phoebe Kemper. You can call me Phoebe.” Oh, wow. His voice, low and gravelly, stroked over her frazzled nerves like a lover’s caress. The faint Georgia drawl did nothing to disguise the hint of command. This was a man accustomed to calling the shots.

      She swallowed, rubbing damp palms unobtrusively on her thighs. “I have a pot of vegetable beef stew still warm on the stove. Dinner was late tonight.” And every night, it seemed. “You’re welcome to have some. There’s corn bread, as well.”

      The aura of disgruntlement he wore faded a bit, replaced by a rueful smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

      She waved a hand. “Bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the right. I’ll get everything on the table.”

      “And afterward you’ll show me my lodgings?”

      Gulp. “Of course.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have insisted that he remove his shoes. There was something about a man in his sock feet that hinted at a level of familiarity. The last thing she needed at this juncture in time was to feel drawn to someone who was most likely going to be furious with her no matter how she tried to spin the facts in a positive light.

      He was gone a very short time, but Phoebe had everything ready when he returned. A single place mat, some silverware and a steaming bowl of stew flanked by corn bread and a cheerful yellow gingham napkin. “I didn’t know what you wanted to drink,” she said. “I have decaf iced tea, but the weather’s awfully cold tonight.”

      “Decaf coffee would be great...if you have it.”

      “Of course.” While he sat down and dug into his meal, she brewed a fresh pot of Colombian roast and poured him a cup. He struck her as the kind of man who wouldn’t appreciate his java laced with caramel or anything fancy. Though she offered the appropriate add-ons, Leo Cavallo took his coffee black and unsweetened. No fuss. No nonsense.

      Phoebe puttered around, putting things away and loading the dishwasher. Her guest ate with every indication that his previous statement was true. Apparently, he was starving. Two large bowls of stew, three slabs of corn bread and a handful of the snickerdoodles she had made that morning vanished in short order.

      As he was finishing his dessert, she excused herself. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” She set the pot on the table. “Help yourself to more coffee.”

      * * *

      Leo’s mood improved dramatically as he ate. He hadn’t been looking forward to going back down that road to seek out dinner, and though his cabin was supposed to be stocked with groceries, he was not much of a cook. Everything he needed, foodwise, was close at hand in Atlanta. He was spoiled probably. If he wanted sushi at three in the morning or a full breakfast at dawn, he didn’t have to look far.

      When he finished the last crumb of the moist, delicious cookies, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up to stretch. After the long drive, his body felt kinked and cramped from sitting in one position for too many hours. Guiltily, he remembered the doctor’s admonition not to push himself. Truthfully, it was the only setting Leo had. Full steam ahead. Don’t look back.

      And yet now he was supposed to turn himself into somebody new. Even though he’d been irritated by the many people hovering over him—work colleagues, medical professionals and his family—in his heart, he knew the level of their concern was a testament to how much he had scared them all. One moment he had been standing at the head of a large conference table giving an impassioned pitch to a group of global investors, and the next, he’d been on the floor.

      None of the subsequent few minutes were clear in his memory. He recalled not being able to breathe. And an enormous pressure in his chest. But not much more than that. Shaken and disturbed by the recollection of that day, he paced the confines of the open floor plan that incorporated the kitchen and living area into a pleasing whole.

      As he walked back and forth, he realized that Phoebe Kemper had created a cozy nest out here in the middle of nowhere. Colorful area rugs cushioned his feet. The floor consisted of wide, honey-colored hardwood planks polished to a high sheen.

      Two comfortable groupings of furniture beckoned visitors to sit and enjoy the ambience. Overhead, a three-tiered elk antler chandelier shed a large, warm circle of light. On the far wall, built-in bookshelves flanked the stacked stone fireplace. As he scanned Phoebe’s collection of novels and nonfiction, he realized with a little kick of pleasure that he was actually going to have time to read for a change.

      A tiny noise signaled his hostess’s return. Whirling around, he stared at her, finally acknowledging, if only to himself, that his landlady was a knockout. Jet-black hair long enough to reach below her breasts had been tamed into a single thick, smooth braid that hung forward over her shoulder. Tall and slender and long-limbed, there was nothing frail or helpless about Phoebe Kemper. Yet he could imagine many men rushing to her aid, simply to coax a smile from those lush unpainted lips that were the color of pale pink roses.

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