FOR CHRISTMAS FOREVER Read online

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  FOR CHRISTMAS, FOREVER

  Ruth Wind

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

  Epilogue

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  Prologue

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  Forever after, he saw the explosion in slow motion.

  First, the low evening sunlight, glowing on the pale ancient stone of the bridge and glittering over the water of the Seine. Next to him, the freshly lipsticked mouth of his lover, Marguerite, curled in a teasing smile as she reached for the crook of his arm. Ahead of them walked Julian "Jules" Moreau, dressed as always in a sleek Italian suit, his hair combed back into a ponytail to increase his resemblance to an American film star.

  All three were operatives for the Organization, a private, top-secret peacekeeping agency, but this soft July evening they were free, their bellies satisfied with good wine and tender veal served by one of the finest chefs in Paris. For one small moment, Zane allowed himself to marvel over the fact that a mixed-blood Blackfoot man from a tiny Colorado town was walking in this famous, rose-gold light on a street a thousand years old. The wine they'd drunk at dinner had filled his veins with a lazy, rich sense of peace, and he glanced down at Marguerite and smiled a promise. She lifted an eyebrow wickedly and snuggled a little closer. They would go to Zane's flat, a second-floor walk-up with long windows that afforded views of the rooftops of the City of Light, as romantic a sight as any he'd seen.

  From behind them came a shout, and Zane glanced over his shoulder to see the waiter, smiling and waving him back, holding up Zane's linen jacket. With a rueful laugh, he patted Marguerite's hand and returned back to fetch it.

  One step, two. His heels clicked on the old pavement.

  Then a ripple of warning ripped up the back of his neck, triggered by something caught from the corner of his eye. Urgently, Zane whirled to cry out a warning: "Don't—"

  Too late. Jules raised his head, but his hand was already lifting the door handle, and the car, expertly wired, exploded in a shattering, shrapnel-ridden blaze. Zane saw the flame, the noxious black cloud, an instant before he was slammed to the ground, feeling his leg give way under the weight of something he could not see. His breath whooshed from his lungs.

  Seeping blackness bled into his vision, and he had only a moment to realize Marguerite and Julian had been destroyed by that inferno, before unconsciousness claimed him.

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  Chapter 1

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  Claire Franklin put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at the load on top of her heavy-duty sports utility vehicle. The tree was seven feet of sweet-smelling fir, purchased from a local Christmas tree farmer who'd been happy to tie it to the roof for her at his lot. And on her roof it remained. She scowled at it, already feeling the tangle of panic crowding out the air in her chest. She hadn't considered the problem of getting it off the truck and into the house by herself.

  Still, there was no one else. She made a stab at the task, first untangling the ropes laced through the branches, and discovered an unfortunate fact: the tree was very prickly. The bark was also sticky with sap, and when she pulled her hand away, reddish-brown flakes stuck to the golden resin on her palms.

  "Yuck," she said aloud, and bent over to wipe her hand in the grass. Not that it did much good. The minute she put her hand amid those branches and started to tug the tree carefully off the top of the truck, the stuff was all over her hands again.

  And there were – ugh – spiders living in its branches. One crawled right over her hand and nearly up her coat sleeve before she figured out that it wasn't just a branch tickling her. With a yelp, she yanked her hand away, shuddering, and the tree crashed to the ground, nearly squishing her dog, Coach, who skittered out of the way just in time.

  The young shepherd gave her a wounded look. Claire, still shaking the spider creeps from her hands, said, "I didn't do it on purpose." She shuddered violently. "Gross. I hate spiders."

  At least the mishap got the tree off the roof of the truck. Pulling her coat sleeves down over her hands to protect against any other lurking creatures, Claire gingerly stuck her arm down between the glossy needles and gripped the top of the trunk. She pulled. It didn't budge. She yanked hard, grunting with the weight, feeling the strain in her shoulders. But the tree moved – reluctantly – across the wet grass.

  Naturally, the leaden skies chose just that moment to commence their weeping. It wasn't a heavy rain, at least not yet, but the drizzle added to her sense of martyred misery, soaking her hair and running beneath the collar of her coat.

  Grimly, Claire kept at it and dragged the tree across the yard toward her pretty, freshly painted bed-and-breakfast, cursing under her breath. "I hate Christmas. I hate Christmas trees. I hate all this hassle for one stupid day of the year."

  But that was not entirely true. She genuinely wanted to like the holiday. She loved Christmas carols and the smell of baking cookies. But nothing made her feel so much a fake as a holiday she'd never really celebrated as a child.

  Puffing, she made it to the edge of the lawn and paused to give her lower back a rest. Drizzle washed her face, and she blotted it with the inner sleeve of her lined flannel jacket.

  It would be different if she could claim exemption from the holiday on religious or cultural grounds. It wasn't, after all, as if everybody on the planet celebrated Christmas. For millions of Hindus and Buddhists and Muslims, it was a plain old ordinary day.

  Coach sniffed the tree curiously. Claire rubbed his wheat-colored ears, taking the same pleasure she always did in the velvety softness. Dog ears were one of the great blessings of life. "I could convert," she said to him. "Then I'd never have to worry about it again." He looked up and wagged his tail, then went back to sniffing the branches. "You're right. Silly idea."

  The rueful conversation with herself made her feel marginally better, and she told herself to be grateful for what she did have, instead of whining about what she didn't. A dog, for one thing. She'd not been able to have one in years, and aside from the sweetness of his ears, he was a good companion. People thought you were a lot less crazy if you talked to an animal instead of yourself, though she'd personally never seen much difference.

  With a sigh, she bent down and grabbed the tree and started dragging it again. She told herself she could do this – not just get it inside, but make it beautiful. She had learned to create the illusion of home for her guests at the inn in every other way. Her simple, home-style food was a big lure, and she'd decorated the rooms with the kind of warmth and comfort she'd dreamed of as a child. How hard could decorating a Christmas tree be?

  Except none of those other things disarmed her like Christmas did. She loved to cook and shop for the guest rooms, and decorating was one of her few serious talents. She had an eye for color and balance, and enough imagination to enjoy the challenge of reproducing expensive effects on a shoestring.

  Only Christmas still had the power to unsettle her.

  During her seven years at a large hotel chain, Christmas had always been a very businesslike affair, and someone else was always in charge of decorating.

  Last year, her first at the inn, she had not had to cope with it at all, as the season had not brought guests to her new home. She'd thought, until two days ago, that she would slide by the same way this year. A large group of elderly German tourists had left yesterday, and starting in January, there were plenty of bookings, but the three weeks in between had been blissfully clear. Happily, she'd thought she would escape the need for a tree or decorations or anything else to do with the holiday. Instead, she'd planned to give the inn a good cleaning, and get
her taxes done early.

  Two days ago a reservation had come in, ruining that little scenario. One guest wouldn't change her holiday plans that much; she could still clean and do taxes. Except that she felt obligated to erect a Christmas tree now. What good innkeeper did not have a beautiful Christmas tree set up the week before Christmas?

  Stopping to rest at the foot of the porch steps, she straightened and rubbed the small of her back. The tree, dark green and fragrant, stretched out behind her, the ultimate symbol of all Claire had missed, and no matter how much she gave herself pep talks, the sight of it gave her a strange, sad twist in her gut.

  Coach suddenly gave a sharp, loud bark and took off into the forest that edged her property. "Coach!" she cried, annoyed. "You are never going to catch that squirrel! Get back here!"

  He ignored her, as he always did, and she heard him racing around in the trees with exuberant excitement. He wouldn't go far, and the inn was isolated enough that he was in no danger. Once she got the tree inside, she could whistle him back home.

  With a heavy sigh, she grasped the tree again and started the long process of hauling it up the stairs. It was a lot harder than she'd anticipated. The grass had been wet, so the tree had slid over it almost effortlessly. Now she had to haul its weight up the stairs. She groaned with effort, and at the top step paused again, breathing hard as she clung to the top of the tree with a shaky arm.

  A voice shattered the still, rainy quiet. "Need help?"

  Claire gave a startled cry and dropped the tree. It slid immediately down the stairs. Because her balance had been in tandem with the tree, she stumbled with it, landing with no small indignity on her rear in the wet grass. She swore, and not with ladylike mildness.

  The man who'd spoken stepped close, and Claire's eyes went from feet to face in an instant, gathering details in an old, defensive habit, born in a childhood spent in neighborhoods where a child might encounter a drunk or a dangerous felon or any number of other frightening possibilities at any moment.

  What she saw was not reassuring. He was tall and almost too lean, as if he'd had hard times recently, an impression reinforced by the jeans he wore. They were worn to an ancient sky blue, and his left knee, brown and smooth, showed through a tear. The other leg was laced up the side with rawhide, to make room for a cast that went from ankle to thigh. She raised her eyes. Dark sunglasses and the brim of a Toronto Blue Jays hat obscured most of his face, and his mouth was utterly without expression. Not mean, but not smiling.

  Claire felt a sense of warning. He looked hard. And dangerous, and not at all the kind of guest ordinarily attracted to her cozy B and B.

  Warily, Claire stood, lifting her chin. "May I help you?"

  "Looks like you're the one who needs help." The voice was deep as a canyon.

  "I'll be all right," she said briskly. "If you're looking for—"

  "I made a reservation."

  "Oh." Startled, she frowned and glanced at her watch. "I didn't expect you for another three or four hours."

  "Things went more smoothly than I expected." His accent was unusual, cultured, with a faint lilt that she associated with western Native American tribes. "I assumed there would be no trouble."

  "Oh, no. Not at all." Flustered by her own rudeness, she stuck out her hand. "Claire Franklin."

  He shifted his cane to his left hand and took hers in his right. It was a strong hand, lean and dark and very large. "Zane Hunter." He paused. "The reservation is under Don Jones. My uncle reserved it for me."

  His smooth delivery and manners could not entirely cancel the impression of danger, and Claire found she was bothered by his sunglasses. You could tell more about a person if you could see his eyes. "Will you please remove your sunglasses, Mr. Hunter? It's disconcerting to talk to myself in twin mirrors."

  "My apologies," he said, and raised one long-fingered hand to take off his glasses, then took off the hat, too. "Better?"

  Lord have mercy. Claire heard the words in her mother's smoky drawl, for this was exactly the kind of man Larissa would have sidled up to. His eyes were as green as pine, his hair black and shiny as a seal's back. It spilled over his shoulders in an extravagant fall, the kind of hair only a Native American man could get away with past the age of twenty.

  Claire's mother would have loved that hair. And his mouth. And his size. Most of all, she would have swooned over the look in his eyes – hooded but alluring, distant but inviting.

  Oh, yeah. Larissa would have been all over this guy.

  But Claire, thank heaven, was not her mother. "Much better," she replied, and evenly met his eyes. She gestured toward the ramp to one side. "Let me take your pack."

  For a moment, he didn't reply, looking from the ramp to the tree. "Just a question – why did you try to haul the tree up the steps instead of going up the ramp?"

  Claire blinked. Because I'm an idiot and was having a panic attack, she thought. Aloud, she said, "I have no idea. I wasn't thinking."

  "I can't help you a hell of a lot with this cast on my leg, but we can probably get it inside between the two of us." Without waiting for a reply, he gracefully tossed his pack onto the relatively dry porch, then went to the top of the tree. "You take hold at the base. Better leverage that way."

  "Oh." Of course. There wouldn't even be spiders at that end. She bent over and grabbed it with both hands, then started to pull. At the other end, the man stuck his hands between the branches and pushed. His posture was awkward, but he moved surprisingly easily in spite of it. Inside three minutes, they'd scooted the tree over the grass and up the ramp and into the wide foyer.

  Sincerely, Claire said, "Thank you."

  "Any time," he said, brushing his hands together, but Claire suddenly saw the white around his mouth, the lines of strain around the seductive eyes.

  "Would you like something to eat, Mr. Hunter? I made soup for dinner, since I was not sure when you would arrive."

  He leaned on his cane. "Please. I've come a very long way today."

  "Oh?" she answered politely. "How far?"

  "About five thousand miles, give or take a hundred."

  She glanced at the T-shirt with its French slogan and made a guess. "Paris?"

  He only nodded, his gaze sliding away. Hiding something.

  Claire took the hint and didn't press any further. She led him into the dining room and got him settled in a wing chair that looked out over the back garden through a double set of French doors. In summer, the view was serene and colorful. At the moment, there were no flowers outside, but the trees in the forest were appealing, and she had giant pots of ferns and impatiens blooming inside. Some of her shattered confidence seeped back. "Make yourself comfortable," she said. "I'll be right back."

  Humming under her breath, she ladled hearty vegetable beef soup into a thick ceramic bowl and arranged freshly baked slices of a nutty bread on a plate. She ducked her head into the fridge for a tiny bowl of butter shaped into a neat round. The phone rang. Carrying the butter to the tray, Claire picked it up. "Sea Breeze Bed and Breakfast, Claire Franklin speaking."

  "Hallo!" The voice was light and feminine, unmistakably accented with French. "Have you any rooms available?"

  Two last-minute reservations in a week – from France? Odd. "I can almost certainly accommodate you, ma'am. How many people and when?" She tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear and settled a heavy ceramic cup on the tray, wondering if her guest would prefer coffee or tea or something like an herb tea. She glanced at him through the doorway. Coffee. She'd lay money on it. Probably black coffee.

  "Tomorrow?" The woman said. "A single room."

  "That would be no problem at all." She quoted a price.

  "Ah, so inexpensive! Very good. Let me check my last site and I will call you back."

  "No problem." Claire hung up and carried the tray in to her guest. "I took a chance that you'd like coffee. If you prefer, I have teas of all sorts."

  He roused himself. "Coffee is great. Thanks."

&nbs
p; "Cream or sugar?"

  "No," he said, "I take it black."

  Claire smiled. She was very rarely wrong.

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  Although he tried to keep his shell firmly in place, Zane was so exhausted he could barely breathe. After six months of enforced recovery in the south of France, he'd pushed hard the past twenty-four hours, and his broken body screamed in protest. He hurt in places he ordinarily never thought about – in the repaired joint of his left elbow, in the healed cracks of his left ankle. About the only place that didn't hurt was his right leg, encased in its protective cast. That, naturally, itched. Two more weeks and the damned cast came off.

  After he ate, the woman led him to a ground-floor room with the same view as the dining room. He followed her numbly down the hall, smelling something vaguely spicy, maybe potpourri, and the rich undernotes of pine on his hands.

  The woman, like her inn, was an unexpected relief. She was small and ordinary, her presence as soothing as the hearty soup she'd served him. She hadn't chattered or fluttered, only seen to his comfort in sure, honest ways. No trouble.

  She opened a door and stood back to let him pass. "Here you are."

  He moved by her into the room. Like everything else about the place, it insisted upon relaxation, coaxed Zane's guard into pleased insensibility. A very dangerous state, considering his circumstances, but he was too exhausted to worry about it at the moment.

  He nodded. "Perfect," he said, and looked back at her. Her gaze slid away guiltily, in a way that made him understand she'd been staring at him.

  And for the first time, he noticed she was pretty. Not in the painted, polished way of the women who'd been in his life the past ten years. No, she wore little makeup on her clear, even features, and the long, honey-colored hair was tied back from her face in an artless ponytail. Jeans and a lightweight turtleneck showed small, pretty breasts and a tiny waist.