Unwrapped (30 page)

“Victorian handkerchief?” He tried once more.

“It’s lovely.” She’d never seen anything so delicate, so utterly exquisite. The square of ivory linen bordered by rose-patterned lace took her back to turn-of-the-century England. The hankie should be framed and admired on a living room wall, not stuffed in her jeans back pocket. It was an antique.

“But
Cold,”
she said. “Kleenex works for me.”

She traced a selection of paisley squares perfectly spaced on the glass counter top. The satin was slippery to her touch.

“Pochettes.” Aidan noted her curiosity. “Men’s handkerchiefs that fit the pocket of a suit coat.”

Allie threw back her head and laughed. “Stuffy, Aidan.”

He grinned in agreement.

They moved down the aisle, to beauty and fragrance. He set the lantern on the counter as she looked closely at men’s cologne.

She was drawn to Clive Christian, the world’s most expensive male fragrance. The Baccarat crystal bottle proclaimed its century-old tradition. She lightly dabbed a drop on her finger, closed her eyes, and let it overtake her. Spice and citrus and pure masculinity.

Aidan’s scent.
Men who wore this cologne knew their worth. They were worldly, educated, and gentlemen.

She eyed him through lowered lashes.
How could he afford Clive Christian on his salary?
It was the scent of the very rich.

“This is the cologne you wore in Aspen.” She’d know it anywhere. “I fell in love with the scent.”

“What about the man wearing it?”

“I liked him, too.”

“Nice save, Allie.”

She wanted to save them both.

She finally had the courage to move beyond her comfort zone. No more misunderstandings. No more waiting.

The time was now.

She drew up close and wrapped her arms about his neck, trying to stand on tiptoe, ignoring the stab of pain shooting through her ankle. Her need for him was far stronger. She traced her finger over his lips, corner to corner.

Three years separated this night from their last kiss. As her mouth sought his, time melted away to possession and promise. And complete abandon. She gave herself to him, his sexy body turning her on so much she couldn’t think of anything else. Not blizzards, or her ankle, or even Santa’s eight reindeer who would probably land on the roof at any moment.

There was no more
cold
to their game, it was all
hot
from this point on. Aidan allowed her a heartbeat of sweet and soft and searching before he penetrated her mouth with his tongue. His kisses took her back to Frost Peak Lodge and their night of hot, sweaty sex.

He tucked her close to him. He held her so tight she dropped her opera cane. She heard it rattle onto the polished marble floor, the sound echoing around them like the chain of a ghost from Christmas past.

Her pulse raced, and her intake of breath was sharp in the silent store. He willingly breathed for her, exhaling as she inhaled, the moist heat of his mouth becoming her life force.

He kissed her with three years of suppressed need.

She kissed him back with the urgency of lost time.

She tried to sift her body into his, a merging of two into one. They stood as close as two people could with their clothes on.

Heat spread into her breasts and her nipples hardened. She felt his sex thicken and rise against her belly. She moaned. She sighed. She wanted.

Her insides shifted and melted. She moaned low in her throat. And her entire body hummed.

Aidan touched her everywhere. He traced her shoulders. Cupped her breasts. He ran his fingers over her ribs. Palmed her belly. He spanned her hip then stroked her ass. He felt between her legs and she opened to him. She leaned into his hand.

Overhead, the final slam and shudder of the generators broke them apart. The emergency lights faded. Darkness claimed every corner of the store. The air carried a menacing chill. The ancient machinery had given up the ghost.

Allie clutched his arms, his muscles tensing as their predicament worsened. He blew out a breath, fanning her forehead with warmth. Still, she shivered.

“Scared?” he asked.

“Not of the dark and no longer of you.” She lowered her voice, afraid the shadows might have ears. “I don’t need a present from Dutton’s to be happy this holiday season. I want our gift exchange to be each other.”

“Maybe a trip to Aspen to take up where we left off,” he proposed.

She smiled, liking his suggestion. He wanted to make future plans with her. To prove he wouldn’t leave her. She appreciated his effort. “New Year’s sex. There really is a Santa Claus.”

“There’s also Sam,” Aidan observed, noticing the security guard’s approach. He was grateful Sam hadn’t shown up a moment sooner or his whole life might not have changed for the better. He now knew that Allie wanted him and that was the best Christmas gift he’d ever received in his stocking.

He turned his attention to Sam, packing two flashlights, a camping lantern, and a deepening scowl.

Sam nodded a greeting to them both, then went on to say, “I need you upstairs, boss. Chris and Pamela have taken advantage of your shopping spree. Their selection of gifts would fill Santa’s bag ten times over.”

Aidan felt a headache coming on. “I told them one gift each,” he said.

“Apparently they can’t count,” said Sam.

Major mood spoiler, Aidan thought. He and Allie had just found each other, only to be separated by a greedy golfer and money-hungry Broadway actress.

He bent to pick up Allie’s opera cane. The cane she’d dropped when he drew her close. Their fingers brushed and he felt a heat at his groin that could roast chestnuts.

“What have they accumulated?” he asked Sam. “Last I heard, Chris wanted a new golf bag and Pamela was looking for a fancy dress.”

Sam ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Their spree gained momentum as they went through the store. Chris picked out a new set of golf clubs, golf shoes, then pocketed the TRI Marker.” Sam looked at Allie, explaining, “It’s a white gold, diamond and amethyst studded marker used to mark ball placement. Chris continues to believe that Dutton’s
owes
him for the inconvenience of the blizzard. He’s run up six-figures so far.”

Aidan stiffened. “How about Pamela?”

“She chose a dozen designer dresses and still has her eye on the red satin stilettos in the front showroom window,” Sam said. “Chris convinced her that she needed luggage for her clothes. She went with the Louis Vuitton collection and took all six pieces, including the armoire trunk and hat box. She said the pieces matched Chris’s golf bag.”

“It sounds like Pamela plans to join Chris on the Tour,” Allie speculated.

“The lady’s in for a major disappointment,” Sam said. “The man’s not Chris Johnson. I’d stake my life on it.”

Aidan thought Sam was probably right. To get Chris to confess was another matter entirely.

He looked at Allie, who smiled shyly at him. Her hair was mussed, her eyes bright. Her cheeks and chin bore his whisker burn. He rubbed his jaw. He needed a shave.

His chest clutched as he realized how much he cared for her. She was a hot sex partner, but he also felt a soul-deep connection. He knew in his heart Allie was different from any woman he’d ever met. He could be himself around this woman.

She’d yet to know him as the Dutton heir, but that would come soon enough. He’d tell her after the snowstorm, when they had complete privacy. No interruptions.

He would have given her every item in this store, if she had asked. Instead she’d chosen him as her Christmas gift. Lying next to her skin to skin would be priceless.

“Where are the Murphys?” Aidan asked, curious as well as concerned for their safety.

“Sitting happily on the couch like two kids on Christmas morning,” Sam told him. “Marian’s busy admiring her Waterford vase and Warren’s appreciative of his new crocodile wallet.”

The guard clasped his hands and blew on his fingers. “It’s going to be cold soon. We need to collect pillows and blankets.”

“Heat rises,” Aidan knew. “Let’s move to the sixth floor, to beds and bedding.”

“Warren Murphy mentioned his joints hurt,” Sam said. “It might do him good to stretch out.”

“Bunk beds for Pamela and Chris?” Allie asked, tongue in cheek.

Sam grunted. “Any heavy breathing and I trigger the Taser.”

Aidan could picture Allie on the large, draped four-poster bed. A Turkish motif with the finest ivory silk linens, a black cashmere coverlet, and Fez embroidered pillows.

Realistically, they might be warmer in a sleeping bag. Dutton’s had several designs. One double-size sleeper had a velvet futon cushioned floor and a thick goose-down lining. The manufacturer claimed it was suitable for Arctic temperatures; it would keep his snow angel warm.

“Let me carry you upstairs.” He then swept Allie high against his chest before she could protest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and nuzzled his neck. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

Sam led the climb, flashlights and lanterns in hand. The stairwell held a foreboding chill. It was time to prepare for the frigid night ahead.

They reached the third floor, and Aidan looked around. Sam had warned him about Chris’s and Pamela’s stack of expensive gifts. Yet seeing the merchandise piled high made him double blink. They’d clean out his store if he’d let them.

The two sat snuggled together on the leather couch. Their heads were bent, whispering, laughing, carrying on like partners in crime. They appeared more on vacation than stuck in a blizzard.

Three boxes of imported hand-dipped chocolates lay open on the coffee table. Several half-eaten pieces sat sticky on the clear glass. Two wineglasses flanked a bottle of Mouton Rothschild. Pamela and Chris were well into the red wine.

Aidan had every right to be pissed. For Allie’s sake, he locked his jaw and held his temper. Said little for the moment.

He set her down gently. Friction sparked. The hot little pinpricks raised his temperature as well as his dick. He turned to the hoarders and said, “I see you two have been shopping.”

“We shopped until the electricity failed,” Pamela said, pouting. As if the loss of light was Aidan’s fault. “It got so dark it was like stepping into a thick bar of chocolate.”

“We passed Food and Wine on our return and helped ourselves.” Chris smirked. “Nothing but the best for us. Right, Pamela, honey?”

Pamela waved her hand theatrically. “Snickers are so pedestrian. Life’s too short to each cheap chocolate.
Delicabar
by Bacarr is sublime.” She slowly licked her lips, making them shine. “These liqueur truffles are filled with German Robin Brandy, raspberry wine, and Añejo Patrón tequila.”

“We ate one entire box looking for the worm.” Chris laughed at his own joke. “Then we ran out of wine.”

Aidan shook his head. Lack of wine explained why the candies were bitten into pieces. They’d had nothing to wash the chocolate down.

“Major sugar high,” said Pam, cozying up to Chris.

“I’d say the wine chasers helped too,” Allie whispered to Aidan.

He agreed. He debated discussing their mountain of gifts with them. Drunks could be mellow or could get mad. He hoped for the former.

He nodded toward their amassed fortune. “What happened to one gift per customer?” he asked dryly.

“A single present doesn’t compensate for my time.” Chris slurred his words a little. “If I hadn’t been stuck here through no fault of my own, I could have attended the charity tournament in Atlanta, I’d have won big money.”

Sam stepped more visibly into the lantern light. “How quickly you big shots forget,” he addressed Chris. “The winnings don’t go to the golfers. The men play for their favorite charity. Yours was St. Michael’s Mission. The national organization that houses the homeless.”

Chris went so still, Aidan swore he stopped breathing. His features were as tight as his words when he asked, “You knew this how?
Golf Forum
?”

“
USA Today
,” Sam informed him. “I have a copy of yesterday’s newspaper upstairs in Security. There’s no picture of Chris Johnson, only the mention of his charity. I’d be happy to retrieve the article to jog your memory.”

“Shit.” Chris cursed under his breath. He looked visibly shaken.

“Care to come clean?” asked Aidan, opening the door for the truth.

Still, Chris hesitated. Aidan swore the man broke into a cold sweat before his eyes.

Pamela scooted to the far end of the couch, distancing herself from the phony golfer. “If you’re not Chris Johnson, then who are you?”

Chris swallowed hard, confessed. “I was his chauffer while he was in Chicago this past weekend for the grand opening of his new steakhouse The Nineteenth Hole. My real name’s Jay Watts.”

“I knew it.” Sam puffed out his chest, proud of himself. “Mystery solved.”

Jay glared at Sam. “Cut me some slack, will you? I’ve never pretended to be Johnson until today.”

“Why today?” Aidan asked, curious.

“I saw Pamela and thought she was hot. I wanted to impress her.”

Pamela smiled weakly and fussed with her hair. She seemed almost embarrassed by his compliment.

“High-maintenance chicks like Pamela won’t give a regular guy the time of day,” Jay continued. “I wanted to impress her. Professional athletes get a lot of attention. Johnson’s always mobbed. Men want to be him. Women want to sleep with him. Everyone kisses his ass.”

“You wanted your ass kissed, too.” Pamela sighed heavily, as if a burden had been lifted off her shoulders as well. She slowly inched along the couch, back toward Jay. “I have something to get off my chest too,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m not the leading actress in
Peaches
.”

“You’re kidding.” Jay was clearly fooled.

“I’m the understudy in an off-off Broadway production,” she admitted. “It’s not a long running show either. It’s only financed for three months.”

Jay shrugged, lowered his gaze to her breasts. “Guess we’re both as fake as your boobs.”

“My girls are real,” she said with pride. “And they’re show-stoppers.”