Christmas Revels Page 4

  He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable in the dusk. "I heard you were involved with some software tycoon."

  "You mean Neil Carling? We're not really dating." She liked that Greg respected whether or not she was involved with someone else. She had always been punctilious about such things herself.

  "No?"

  "I'm his official facade." She parked by her house and climbed out. "He's courting a very sweet, reserved widow and he's afraid he'll lose her if she winds up in the tabloids. Neil and I are old friends, so he takes me to events where he needs a bit of arm candy. I coo and bat my eyelashes, and afterward he goes off to visit his Elizabeth."

  Greg chuckled as he followed her to the house. "I've been in Hollywood long enough to understand why a man might want to hide his private life. But how will he ever get her to the altar if he's afraid to go public?"

  "When and if she says yes, he plans to take her off to the Caribbean for a very quiet, private wedding. Once they're married, they'll be old news. There is nothing more boring than a faithfully married businessman. In the meantime, I have the chance to dress up and go out with someone who knew me when I was in pigtails."

  Those chaste evenings with Neil were the most fun she'd had with a ^ man in months. As she unlocked the cottage, her thoughtful gaze went to Greg again. Perhaps that was about to change.

  FIVE

  IT'S a beautiful tree, if I do say so who shouldn't." Jenny stepped back and regarded their work with satisfaction. The gaily decorated spruce filled one corner of the living room, its gold filigree star touching a weathered ceiling beam.

  "It's a fantastic tree." Greg hung a miniature Celtic harp on an upper branch. Jenny's ornaments varied from battered, beloved family heirlooms to delicate works of art. Just the way ornaments ought to be; he'd always hated flawless, overdecorated trees that made him think of department stores rather than homes.

  Plato trotted up with his buggy whip and dropped it under the tree, then eyed a swinging angel ornament. "Behave yourself," Jenny ordered.

  The cat gave her a flat stare to prove that he cared naught for her opinion, then curled up under the tree, an errant strand of silver tinsel accenting his gray fur. Greg smiled as he scratched Plato's neck. "A crackling fire on a cold night, a cat, good company, and decorating a Christmas tree. It doesn't get much better than this."

  "I love Christmas." Jenny draped more tinsel in an under-sparkled spot. "A time to slow down and enjoy life and be with my family and friends. In busy years, it keeps me sane. In bad years, it makes me feel whole again."

  "I've been doing the holidays on the express plan for too long. I'm lucky my family hasn't changed the locks to keep me out since I fly in a day or two before Christmas, and leave a day or two after." There was a long pause while he studied another ornament, a delicately made ceramic nest containing a pair of tiny bluebirds. He'd sent her the ornament the Christmas after their affair. Had he thought that the bluebirds of happiness nesting in the tree might bring them back together? Hard to remember after all these years. "I've spent so much time building my career that I forgot to build a life," he said quietly. "You seem to have done a better job of balancing it all."

  "A rolling stone gathers no tinsel? Americans work too hard, I think. I'm lucky to spend half my time outside of London. In Upper Bassett, I'm Alice and the doctor's daughter, Patricia and Keith's sister, and a multiple aunt. The eccentric but amiable Lyme girl who's done rather well for herself. It keeps life in perspective."

  Jenny flicked off the light switch so the room was illuminated only by dancing flames and the tiny colored tree lights. She had taken off her heavy sweater earlier, and the silk shirt she wore underneath skimmed her curves alluringly. The soft light gave her a haunting Renaissance beauty.

  Greg's fingers tightened around the birds' nest. Though she had said he didn't have to keep his hands to himself, he still had trouble believing that she might be interested in him. Their romantic history had been a fluke of circumstances.

  But maybe he wasn't the only one who had found those days magical. It was worth risking rejection, because he would never forgive himself if he didn't at least try. Carefully he hung the ornament out of Plato's reach. "Earlier today we were interrupted at an interesting moment."

  Even though beauty was power, she looked vulnerable, almost fragile. "I didn't think you'd come to England," she said softly. "I'm glad you did. Even gladder than I thought I would be."

  With one provocative motion, she pulled off the scarf that tied back her hair. Luxurious as ermine, the dark waves cascaded over her shoulders, catching auburn highlights from the fire. "I wouldn't mind a holiday fling. Shall we pick up where we left off all those years ago?"

  Powerful awareness pulsed between them. For the first time he accepted that even though she was a glamorous actress, she was also the friend and lover he had never forgotten. "I hope we can, Jenny. The fact that we were together then is the greatest miracle I've ever known."

  She came into his arms lightly. His first kiss was tentative, wondering, awed. How he'd longed for this mouth, these lips, the essence of Jenny.

  Her head tilted back and she melted against him. Warm, curving, irresistible—and neither of them even tried to resist. He tangled his fingers in her glossy hair to bring her closer, jet lag forgotten as he came alive in every cell. "My God, Jenny ..."

  "How could I have forgotten this?" she whispered as she burrowed against him.

  Doubts and time dissolved along with words as they tugged at each other's clothing. Jenny pulled a folded blanket from the sofa and tossed it in front of the fire. Giving thanks that he'd come prepared in case something wild and wonderful happened, he pulled her down beside him, craving the weight and feel of her intoxicating body.

  Even that first time so many years before, they had come together with sweet harmony. Now there was harmony and more, as if they'd been waiting for years to set each other afire. He felt they had known each other forever as they remembered how to kiss, how to touch, how to laugh.

  How to be in a perfect moment.

  Afterward, shaking from reaction, he pulled her close and kissed her damp forehead. He had indeed fallen into Wonderland. In real life, it wasn't possible to be this happy. Perhaps this moment could only be perfect because it was so ephemeral. In less than a month he would be in Argentina.

  But as he gazed into the embers of the fire, he mourned the knowledge of how soon such happiness must end.

  NOT wanting to move ever again, Jenny rested her head on Greg's shoulder, pulling the blanket over them as she struggled for breath and composure. Never, even in her most heated dreams, had she imagined such a reunion. "It was good before, but not like this. Not so ... so intense. Maybe because I was such a mess at the time."

  "You were miserable then, but never a mess." He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Did I tell you that I was entranced by your collarbones? When I shot that scene where you were half naked, I couldn't believe how lovely and subtle your shoulders were. At night I dreamed about them, sculpted by light and shadow."

  She laughed a little wryly. "Don't look too closely. These shoulders are now thirty-five, not twenty-three."

  "Still beautiful, though." He exhaled warmly into the hollow above her collarbone.

  Her gaze went to the dancing flames. "You're an artist of light, Greg. You see beauty where others don't, and then you make them see it, too. It's a great gift."

  "So is making people laugh and cry, the way you do. We're both lucky to be able to do what we love, and share it with others."

  Yes, she'd been lucky, but not in all areas of life. "Have you achieved your dreams? Or have you reached them and now have others?"

  She admired his face in the firelight while he considered her question. When he'd been twenty-five and bearded, she hadn't realized what a fine strong jaw he had. She liked his mouth, too. Not only the feel of his lips, but the humorous little quirk that made him always look on the verge of laughter.

&n
bsp; "My greatest dream, which seemed impossible when I was a kid in Ohio, was to make movies," he said slowly. "Not the writing or acting or directing—that was for other people. The essence of movie making is images, and that's what I wanted to do: capture images that would delight and astonish and sometimes even terrify."

  "Then you're successful."

  "Professionally, yes. But maybe I didn't have enough different dreams." For a moment his eyes were shadowed. Shaking off the mood, he propped himself on one elbow and smiled down on her. "Have you achieved your greatest goals?"

  "I was like you—wanting to act, not thinking it was possible to reach such heights, working hard to make it happen. The dream was to make movies—be an international star, you know." She shrugged philosophically. "I didn't achieve that and it's too late now, but television suits me and I've done better than most. Enough to feel good about my abilities, not so much that success has made my life difficult. Even though I'm past my prime, I'm lucky to be English. There's more room for aging actresses here. I should be able to grow old gracefully, moving between television and the theater, making enough money to live well and to spoil my nieces and nephews with Christmas presents."

  He stared at her. "Where do you get this 'aging actress' nonsense? You're a beautiful, desirable woman, and you always will be. Like-Katharine Hepburn and the other great beauties, you're lovely in your bones, and in your spirit."

  Her throat tightened at his palpable sincerity. "For a man of images, not words, you say wonderful things."

  "Seeing is my business, and I see truth, Jenny."

  Uncomfortable with the intensity of his eyes, she asked, "You said you need different dreams. What is the biggest thing that you don't have but would like?"

  His brows furrowed. "Probably a house. I'm still living in that same two-bedroom apartment I had when we made Almost Crazy. Remember it?"

  "I have fond memories of that apartment. In fact, your key is around here somewhere, since I forgot to give it back before I left." Actually, she'd kept it deliberately as a souvenir of their time together. "It was a nice apartment, but not the same as owning your own home."

  "It's ironic. I've finally reached the point where I could afford a decent house, but when I come back from a location shoot I'm always too tired to call a real estate agent. The next thing I know, I'm off again." He smiled wryly. "I'm this big success, yet I live like a kid just out of college."

  "California has wonderful houses. What would you like? A beach house?"

  "I'd rather have a place up in the hills where you can see to forever. I love that kind of spaciousness. And I like modern architecture—airiness and lots of texture from natural materials."

  "It sounds as if you've thought about this." She knew the kind of house he meant—she had visited one or two of that type when she was in California. "As dreams go, this shouldn't be too hard to achieve. Perhaps you should make a New Year's resolution to call an estate agent."

  "Maybe I will." His gaze traveled around her living room. "Being here reminds me of what I'm missing."

  Hearing more than he was saying, she said hesitantly, "It sounds as if you want not only a house, but a home. Real estate is easy. Homes are harder."

  "I think you just put your finger on it." He gave a jaw-cracking yawn. "Sorry! Jet lag is mugging me again. I'd better go to bed while I can still manage the stairs."

  He stood and offered her his hand, raising her easily. She skimmed her palm across his bare chest, thinking again how well he had filled out since they first met. He'd been an appealing youth. Now he was a rather splendid man. "My bedroom or yours?"

  He gave her a slow smile. "Yours, if you don't mind having me there."

  She closed the fireplace doors and turned out the lights, then slid her arm around his waist and they ambled toward the stairs. His height made her feel small and feminine. She tried to remember when she had felt so peaceful, but failed. Too long.

  Greg hadn't been joking about his fatigue. After washing up and brushing his teeth, he hit her bed like a felled tree. She didn't mind, not when he drew her close against him. She gave a sigh of pure pleasure.

  Plato jumped onto the bed, looking for an unoccupied corner. Jenny was about to shoo him off when Greg began absently scratching the cat's neck. Not bad for a man more asleep than awake.

  As Plato settled down, purring, Greg murmured, "If I had asked you to stay after we finished shooting Almost Crazy—would you have?"

  How had she felt then? Conflicted. "I don't think so," she said honestly. "I was desperate to go home. Being offered that Jane Austen role went a long way toward repairing my battered professional pride."

  He exhaled, his soft breath stirring the hair at her temple. "That's what I figured."

  His breathing became slow and steady, but it was a long time until Jenny slept. Probably she would have gone home no matter what Greg said then—but she wished she'd had the choice.

  SIX

  GREG swiftly checked over the lights, reflectors, and other equipment. "Great," he said as he signed the manifest. "I really appreciate you guys lending me all this."

  Sean, the young Londoner who had driven the borrowed equipment to Upper Bassett, said, "It's an honor, Mr. Marino." He hesitated. "Could I stay and help today? I'm a camera assistant, so I might be useful." Despite numerous piercings and hair that defied description, his gaze was as worshipful as a spaniel. "I really want to see you work."

  Greg felt very old. How had he gone from being an eager kid like this one to an elder statesman? Trying not to think of the occasional gray hairs that were starting to appear, he said, "Sure, the help will be welcome. We'll start by rigging these lights."

  They spent a long, sweaty day working on the catwalks above the stage, with Greg explaining the reasons for every equipment placement. His assistant nodded solemnly and jotted quick notes. With Sean's help, the installation was finished before the evening's dress rehearsal. Greg could never have managed that on his own.

  Jenny flitted in and out, alluring in jeans and sweater as she attended to countless details. Whenever she appeared, all male activity temporarily ceased. She was pleasant to everyone, but for Greg she had a private smile that melted him in his tracks.

  The three days since he'd arrived in England were the happiest he could remember. By day he and Jenny worked like maniacs to stage her production, sharing ideas and problems with easy camaraderie. The nights were even better as they talked and laughed and made love until they fell asleep in each other's arms. Usually with Plato sprawled against Greg's ankles. The three of them slept well together.

  Greg was doing a lighting check when Jenny appeared. "My mother put together a buffet supper for family members involved in the show. The kids have finished, but the adults are eating now. Care to join us, or are you too busy?"

  He suppressed a small twitch. Though the family members he'd met were great, he hadn't met her father yet, and Dr. Lyme might not approve of some ramshackle American hanging out with his youngest daughter. Reminding himself that he wasn't in high school, he said, "Sure. It would be nice to get out of here for a while."

  He grabbed his coat and joined Jenny for the walk to her parents' house. The fresh air was welcome after the long day inside. Taking his hand, she led him along a path that edged a field and decanted them by a sprawling brick house. "This was called a villa when it was built in Edwardian times," Jenny explained. "My father wanted all the woodwork painted lime green in honor of the family name, but Mother wouldn't let him."

  "Sounds like your father has a sense of humor."

  "He has to, to put up with the rest of us," she said blithely as they walked inside through the unlocked front door.

  The small front hall opened to reception rooms on both sides. The parlor on the right contained a tall Christmas tree, with the dining room visible beyond. High ceilings and handsome moldings gave a formal air to the house, but the furnishings were comfortable and just worn enough to be welcoming.

  Jenny hung
both their coats, then took Greg into the dining room, where platters and Crock-Pots were set on a sideboard so family members could help themselves to a quick meal. Alice Lyme wasn't present but Patricia Holmes and her husband, Ken, were already eating, and a white-haired man who had to be Dr. Lyme was nursing a cup of coffee at the head of the table.

  Taking Greg's arm, Jenny led him into the dining room. "Hi, all. Dad, you haven't met my friend Greg Marino, have you?"

  Dr. Lyme stood. Tall and angular, he had formidably bushy eyebrows. "No, but Jenny has talked of you a great deal."

  "I was afraid of that," Greg said fatalistically. "I swear, practically none of it is true."

  The doctor laughed and offered his hand. "It was good of you to come all this way to help out."

  As they shook hands, Greg said, "I'm glad Jenny asked me—I'm having a wonderful time."

  "You're from Ohio, I think? I once did a fellowship in Cincinnati." Dr. Lyme sighed nostalgically. "Cincinnati chili. Not like anything else I've ever eaten."

  "That's because its ancestors are Greek, not Mexican." Greg made a mental note to send some Cincinnati chili spice packets to Dr. Lyme. "Our local specialty."

  That started a lively discussion about regional foods while the new arrivals served themselves and sat down. Luckily, Greg managed not to step on the collie-ish dog that was snoozing peacefully under the sideboard. Given the way Jenny fussed over the elderly dog, he suspected that stepping on its tail would get him exiled permanently from the house.

  Dr. Lyme replenished his coffee. "Is everything in hand for the rehearsal?"

  "So far, so good," Jenny replied. "One of the horn dancers broke his right antler, but we were able to superglue the end on again."

  Greg grinned, amused at the contrast of old and new. "I've been meaning to ask why moose antlers are worn for a dance."

  "Not moose—red deer. The horned god is a pagan deity and tied up with fertility and nature," Patricia explained with schoolteacher precision.