Home for Christmas (22 page)

“Maybe it means that people are complicated. Contradictory and unexpected. I kind of like that idea. It gives me hope.”

Libby didn't reply. She was too busy climbing up into the sleigh to sit on the tufted cushion of the seat, stroking her hand along the well-conditioned leather. “Whoever owns this sleigh loves it. He keeps it safe and secret all year round. He guards it like a piece of his own heart.”

Owen watched as she leaned down to pick up the wine-colored velvet sack the Santa had reached into during the parade. He'd drawn out toys and candy, tossing them to the jumping, excited children with a big, booming laugh. Libby didn't laugh as she opened the bag and peered inside.

“Empty?” Owen guessed, stepping up to the opposite side of the sleigh and vaulting lightly into the seat. It was a relief to sit and rest his leg after all that walking, but not as necessary as it would have been even a week ago.

“No.” Libby's voice was odd, hushed and awed as if they were in church. “There's a box at the bottom.”

A tingle of anticipation raised the hairs on the back of Owen's neck. “Well. Aren't you going to open it?”

Libby set the sack on the seat between them and pulled down the sides to reveal a heavy lacquered chest about the size of a briefcase, but deeper. “It's not wrapped. I doubt it's a gift for me.”

“But it might give us a clue about who the Santa is.”

Delicate fingers stroked the lid of the chest, tracing the initials carved there. “E.C.L. My initials.”

“See? It
is
meant for you,” Owen teased.

She shot him a brief smile that faded into seriousness as she took a breath and lifted the lid of the box and gasped. The box was full of small things wrapped in white linen and stacks of yellowing papers tied with ribbon, and folded on top was a handkerchief embroidered with tiny purple flowers and green twining vines.

“I remember this,” Libby cried, picking up the fine cloth with reverent hands. “This was my mother's. Grandmother stitched the lilacs herself, because they were my mother's favorite flower. I'd forgotten all about that.”

Libby brought the thin cotton to her face and inhaled deeply, her eyelashes fluttering shut as she was transported into a memory Owen could only imagine.

“For years,” he said, “I kept this silk scarf of my mother's hidden under my mattress. Every time I touched it, I remembered her smile. The way it felt when she hugged me.”

“Why did you have to hide it?”

Owen tensed for a moment, then forced himself to relax. He was a grown man, not a little boy. “My father kept all of Mom's things, hoarded them like a dragon sitting on treasure. The scarf she wore to church every Sunday was the one thing I managed to steal for myself.”

Libby sucked in a breath. “That sounds really hard, Owen. Not being able to share your grief with your father. Hiding it from everyone.”

“It was the same for you,” Owen said, his heart breaking open at the clear sympathy in Libby's warm hazel eyes. “You were ripped away from everything you knew and sent to live with a man who wouldn't even talk about your family.”

No wonder Libby was such a dreamer. She'd been telling herself stories all her life because her entire childhood on Sanctuary Island must have seemed as unreal and distant as a fairy tale.

“I guess we have that in common.” She smiled a little, ducking her head to peer back into the open box. “I wonder what else is in here.”

“More family things?”

“My family's things,” Libby agreed, eyes widening. “Which means … Grandfather really is the town Santa Claus. I can't believe it.”

“Maybe there's more to him than meets the eye.”

“I was so angry with him.” Libby carefully refolded the handkerchief and placed it back in the box, smoothing it with shaking fingers. “I was ready to do exactly what he yelled at me about, and walk away. I'm glad I didn't.”

Owen's heart jumped. He'd come that close to losing her. “What stopped you?” he asked hoarsely.

Pink flooded Libby's cheeks, but for once, she didn't evade his gaze shyly. She met his stare head on and said, “You did. I hurt you, and I wanted the chance to make it right. Running away doesn't solve anything.”

A rush of emotion hit Owen's bloodstream like the adrenaline of an oncoming firefight. He stared into Libby's eyes, her warmth and softness so close, his palms itched to reach out and touch her. “The army taught me to stand my ground, no matter what. Which is not to say that I feel no fear. Fear is normal, a healthy response to danger. The hard part is being able to control your reaction, to be the guy who runs toward the threat instead of away from it. Don't ever call yourself a coward in front of me again, Elizabeth Leeds. You're as brave as anyone I ever served with.”

The flush mantling Libby's cheeks went darker red, but she still didn't back down. “I don't know about that. If I were really brave, I would have kissed you by now.”

The words trembled between them for a hushed, expectant moment, and then they were in each other's arms. Owen honestly didn't know who reached out first, and he didn't care. All he cared about was the sweetness of Libby's mouth, the brush of her lips against his skin, and the stroke of her fingers in his hair. Desire roared through him, heat and lust tangled with tenderness until Owen barely recognized it. He'd never felt anything like it before.

Self-control was a distant memory as Owen covered Libby with his body, cradling her against the leather cushions of the sleigh's bench seat. He couldn't even remember why he'd wanted to stop himself from doing this, from getting his hands inside Libby's winter coat to shape the curve of her waist. He couldn't understand why he'd tried to keep himself from mouthing at the juncture of her neck and shoulder where the warm vanilla scent of her was strongest.

He didn't want to remember anything but the sounds she made when he touched her. The fierce clutch of her thighs around his hips as they thrust together, caught up in the heat of their bodies and how close they'd come to pushing each other away.

Libby writhed in his arms, her kiss-swollen lips parted on a soundless expression of shocked pleasure. He couldn't get enough of her unselfconscious, uninhibited reactions. Every touch, every kiss, every caress of his hands over her bared skin seemed to surprise and delight Libby.

Owen's hard, raging hunger receded to the back of his mind as his focus narrowed to one thing: Libby's pleasure. He watched her moan and quake under his touch, greedy for her sighs and the way her fingers went white-knuckled against the leather seat. There was nothing in the world but this woman in his arms, this woman who made Owen wonder what it would be like to have a home … this woman who was still searching for a home of her own, every bit as much as Owen ever had.

He tasted her lips, savoring the plush, trembling softness, and closed his eyes as her cries quieted to quick, panted breaths. Owen rested his forehead against Libby's and tried to calm his throbbing pulse. This wasn't the time or place for anything more—and he still wasn't sure he was the man for Libby.

God, how he wanted to be, though.

Owen forced himself to move, to pull away enough so that every breath he took in wasn't heavy with the vanilla sweetness of Libby. His knee jostled the heavy box on the seat beside them and it rattled, making Libby sit up with a gasp.

“Don't drop it! There's something in there that sounds breakable.”

“I've got it,” he assured her, putting a steadying hand on the box. “Don't worry.”

Libby subsided back against the cushion, her heavy-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks making Owen feel about ten feet tall. “Okay. Yay. Because I'm having a hard time worrying about much of anything right this minute.”

Primal satisfaction flooded Owen, lowering his voice to a pleased growl. “Good.”

Licking her lips, Libby lifted tentative hands toward Owen's waist. “But what about you? Are you—I could … shoot. This is hard.”

Owen couldn't help it. One of his eyebrows shot up, and he barked out a laugh that had Libby scooting up in the seat and babbling, “I mean, not hard! Or maybe it is, I don't know. But that's sort of my point! I could find out, or help you out, if you wanted … oh, my gosh, please say something.”

“I want you,” Owen said bluntly, his smile fading and leaving behind nothing but desire and intent. “But this isn't an equation we have to balance right now. Not without talking a little more first.”

Because the more Owen's head cleared, the fog of lust dissipating, the more he wondered just how experienced his shy little dreamer was with the opposite sex. The way Libby had responded to him had looked a lot like beginner's innocence, every sigh and moan flavored with surprise at what her body was capable of feeling.

Libby made a face that almost confirmed Owen's guess—simultaneously relieved and disappointed. “You know I'm not great with the talking. But I can try, if we have to.”

“We don't have to do anything.” Owen felt he had to clarify. The wind picked up outside, whistling past the shed in a cold fury and making Owen glance up at the snow-darkened window overhead. “Except wait out this storm and try not to freeze to death.”

“I don't think I'll ever be cold again.” Libby's eyelashes swept down shyly as she shifted around to right her clothes. Owen felt a pang of loss when she zipped up her pink coat once more, but it couldn't be helped. They had to stay warm. There was no telling how long the storm might last, and he'd rather not call anyone and make them take the risk of driving in this weather to try and save two people who were perfectly safe … as long as they could manage to keep their clothes on.

 

Chapter Twenty

Libby couldn't catch her breath. She'd never felt like that before—completely out of control, and loving every second of it. Although, okay, it was a little scary to fall to pieces in front of Owen, to be so exposed to his sharp, heated stare.

And now, when it was clear that Owen had no intention of going further, she didn't know how to feel about it. For a few brief and glorious minutes, she had felt closer to Owen than to anyone in her life before. But now they were back to being two separate people. The distance between them, while small in physical terms, felt impossible to bridge.

Owen had touched her, so sweetly and deeply and passionately … but he didn't want to be touched in return. Libby's cheeks flamed in embarrassment and she glanced to the side, hoping to hide her expression as she bundled herself back into her coat. The layer of padding felt like insulation against the unbearable intimacy of this moment, even more than the cold.

It would be so easy to back away. It was awfully tempting to put on a smile and pretend she was worldly and sophisticated enough to think nothing of what just happened. But Libby was tired of taking the coward's way out. She didn't want to lie anymore, not even lies of omission. Besides, Owen had said he wanted to talk about it. It was time Libby took him at his word and believed in him.

“So.” The word croaked out husky and thick, and Libby cleared her throat. “Where do we go from here?”

“Honestly? I think we're stuck.” Owen turned from his study of the weather visible out the one window in time to catch Libby's wrinkled nose. “Oh, you mean … where do
we
go.”

He gestured between their bodies, sitting side by side in her grandfather's old-fashioned sleigh, and Libby lifted her chin. “I don't want any more misunderstandings or confusion or hidden agendas. I want everything out on the table so we know where we stand.”

And, because Rome wasn't built in a day and neither was a woman's self confidence, she added, “Um, is that okay?” and instantly wanted to smack herself in the face.

But Owen didn't laugh at her. In fact, his eyes softened. “Of course it's okay. It's good. We should talk.”

Libby waited, silence falling over the shed like snow, burying them in a soft, white blanket.
At least we know the shed is well sealed and insulated,
she thought wildly.
And there are definitely no crickets in here, because if there were, we'd hear them chirping.

“Why is this so difficult?” she blurted. “I'm pretty sure we like each other. That ought to be enough to get a conversation going.”

Owen's mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “I've run ops against insurgents without blinking, but there's something about the phrase ‘we should talk.' It seems to freeze a man from the inside out.”

“It's not any easier for me, if that helps. But I think we have to try.”

His deep breath lifted his chest, reminding Libby of the powerful musculature of Owen's solid frame. “In boot camp, they teach you how to keep going, how not to freeze up. And it might sound simplistic, but a big part of it is to really just
keep going
. Get your body moving and you can bypass your brain, at least long enough to let higher reason take over from the fear response. I suggest we do the same. We should talk while we go through the rest of these boxes and things for supplies to see us through the storm—blankets, warm coats, things like that—and the movement will have the added bonus of keeping our blood pumping, which will keep us warmer than sitting here like lumps.”

“I see why your men follow you,” Libby said, jumping down from the sleigh. “A man with a plan is very compelling.”

Owen shrugged, but there was amused tilt to one corner of his mouth. “What can I say? I like a plan the way you like a story.”

“A man with a plan and a woman with a story.” Libby's heart sank a little. “That doesn't exactly sound like a perfect match.”

Maybe it was time to get her head out of the clouds and see what was waiting for her back in real life, she thought as she watched Owen lever himself down to the floor of the shed. He was gentle with his injured leg, but more confident in its strength than he had been only a few days before.