Annette Blair (16 page)

Jason relaxed for the first time since the rabbit hole.

“We’re going to put a ringer in the audience,” Gram said. “I’ll bankroll you, Kira, so you can bid as much as you want for Jason, so long as you’re the one who gets to take him home.”

“What!” They were both on their feet.

“Whatever you cost, dear,” the old meddler said to him, “will be my contribution to the event. It’s the only solution,” Gram said, standing, sliding on her leather gloves and buttoning the tan cashmere cape she’d worn for as long as he could remember. “See you both at supper.”

After his grandmother left, Jason stared at Kira and she stared back, both of them in shock.

“Special events?” she suggested, her voice a squeak, and Jason nodded, dumbly, he was certain, and picked up his notebook.

Kira chewed her pen. “She’s a tough old bird, isn’t she?”

“The toughest.”

“Tough love. Probably why you’re not a spoiled brat
or
pining for your parents. She’s good.”

“She’s certifiable.”

Kira giggled.

“You think it’s funny to have to dance to her tune. She’s not easy to live with, you know?”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet you’re a barrel of laughs. But I wasn’t thinking about your grandmother. I was thinking of the ways I might make use of you after I win you.”

Jason looked up at her, his pen halfway to his paper. “What do you have in mind?”

“Does the word
slave
ring any bells?”

“As in sex slave?”

“Yep.”

He sat forward. “Can you give me any idea what that would involve, from your perspective.”

“Ask me again the next time we’re in a rabbit hole.”

“Shit,” he said.

“Nice talk,” she echoed.

THAT
evening, to keep himself from thinking about how much he’d like to be Kira’s sex slave, Jason focused on keeping her from catching pneumonia—so she wouldn’t have to call in sick and leave him to manage the boys at the rink by himself.

First order of business. Shopping.

The next morning he came to work bearing gifts—well, one gift. Not that he knew how she’d take it, but what the hell? He had good intentions. After his glimpse into the rabbit hole, he’d had it wrapped in butterfly paper with a huge turquoise bow and hoped she’d accept it in the spirit with which he was giving it.

Fact was, there was a chance she’d use her wand on him when she saw what was inside.

He found her at her computer, in deep concentration, her fingers moving on that keyboard faster than he’d ever
seen anybody type. He felt awkward and stupid just standing there holding a fancy box with a fancy fat bow, worse because she was ignoring him. “I thought maybe you—”

She screamed and jumped a foot.

He jumped, too, and dropped the box. “Geez. You scared the crap out of me.”

“What do you think you did to me?” She held a hand to her heart.

“I figured you heard me come in.”

“You figured wrong.”

Jason took the box from the floor, set it on her lap, and stepped away, wishing he could disappear.

All she did was look down at it, an inscrutable expression on her face.

Waiting for her to acknowledge its existence unnerved him. “Open it.”

She examined the bright package, top, bottom, sides. She jiggled it, then she fingered the bow and the wings on the silk butterfly in its center. “It’s . . . beautiful, but why?”

“Why is it beautiful?”

“Why the gift?”

“You’ll see. Open it.”

“It’s too pretty to open.”

“Open the damned thing or I’ll rip the paper off myself. I’m going nuts here.”

Kira stifled a grin. “You don’t give too many gifts, do you?”

“What was your first clue?”

“Your hands are shaking.”

Jason swore, grabbed the box from her hand, went into his office, and shut the door between them. “Enough of that crap.”

A minute later Kira came in, remorse in her demeanor. “I just wanted to treasure the moment,” she said. “I don’t get many gifts. It felt like Christmas, you know, the awesome part, when you look at all the beautiful gifts and hope one might be yours, and then one is.”

“Geez, I didn’t mean for you to go all mushy on me,” Jason said, shoving it back at her. “Just take it.”

“Is it breakable?”

“No.”

“Good.” She smacked him with it. “Now stop sulking, sit down, and watch me
enjoy
opening my gift.”

Jason did as he was told.

On the sofa opposite him, Kira untied the ribbons and set them, with the bow, aside as if they were as priceless as a rare French clock. She removed every sliver of tape with careful and slow precision, smoothed the perfect sheet of butterfly paper, and folded it.

At about the fifth piece of tape, Jason was so uptight, he was gritting his teeth, so he made himself relax and accept that she would take forever.

If he’d known a gift would mean this much to her, he would have gotten her one sooner.

When she removed the cover from the box, he held his breath. When she parted the tissue, she gasped, and he nearly came off his seat.

Then she went silent again.

“They’re Wellies,” he said, a little too fast. “Very trendy . . . so your feet stay dry . . . and you stay healthy.”

She removed one of a pair of red-and-yellow Argyle-style boots from the box and regarded it, a hand to her mouth for too long. Then she ran her fingers over the shiny-smooth surface and traced the argyle design.

He’d never seen her wear anything but black, except in the rabbit hole, and she was right about that night, it did seem like a dream. But boots were different, weren’t they?

He couldn’t tell if she liked them or not, if the wild-patterned colors insulted her or not. He
could
tell that if she didn’t say something soon, he was in for a case of heart palpitations.

When she finally looked up at him, she had tears in her eyes.

The palpitations stopped. “Geez. Now what? I didn’t
mean to piss you off.” He reached for the box. “Hand them over; I’ll take them back. Stupid idea.”

Kira squeaked and pulled the box from his reach.

Jason stopped and straightened. “I can’t read you,” he said. “Say something, please.”

She swallowed. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re just boots.”

She held them closer. “They’re
my
boots.”

“So wear them, damn it!”

She frowned, bit her lip, put the Wellies back in the box, covered it, and set the paper and ribbons on top . . . at which point Jason expected to have them shoved down his throat.

But she set them aside and picked up her notes. “Want to go over a couple more events?”

“Okayyyyy.” Jason followed her lead and picked up his notes, still not sure if the boots were a good idea or a bad one, though he knew that snapping at her had been lame, and he was grateful he wasn’t barfing boots about now.

“I have some thoughts regarding our ‘Get Acquainted’ event,” Kira said, all business again.

“Shoot,” he said, watching her sneak peaks at the box of boots, as if she were suddenly vulnerable, which was odd, considering how strong and determined she really was.

“I have two possible titles for the event,” she said, turning in her seat to face him . . . or to face away from his gift. “How about ‘Empty Arms’ or ‘Waiting Arms’?” she suggested. “Or even ‘Open Arms,’ ” she added, “now that I think of it.”

“I think Empty Arms has a negative connotation,” Jason said, “and we want the event to be festive. I’m afraid that Waiting Arms will remind the prospective parents of how long a wait is involved with an adoption, plus both might be reminders that they can’t have children of their own. But I do like Open Arms,” he said. “It’s . . . open, honest, hopeful, positive . . . something to come home to.”

“Wow, you’re good at this.”

Jason shrugged. “In the nonprofit arena, I’m a junior-varsity player and you’re in the national league. The call may have been mine, but the game is all yours.”

“Okay, but you’re insightful. I had already seen the negativity in Empty Arms, and I didn’t think of Open Arms until I started talking. I like it.”

“That’s why we discuss these things. Get them out in the open.”

“Okay, next: We have to set the date for the Open Arms event and discuss Sister Margaret’s theatrical ideas.”

“Which do you want to do first?”

“A date will automatically narrow the list of possible plays.”

“A date first, then.” Jason opened his day planner.

Kira did the same. “Given the fact that October is half over,” she said, thinking out loud, “and figuring in the time to design, print, and mail invitations, I see Saturday November twenty-sixth as the earliest possibility, though I’d rather have the extra week we gain by going with Saturday night December third. We have to pick an auction date, too, by the way.”

“I have a brilliant idea,” Jason said. “Let’s auction off the kids!”

Kira raised her day planner to hide her face, but her shoulders were shaking.

“Okay,” Jason said, “not such a brilliant idea, but why does Open Arms have to be on a Saturday night?” he asked. “This is a kid thing, right? How about we make it a Sunday afternoon? How does Sunday December fourth sound to you?”

Kira slid her calendar slowly downward, revealing herself in increments, her gorgeous cinnamon curls first, her speaking emerald eyes next, and ah, there was her smile—as potent as her wand, and able to achieve the opposite effect.

“That’s bloody brilliant,” she said.

“When did you become British?”

“I may have watched
Love Actually
and
Bridget Jones’s
Diary
too many times this weekend. They’re two of my favorite movies.”

“Never saw them.”

“You poor deprived male. I’ll have to make popcorn one night and invite you over for a chick-flick fest.”

“I’d rather give hockey lessons. No, scratch that. I’d rather get hit with a puck.”

“I wish Travis and Zane could be lobsters in a Nativity play.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe that’s a
good
thing?”

“Come and sit by me,” Kira said, patting the space beside her, “so we can look at what plays the boys might perform. Sister gave me a good-sized list.”

Who was he to argue? Jason thought, happy to settle in beside her. She smelled great close up, better than toxic perfumed smoke, his first aromatic memory of her, and better than grilled-cheese sandwiches, his last and favorite, until this moment. At this moment she smelled of berries again, ripe summer berries, and again, he wanted a taste.

“Sister Margaret put down the usual child-type plays,” she said, showing him the list. “See, and, frankly, they’re all boring. I want the boys to give a performance with an up-to-the-minute edge, something to make them shine.”

“Yeah, well, then, don’t set it in a hockey rink. Do
we
get to pick the play?”

Kira nodded. “With Sister’s approval.”

“Okay, what have we got?”

“Since it’s in December, let’s eliminate the autumn plays and the boring ones.” Kira scratched some titles off her list. “I see potential in . . . Scrooge and the Nativity.”

“Either, I guess, though they seem as boring as the rest to me, or should I say they’ve been overdone, at any rate.”

“That’s almost the beauty in them, so I’ve been trying to come up with ways to combine them,” she said, pencil to her teeth, gaze focused inward. “Instead of
Ghosts
of Christmas
Past, Present, and Future, we could have . . . angels—edgy, today angels.” Her smile tightened Jason’s chest. “Won’t the boys make great little angels?” she asked rhetorically.

“Hah!” Jason touched his temple. “Sure, and I suppose Zane would make a perfect Tiny Tim?”

Kira patted his cheek, which he liked, and his body agreed he liked. “That’s the spirit,” she said. “For instance, we could make one of the angels a hockey player.”

“Yeah, well, don’t give him a stick and a puck, because he’ll knock out the cast and half the audience in one swing.”

Kira giggled. “What if . . . we ended the play with the angel of Christmas past at the Nativity . . . and the kids give parenthood a not-so-subtle plug using Mary and Joseph as examples.”

That
was the kicker, Jason thought. She’d hooked him. She’d freaking knocked him on his figurative ass. She didn’t get paid enough was his first thought, but he couldn’t afford to admit that, so he simply grinned, and high-fived her, a compliment she seemed to appreciate, judging by her eyes.

She’d only ever looked at Zane or Travis that way, he thought, humbled.

They remained, palm to palm, her verdant eyes bright, electricity sparking between them, his blood hot and heading south. But when he stroked her fingertips with his . . . he broke the spell.

She reclaimed her hand, as if from a fire.

He was sorry he’d spooked her.

She stood to leave, almost at a run.

Kira was running scared, or so it seemed to Jason.

“I’VE
got volunteers coming in to get the
Kitchen Witch
invitations into the mail,” Kira said from beside the door to her office. “I figured I’d invite only female donors, then it occurred to me that men think Melody’s hot, so I invited them as well.” She had worked her way back into his office.