Same Time, Next Christmas Read online

  Why hadn't I kissed him when I had the chance? That was one question I already had the answer to. I was simply not that type of woman. Still, hadn't I already come to the realization that I was no longer the woman I had always thought I was? That I had changed, that I was not the same? Besides, a single kiss did not mean I would end up in his bed. I was certainly not inclined toward that sort of thing. Why, it had been three years since I had shared a man's bed.

  And isn’t that long enough? Veronica's voice rang in my head.

  As with all the other questions plaguing me in recent days, I had no answer for that. At least, not while awake. But my rare moments of slumber last night had been filled with disturbing and admittedly erotic dreams of Fletcher. Apparently, I had paid far more attention to the unclothed parts of him I had seen when he emerged from the water on my first day here than I had realized. My dreams had taken much of what had happened last night—his gazing into my eyes and kissing my hand and the feel of his arm beneath my touch—and everything that hadn't, and, well, in my dreams they did. In my sleep, he took me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly, until I could scarcely catch my breath. And when I thought I could bear no more, we were both unclothed and writhing on the bed in the sort of unbridled ecstasy I had only ever imagined. But then, it was a dream, after all. It wasn't real. It was a fantasy wrought from curiosity and dark, smoldering eyes and unfamiliar foods.

  When I woke, the bedclothes were twisted and in disarray as if he had actually been in my bed and we had truly shared a night of utter, mindless passion. It was no wonder that I was so tired this morning. Although, in truth, our assignation was nothing more than a scandalous nightmare brought on by something I ate. Or the Strega. It hadn't really happened. Nor would it.

  Why not? Veronica's voice asked. You don't plan to see the man again, and it's not as if anyone would know. You've already decided you have no intention of even confiding in me, one of your dearest friends, who will always keep your secrets about your clandestine Christmas rendezvous.

  Christmas rendezvous, indeed. That was exactly the sort of thing Veronica would say if she were really here, and exactly why I did not plan to tell her. I ignored her voice in my head in the very same way I would have ignored her if she had been here in person.

  I had barely stumbled out of bed when Margaret informed me, with that disapproving look she had mastered, it was nearly time for Christmas dinner, a large midday feast, as was the tradition here. I had no idea how she managed to get that information, as she spoke no more Italian than I, but I was certainly not about to ask. She also told me, with a subtle hint of satisfaction, as I had slept so late, I had missed any possibility of breakfast. But she did earn my eternal gratitude by bringing me a large serving of a sort of fruitcake and a cup of strong, thick coffee—exactly what I needed. This must have been why I kept her in my employ. It certainly wasn’t for her sunny disposition.

  I was at once eager and reluctant to see Fletcher today. Would the bond we'd forged last night remain? Or would we be strangers again? I nearly forgot my concerns when I came down the main stairway and the most delightful aromas assailed me. Of exotic spices and garlic and tomatoes. These were not smells I associated with Christmas, but they were delicious and comforting nonetheless. With the rain still falling outdoors, the villa seemed warm and cozy and like home.

  I didn't encounter anyone on my way to the parlor and wondered if Fletcher was in his rooms. Painting perhaps. I would still like to see his work. Now that we were on better terms, maybe I could convince him to show it to me.

  I stepped into the parlor. Or perhaps I wouldn't need to ask.

  In the middle of the room stood a muslin-covered easel. What on earth had he done? I stepped toward it.

  "Good, you're here." Fletcher's voice rang behind me, and he brushed past me into the parlor. "Merry Christmas, Portia." He paused as if he wasn't sure if he should throw his arms around me or kiss my cheek or simply nod. Instead, he grabbed my hand and shook it heartily. "A very merry Christmas, indeed."

  "God bless us everyone," I murmured and stared at him. Impolite I know, but I couldn't seem to help myself

  His eyes were rimmed in red and slightly wild looking. His clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them. His hair was disheveled, his necktie hung loose. He was grinning like a madman, and he still held my hand clasped in his.

  I carefully pulled my hand free. "What on earth has happened to you?"

  He grinned. "I have been assisting Father Christmas."

  "All night?"

  "Not all night." He ran his hand through his hair. It resisted his efforts and now stuck up in a manner too strange to be amusing. It was rather endearing. At once I could see him as a little boy on Christmas morning. "But most of it."

  I chose my words with care. "What exactly did assisting Father Christmas entail?"

  "I wanted to have everything ready before you came down." He cast me a curious look. "I expected you long before now. I thought you were entirely too disciplined and proper to sleep late every day."

  "Did you?" I smiled in what I hoped was a mysterious manner.

  "How unexpected," he said under his breath.

  Unexpected? How . . . delightful.

  He looked around the room, grabbed a chair and positioned it in front of the easel. He swept his hand toward the chair. "If you please."

  I opened my mouth to protest, then sat instead.

  "I knew from what you said last night and, more importantly, what you didn’t, that you are missing Christmas with your family much more than you let on."

  "Yes, I suppose. But—"

  "This is not the first time I've stayed at the villa, and I've long considered it a special sort of place."

  "I agree, but—"

  "I know this sounds extremely sentimental, and I am not a sentimental sort usually, but at Christmastime, well . . ." He grimaced. "I could be a ten-year-old boy."

  "Aren't we all children at Christmas?"

  "Exactly." He beamed. "I would hate you to leave here remembering this only as the Christmas you were not with your family, so I thought you needed a touch of home. First . . ." He disappeared behind the easel, then returned with two twists of newsprint. He handed me one. "Here is your Christmas cracker."

  "Is it?" I studied the alleged cracker dubiously.

  "I admit it's not going to snap, and you will have to untwist it instead of pull it apart, but yes, it is what will pass this year for a Christmas cracker."

  "And a fine cracker it is too." I smiled with delight. Minor as it might seem, no one had ever done something like this for me before. I untwisted the paper to find another piece of newsprint, this one intricately folded. "And this is?"

  "A hat, of course." He cast me a chastising look, as if I should have known, and indeed, I should have. Why, what else could it be? He untwisted his own cracker and pulled free the folded newsprint, shaking it out and placing it on his head. It resembled an admiral's hat and was quite nicely done. "What do you think? Will it do?"

  "I think it's perfect." I unfolded my own hat and put it on my head.

  "Very fashionable." He grinned. "But there's more. Are you ready?"

  "Of course. It's Christmas morning." I nodded and tried not to bounce in my chair as I might have when I was a small child. But then, this unexpected Christmas surprise made me feel very much like a child, eager to see what Father Christmas, or, rather, his assistant, had brought. "I am more than ready."

  "Very well." He started to pull the muslin off the easel then paused. "Don't expect too much. I was in something of a hurry."

  "Goodness, Fletcher." I huffed. "You're going to drive me mad if you don't show me at once what you have hidden."

  He grinned. "All right." With a grand flourish, he pulled the sheet away.

  My breath caught. I had of course expected some sort of painting, but I hadn't expected this.

  "I don't know what to say." I shook my head.

  "I fear it's not my best. I don't wor
k as frequently in watercolors as I once did," he said apologetically, "but as I wanted this to dry before you saw it, I decided—"

  "It's wonderful." I couldn't tear my gaze from the painting.

  Here was the Christmas I remembered. Fletcher had painted a large tree decorated with glass ornaments and candles and sweets and stars and here and there a paper decoration that a child might have made. Behind the tree, wood-paneled walls were no more than a suggestion, and through a doorway, there was the faintest hint of figures in celebration. It was all as I had described it to him last night, bits and pieces of the past. The painting had that delightful translucent quality watercolor often had, and there was a mystical, charmed appearance to it. A vision, a memory of Christmas Past.

  "I thought of trying to find an actual tree, but it was too late to do so, and I—"

  "This is perfect, Fletcher." I shifted my gaze from the work to the man. "Absolutely perfect."

  Caution shone in his eyes. "You like it, then?"

  "I adore it." I turned my attention back to the painting. "It's not as if you have captured Christmas exactly, but more my remembrances of it. The essence of my memories, if you will."

  He grinned. "You do like it, then."

  "It is perhaps the most wonderful Christmas surprise I have ever had." I glanced at him. "May I take it with me? When I leave, that is."

  "Of course. I painted it for you."

  "Thank you." My gaze returned again to Fletcher's dream of Christmas. "I don't believe I have ever had a gift quite this special."

  "That, my dear Portia, is a grave oversight."

  "But I have nothing for you."

  He smiled. "Your company on this Christmas Day is the greatest gift of all."

  "The greatest gift of all?" I raised a skeptical brow. "Now you're being silly."

  "As well I should," he said staunchly and leaned forward in a confidential manner. "It is Christmas, you know. If one can't be silly on Christmas . . ."

  I laughed. "You're absolutely right."

  "And I have all sorts of silliness planned."

  "I do hope so." I grinned, feeling very much as if I were a child again. A child on Christmas Day. There was no better feeling in the world, although admittedly I had nearly forgotten that.

  "I thought we would play games: charades and twenty questions and backgammon and—" He eyed me suspiciously. "You did say you play backgammon, didn't you?"

  "I did." I nodded. "And I am quite good at it."

  "Excellent, as I would hate to beat you too easily."

  "That will not be a problem, Fletcher. Although . . ." I frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps, as I have no present for you, I should allow you to win. As my Christmas gift to you."

  "And a thoughtful gift it is too." He grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. "As much as I am grateful for the offer, I fear I shall have to decline." He grinned in a decidedly wicked manner. "I have no need of assistance."

  "Oh?" There was a slight breathless note in my voice. I was not sure why. The man still held my hand, and I saw no need to pull away.

  "No." His gaze searched mine. "I have no doubt I can claim victory without any help."

  "Can you?" It struck me we were no longer talking about backgammon.

  "I have always enjoyed winning when it was more of a challenge." His gaze shifted to my lips, then back to my eyes. "I don't think one appreciates victories that come too easily."

  "Then you prefer to fight for what you want?"

  "I don't know that I prefer it, but I will. After all, when you find something that's worth having . . ." He stared at me for a long moment, and once again, I felt that irresistible pull toward him, as if I were falling forward helplessly. "It is worth any battle necessary."

  "What if you lose?"

  "One never starts a fight one doesn’t think he can win."

  "But there's always the chance of failure."

  "Ah, but it is that very risk, that possibility of defeat, that makes victory all the sweeter."

  "Is it?" I leaned closer, the slightest note of yearning in my voice.

  "Always." He stared at me for an endless moment, then abruptly shook his head as if clearing it and released my hand. "Agostina planned to serve dinner as soon as you came down. We should go—"

  "Yes, we should." I released a breath I hadn't realized I held. "The villa smells wonderful."

  "And the taste is even better. Agostina always outdoes herself at Christmas. Shall we?" He offered his arm, and I hooked my arm through his. He took a step, but I held back.

  "Fletcher." I smiled into his dark eyes. "Thank you again for the painting. I shall treasure it always."

  "It was entirely my pleasure." He smiled and escorted me into the dining room.

  In the back of my mind, I wondered how he knew what Agostina always cooked for Christmas dinner.

  ***

  While I had long considered a meal of fewer than six courses to be less than civilized, in the few days I'd been at the villa thus far, I had begun to grow accustomed to the less complicated array that Agostina served. Christmas was another matter altogether.

  There was dish after dish of delicious culinary offerings. A rich broth and pasta soup was followed by courses of pillows of pasta stuffed with cheese, savory sauces of tomatoes and onions and peppers, platters of roasted lamb and wild boar, along with plates and bowls of potatoes, aubergines, artichokes, olives, dried figs and local cheeses. All accompanied by crusty breads and endless glasses of a rich, red wine and followed by an array of sweets, including, of course, zeppole.

  When we weren't sighing with pleasure at the feast Agostina had prepared, we were laughing at whatever story one of us was telling at the moment. We exchanged tales about incompetent government employees and the exploits of some of my less than proper friends and relations. His stories were shaded by details about life in India, mine seasoned with tidbits of gossip I'd heard from my family or my friends. I had never condoned gossip myself, but one could not help but overhear.

  With every word, I knew him a little better, and he knew me. While I do think he was being as cautious about the identifying details of his life as I was being with mine, I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. After all, no matter how much I shared with the man, I still had not told him I was not Lady Smithson. And the longer I kept up the lie, the worse it would be when the truth was revealed. Still, I kept reminding myself, once we left the villa, I would never see him again. It was not quite as comforting a thought as it had been a few days ago.

  After dinner we settled into backgammon, and I encouraged him to believe I had let him win the first game. Although, from the smirk on his face, I don't think he did indeed believe it. The evening was odd in its comfort, as if we had spent time together before. Christmas perhaps, or simply ordinary days. Days made special by the company. As if this—the two of us together—was right.

  "I must say, Fletcher," I began, "and do not let this go to your head."

  He gasped. "Never. I did not let my winning the first game go to my head."

  "Actually, I believe you did." I returned my gaze to the board. "Apparently, I was too sated from dinner to give the game the attention it deserved. Do not expect that to continue." I considered my next move. "As I was saying, between the food and the company, that was possibly the most delightful Christmas dinner I have ever had."

  "And have you had any other Christmas dinners alone with a man you barely know?" He rolled the dice.

  My gaze jumped to his, but he was studying the board. "Don't be absurd."

  "I only have your word as to the sort of woman you are. And you did agree rather quickly to sharing the villa with me." A teasing note sounded in his voice.

  I kept my gaze fixed on the board and my tone matter of fact. "If you are trying to annoy me, Fletcher, I must tell you it's not working."

  "Odd. I thought it was." He moved one of his men.

  "If it was, you would know." In spite of my best efforts, there was a sharp note in my voi
ce, and I rolled the dice a bit more enthusiastically than I should have.

  "You do know I am teasing." He paused. "Which probably makes no difference, does it?"

  "None whatsoever."

  For a long moment, he didn’t say a word. "I seem to find myself apologizing to you over and over again."

  "Perhaps that's something you should work on." I moved my markers. "What do you feel the need to apologize for now?"

  "Teasing you, of course."

  "I grew up with four male cousins, Fletcher. I daresay I am immune to teasing."

  "Not that I've noticed," he said under his breath, rolling the dice. "There is nothing wrong with content, you know," he added abruptly.

  "That's not the impression I got of your opinion the other night."

  "I can be a bit unyielding in my opinions."

  "As can we all." I took a deep breath and looked at him. "Fletcher."

  He moved one of his men, then glanced at me. "Yes?"

  "I was indeed content with my husband, with my life. In hindsight, it might not have been the grandest of passions, but I did love him and he loved me. I could have been quite happy being content for the rest of my days."

  He nodded and moved a second piece.

  "However, now I think I want more than content."

  "I can understand that."

  I would also like"—I braced myself—"to see more of your work."

  His eyes widened. "Of all the things you can choose, that's what you want?"

  "I didn’t realize I was making a grand declaration encompassing the rest of my life." I tossed the dice. "Yes, right now, that is indeed what I want."

  "I rarely show anyone my work."

  "I am not anyone."

  He thought for a moment. "I will make you a bargain."

  "Oh, I do love bargains."

  "You can see my work if you agree to pose for me."

  "Naked?" The word came of its own accord, and heat at once flushed my face.

  His brow shot upward. "Would you consider that?"

  Why not? I returned my gaze to the board and moved my men. My comment was as much a surprise to me as it was to him. "Yes, I believe I would."