Snowbound Bride-to-Be. Cara Colter

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СКАЧАТЬ to her he did not like Christmas. And probably not puppies, love songs or tender movies, either.

      Which was good. Very good. So much easier to get through a few hours of temptation—of her own bad decision-making abilities—if the effect of those intoxicating good looks were offset by a vile nature.

       What kind of person doesn’t like Christmas? Especially with a baby! He practically has an obligation to like Christmas!

      The baby gurgled, reached up from under the blanket and inserted a pudgy finger in her mouth.

      Nothing in the man’s expression softened, but the baby didn’t seem to notice.

      “Mama,” the baby whispered, and laid her head on his shoulder in a way that confirmed what Emma already knew. Her guest might be cynical and Christmas-hating, but she could trust him with her life, just as that baby, now slurping contentedly on her thumb, did.

      “Is she wanting her mama?” Emma asked, struck by the backward bonnet again, by the incongruity of this man, seemingly without any kind of softness, being with this baby. Of course. A mother. That made her safe from this feeling, hot and liquid, unfurling like a sail catching a wind. He was taken. Her relief, her profound sense of escape was short-lived.

      “No,” he said, and then astonishingly, a flush of red moved up his neck, and Emma saw the tiniest hint of vulnerability in those closed features.

      He hesitated, “Unfortunately, that’s what she calls me.”

      Again, Emma felt a tickle of laughter. And again it was cut off before it materialized, because of the unwanted softness for him when she thought of him being called Mama. It was a startling contradiction to the forbidding presence of him, ridiculously sweet.

      Even though she knew it was none of her business, she had to know.

      “Where is her mother?”

      Something shot through his eyes with such intensity it sucked all the warmth from the room. It was more than sadness, for a moment she glimpsed a soul stripped of joy, of hope. She glimpsed a man lost in a storm far worse than the one that howled outside her door.

      “She’s dead,” he said quietly, and the window that had opened briefly to a tormented soul slammed shut. His voice was flat and calm, his eyes warned her against probing his soul any deeper.

      “I’m so sorry,” Emma said. “Here, let me take her while you get your coat off.”

      But when she held out her arms, she realized she was still holding the broken door knob.

      He juggled the baby, and took the doorknob with his free hand, his gloved fingers brushing hers just long enough for her to feel the heat beneath those gloves.

      Effortlessly, he turned and inserted the knob in the door, jiggled it into place and then turned back to her.

      His easy competence made Emma feel more off center, incompetent, as if her stupid doorknob was sending out messages about her every failing as an innkeeper.

      “The coat rack is behind you,” she said, and then added formally, as if she was the doorman. “Is there luggage?”

      “I hope we won’t be staying long enough to need it.” He handed the baby to her.

      Me, too, Emma thought. The baby was surprisingly heavy, her weight sweet and pliable as if she was made of warm pudding, boneless.

      The wind picked that moment to howl and rattle the windows, and it occurred to Emma she might be fighting temptation for more than a few hours. It was quite possible her visitors would be here at least the night. Thankfully she thought of the crib she had found so that the babies who came Christmas Day would have a place to nap.

      The baby regarded her warily, scrunching up her face in case terror won out over curiosity.

      “How old is she?”

      “Fourteen months.”

      “What’s her name?” Emma asked softly, grateful for the baby’s distraction against the man removing his jacket to reveal a dark, expensive shirt perfectly tailored to fit over those impossibly broad shoulders, dark trousers that accentuated legs that were long, hard-muscled beneath the fine fabric.

      “Tess,” he provided.

      “Hello, Tess,” she crooned. “Welcome to the White Christmas Inn. I’m Emma.”

      “The White Christmas Inn?” the man said, “you aren’t serious, are you?”

      “Didn’t you see the sign on the driveway?” Just this morning, she had placed the word Christmas over the word Pond, the letters of Christmas just the teensiest bit squished to make them fit.

      “I saw a sign, I assumed it was for the inn, but most of it is covered in snow and ice.”

      “The White Christmas Inn. Seriously.”

      He groaned, softly.

      “Is there a problem?”

      His answer was rhetorical. “Do you ever feel the gods like to have a laugh at the plans of human beings?”

      Even though he obviously expected no answer, Emma responded sadly, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

       The White Christmas Inn.

      Ryder Richardson had no doubt the gods were enjoying a robust laugh at his expense right now. When he had headed out on the road tonight, he’d had one goal: to escape Christmas entirely. He had packed up his niece, Tess, and that amazing mountain of things that accompanied a traveling baby, with every intention of making it to his lakeside cottage by dark.

      The cottage where there would be absolutely no ho-ho-ho, no colorful lights, no carols, no tree, no people and especially no phone. He had deliberately left his cell phone at home. Ryder Richardson could make Scrooge look like a bit player in the bah-humbug department.

      He was not ashamed to admit to himself he just wanted to hide out until it was all over. Until the trees were shredded into landscape pulp, the lights were down, there was not a carol to be heard, and he could walk along a sidewalk without hearing bells or having complete strangers smile at him and wish him a Merry Christmas.

      Ryder looked forward to the dreary days of January like a man on a ship watching for a beacon to keep him from the rocks on the darkest night.

      In January there would be fewer reminders and fewer calls offering sympathy. The invitations to holiday parties and dinners and events designed to lure him out of his memories and his misery would die down.

      In his luggage, he had made a small concession to Christmas. Ryder had a few simple gifts to give Tess. He had a soft stuffed pony in an implausible shade of lavender, new pink suede shoes, for she already shared a woman’s absolute delight in footwear, and a small, hardy pianolike toy that he was probably going to regret obtaining within hours of having given it to her.

      He had not brought wrapping paper, and probably would not give Tess the gifts on December twenty-fifth, taking advantage of the fact that at fourteen months of age his niece was СКАЧАТЬ