Trading Christmas - Debbie Macomber [57]
In one of their many conversations, Ray had said that he’d enjoyed science fiction as a teenager. She watched as he eagerly ripped off the paper. When he saw the novel, his eyes grew wide.
“It’s autographed,” she told him, smiling.
Ray’s mouth sagged open. “I loved Dune as a kid. I read it so many times the pages fell out.”
Reverently he opened the book. “How did you know?” The whispered question revealed his own astonishment that she could find him such a fitting gift.
“I listened.”
“You listened with your heart.” His fingertips grazed her cheek as his eyes held hers. Slowly he glided his hand around the nape of her neck and brought her closer to thank her with a kiss.
Emily opened her lips to his. Their kisses were warm, moist, each more intense than the one before. Ray leaned back, gazing at her for several breath-stopping moments. Then he wrapped his arms around her and held her hard against him.
“Ray?”
He answered her with another kiss, and any sensible thoughts she might have had vanished the moment his lips met hers. He lowered her to the carpet, leaning over her.
Emily slid her arms around his neck. Excitement tingled through her, and passion—so long dormant, so deeply buried—came to life.
Ray’s hand cupped her breast and she gasped with pleasure. She was afraid and excited at the same time. He began to unfasten her blouse and when she saw that his fingers trembled, she gently brushed them aside and unbuttoned it herself. Just as she reached the last button, there was a knock at the door.
Ray looked at her. Startled, Emily looked at him.
“Your mother?” she asked.
He shrugged and got to his feet. “I doubt it.” He walked across the room. “Whoever it is, I’ll get rid of them.” From her vantage point, she couldn’t see the door, but she could hear him open it.
Emily waited. At first nothing happened, and then she heard Heather’s shocked voice.
“Who are you?”
“Ray Brewster. And you are?”
Heather sidestepped Ray and walked into the condo. Emily quickly bunched her blouse together and stared up at her daughter’s horrified expression.
“Mother?” Heather screeched.
Emily was sure her face was as red as the lobster she’d had for dinner that very night.
TWENTY-SIX
When Faith woke on Christmas morning, it was snowing, just as she’d hoped. Tossing aside the covers, she leaped out of bed, thrust both arms into her housecoat and bounded down the stairs. Happiness bubbled up inside her—it was Christmas Day!
From their short time together, Faith knew Charles wasn’t a morning person, but she couldn’t bear to let him sleep in on a morning as special as this.
After putting on the coffee and waiting impatiently for enough of it to filter through to fill a cup, she swiftly removed the pot and stuck the mug directly under the drip. Then, coffee in hand, she walked down the hallway to the room in which Charles slept.
Knocking at the door, she called, “Wake up, it’s Christmas! You can’t escape me this morning.”
She could hear him grumbling.
“Charles, it’s snowing! Come on, get up now.”
“What time is it, anyway?”
“Seven-thirty. I have coffee for you. If you want, I can bring it in.”
“Do I have a choice?”
She laughed and admitted that he really didn’t. If he chose to sleep longer, she’d simply rattle around the kitchen making lots of noise until he got up.
“All right, all right, come in.”
He didn’t sound too pleased, but Faith didn’t care. When she creaked open the door, she discovered Charles sitting up in bed. His hair was disheveled and a book had fallen onto the floor.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, handing him the coffee.
His stare was blank until he took his first sip. “Ahh,” he breathed appreciatively. Then he gave her an absent grin. “Merry Christmas,