Chapter Twenty-Five

Christmas Day, Late Afternoon

When he woke again Misty was seated at the table, carefully painting a picture. Lori had pulled a chair close to the window and was writing in a small notebook. She dropped it down beside her in the chair when he moved, and looked over at him.

He stretched, yawning. ‘How long did I sleep?’

‘About an hour. It’s stopped snowing.’

He shook his head to clear it, then rolled off the sofa to go and stand beside her. Outside was a strange alien world, full of humps and mysterious hummocks and flat plains of unbroken white. There was a brief flash of colour as a robin flitted from a small bird-bath towards a bush that was plastered with snow on one side, but had clear branches on the other. The bird stood on a branch for a second, then disappeared further into the bush.

‘He was singing earlier,’ Lori said. ‘Apparently they’re very territorial. They sing to ward off intruders. We got that door open.’ Lori nodded to the one sheltered by the bush. ‘Just enough to clear the bird-bath and put out some fresh drinking water. On the other door the snow is over Misty’s head. It said on the radio that they’re still digging people out of cars who were trapped last night.’ She paused. ‘You’ve dropped out of the news, by the way … at least for now.’

‘Good.’

Drew stood for a long, silent moment, looking out and thinking about the hut. Depending on the direction of the wind, it could have been nearly buried. With a man inside, hungry and thirsty and already chilled to the bone …

‘Don’t.’ Lori tapped him on the leg.

He turned, and for another long moment they just looked at each other. ‘If you and Misty hadn’t come along—’

‘Don’t,’ she repeated, shaking her head. There seemed to be colour high up on her cheekbones, but the light was fading and he couldn’t be sure.

‘I’m just grateful you were there. When I heard you singing …’ He tilted his head. ‘I was a bit groggy. I can’t remember whether you said. Why were you in the woods?’

‘Why else?’ Suddenly she grinned. Something in his chest vibrated. ‘Looking for fairies.’

‘Of course.’ He digested that for a beat. ‘And you got me instead. Thank you. Again.’

‘There’s no need.’ She stood up quickly. If he hadn’t stepped back, she could have been in his arms

He let her move past him to fuss with lamps and candles, creating warm scented pools of light around the barn. They had tea – he found he could manage a sandwich and a piece of Christmas cake after all.

Once he’d done his thing with the dishes, they played snakes and ladders, on a board that looked like a museum piece. For some reason he and Misty seemed to find all the snakes. Lori, with some weird alchemy, ascended smoothly by a series of ladders.

‘You weren’t kidding when you said that was witch’s pasta,’ he complained as he slithered all the way back down the board for the third time.

Misty was jumping in her seat and crowing when she finally made it up the last ladder and won a game.

‘That’s it.’ Lori ruffled her niece’s hair. ‘Enough excitement before bedtime.’ She gathered up the dice and counters. Misty wriggled in her chair. ‘Can I have a story?’

‘Of course you can.’ Having stashed the board in a cupboard, Lori flopped onto the sofa and patted her lap. Misty crawled into it. Griff appeared from somewhere and jumped up on Lori’s other side. She stroked his head, and the cat butted her hand, purring, before sitting up to wash.

Drew stayed where he was, at the table. ‘Do you need a story book?’

‘Noooo!’ Misty shook her head so that her curls bounced. ‘Auntie Lori tells stories out of her head.’

‘Good trick.’ Drew grinned and moved to settle himself in the armchair by the window. Lori had pulled over the curtains but left a sliver of glass free between them. The moon had risen, casting a cold, clear shimmer over a breathless white world.

Shifting the chair at an angle, so he couldn’t be seen silhouetted by the lamp and candlelight, he stared out. The scent of cinnamon and incense curled around the room. Lori’s voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the story. Nothing moved on the other side of the window.

He could use the time to figure out the moves he had to make in the game he had unwittingly been drawn into. He’d been manoeuvred like a pawn, and it didn’t sit well. Not to mention the small matter of attempted murder.

He lifted his arm to rest it on the arm of the chair, and the chain clinked. He’d cleaned the skin and padded around the cuff, but the metal ring had chafed deep into his wrist. It was going to take a while to heal. It might even leave a scar.

He leaned his head against the back of the chair. If he could get to the outbuildings tomorrow, maybe he could find something to get the bloody thing off, or at least clip the chain, although the links looked as if they’d been soldered. And if he could dig out Lori’s car from the carport behind the house … They weren’t too far from the main road. Would the gritters and ploughs have been out on Christmas Day?

With a sharp indrawn breath he backtracked smartly. If they used the car they needed to be careful. He didn’t want Lori delivering him anywhere if there was a chance they might be seen together, or caught on a camera. He didn’t want anything to connect them. There was no connection and that’s how it had to stay. He didn’t want Lori or, God forbid, Misty, drawn into this. He’d leave as soon as he could. If he could get to the main road on foot, he could probably hitch a ride.

The thought left an unexpectedly cold feeling, low in his stomach. Well, yes who wants to stand by the side of the road, thumbing.

But if that was how it had to be …

‘And then the Princess with the silver dress and the long black hair, climbed to the top of the tower, to the room at the very very top, with the old wooden door, that no one had opened for a hundred years …’

Lori’s voice had been twining itself into his consciousness for some time. Now he leaned forward, attention caught by the story. The little group on the sofa was illuminated by a battery lamp and a candelabra, soft flickering light setting highlights into blonde curls. Misty was sitting up, eyes wide, thumb in her mouth, entranced. Even the cat had stopped washing himself and seemed to be listening. And the battery dog on the floor by Lori’s feet. And me.

And the story unfolded, drawing them all in. Like magic.

‘Then the Prince gave the Princess his mother’s ring, and the finest hawk from the palace mews, and the Princess gave the Prince her father’s sword, and the boldest stallion from her royal stable, and they rode out of the castle together, into the dawn, and a whole new adventure.’

There was a long pregnant pause. Misty drew in a deep shuddering breath. ‘Oh, Auntie Lori, that was lovely.’

Drew’s body jerked, dropped back unceremoniously into reality. For a moment, no – a bit longer than a moment, he’d been in that castle, travelled that dusty white road …

‘You have a gift.’ His voice sounded raw and husky. Lori’s head turned slowly towards him, as if she’d forgotten he was there. He would almost have said there was alarm on her face. She had forgotten he was there.

And isn’t that good for a guy’s ego?

‘I didn’t realise you were listening.’ She seemed flustered, not meeting his eyes. ‘I like to tell stories, and this one’s a good audience.’ She tousled Misty’s hair. ‘And now it’s time for bed, young lady.’

Misty made a token protest, but her eyelids were drooping. Lori hefted her up onto her hip, along with the fluffy dog, to carry her upstairs. Drew looked at the clock. It was half past eight. He and Lori would be alone for the rest of the evening.

Lori got Misty into her pyjamas and into bed, thinking about the man downstairs. When he’d been standing beside her at the window, without thinking, she’d touched him. Felt the hardness of muscle under the cotton of the cargo pants. And had wanted to …

She shook her head, drawing the duvet up to Misty’s chin.

‘One more story?’ Misty made her eyes big and beseeching. ‘Just a little, little story?’

‘All right.’ Lori sat on the bed and picked up the white fluffy dog from the floor. ‘There was once a little white dog who didn’t have a name yet, and on Christmas morning …’ She let her voice fall to a monotone as she talked nonsense and watched Misty nuzzle Bunny and fall asleep. She sat for a while, just watching the rise and fall of the small chest under the mound of the duvet. She looked over at the bedside clock. It was just gone nine. Unless she could think of a convincing reason for heading straight to bed, she was going to have to go downstairs.

Come on, what are you afraid of? He’s just a man.

She smoothed the duvet and stood up, gathering together Misty’s discarded clothes. Just a man whom she might, just might, find rather attractive. Maybe a bit more than ‘rather’.

Oh! Wow!

Shock.

Horror.

She shook out Misty’s net skirts and carried them over to the wardrobe. What’s wrong with spending a few hours with the man, when you’ve just spent the whole day with him?

Because it was dark outside and there were stars and snow and a full moon …

She stopped by the window. The curtains weren’t quite closed. The scene outside might be straight out of a calendar or off a Christmas card. In the distance she could see pinpricks of light – the nearest house – but otherwise they could be alone in the world.

She shivered suddenly, rubbing her arms. Drew Vitruvius was an attractive man, but that didn’t mean anything was going to happen. It did take two for that particular tango. Although she’d wondered a couple of times, when he looked at her … Would he be thinking … expecting …?

He didn’t have a reputation as a womaniser, as far as she could remember. No exposés in the gossip magazines or ‘tell all’ interviews. She remembered an old GQ cover and something in one of the Sunday papers where he seemed to have ducked talking about the personal stuff. One of those ‘the work says everything for me’ types.

Pompous prick. That’s what you thought at the time.

She stood still, then gave a guilty laugh. That wasn’t fair. Whatever Drew Vitruvius was, it wasn’t pompous or a prick. A sudden image of his dark head, with Misty’s, bent over the fairy castle, rose in her mind. He was clearly shattered from his experience and still in pain from various injuries, but he’d mucked in with a four-year-old, eaten strange meals, done the washing up … a perfect guest and a perfect gentleman.

So – he wasn’t one of those successful types who thought they were entitled – and who expected to fall into bed with every stray woman they came across. He was probably too busy jumping out of planes and climbing up mountains. He really isn’t your type, at all. She’d never read any of his books, never wanted to.

And another thing – he’d listened to her story, downstairs. Oh, terrible, mega-crime, alert the story-listening police.

Lori bit her lip, trying not to laugh at the conversation that seemed to be going on in her head. That was the problem with being a writer, or trying to be, there were very often conversations going on in your head.

She couldn’t deny that praise for her story from someone who knew what they were talking about was a huge ego boost. She hoped she’d hidden it well. She frowned. A lot of the would-be writers she knew, having Andrew Vitruvius almost literally their captive and in their debt, would be all over him, demanding introductions.

She stood still, hit by the thought. That was it. She’d put her finger on it. It wasn’t so much that she was frightened of an attraction to the man. She just didn’t want to be one of them. The same stubborn wish to succeed on her own terms that stopped her from attempting to capitalise on her famous sister and ex-brother-in-law applied in equal measure to Drew.

But he doesn’t know you’re a writer.

She lifted her chin. Whether he knew or not didn’t matter. He was still a celebrity and she was nobody. Even if she gave in to a passing impulse for a quick flirtation, and it would be no more than that, with Misty in the house, he would soon be gone. Back to his real life as fast as he could. And the trouble he seemed to be in, she didn’t want any part of that.

Best keep him at arm’s length.

Nodding to herself she finished picking up and stowing away the debris a four-year-old could create in the space of a day. She was strong. She was not going to throw herself into Andrew Vitruvius’s arms.

Even if a little part of her wanted to.