Together by Christmas. C.J. Carmichael

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СКАЧАТЬ or cruelty. Not that she’d been a goody-goody. Miranda knew, had always known, how to have fun.

      That she wasn’t already married was a miracle. Unless there’d been some late developments in that area…no, she had rings on many of her fingers—and even on one thumb—but nothing adorned that all-important fourth finger of the left hand.

      “Actually, Warren, I’m here because of you.”

      He felt a crazy, scary rhythm in his heart, absent since adolescence. Then reality set in. She didn’t mean that way. He pulled in a breath of air as he took his own espresso to the table and settled himself, too aware of her quiet observation.

      And then it hit him. God, he was such an idiot. She filmed biographies for a living. That comment about the paltry information available about him. Of course. That had to be it.

      He couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Dreamy Miranda wasn’t here to see Warren Addison, her old schoolmate, but Warren Addison, the famous author.

      Crap.

      “You don’t look pleased. I’m guessing you don’t want to be the subject of my next video.”

      “I think my books should stand on their own. Who I am, and whether I write in the night or in the morning, whether I work from an outline or just create, shouldn’t figure into the equation.”

      “But isn’t it human nature to wonder about the author of a book you’ve loved? When Mrs. MacIntire read us Huckleberry Finn, weren’t you curious about Samuel Clemens?”

      “Mark Twain was a literary icon. I’ve written one book.”

      “Warren, your book will oversell the Harry Potter books. A movie’s in the works….”

      “But we’re still talking only one novel. And who knows how the next one will be received. If I ever finish writing it…”

      “Trust me, Warren. All artists worry that their next work may not be as good as their last—even us lowly video biographers. So you aren’t alone in that. Even if you never publish another story, the success of Where It Began will make you immortal. Think of Margaret Mitchell. And Harper Lee.”

      “I appreciate your faith. But selling lots of copies doesn’t guarantee anyone will remember who I am twenty years from now.”

      “Yes, but your reviews…”

      “Reviewers can be flawed, too.”

      “Oh, Warren!”

      She laughed, and the clear, musical sound made his heart feel strange again. Her presence in the large kitchen was clear and bright, like a vase of yellow daffodils on the table. He had to admit it would be wonderful to have her around while she worked on that video. But would the cost to his soul be worth the benefit?

      “I need quiet to write. That’s why I’m here. If you did that video, my cover would be shot.”

      “Warren, persistent journalists will find you eventually. It’s not like where you grew up is a secret.”

      “Miranda, surely you’ve got better prospects.”

      “Not a one.” Miranda leaned over the table and grasped his hand. Her cool, silky touch was unlike any woman’s he’d ever known.

      “I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. I’ll work around your schedule. Warren, I can be very flexible.”

      Oh, he just bet she could. With that slender, willowy body…

      “Hell, Miranda. Has anyone ever been able to say no to you?”

      CHAPTER THREE

      ACTUALLY, TWO PEOPLE had said no to her, Miranda reflected, on the drive back to Chatsworth. Her mother had honed that talent to an art long ago. The other—well, he hadn’t truly said no. He’d just never said yes.

      Chad. She’d promised her mom she’d pick up a few groceries for dinner tonight, but after that she was going to drive to the golf course to see him. She simply couldn’t wait any longer. If anyone asked, she’d say she was inquiring about cross-country ski lessons.

      Too bad there wasn’t much snow.

      There would be soon, though. On her car radio, after Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” piano sonata had concluded, had come storm warnings for the southeastern corner of Saskatchewan. Heavy snowfalls and driving winds were expected within hours. Already a few flakes were falling from the gray, depthless sky.

      It had taken only the hour she’d spent at Warren’s for the weather to change. Now she wondered what the roads would be like tomorrow when she drove out again to begin work on the video. She dismissed the faint worry. One thing Saskatchewan had lots of was snowplows.

      She picked up her cell and dialed Catherine with the good news that Warren had agreed to work with her on the video. After leaving a message, she thought about Warren. He hadn’t exactly brimmed over with enthusiasm for the project. She couldn’t take his cooperation for granted. She’d have to tread cautiously.

      But at least she’d received a chance. Something she was very relieved about, because after meeting Warren again, her enthusiasm for doing his biography had increased exponentially.

      Physically, he’d changed so much from his youth. He could have matured into a skinny, prematurely balding man who wore cardigans and smoked American cigarettes—didn’t most novelists smoke?

      But she’d smelled no trace of tobacco in his house and observed no ashtrays or matches. His dark, unruly hair was still thick and he’d grown into his strong facial features. As for his physique, while he remained lanky, his height had been balanced by a broadening of his shoulders. He still wasn’t handsome, but maturity had definitely given him an edge. She’d bet money the camera would love his face. And sex appeal was never something to ignore in the TV business.

      She liked the way he moved, too, and was eager to capture that masculine grace with her camera. She’d enjoyed watching him operate the espresso machine. His long, slender fingers were so fluid she’d immediately imagined filming him at the keyboard. Smiling, she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. Working on Warren was going to be such divine fun.

      As for the possibility he was gay… No. Definitely not. She couldn’t pinpoint the reason for her certainty. She just knew. Not that he’d flirted or acted attracted to her at all. In fact, it might have been nice if he’d done either, just a little. Still, there’d been something in his eyes when he’d looked at her. And he’d done a lot of that.

      Had Warren dated anyone during their school years? She couldn’t remember that he had, but she’d have to make sure. She’d compile a list of people in Chatsworth she should talk to. Not just about his social life, of course, but all sorts of things. How he’d done at school, if he’d participated in any extracurricular activities, and whether anything in his childhood might have affected his destiny to write.

      She was already at the road turning into Chatsworth. A quick stop at Lucky’s grocery store extended fifteen minutes when she ran into some familiar faces. Back in the car, her bag of groceries on the passenger seat next to her, she headed for Willow Road. The graveled lane provided the only access to the Chatsworth СКАЧАТЬ