A Christmas Rendezvous. Karen Booth

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       One

      Isabel Blackwell’s head had hardly hit the pillow when the hotel alarm went off. The fire alarm.

      Frustrated and annoyed, she sat up in bed and shoved back her sleep mask while the siren droned on out in the hall. This was getting old. The luxury Bacharach New York hotel had been her home for nearly two weeks and this was the fourth time the fire alarm had sounded. She’d intentionally gone to bed early to try to sleep away her difficult day. Her brother, Sam, had convinced her to take on a legal case she did not want—saving Eden’s Department Store from a man with a vendetta and a decades-old promissory note. So much for the escape of a good night’s rest.

      “Attention, guests,” the prerecorded message sounded over the hallway PA system. “Please proceed to the nearest fire exit in an orderly manner. Do not use the elevators. I repeat, do not use the elevators. Thank you.”

      “Do not use the elevators,” Isabel mumbled to herself in a robotic voice. She tossed back the comforter, grabbed her robe, shoved her feet into a pair of ballet flats and dutifully shuffled down the hallway with the other guests. It was not quite 10:00 p.m., so she was the only one in her pajamas, but she refused to be embarrassed by it. Hers were pale pink silk charmeuse and she’d spent a fortune on them. Plus, if anyone should be feeling self-conscious, it was the hotel management. They needed to get their property under control.

      She followed along down the stairs, through the lobby past the befuddled and apologetic bell captain, and out onto the street. Early December was not an ideal time to be parading around a Manhattan sidewalk in silk pj’s, but she hoped that by now, the hotel staff had finely honed their skills of determining whether there was an actual fire.

      The manager shot out of the revolving door, frantic. “Folks, I am so sorry. We’re working as fast as we can to get you back inside and to your rooms.” He fished a stack of cards from his suit pocket and began doling them out. “Please. Everyone. Enjoy a complimentary cocktail at the bar as our way of apologizing.”

      Isabel took his offering. She wasn’t about to pass up a free drink.

      “What if you already have one waiting for you?” a low rumble of a voice behind her muttered.

      Isabel turned and her jaw went slack. Standing before her was a vision so handsome she found herself wondering if she had actually fallen asleep upstairs and was now in the middle of a splendidly hot dream. Tall and trim, the voice had a strong square jaw covered in neatly trimmed scruff, steely gray eyes and extremely enticing bedhead hair. It had even gone a very sexy salt-and-pepper at the temples, pure kryptonite for Isabel. She had a real weakness for a distinguished man. “You had to leave a drink behind?” she had the presence of mind to ask. “That’s a very sad story.”

      The voice crossed his arms and looked off through the hotel’s glass doors, longingly. “The bartender had just poured the best Manhattan I’ve ever had. And it’s wasting away in there.” He then returned his sights to her, his vision drifting down to her feet, then lazily winding its way back up. As he took in every inch of her, it warmed her from head to toe. “Aren’t you freezing?”

      “No.” She shook her head. “I run hot.”

      A corner of his mouth curled in amusement, and that was when she noticed exactly how scrumptious his lips were. He offered his hand. “Jeremy.”

      “Isabel.” She wrapped her fingers around his, and found herself frozen in place. He wasn’t moving, either. No, they were both holding on, heat and a steady current coursing between them. It had been too long since she’d shared even an instant of flirtation with a man, let alone a chemistry-laden minute or two. Her job was always getting in the way, a big reason she disliked it so much.

      “You weren’t kidding,” he said. “How are you so warm?”

      How are you so hot? “Lucky, I guess.”

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” the hotel manager announced, poking his head out of the door. “Turns out it was a false alarm. You may go back inside.”

      “Looks like you can go rescue your Manhattan,” Isabel said to Jeremy.

      “Join me? I hate to drink alone.” He cocked his head to one side and both eyebrows popped up in invitation.

      Isabel had been fully prepared to go back upstairs and simply take a few thoughts of dreamy Jeremy for a spin as she drifted off to sleep. “I’m in my pajamas.”

      “Don’t forget the sleep mask.” He reached up and plucked it from her hair. “Do these things really work?”

      She smoothed back her hair, deciding this was only a good sign—he’d invited her to have a drink with him when she looked far less than her best. “They do work. Once you get used to it.”

      “I’ve never tried one. Maybe I should. I don’t sleep that well.”

      Isabel fought back what she really wanted to say—that she wouldn’t mind having the chance to make him slumber like a baby. Instead, СКАЧАТЬ