Lone Star Christmas. Cathy Gillen Thacker

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      He looked down at her old, loose chambray shirt—seeming to visually strip her naked, to see what was beneath. “Not verbally. Physically,” he looked again, as if he could tell her nipples had peaked, “you seem to be hinting at just that.”

      She moaned as his hands slid under her blouse, moved upward to cup her breasts. “I knew you were trouble the first day we met.”

      He bent to kiss her again. Slowly, tantalizingly. “But it’s the kind of trouble you want to be in. Would be in, if you weren’t so set on living the life of a nun.”

      One button was undone, then the next, and the next. “And it’s a damn shame to see you so alone.”

      She willed herself to move, but found her legs would not cooperate. Nor would her knees. She swayed back against the counter, holding on to the edge on either side of her. “Why?”

      The side of his hand moved across her collarbone, lower still, to the valley between her slowly rising and falling breasts. “Because you’re young and vital and beautiful.” His fingers grazed across her skin. “And, judging from your display of temper the other day, have way too much passion locked away inside.”

      Passion that welled up, unchecked, whenever she saw him. Passion that—like now—made her helpless to fight the desire roiling inside her. She moved her hands up to his shoulders, intending to push him away and failing. “You don’t know anything about me,” she whispered, looking deep into his dark silver eyes. “Not really.”

      He reached around behind her, unfastening her bra, caressing and claiming her beneath the sheer lace cloth. “I know,” he rasped, “that widow or not, you miss being kissed. Touched. Loved.”

      “I do. Not—” Her words were smothered by the feel of his lips on hers.

      She meant to resist him, she really did, but the heat and pressure of his mouth sent a thrill spiraling through her. For too long she’d been treated with kid gloves by everyone around her. For too long, she’d felt only half alive. Yet now, with his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers, that was no longer true. She was more alive than she had been in her entire life.

      “See?” he whispered, stepping back. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

      She exhaled slowly, wishing there were some way to discretely refasten her bra. As embarrassment and anger surged within her, she scowled at him and turned away. “I should have known you wouldn’t be a gentleman for long.”

      He stepped behind her, fastened her up again. Then, coming around to face her, reached for the buttons on her blouse, declaring proudly, “I thought my kiss was very...gentlemanly.”

      She shoved his hand away and put her shirt together herself. “Erotic, yes.” She looked down to make sure the buttons were in the right holes.

      He chuckled. “I can go with that.”

      Finally, Callie was dressed again, but her breasts were still tingling. Lower still, a wildfire of need raged.

      She drew a deep, bolstering breath, determined to put him in his place. “But let’s be clear here. A gentleman wouldn’t have kissed me at all. Especially after promising me that he wouldn’t!”

      Mischief danced in Nash’s eyes. “You’re right. It is all a little too soon. This being our third date, after all.”

      “Third!” Callie sputtered. Now she knew why she had never dated a bad boy before. They were definitely too much trouble.

      “The first was the night you brought me dinner. The second, Thanksgiving.”

      “There were twenty-six people here, if you count my in-laws!”

      “I admit it was kind of a group thing. Till after...” He waggled his brows suggestively. “Then, it was just you and me. And then of course, there’s tonight. I really enjoyed tonight.”

      The hell of it was, so had she. From the moment he had stepped through her front door, she had felt incredibly excited and alive. But that was neither here nor there. “You may annoy the heck out of me.”

      He grinned.

      “But this isn’t seventh grade.”

      “You’re right.” He rubbed the flat of his hand beneath the underside of his smoothly shaven jaw. “I never went to second base in seventh grade...and I suspect you didn’t, either.”

      Ignoring that last comment, she plunged ahead. “Furthermore, I don’t get involved with sexy upstarts. Never have. Never will.”

      His expression sobered, all but his eyes, which were still gleaming merrily. “Good to know.”

      Feeling like a schoolmarm in front of an unruly class, Callie lifted a lecturing hand. “From this point forward, there is not going to be anything going on between us—except cooperation of a business nature.”

      Nash went back to the table to claim the serving dishes. “Speaking of which...did Frank and Fiona Sanders tell you that they have invited me and my crew to join the Old-Fashioned Christmas Celebration at Sanders Mountain on December twenty-first?”

      * * *

      CALLIE STARED AT him in shock. “The Sanders did what?”

      “Asked me to participate. They said you are organizing it.”

      Telling herself she had not just stumbled into a lion’s den of temptation, Callie kept her eyes locked with his. “Although I no longer work full-time at the Double Knot, I still advise them part-time and help out with all the marketing.”

      “Is this an annual event?” he asked.

      Glad to be moving back to a conversation that was strictly business, she got the last of the serving dishes and slid them into the dishwasher. “It’s the first, although we’re expecting it to become a beloved yearly tradition.”

      Nash stepped back, giving her room to work. “How did it come about?”

      Callie added soap to the dishwasher and turned it on. “They don’t book a lot of outdoor weddings for Nature’s Cathedral in December and January—the weather is too cold for most. So I suggested that Frank and Fiona use the lag time to put on an old-fashioned Christmas Celebration for their clients, suppliers and referral partners and their families, both as a way of saying thank you and to drum up future business.”

      She switched off the light and he followed her into the hall. “For you, as well?”

      Callie nodded. “We could do the same for your Christmas tree business.”

      “As well as the xeriscape plants and trees I am hoping to sell to local garden centers.”

      She paused next to the coatrack in the foyer. “In the meantime, you could do what I am going to do, and raffle off free trees and/or evergreen wreaths to whatever number of lucky guests you decide upon.”

      “How many people are you hoping to host?”

      “Five hundred or so. Although invitations are going out for close СКАЧАТЬ