Claire paused in logging information into the database that held the files on Dee’s upcoming illuminated manuscript exhibit. “Dee, come look at this. Did you get documentation on this latest manuscript lot?”

The curator rolled her chair into Claire’s cube and peered at the screen. A scanned copy of a manuscript filled Claire’s monitor—An angel with black wings holding an unconscious or dead woman in his arms. An illuminated border of gold leaf and red pigment surrounded the illustration. Below it, flowing black script executed in a steady hand told a moral lesson on incurring the wrath of a vengeful God.

Dee frowned at the screen. “Damn, that’s grim. I don’t recognize the manuscript. It isn’t from the Matenadaran lot.”

Claire clicked several screens back and scrolled through a typed list. “No, private owner—anonymous. This is that lot Dr. Vecchio brokered for us. Remember? Thing is, I have nothing more on it or the other six manuscripts that came in with it. Just a lot numbers and dates. No provenance, no point of origin, nothing.”

“That’s weird. Giovanni Vecchio is very meticulous. He’s brokered stuff for us before, and we always get a mountain of information with the lots. Are you sure it wasn’t scanned to another database?”

Claire tapped her keyboard. “Positive. I’ve checked and double-checked.” She clicked back to the manuscript with the black-winged angel and then through subsequent files depicting more angels, some wielding swords, others on their knees begging for mercy. “These are markedly different from the Matenadaran group. Same style but the content is...it looks almost Enochian. When was the last time you saw an illumination depicting an angel embracing a woman like that?”

“Never.” Dee’s voice sounded thin and strained. Claire glanced up and caught an odd look on her friend’s face. Terror, sadness, a strange yearning. The expression faded as quickly as it appeared, but for some reason, the fine hairs on Claire’s nape stood on end. “You all right?”

Dee, still pale around the mouth, nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Just wondering how I could have missed that gap. I’ll e-mail Vecchio to see what’s up. Probably won’t hear from him until after the holidays. I think he’s visiting family in Italy.”

Claire gave an appreciative whistle. “Must be nice.”

Dee’s voice had lost its strain, returning to the teasing tones with which Claire was familiar. “Which one? Family or Italy?

“ Italy of course.” Family was nice too. Claire’s was very small. Just her and Jake. But the holidays in Italy? Maybe one day—when she won the lottery.

“Invitation still stands if you want to come to my parents’ place for Thanksgiving.” Dee wheeled her chair back to her cube. “Mom promised she wouldn’t serve the turkey raw this year.”

Claire laughed. Dee’s mom was notorious for her epic culinary failures. “Thanks, but Jake couldn’t handle a combination of strange place, strange people and noise for several hours. Besides, I have company that day.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Dee zipped back into her cube. “I’m not much of a betting person, but I’d lay money down company is the hot preparator you’re attached to at the hip these days.”

Ignoring the suggestive eyebrow wiggle Dee gave her, Claire sniffed. “Maybe.”

Dee disappeared behind her cube wall once more. “I’ll want details.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “You always want details.”

Andor had accepted her invitation to Thanksgiving dinner two days earlier. Claire had set herself up not to be disappointed, fully expecting him to decline for any number of reasons—family out of town, another commitment with friends. She didn’t even want to imagine he might spend the holiday with another woman. Claire had no claim to him. She had lunch with him almost every day, and he visited her house for dinner several times a week. They’d even made it to the symphony once and a play, with Elise threatening to kill her if she called the house twenty times to check on Jake.

“Don’t even think about it,” the babysitter warned. “I know my job. You know I know my job. Jake and I will have fun eating all the toppings off the pizza and watching Total Drama Island. Have a good time. Stay out late. You won’t be missed.”

She closed the front door on Claire and Andor and turned off the porch light. Claire had glanced at Andor. “Elise is a little blunt.”

“And obviously very capable,” he said. “I like her, especially her eyebrow piercings.”

While Claire couldn’t imagine how Andor might be seeing someone else when he spent so much time with her, she was far too fearful of engaging her heart more than it already was by assuming they were now a couple. He hadn’t mentioned it; neither had she. Hell, they hadn’t even kissed yet, something she hoped to remedy very soon.

When lunchtime rolled around, she left the office space she shared with Dee and sought out Andor. She found him in one of the lower-level workrooms. The screeching blast of multiple power saws cutting wood made her clap her hands to her ears. She spotted him in one corner of the room, ripping boards on a table saw. He wore a long-sleeved sweater that hugged his torso, delineating muscle and the width of his shoulders. His hair was tied back in its usual ponytail, and he’d donned safety lenses and ear muffs while he worked.

Claire waited by the door until he finished ripping a board. She didn’t want to wave and distract either him or the two other preparators working at the saws. He glanced up, saw her and shut the saw down. Claire motioned she’d wait for him in the hallway.

The hall was silent as a crypt compared to the noise in the workroom. Andor emerged, sans ear muffs and lenses. His slow smile warmed her down to her bones. “Hello, Claire.”

She liked that he didn’t address her as “babe” or “beautiful” or the numerous terms of affection so many people used. Claire didn’t have a problem with them per se. While she and Lucas were still married, she often called him “babe.” But Andor had a way of uttering her name as if he savored something sweet, letting it glide slowly off his tongue to breathe across his lips. Never had she been so glad to bear that simple, one-syllable name.

The chilly hallway had suddenly grown stifling. She plucked at her sweater and returned Andor’s smile. “Working through lunch today?”

He glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. “That time already?” Regret darkened his eyes to cobalt. “I’m afraid so. We’re building the display bases for the gala decorations so we can just snap them together and move them when the designer says it’s time.”

“The Ainsley Hall is gorgeous already. I can’t imagine how much more you can add for the gala.”

She’d stood in awe along with the rest of the employees and gawked at the miracle the preparator and design teams had wrought. The Carmichael always created a holiday exhibit of huge trees decorated with ornaments from cultures around the world as well as themes based on movies, history and literature. Preparators and designers worked through the day and night to complete the exhibit, unveiling it first in the early morning hours to the rest of the staff. Andor had given her a bow at her applause, the only hint of fatigue from a laborious all-nighter, the faint shadows under his eyes.

“Are you going to the gala?” His gaze searched her face.

Claire sighed. “Not if I could help it, but it’s mandatory that staff goes. So I have a too-expensive dress that I’ll wear once hanging in my closet, along with a pair of heels guaranteed to cripple me by the end of the evening. I just hope the caterer doesn’t serve cardboard chicken and cold asparagus.” Bad food never bothered her before now. Andor was turning her into a picky gastronome.

“What about you?” she asked. “You’re on loan to us, so I’m guessing you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping he would go. Hoping he’d go with her.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

His slow smile could have melted glass. “If I’m invited.”

Claire’s heartbeat jumped. She could feel her pulse thrum in her neck. “You haven’t gotten an invitation yet? A handsome guy like you?” Please say no. Please say no.

Surely it was illegal for a smile to have that much power over someone. “Not one. At least not the one I want.”

“Maybe I’ll invite you.”

They were suddenly no more than inches apart from each other. Andor’s breath ghosted across her forehead and hairline. “I’d be very interested in that invitation,” he said softly.

She touched his arm, the hard bicep flexing against her fingers. “Do you dance?”

“Invite me and find out.”

Claire was cautious; she wasn’t stupid. “Would you like to go to the benefit gala with me next month?”

Andor leaned down, and Claire’s eyes closed at the sensation of body heat, the smell of sawn wood, and the cool winter scent clinging to the sexiest shirt she’d ever seen on a man. “Ah Claire, I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Thanksgiving dawned overcast and cold with the threat of rain. Claire had risen when it was still dark outside to start dinner preparations. She was an adequate cook, but for four years, she’d only had to cook for herself and Jake. Chicken tenders and fish sticks for him, spaghetti, salad in a bag, or the occasional pan-grilled steak for her didn’t exactly expand her culinary skills. She prayed her efforts today wouldn’t see Andor driving them to a 24-hour greasy spoon just to get an edible meal.

Andor arrived at noon. Claire met him at the door holding a chef’s knife in one hand. He backed up a step and held up a bottle of wine. “Surely, an Old Vine Zin can garner me some mercy.”

Claire huffed a strand of hair out of her face and waved him inside. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He eased passed her, gaze steady on the knife. “I can see that.”

She chuckled and gestured for him to follow her into the kitchen. Andor paused when he saw Jake sitting at the table winding and unwinding a skein of yarn around his hand. “Hi, Jake. Enjoying time off from school?”

Jake didn’t look up from his task, but he smiled a little and without any encouragement from Claire said “Hi, Dor.”

Claire almost dropped the knife. She choked back an excited yelp and glanced at Andor. He set the wine on the table and crouched near the boy but not so close as to crowd him. “Have you been helping your mom with Thanksgiving dinner?” This time only silence met his question, and Claire answered.

“He cleaned off the table and helped me set it.”

Instead of ruffling Jake’s hair or patting him on the shoulder, Andor knocked gently on the table. “Good job, Jake. That’s a nice thing to do for your mom.”

He stood and gave her a smile. “How can I help?”

She led him into the tiny kitchen, fragrant with the scent of herbs and roasted vegetables. All the counters except one were covered with an assortment of grocery supplies and pans. A turkey breast, still in its wrapping, rested in one pan near a cutting board layered with chopped vegetables.

Andor sniffed. “It smells good.”

Claire scraped the vegetables into a waiting roasting pan. “Thanks. It’s the stock for the gravy and a pan of dressing.”

“Dressing?”

She mentally backed up. “Stuffing. This part of the country, we call it dressing.” She paused. “Is this your first Thanksgiving?” She sort of hoped it might be. He couldn’t compare her food to someone else’s then.

He snagged one of the aprons hanging on a hook attached to the pantry door and tied it around his narrow waist. “No. It’s my third. I’m still trying to decide if the bird they served at the last Thanksgiving I went to was actually a turkey or an ostrich. It was enormous.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now, how may I act as sous chef?”

Trying not to gawk too much at how a man could look that sexy in an apron, she passed him a boning knife from her knife block. “I don’t suppose you can de-bone a turkey breast?”

Much to Claire’s lack of surprise, he could, and he was scarily efficient. “You were a butcher once, weren’t you?”

Andor grinned as he tossed the bones into the trash. “For a little while.”

Not only did he de-bone the turkey, he butterflied it on her instructions, stuffed it with the roasted red pepper and goat cheese filling she’d prepared, rolled and tied it into a roulade, slathered it in duck fat and slid the pan into the oven. Fast, efficient, capable, and sexy beyond belief.

They worked together, teasing each other about Andor’s jack-of-all-trades skills and Claire’s assurances that the poultry in the oven was definitely turkey and not emu. She left him alone in the kitchen a few times, whipping egg whites or stirring cranberries in a saucepan, while she checked on Jake, took him for bathroom breaks and fed him snacks.

When the cooking was done and the table groaning with food, Claire surveyed their handiwork, propped her hands on her hips and grinned at Andor. “We make a good team.”

His smile wasn’t as wide but far more intense. “Yes, we do.”

That euphoric tide that always rushed through her every time he complimented her or even stood near her, struck her again. Stronger this time. Harder. It left her tongue-tied for a moment. She tried for a lighthearted response instead of the one she really wanted to give. “I still have a hard time believing you’re not married or in a relationship.”

As quickly as that rush of joy struck, it abandoned her at Andor’s suddenly grim expression. What had she said?

“I’m not married, Claire,” he said softly. “I do consider myself in a relationship.” Those blue eyes burned like gas flames. “With you.”

Claire crushed her apron in her fingers. Her “You do?” came out as an incoherent squeak. She tried again. “You do?” He nodded. “But you haven’t even kissed me yet.”

The hard angles of his face softened. The faint smile returned. Claire’s “Ohhh niiicce” made him chuckle into her hair as he slid his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his body.

He bent his head and Claire inhaled sharply as he nuzzled her neck just below her ear. Powerful shoulders flexed under her hands. “Patience, Claire,” he whispered. “I will kiss you, and when I do, I won’t stop with a kiss.” Deep laughter tickled her ear. “Or maybe I will, but it will be the first of a thousand, along with all the caresses that will accompany them.”

Her knees gave out, and she sagged in his arms. Andor caught her up, one hand sliding down to cup her butt. “Don’t faint,” he teased.

“It’s more like I’ll combust,” she countered in a strangled voice. Her body was on fire. If Jake wasn’t there and likely to walk in the room any minute, she’d wrap her legs around Andor’s waist and demand he carry her to her bedroom. Forget Thanksgiving dinner.

She twined his ponytail around her hand instead and kissed his neck in the same place he’d tickled hers. He groaned at her touch and squeezed her harder. “I’m not very patient,” she said.

Andor slowly peeled her off him, his breathing shallow and a blush riding the high ridges of his cheekbones. His eyes had gone that same cobalt color she’d seen earlier. “Call it Neanderthal or antiquated, but I don’t want to share you with someone else, Claire.”

Her cheeks heated at that. “Not a problem, since you’re the only guy I’ve dated in almost three years.”

“I want to be the only one for the next twenty.”

Claire hoped she didn’t have a coronary brought on by sheer excitement. “That’s rather fickle of you, don’t you think?” She winked and was rewarded with Andor’s deep laughter. She gave his arm a light stroke as she passed him on the way to the bedrooms. “Get the wine; I’ll get Jake. While we’re growing hot, the food is growing cold.”

* * *

Dinner was a feast, and Claire was certain she’d be eating enough leftover turkey to sprout feathers. And that was after she sent most of it home with Andor. The weather outside had gone from dreary to miserable, with a steady drizzle making a murk of the last bit of daylight. A damp cold hung in the air, defying every attempt to layer up and keep it from seeping through clothing and skin. Claire disliked such days when she had to get out in it to go to work or run errands. Today, however, she loved it. Her house was warm and smelled of coffee and pumpkin spice. She sat on her comfortable couch, sandwiched between Jake who played his favorite game, Dumb Ways to Die, and Andor, whose acerbic commentary about Santa’s outfit in the movie they were watching on TV made her laugh.

“I hate that red leotard. Nicholas was a bishop. He would have worn vestments.”

Claire gave him a puzzled side-eye and tried not to nestle too hard against the arm wrapped around her shoulder. Who knew someone got that worked up over a Santa suit? “I thought it was a Kriss Kringle thing. It’s not?”

“No. Kriss Kringle is the Anglicization of the Austrian and German word Christkindl. The red suit is a modern element. Saint Nicholas is a lot older than that. A bishop of Myra, now Demre in Turkey. He was Greek. Some called him Nicholas Wonderworker or Nikaolos ho Thaumaturgos. He’s the patron saint of sailors, children and pawnbrokers.”

Claire almost choked on the coffee she just swallowed. “Are you serious? Santa protects pawn shops?” Somehow that just didn’t fit with jolly, merry and ho, ho, ho.

Andor’s expression was enigmatic as he stared at the TV screen. “Saint Nicholas is a lot more interesting than the rotund man we think of now in the red suit.”

“I’ll say. I’m guessing you came by your Santa knowledge while working on an exhibit?” God knew she’d stumbled across all kinds of bizarre and interesting things during her research projects.

Andor danced around her question. “You’re an archivist. I’m sure you’ve discovered unusual things in your research.”

Claire casually slid one hand over Jake’s ear and nestled him close to her side to muffle his other ear. He’d put up with that for all of four seconds, so she spoke fast. “Oh, yeah. So I guess when I say I don’t believe in Santa, I need to qualify that since he did exist.”

Something flickered in Andor’s eyes. It spoke of melancholy and regret. “When did you lose your belief?”

She released a squirming Jake and shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly. Later than a lot of kids. I think I might have been twelve.”

“That is later. Most are younger.”

That was true. She’d held onto her beliefs, even in the face of the cynical scorn dished out by her peers. Her certainty that Santa existed had been fueled by more than her mother’s assurances. “I think it was because I had this really vivid dream of meeting Santa one Christmas Eve. I was sure it was real and that I was wide awake. He was standing by this sad little tree my mom bought at a garage sale. I loved that tree.”

She frowned, clawing at the hazy memory of a childhood she’d put behind her long ago. “He was wearing long robes.” She glanced at Andor, who no longer stared at the TV but watched her with a stoic face. “Bishop’s vestments I bet. He was standing next to an elf. A really tall one wearing armor of all things.” She shook her head. “I thought Santa’s elves were little like the Keebler elves. And they don’t go in armed to the teeth.” She was getting a headache and tucked the memory back into the recesses of her mind. “Then again,” she joked, “if Santa is the patron saint of pawn brokers, he probably needs a bodyguard elf.”

Her smile faded when Andor didn’t return it, and his eyes had a faraway look. She really needed to stop making jokes. She sucked at it. Serious was more her speed. “When did you stop believing?” she asked.

He came back to her with the question. His tempting mouth curved into her favorite expression. “I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Stopped believing.”

Claire eyed him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Really.”

Andor was handsome, intelligent, funny and good with her son. He was also a little odd about all things Christmas. Claire celebrated the last. Finally. The guy wasn’t perfect. She leaned into his side. “That’s nice. I like that you believe in magic.”

Andor’s fingertips combed through her hair. “The world is filled with magic, Claire. Jake is proof of that. You just have to look a little deeper.”

Claire was falling hard for him. Falling hard and fast. She almost broke the sound barrier at his words. She had chosen so badly with Lucas. Did she actually get it right this time with Andor?

Her cell phone’s ringtone knocked her back into reality. She grabbed it off the coffee table. “Speak of the devil,” she murmured. Lucas’s name and phone number flashed on the screen. Andor muted the TV.

Claire answered on the third ring. “Hey, Lucas.”

“Hey yourself, gorgeous,” her ex said. “Happy Thansgifing.” He slurred the words, and Claire suspected Thanksgiving dinner had been a buffet of double martinis or several shots of expensive single malt.

She raised a staying hand as Andor stood. “You too, Lucas,” she replied. Leave it to her ex to spoil a perfect evening. “Do you want to speak to Jake?”

“Yeah. Wanna wish him Haffy Thansgif.”

Claire rolled her eyes. Jake was more articulate than this, and he had speech therapy three times a week. “Hold on, I’ll get him.” She pressed the mute button and grasped Andor’s hand. “Do you have to go?”

He nodded, his fingers caressing her knuckles. “I have to stop at the museum and check a few things. We were having trouble with the lighting on three of the trees in the Christmas exhibit.” He lifted her hand to his mouth. Claire made a strangled sound when she felt the tip of his tongue glide across her fingers. His gaze was gaslight blue, full of heat and promise. “You beguiled me into staying longer than I meant to, Claire.”

“Sorcery,” she teased.

“The best kind,” he replied. “I’ll see myself out.” He released her hand, waved to Jake and gestured to the phone. “Your ex will wonder if you’ve forgotten him.”

She watched him disappear around the corner of the short hallway, heard the front door open and close, and listened to his car back out of her driveway. “I did that the moment I met you,” she said softly.