Mixed Signals (25 page)

He stretched out his hand to grasp hers. “It was a struggle, all right. But not about dinner.”

Belle squeezed his hand and an electrical impulse shot straight to his heart. “Thank you for trusting me, David. I can’t imagine what it took for you to tell me about Sherry. And Josh.”

He had to know. “So I’m forgiven?”

“Forgiven? By me?” She squeezed his hand again. “Of course. Your past is just that—passed. God is the only one whose forgiveness is a must-have, and you’ve already found that, right?”

“Right.” He smiled at her, really smiled, for the first time since that gut-wrenching moment Norah opened her front door. Relief flooded his soul, a dam breaking loose, spilling over, flowing like a river of living water.

Forgiveness. He felt it, he
knew
it.

When Belle slid out of the truck, he followed suit, pushing open his own door and dropping to the icy ground. The snow was falling faster, the flakes thicker, mingling with the gold stars on Belle’s holiday sweater as she inched her way across the slippery bricks. Without warning, she lost her footing, waving her arms in vain, grasping at air.

“Daaa-vid!”

He lunged forward, catching her shoulders seconds before she hit the icy walk. How light she felt in his hands. “Easy does it.” He was acutely aware of her embarrassment, eager to relieve it. She let out a nervous laugh while he righted her and brushed the snow off her shoulders, secretly grateful for the chance to touch her, if only for an instant.

“Sorry.” She was clearly chagrined. “I never was good at ice-skating.”

“No problem.” He released her quickly, reluctantly. The tinkling of bells in his pocket jogged his memory. “Belle, I have something for you.” He fished the small, square box out of his pocket.

Next to the gift she’d just presented to him, this was nothing. Less than nothing, but it was the best he had to offer.

“Here. Open it.”

She looked at the gaily wrapped package then at him in obvious astonishment. “David, you shouldn’t have! I didn’t … I …”

He shook his head. “No apologies. You’ve given me more than you’ll ever know. Open it. Please.”

Like a child, she shook it first, giggling in delight. “Bells! Is that it?”

Watching her tear open the paper, her small hands trembling with excitement, he decided on the spot that Belle’s anticipation was worth every penny he’d spent.

She lifted the lid and gasped. “Is it a bracelet? Ah, a
necklace!
David, it’s beautiful.”

So are you
.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not now. Not yet. She held up the
jewelry, admiring it, the discarded box forgotten in the snow at her feet. Nice as it was, David knew the necklace was a tarnished bit of metal next to its new owner. Her smile far eclipsed the golden gleam of the tiny bells.

“Will you put it on for me?” She blushed slightly, avoiding his eyes. “I never can get these clasps.”

David gulped. “Sure.” His hands were steadier than he expected, until he realized the scene before him was unfolding exactly as he’d imagined it earlier that day. An overwhelming feeling of déjà vu drowned him in sensations, as every nerve ending awakened to attention.

There was Belle, turning her back toward him, lifting her heavy braid with both hands, elbows out, creating a graceful dancer’s silhouette. Yes, there was the heady whiff of perfume, the wispy tendrils of auburn hair curling along the nape of her neck, the warmth of her body fanning out in steady, invisible waves.

His heart pressed against his chest, pounding out a rhythmic drumbeat, making him feel light-headed, euphoric. Time slowed to a languid pace. The freezing winds swirling around them were forgotten. He toyed for a moment with counting the dozens of freckles on display before him, each one a delicious chocolate dot against the creamy skin below the taut hairs at the base of her braid.

The necklace, man
.

He pulled himself together while he drew the ends of the gold strand one to the other and grappled with the tiny clasp, brushing his knuckles against her exposed skin in the process. As if by silent request, Belle dipped her head lower to give him more room, revealing more of herself, vulnerable, trusting.

An idea came to him, unbidden yet welcome.

He couldn’t kiss her lips, not yet. But he could kiss the back of her neck.

Surely he could do that.

He gently pushed her braid aside and slid his hands across her narrow shoulders to steady her. To steady himself. A tremor ran through her, so slight he wondered if he’d imagined it. The shoulders beneath her thick sweater felt fragile under his hands. Slowly, reverently, he bent forward. It was an act of worship, an expression of pure gratitude for the undeserved grace she’d shared so freely.

Close, closer. When his lips touched her skin, Belle let out a soft gasp of surprise. He pressed his mouth firmly against her neck, wanting there to be no mistake of his intention. He marveled at the fragrant texture of her skin. He knew he should end it, but lingered a moment longer than absolutely necessary before adding a final, feathery kiss.

One truth remained. She hadn’t pulled away. She was, in fact, turning around beneath his hands, perhaps to offer him a sweeter spot for his kisses to land.

B
ELLE HADN’T MEANT TO SLAP HIM
.

His kiss had simply surprised her, caught her off guard.

David looked startled himself, standing there, eyes wide, skin flushed, his generous lips parted in shock as if he were about to say something and forgot what it was.

Belle fought for breath and the courage to apologize. “David, I’m sorry.”

And she was.
Sort of
. But how dare he take such liberties? Kissing the nape of her neck where she couldn’t see him, couldn’t have a choice in the matter.

Couldn’t kiss him back.

The storm clouds gathering in his eyes prompted her to repeat herself. “Honestly, David, I don’t know what came over me. I truly am sorry.”

“Not one-tenth as sorry as I am.” He ground out the words through jaws that had tightened considerably. Turning sharply toward the truck, he stomped through the snow, his actions exaggerated and stiff, undoubtedly meant to make her feel like a heel for rejecting his innocent overture.

And it was innocent. She knew that the minute she felt his lips press against her skin. A charming show of affection, nothing more.
Wasn’t it?
Anxious to make amends, she called out, “Look, I forgive you for … for …”

“
Forgive
me?” He whirled around, huffing like a steam engine. “Forgive wh … whooaa!” Thrown off balance, David frantically scrambled for solid footing on the ice.

Belle watched in frozen fascination as his long legs flew out from under him and his muscular arms shot up into the air. In less time than it took her to speak his name, she was leaning over David, flat on his back. In his brand-new suit. In the cold, wet snow.

“David, are you okay?” She hovered over him, genuinely concerned.

One eye opened. “I don’t know yet.” The other eye opened. “How come you didn’t catch me? I caught you.”

She laughed, relieved to hear a hint of teasing in his voice. “Because you’re lots bigger, of course.”
Lots
. She watched him rise to his feet, brushing off the worst of the snow.

“Serves me right. Shouldn’t have gotten mad.”

“Shouldn’t have kissed me without warning, either.”

He met her gaze. “Nope. Not sorry about that one.”

He was standing inches from her now, looking down, all seriousness again. A heady boldness sang through her veins as her eyes trailed up the length of his red tie, lingering for the briefest second on his mouth then meeting his eyes again. “I’m not sorry, either.”

She watched his Adam’s apple dip below his tie, then pop back into view. “Then why’d you slap me, Belle?”

“Instinct, I guess. Maybe I didn’t want you to think I was … uh … that kind of girl.”

“What kind of girl?”

“The … um … kind of girl who lets men …”

“Lets men what? Kiss them?”

If David could tell the truth, by ginger, so could she. She sniffed for dramatic effect. “Despite what you may think, I never dated much in high school, hardly at all in college, and less in radio.”

“Ohh.” The surprised look had returned.

“I’m what my mother called a ‘late bloomer.’ By the time I … uh,
bloomed
, men my age had wandered off to … um … a fresher corner of the garden.”

David’s sudden smile was devastating. “I do believe I see roses blooming in your cheeks right now.”

She gulped. “No doubt.” Did he understand what she was hinting at?
That she’d never known a man? First because they’d shown no interest in her, then because she’d shown no interest in them or in giving herself to anyone but a future husband.

Could David read that in her expression, in her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to say the words and risk blushing for the rest of her natural life?

David tugged on her braid, pulling her an inch closer. His voice was a gentle murmur. “What you’re telling me is, you’re not Sherry.”

“Right!” Her sigh of relief could be heard two blocks in each direction. “I’m … not.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, then two.

Is he crying, Lord? Praying?
She forced herself not to move, not to breathe. Only to wait. When he finally opened his eyes, slowly and without apology, Belle saw a light reflected there that pierced her heart with its honesty.

“To think,” he whispered, “that a woman so … pure …” His voice trailed off. “Grace. You’ve given me the gift of grace. Again.”

She bit her lower lip. “It’s not my gift to give. It’s God’s.”

“I know.” A single tear slipped down the plane of his handsome face, tracing his chin line, disappearing into the striped collar of his shirt. “You, Belle, are the living, breathing proof of it.”

Instinctively, she reached up and pressed her hands against his neck to catch the tear, to spare his shirt. His freshly shaved skin warmed her cold fingers. She felt him swallow, felt his neck tighten as he began to lower his head, saw his eyes sweep closed once more as his lips formed in the unmistakable shape of a kiss.

Her eyes drifted shut. His warm, mint-tinged breath reached her lips a half beat before his mouth did. Despite the chilly air swirling around them, she sensed her skin warming to a toasty glow.

David’s hands slipped loosely around her waist, and the tiniest gasp escaped her before she found her lips pressing against his while she held her breath, waiting and wondering and worrying and …

Oh, my
.

This was … this was too good to be imagined. Their lips were a perfect fit, clearly fashioned for one another before time began.

She slipped her hands around the back of his neck, separating their lips for only a moment before they touched again. His kiss was a gentle, caring caress, full of emotion and honesty and respect and every other thing she’d ever prayed for.

Her heart was singing—on
pitch!
fathom that!—as she broke their kiss at last and tipped her head back, vaguely aware of frosty winds brushing across her heated cheeks. “Merry Christmas, David.”

His eyes twinkled behind his glasses, which were now covered with a faint layer of steam and ice. “You can say that again.” He bent toward her. “In fact, I wish you would.”

Norah considered herself an above-average conversationalist. But even a pro runs out of small talk eventually.

Since the minute David Cahill stormed out her front door, trailed by a tearful Belle, Norah had been preparing for their return. Room was made at the festive table for another guest.
Didn’t I want six all along?
Symmetry gave her a small frisson of pleasure deep in her bones. The Christmas stocking with David’s name carefully stitched across the top was quickly hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that dear David soon would be there.

Soon
came and went.
Late
had settled in.

The food waited, no doubt shriveled beyond recognition, warming in her Silver Spoon ovens downstairs. Her three remaining guests, filled to the gills with hors d’oeuvres and eggnog, sat expectantly around her table, strangers to one another, thrown together only moments before the whole messy drama had unfolded in the foyer.

This was not at all the day she’d anticipated, planned for, prayed for, hoped for. Which meant God was up to something, and for that she was exceedingly grateful. After all, what would Christmas be without him?

Patrick was looking at her now, his eyes darker than usual, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Scoundrel
. She should punish him for his carelessness, for inviting David without informing anyone else. What a lot of unnecessary heartache he’d caused. Still, it was hard to stay
mad at a man who meant well and looked so crestfallen when he realized what he’d done.

He’d apologized to her profusely in the kitchen, even after she’d swatted his hand when he reached for a biscuit. He’d grabbed her hand in return, lifted it to brush his lips against her floured palm, begged her forgiveness. When he grinned—his mouth covered with White Lily Flour—she’d laughed until her sides hurt.

How could a woman stay mad at such an impossibly charming man?

Belle’s parents were holding up well, considering. A pleasant couple, obviously trying to sort things out, wondering what they’d missed and who the blond stranger was who’d stolen their daughter’s heart. Belle could deny it all she wanted, insist her elders were seeing things that weren’t there, but it was clear that David had eyes for her alone and vice versa.

Norah smiled to herself.
You don’t live fifty years and miss the obvious stuff
. The question was, had the two of them figured it out yet?

As if in answer, the front door swung open, ushering in the snow-covered couple. Belle and David both sported identical red noses and expressions suggesting … astonishment? Norah was certain of one thing. David’s cheek bore a distinct scarlet handprint, and Belle’s neck was a startling shade of pink, showing off a shiny new gold necklace.