Once Upon a Christmas (24 page)

Dylan wasn’t sure if she realized exactly how menacingly she’d
started whirling the hair dryer again. Probably not.

“Don’t you understand? Take a walk,” she went on.

Ginger’s tail popped from beneath his trench coat. It
started wagging.

“Scram. I don’t wa—” Stacey snapped her mouth
shut, staring at the fluffy, golden-colored tail beating against his hip. “
What
have you got under there?”

He lowered Ginger to the carpet and pulled off his coat.
Free at last, the dog sneezed and trotted over to have a good sniff of their
new companion. Her tail wagged so fast it made her whole hind end shake.

“You had to say the ‘W’ word, didn’t you?” Dylan
asked.

“‘W’ word?” Stacey’s eyebrows dipped. Absently,
she crouched beside his dog and patted her head.

With a blissful closing of her doggie eyes, Ginger rolled on
her back. All four furry legs lolled in the air.

“Yeah, don’t say it a—”

“What do you…?” Her eyes brightened. “Oh,
walk
!”

Yip
!

Ginger tried to scramble onto four paws. She thunked her
muzzle on the carpet, looked vaguely confused, then made it upright. From tail
to whiskers, her whole body quivered with undisguised canine glee. Walk—walk—walk.

Dylan shook his head. “Sorry, girl,” he told her. “Not
right now.” Crossing his arms, he looked at Stacey. “I had enough
trouble just smuggling her in here. What’d you have to go and do that for?”

“Sorry. I didn’t know.” She bent to the dog,
crooning as she smoothed her hand over Ginger’s fur and scratched beneath her
muzzle. “Sorry to get you all worked up for nothing,” she told the
dog.

She glanced up at Dylan, her eyes clear, golden brown…and
suspicious. “Whose is she?”

“What do you mean, ‘whose is she?’ She’s mine.” He
crouched near the bathroom door and whistled. “Come here, Ginger.”

The damned traitorous dog rolled her eyes and licked Stacey’s
hand. Not so much as a tail thump indicated she’d heard him.

“Ginger. Come.”

She sprawled heavily atop Stacey’s feet, nearly toppling her
over. Stacey grinned for the first time—presumably at his failure to make even
a dog listen to him—and went on petting her.

Dylan snapped his fingers. “Come.”

The dog yawned, stretching her muzzle wide. She plunked her
head on the carpet and closed her eyes.

“Smart dog,” Stacey observed. “More women
ought to try resisting you like that.”

“Ha, ha.”

She grinned. With a final crooning pat, she left Ginger in a
contented heap and crossed the room toward him. Dylan watched her, mentally
gauging his chances of being treated as kindly as the dog.

Judging by his reception so far, they were pretty bleak.

“Seriously,” Stacey said. “Who’d you borrow
her from?”

“What do you mean, who’d I borrow her from? She’s mine.”

“Yours.” She snorted and glanced back at Ginger. “Right.”

“I’m hurt.” Dylan did his best to look it. “Why
can’t I have a dog?”

She tightened the belt on her robe and scrutinized him
through narrowed eyes. The hair dryer still poked from beneath her elbow, but
Stacey hardly needed it. Her icy composure was all the defense required. Dylan
practically felt himself shrink a couple of inches just standing there.

“You’re not the dog-owning type,” she said simply.

As though that actually explained anything, she rocked back
on her heels and waited for him to answer.
Bet you can’t
, her expression
said.

Bet I can
, he thought.

Dylan stepped nearer, close enough to sense the
candy-cane-scented dampness on her skin. Close enough to touch her. God, how he
wanted to touch her.

“I’ve changed,” he said.

Her head came up, sending her ponytail swinging. “I don’t
believe you.”

“I can convince you.” He pried the hair dryer from
beneath her elbow and shoved it safely on the foyer table where he could keep
an eye on it. “Let me convince you, Stacey. I’m not leaving until the
weekend’s over. I promised Richard and Janie. So you might as well give me
another try.”

Chapter Two

Give him another try.

It really
was
Dylan. No one else would have had the
guts to make a statement like that, especially after all that had happened
between them. Besides, it was just like him to barge into
her
honeymoon
charade and try to take over.

Stacey glanced past his lean, jeans-clad hip at the
blow-dryer, wishing she still had the semblance of protection it offered. She
needed protection—against the hurt of getting involved again, against the loss
of identity doing so had led to before.
Against him
.

Dylan Davis. A guy who could break your heart with one hand
and still make you want him with the other.

“No way.” She shook her head, squinting up at him.
“Huh-huh.”

Holding her head high, she stepped briskly past him to open
the suite’s door. The faint spicy musk of the soap he used wafted to her as she
passed. The memories it engendered made her stupid heart beat faster…even
though experience had told her exactly how hopeless such a reaction really was.
But she just couldn’t help it.

And that was all the more reason for Dylan to leave.

“I want you to go.” Stacey opened the door and
nodded toward the opening. Her knees wobbled, but her robe hid the telltale
motion from him. Thank God. “I don’t know how you knew I was here, and I
don’t care. I just want you gone.”

“Why?”

With apparent casualness, Dylan stepped closer and propped
one big hand on the wall beside her head. His shirttail, typically untucked,
brushed across the front of her robe. She had to crane her neck upward to see
him clearly. Even then, the masculine breadth of his shoulders and chest filled
her vision.

Her gaze caught and held on his haphazardly buttoned shirt
placket. One of the buttons had slipped partway from its buttonhole. She
automatically began to stick it back where it belonged, to make him look more
like the successful software engineer he was and less like a person who got
dressed in the dark.

To take care of him, like the idiot she’d be if she let him
back into her life again.

She shoved her hands in her robe pockets instead. He’d
probably left it that way on purpose, knowing it would drive her nuts.

“‘Why?’” she repeated, squinting up at him. “‘Why?’
Maybe because you’re smothering me, that’s why.”

She meant it as a joke. The strangled laugh that came with
it wrecked the punch line. Scowling, she pushed herself against the wall,
wishing she could disappear into the stylish wallpaper.

What was Dylan doing looming over her, anyway? He couldn’t
have proved her point better if he’d tried. Men never could leave well enough
alone. They had to be in charge of everything. All the time.

After Charlie, she just wanted to be on her own for a while.
Was that so wrong?

No, it wasn’t. And she’d be damned if she’d let Dylan Davis
back her into a wall like this. Literally.

“You ought to stick with zippers,” she muttered,
poking at his shirt placket as an excuse to move forward again.
Coward
,
she told herself. “You look as if you got dressed wearing mittens.”

Dylan made a face. He tucked his chin to his chest to try to
see what she was pointing at.

Too quickly, he stopped. “You look as if
you’re
trying to scare me away,” he said, tilting his head sideways to study her.

She felt like a bug under a microscope. Pinned.

“I can’t help it if you dress like an eight-year-old.”
Hating the way her voice quavered when he came closer, Stacey gestured vaguely
at his close-cropped, dark-haired head. “Look. Your hair’s all sticking up
on one side, too.”

The pathetic thing was, on him it looked pretty cute. But
there was no way she’d admit it.

“I left the top down on the Jeep. I wasted no time
getting here.” Dylan scooped his hand under her chin and tilted her face
upward. “Finding you.”

His hand felt warm and solid and two hundred percent as good
as she remembered. Stacey wavered, her knees wobbling harder—and so far, he’d
only touched her chin. She had to get him out of there.

She jerked her chin from his palm. “Look, you dumped
me, okay? I’m over it. We didn’t click—”

“Oh, we clicked, all right—”

“And anyway, I’ve only been divorced from Charlie for a
couple of—”

“Charlie was a jerk.”

“—months.” This wasn’t working. He wasn’t even
listening to her. Just like her ex-husband.
Retreat
, she decided.
Tossing her head, Stacey tried to step backwards.

The wall stopped her. Damn. She’d forgotten all about it.

Dylan cupped her cheek in his palm and lowered his gaze to
her lips. “Scared?”

Oh, boy. She remembered that expression of his—remembered it
too well. He planned to kiss her. Unfortunately, part of her craved exactly
that.

“No. Smart,” she shot back. “You’ve got a
wandering eye, Dylan. Sooner or later, your hands and heart would have
followed. I don’t need the heartache. It’s just as well we ended it when we
did.”

Actually,
he’d
ended it. But the illusion of a
friendly, adult agreement strongly appealed to her pride. No point in whining.

Dylan’s expression sobered. His gaze slid upward from her
lips to her eyes. While she should have been glad at that small sign of
progress, Stacey couldn’t manage it.

“I’m not your worthless ex-husband. Give me a chance to
prove it.”

“No.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “It’s almost
Christmastime. Consider it an early Christmas present?”

Oh, boy. Now he looked extra irresistible, like a kid on
Christmas morning—all big, dreamy eyes and contagious eagerness.

“No.” She ducked beneath his upraised arm, diving
for the open doorway. Anything to put a little distance between them. Something
big and lumpy on the floor blocked her path. A towel, she supposed. Giving it a
hearty kick and a stomp, Stacey headed into the hallway.

Behind her, Dylan yelped and grabbed his foot.

Geez, the woman was as dangerous as he remembered.

Clutching his toe, Dylan hopped to the doorway of the
honeymoon suite. In the hallway, gilded by the light of a sconce behind her,
Stacey glared at him with her arms folded across the front of her robe. Beside
him, Ginger poked her muzzle between his knee and the doorjamb and stared out,
too.

Then she trotted onto the red and beige harlequin-patterned
carpet to join Stacey.

Rejected by his woman. Betrayed by his dog. It didn’t get
much lower than this.

From down the hall came a faint ding. Dylan turned his head
toward the sound, then realized it was the elevator stopping on their floor.
Great. He looked at Ginger, busily scratching her ear, then toward the bank of
elevators. If anybody spotted him with a dog in the hotel, they’d throw him out
for sure.

He’d never get close to Stacey that way.

“Ginger. Come!”

Her tail thumped. Her paws didn’t. The mechanical swish of
the elevator doors opening echoed down the hallway. Two elderly women carrying
Fashion Show Mall shopping bags and a man in a bellman’s uniform got off. They
clustered briefly in front of the mirrors opposite the elevators.

“Ginger, come on.” Dylan squatted in the doorway
and snapped his fingers. The dog didn’t move. Hell. Standing, he reached for
her collar.

With a toothy doggie grin, Ginger wagged her tail and
shuffled closer to Stacey, just out of his reach. The movement earned her a pat
on the head and a crooned, “Good dog.”

Down the hall, the two women pushed the elevator buttons
again and got on the next car that stopped. But the bellman started down the
hall toward the honeymoon suite.

Stacey turned her head, saw the bellman approach—and smiled.
“You’re out of here,” she said to Dylan.

She was going to squeal on him. And since Ginger was stuck
to her side like Velcro, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to get the dog
out of sight before the bellman got there.

Unless it involved getting Stacey inside the room first.

“That’s what you think.” Leaning forward, Dylan
grabbed Stacey’s elbow and hauled her up against him.

She whacked into his chest with a surprised whoosh of
breath. He held both her arms, keeping her close, then glanced down.
Predictably, Ginger trotted into the room. Success!

“Hey!” Stacey looked down at the dog wagging
beside her, then up at Dylan. Her eyes widened.

Looking fiercely determined, she sucked in a big breath and
got ready—ready to yell for the bellman, Dylan felt sure.

“Oh, no you don’t.” He pinned her arms to the wall
and kicked the door closed. Before she could do so much as squeak, he brought
his mouth down hard on hers.

At least it started out hard. The second their lips met,
though, the kiss took on a softness all its own. His fingers tightened on the
silkiness of her wrists, and his wits went walking. To heck with shutting her
up. This was what he really needed. Moaning, Dylan pressed against her,
demanded more…and got it.

Stacey’s bare foot slammed into his shin. Pain shimmied
toward his ankle.

“Youch!” he bellowed, releasing her with a glare.

“Oww!” she echoed, glaring back at him. She raised
her foot, wiggled her big toe, and scowled at his shins. “What are those
made of, solid steel?”

“I’m supposed to apologize because you hurt yourself
kicking
me?” The ache in his shin flared along with the words. He wanted to rub it
away, but he’d be damned if he’d show any weakness in front of her. “You’ve
got to be kidding me.”

“That wasn’t just kicking. It was self-defense.”

“Yeah, just like the blow-dryer attack was on purpose.”
Dylan shook his head.
“That
was kicking.”