The Baby Gift. Day Leclaire

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      “Feminine instinct tells you all that, huh?”

      “Well… Maybe a bit more than instinct,” she confessed.

      More than feminine instinct? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that might be or what it might indicate. It threatened to build a connection between them he had no intention of encouraging. Even with that decision firmly in mind, he found himself responding. “You’re right,” he conceded. “This isn’t my favorite time of year. I prefer to go through it alone, instead of inflicting myself on my family.”

      “Now that’s a shame.”

      “They don’t mind.”

      “I’m not so sure. Your poppa appears to be a loving man. I’ll bet he isn’t too happy about your decision.” She smiled down at the portrait. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you as much. I’m guessin’ he’s the sort who doesn’t put up with any nonsense from his sons.”

      She’d read a lot into a simple photo. The fact that most of what she’d said also happened to be true only made Alessandro all the more wary. “What I choose to do isn’t his concern.”

      She laughed, shooting him a knowing look. “Of course it’s his concern. That’s what being part of a family is all about.”

      He preferred not to talk about himself, despite her determination to do just that. “Is that how it is with your family?” he asked. Maybe the question would help turn the tables.

      “Once upon a time it was. Not anymore.”

      “Why not?”

      “I only had a sister and she passed on two months ago.” She traced each member of the Salvatore clan with a blunt fingernail. “I… I still can’t hardly believe she’s gone.”

      Aw, hell! “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her shoulder in gentle understanding. Once again, she leaned into his grasp, rather than pulling away from what most would regard as a stranger’s touch. A warmth stirred between them that had little to do with the heat blazing from the fireplace. It was a visceral reaction, one he couldn’t have governed even if he’d wanted to. Something about her drew him, held him, bound him. He couldn’t recall ever having such an intense and instantaneous connection with a woman before. Not even with Rhonda. “You must find this time of the year even more difficult to handle than I do.”

      She inclined her head, layered strands of silvery-blond fluttering at her temples and across her brow. An image flashed through his mind, an image of his hands thrusting deep into the silken depths at the nape of her neck and feeling the soft caress of her hair rippling through his fingers, teasing the length of his jaw, feathering a tortuous path across his chest. He inhaled sharply and released her. Where the hell had that come from? Dredging up an ounce of common sense, he stepped away from more temptation than he could handle.

      She took his abandonment with good grace. “I guess losing my sister makes me a mite sensitive about family.”

      “Understandable.”

      She returned the photo to the mantel with notable reluctance. Staring at the Salvatore clan for another moment, she set her chin at a determined angle and swiveled to face him. “Now, don’t let my sad news get you down,” she ordered briskly. “That wasn’t my intent. I just wanted to point out that family isn’t something you should take for granted. That’s all.”

      “As I said… They understand.”

      She gave a decisive nod. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. All the more reason to turn to them in your time of need.”

      “My time of need?” Presumptuous little sprite. He was determined to bring her up short. “You may consider yourself qualified to lecture me about family, but I suggest you mind your own business. At a guess, you have more than your fair share of problems to deal with right now without worrying about mine.”

      She brushed the verbal slap aside as though it were no more than a gentle reprimand. “And I’ll be dealin’ with them soon enough. But you’re a man with a family the size of a couple of football teams,” she persisted. “A man, moreover, who chooses to be all on his own at Christmas. That means you’re needy. And when a body’s needy there’s no better help than one’s family. Mark my words. If they knew you were heartsick, they’d be up here in a flash, every last one of them.”

      Fury ripped through him. “First off, I’m not heartsick. Nor am I needy. What I am is a man who wants you to get the hell—”

      She’d fixed those light blue eyes on him again and he found the words jamming in his throat before they could be spoken. He swore beneath his breath, using a flavorful range of Italian expletives. For some reason—maybe because they were the first he’d learned as an impressionable ten-year-old—they came more easily to mind. He gritted his teeth. The motels were full, he reminded himself. The weather was doing its level best to work itself into a full-fledged blizzard. And the woman blinking innocently up at him would be stuck as his guest for at least a day, if not two or three.

      “What I am is a man in desperate need of a cup of coffee.” His voice had assumed the Italian under-tones it often acquired whenever he found himself in stressful situations. He could only hope she didn’t hear it, or if she did, didn’t understand the significance as clearly as his brothers would have. “Would you like one while you wait?”

      If she guessed what he’d originally planned to say, she didn’t let on. “I’d appreciate that.” She swiped her hands across the seat of her jeans with an energetic slap. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”

      “Now why would I want that?”

      The softness of his voice gave her pause, but she shrugged it off with a smile. “Call it Southern hospitality.”

      “My home, my hospitality. I’ll take care of it.”

      “Sure you don’t need my help?”

      There was something odd about this entire situation. Something about her that felt out of kilter. Nothing about her—from the abruptness of her arrival, to her strange reaction to him, to her meddlesome questions—made a bit of sense. Maybe once he’d reignited his brain cells with some caffeine he’d figure it out. Or better still, maybe he’d ask a few of the questions he should have when she’d first turned up on his doorstep.

      “Why don’t you enjoy the fire while I fix us both a cup,” he suggested. “How do you take it?”

      Her smile faded at his question, the vitality seeping from her. Now what had he said to prompt that reaction? She crossed to the couch and curled up at one end. “It’s a reasonable question,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “I take it white, thank you kindly. And having something of a sweet tooth, I wouldn’t object if you tossed in a lump or two of sugar.”

      “Coming right up.”

      It didn’t take long for him to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He used the opportunity to compose a long list of questions. Topping the list would be her name. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t introduced themselves. So much for hospitality, Southern or otherwise. Filling two oversize mugs with a helping of the extra-strong brew, he returned to the living room.

      “Here you go, Miss…?”

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