A Proposal for Christmas. Lindsay McKenna

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      He tilted his head slightly, in acknowledgment or greeting or both. His cologne was musky and Holly found herself trying to identify it by name.

      Holly glanced at the toys, trying to delay the moment when she must tell this man that there simply wasn’t room for him in the fruitcake class. “Mr. Goddard—I—” Holly cleared her throat. “The fact is, Mr. Goddard, that there just isn’t...there just isn’t room in this class for another person. I’m sorry.”

      He set the toys down on one of the tables and calmly removed his jacket. He didn’t look as though he planned to go anywhere. “I’m sorry, too. That it’s a problem, I mean. But your secretary took my money and told me I had a place in good old Fruitcake 101 and I’m staying.”

      Holly felt the color rising in her face. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

      David Goddard smiled and folded his arms, stirring that appealing musky scent and touching something deep inside Holly. “If necessary,” came the simple reply.

      To hide her annoyance, Holly looked down at her watch. It was time to start the class and all the other students were there, ready to begin. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of them and besides, Elaine had told the man he could participate. “All right, then,” she muttered, “you can stay.”

      “Thank you,” he replied, and the deep warmth in his voice soothed Holly somehow, taking away the anger that had arisen at his stubbornness.

      David Goddard proved to be an attentive student, listening closely to every word Holly said, watching every move she made. She could almost feel the steel-trap agility of his mind.

      When the class was over and Holly was cleaning up, he stayed behind to help. Without a word he rolled up his sleeves and began running hot water into the sink.

      Holly gathered mixing bowls and spatulas and bread pans and brought them to the counter. It was odd, the feeling she had—as though they were old friends instead of strangers, washing dishes together in a homey kitchen instead of a busy department store.

      “This is quite a setup,” he remarked, up to his elbows in hot, soapy water.

      Holly found herself smiling. “I know. I was impressed the first time I saw it, too.” And the first time I saw you, Number Thirteen.

      “Did they put all this in just for you?”

      She shook her head and took a dish towel from a top drawer. “I think it was a demonstration kitchen at first—you know, so people could see how the appliances would look in a home setting. When I started to become well-known, Cookware and Books put their heads together and came up with the idea that I should teach classes here.”

      David smiled. He had a nice smile, she noted, a smile touched with humor. Full of straight white teeth. But what was that sad detachment in the depths of his ink-blue eyes?

      “Doesn’t that take up a lot of your time? Teaching, I mean?” he asked.

      Holly dried a lacquered copper mixing bowl to a red-gold shine. She liked the way it looked, so bright and cheery. “I guess it does. I travel a little, write my books. And I keep up a weekly newspaper column, too.” She paused, then shrugged. “I like teaching, though. I get to meet new people that way.”

      “You don’t meet people when you travel?”

      She smiled again, wearily. “Not really. I take classes in other countries, and sometimes I’m the only student. It’s precise, exhausting work and I usually don’t even get to see the sights, let alone strike up lasting friendships. What do you do for a living, Mr. Goddard?”

      “Call me David or I’ll never tell,” he retorted, and even though his glance was pleasant, Holly had a feeling that he was stalling, for some reason.

      “All right. What do you do for a living, David?” she insisted, watching him.

      The navy blue eyes were suddenly averted; he was concentrating on scrubbing a baking pan. “I’m in law school at Gonzaga,” he finally answered.

      The answer seemed incomplete somehow. David Goddard was in his mid-thirties, unless Holly missed her guess. Surely old enough to be through with college, even law school. On the other hand, lots of people changed careers these days. “What kind of lawyer are you planning to be? Corporate? Criminal?”

      He took up another baking pan. “Actually, I’m taking review courses. I graduated several years ago, but I haven’t been practising. I thought I’d better brush up a little before I tackled the Bar Exam again.”

      “The Bar Exam? I thought you only had to take that once.”

      “It varies from state to state. I didn’t study in Washington.”

      He was hedging; Holly was sure of it. But why? “Where did you study?”

      David still would not look at her. “Virginia. Do they pay you extra for washing dishes?”

      The sudden shift in the conversation unsettled Holly, as did something she sensed in this man. In a flash it occurred to her that he might be a very clever reporter looking for a story. Her cooking career usually didn’t generate a lot of interest, but being third cousin to the next president of the United States just might. And what if he knew about Craig?

      Holly paled and withdrew a little. “I can finish this myself,” she said stiffly. “Why don’t you go?”

      Now the inky gaze was fixed on her, impaling her, touching that hidden something that did not want to be touched. “Is there a sudden chill in here or am I imagining it?” he countered.

      Holly kept her distance. Gone was the feeling of companionship she had enjoyed earlier. There was danger in this man; there was watchfulness. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? She fielded his question with one of her own. “Why would a lawyer want to learn to bake fruitcake?” she asked.

      David went right on washing, his hands swift and strong at the task. “For the same reasons the other people in this class do, Holly. There was a bookkeeper, if I remember correctly, and a construction worker—”

      “Maybe a journalist or two,” she put in sharply, glaring at him now.

      “A journalist?” He looked honestly puzzled for a moment, and then a light dawned in the blue depths of his eyes. “You think I’m a reporter,” he said.

      “Are you?”

      “No,” came the firm and immediate reply. And Holly believed David Goddard, though she couldn’t have explained why.

      “You really want to bake fruitcake?” Did she sound eager? Lord, she hoped not.

      David laughed and touched the tip of her nose with a sudsy index finger. “I really want to bake fruitcake.”

      They finished cleaning up and David lingered while Holly put on her coat and reached for her purse.

      “Was there something else?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. For some reason Number Thirteen had a strange effect on her.

      “Yes,” he answered. “I plan to walk you to your car. It’s СКАЧАТЬ