Christmas Revels Read online

  Her face fell. "I suppose you're right, but you're not getting out of dinner that easily. Come on, I'm driving."

  He hesitated, torn between common sense and longing. "I've got work to do."

  "It's New Year's Day, and even workaholics need to eat." She threw a flowing paisley shawl over her shoulders and gave him a smile that melted his resolve. "Please come. I need you to remind me which side of the road to drive on."

  Surrendering, he followed her out the door. "How is the production going?"

  "Very well, in an insane sort of way. I was in wardrobe for fittings about ten minutes after I landed. Everything is so exciting. I feel like a new woman."

  He'd liked the old one just fine.

  The car turned out to be a Jaguar much like her English car, though a rich shade of burgundy rather than blue. "Nice. You've settled in fast."

  She shrugged as she started the car. "The studio leased this for me. I think they decided I'd be less likely to get into trouble driving a car like the one I'm used to. By the way, your calls to the American television people paid off—we have an offer for broadcasting the Revels here, and yesterday Canada came through, too. We've secured the financing we need for the tithe barn. The video version of the Revels got great reviews even though it ran very late at night, and advance orders for the tape are pouring in. In short—the Upper Bassett Community Center will soon be in the hands of those who use and love it."

  "That's great!" He felt a surprising sense of satisfaction. Even though he wouldn't pass that way again, he liked knowing that the dancers and actors and potters—and dragons—would have a place to perform. "So the hard work paid off."

  She smiled wickedly. "Yesterday my mother went to the Carthage people with financing in hand, and they had to accept her contract. I wish I'd been there to see it."

  "Me, too."

  A mile rolled by in companionable silence, until Jenny said unexpectedly, "Time for caroling. Shall we start with 'Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful'? Everyone knows that."

  "I don't sing."

  "Nonsense. If you can talk, you can sing."

  "Not according to my junior high music teacher," he said dryly. "She ordered me to shut up and lip-synch at the annual Christmas concert so I wouldn't ruin everything. I pretty much gave up singing after that."

  Jenny spared a quick glance from the road. "That teacher should have been whipped. Changing voices can be awkward, but singing carols isn't done for others, it's for oneself. Give it a try now. 'Oh, come, all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant. . . '"

  Her voice was so lovely that Greg automatically clamped his mouth shut. Then he remembered his thoughts at the tithe barn, how children often sang and adults didn't. He had liked singing when he was little. Voice tentative, he joined in toward the end of the first verse. Jenny knew all the verses—in English and Latin both.

  When they finished, she gave a swift, approving smile. "Your voice is fine. A most pleasing baritone. Your turn to choose a carol."

  He'd always had a fondness for the haunting melody of "What Child Is This?" Jenny knew the words to that, too, her knowledge carrying him through lines he couldn't remember. By the time they finished, his self-consciousness was gone. This was fun.

  They were well into the hills and "Angels We Have Heard on High" before he noticed their route. "You found a restaurant up here? You've been busy."

  "Not a restaurant." She turned in to a winding residential street, powering the car upward through well-kept contemporary houses that perched nonchalantly on the steep slope. The Jaguar crested the hill, then swung between a pair of massive eucalyptus trees that screened a sprawling stucco house from the road.

  The driveway ended in a wide garage that buffered the house from the rest of the world. Jenny hit a button on the dash and the right-hand door opened. As she pulled the car into the space, she said, "I've always wanted to have a garage with an automatic opener. It's so unbelievably decadent—at home, I don't even have a carport."

  "You've bought a house already?" Greg asked, startled, as they climbed from the car. That was fast even by the standards of Tinseltown.

  "No, it's a short-term rental. Another perk from the studio. They set me up with an estate agent who asked what I wanted, and brought me here the next day after I finished work. As soon as I walked inside, I asked the agent for the lease."

  She opened the door into the house and ushered him through a gourmet kitchen and into a spacious living room floored with lustrous oak and magnificent carpets. A tall, handsomely decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner by the fireplace, but what made his breath catch was the opposite wall. Mostly glass, it showcased a spectacular view over Los Angeles. He opened a slider and walked onto the deck. The sun had just set, etching the western horizon with orange and indigo, while the vast city below was beginning to sparkle with scattered lights.

  Bracing his hands on the railing, he inhaled the cool January air, enjoying the tang of eucalyptus. The hill fell away steeply here, and he guessed that the bedrooms were on the lower level with an equally spectacular view. In not much more than a week, Jenny had moved into the kind of house he had always wanted. While he vaguely dreamed, she got things done.

  The thought produced an upwelling of sadness. Jenny was a star, twinkling high above, while he was irretrievably earthbound. She had magic, while he was a nuts-and-bolts creature of f-stops and lighting arrays.

  "Do you like the house?" Voice shy, she came to stand beside him. "The owner was a bridge designer, of all things, so the house is constructed in a way that he thinks should survive even a major earthquake."

  "It's spectacular, Jenny." Schooling his face, he turned to her. "And it suits you. If you're going to be spending time here, maybe you "should see if the owner will sell."

  "Actually, he will—he and his wife have moved back east to be closer to their children." After a long pause, she continued hesitantly, "I was thinking—would you—might you be interested in buying the house with me?"

  His jaw dropped. "What the hell. . . ?"

  She turned on her heel and retreated into the living room. "Sorry, that was really clumsy of me. It was . . . just a thought. Never mind. Dinner is all prepared and will only require a few blasts in the microwave."

  Talk about clumsy! Feeling like an idiot, he dashed after her. "Jenny, why did you suggest that?" Surely she didn't need the money.

  She paused to contemplate the Christmas tree, a tall Fraser fir whose green and purple decorations were maybe a little too perfect. "I'm just suggesting that it would be nice to ... to live with you. We seem to be getting along rather well."

  The vulnerability in her posture produced a wave of tenderness. "I know Hollywood must seem a little scary now, especially since you had a bad experience here before, but it would be foolish to tie yourself down by buying a house with me just because we're . . . friendly. In a few months, you'll have plenty of friends and you won't need me." He tried to make his tone joking. "Or did you want to get a place with me because I'm never here? That is an advantage in a housemate."

  She whirled around, eyes snapping. "Why the devil do you assume that I'm not going to want you for a friend six months from now? Do I seem that shallow? Or do you want to keep your distance in the future because actresses are so needy and demanding and you don't want to get sucked into my personal psychodramas?"

  "Of course I don't think you're shallow! And you're certainly no drama queen." He made a helpless gesture with his hand. "But new worlds are opening up for you, Jenny. You're going to be meeting exciting, charismatic men who operate on the same level you do. Sure, you and I can be friends, but I'm just the guy next door. Not someone you should be buying a house with."

  She made a feline sound of exasperation. "I'm thirty-five years old, Gregory Marino. Do you think I'm too dim to know what I want? I've dated more than my share of 'exciting, charismatic' men, and there isn't one of them I would want to buy a house with." Her face tightened. "The time we spent together was more than a holida
y fling to me, Greg. In fact, it was very special. I ... I thought it was worth finding out if you felt the same."

  Her words rocked him back on his heels. How much courage had it taken for her to make herself so vulnerable? More courage than he had— but if there was to be any hope for them, he must try to match her honesty. "It was more than a fling for me, too. I... I've been in love with you since we first met, but I'm so much in the habit of thinking there was no future for us that I have trouble believing that. . . that you might want more.

  For a moment, time seemed to stop. Then she stepped forward, clasped his head with both hands, and drew it down for a kiss sweeter than chocolate. "Believe it, Greg."

  Heart pounding, he wrapped his arms around her as if she were a life preserver in a storm. "Please don't say this is a joke. I couldn't bear it."

  "Do you think I'd joke about the rest of my life?" She walked him back into the low sofa and pushed him down, landing on top in a pile of tangled limbs and scented sensuality. "You must stop underestimating yourself—your talent and skill, not to mention your delicious self, make for a madly attractive whole," she said huskily. "Shall I demonstrate exactly how attractive I find you?"

  Her words brought every cell in his body to urgent life, but even more desperately than he wanted to make love, he wanted to understand. "I'm still not quite believing this. What happened between last week when we said good-bye at Heathrow and now?"

  "I called Kenzie Scott and ended up having a nice chat with Raine." Jenny wriggled into a more comfortable position on top of him. "Something she said made me recognize how our assumptions about having a brief fling had turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy, and that it was time to rewind and try for a new conclusion."

  He slid his hands under her tunic and rested them on the warm, bare skin of her back, still incredulous that she was in his arms again. "I've always figured that my main qualification in your eyes was being available and more or less presentable when you wanted some company."

  She rolled her eyes. "So I'm not only shallow and dim, but a slut. Trust me, I've never been so bored that I would sleep with a man merely because he was available."

  He gave a crooked smile. "If I say anything more, I'm going to dig myself into a really deep hole, aren't I?"

  She chuckled. "You're already halfway to Australia, but I'll forgive you because you're wonderful. You always were, even a dozen years ago. Now you're one of the best cinematographers in the world, while I'm just another actress who has good years and bad years. My confidence is up at the moment, which is why I have the nerve to chase you, but my career could vanish like a crocodile in a swamp if this movie bombs."

  "It won't bomb."

  "No way to tell yet." She gave him a level look. "You're not only successful and a great guy, but you've worked with some of the most beautiful women in the world. What about me is special enough to hold the attention of a man of substance?"

  He began to laugh. "So while I've been busy worshiping you, you've been cherishing exaggerated ideas of my importance. I should have asked you to marry me on our first go-around. I wanted to, but you were so hung up on that idiot actor that I knew you'd say no."

  "If you'd proposed I might have said yes, but that wasn't the right time, my love," she said seriously. "We were at the beginning of our careers. We needed to grow into our adult selves. In the last dozen years, I've met tons of men, dated a fair number, fancied myself in love a time or two. Now that I've looked over the field, I know the best when I see him. I'm ready to swim into deeper waters. Are you?"

  He winced. Heaven was being offered, but not yet within reach. "I have to go to Argentina next week, and I'll be there for at least four months, probably longer."

  "I'm going to be madly busy for the next few months as well. But if we dig out our appointment books, surely we can find a time to start living together."

  For the first time, he really believed that she meant it. She really meant it! "No living together." He thought of his mother, who wanted him to marry a nice Ohio kind of girl. She'd freak at the sight of glamorous Jenny—then fall in love with her. "I'm from the Midwest, you know. If I'm going to take you home to meet the family, it will have to be marriage."

  She bit one enchanting lip. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather live together for a year or two? We're both going to have to do some adjusting. I want to keep the cottage and spend a fair amount of the year in England. In fact, I'll have to for the future Revels productions. You might not want that. And we'll both have to cut back on our professional obligations if we're ever going to spend any time together."

  These were serious issues, so he considered them for about three seconds. "All true, but doable. I love the idea of having a home in England and a home here. I love the idea of this home. I love your family, and having Plato trot around carrying his buggy whip. I love the idea of taking fewer jobs so I can spend lots and lots of time with you.

  "Most of all, I love you." He caught her gaze with his. "I don't want to go into this with one hand on the doorknob so I can back out if we hit a few rough spots. I want the real thing, Jenny—an old-fashioned, till-death-do-us-part marriage."

  Her shining smile could have lit up the whole London Underground. "How deliciously Neanderthal. Very well, we shall marry. My family will be over the moon—my mother and Patricia have been making pointed comments about how much they like you and how well you fit into Upper Bassett." She growled deep in her throat as she kissed him again. "But before we start looking for weddings dates, can we play Tarzan and Jane?"

  "Sure," he said obligingly. "Which role do you want?"

  Bubbling with laughter, she rolled off the sofa, taking him with her onto the thick carpet. "You can be Tarzan this time. Then it will be my turn."

  Tenderly he cupped her face between his hands. "You're so beautiful, Jenny. So heart-stoppingly beautiful."

  Some of her sparkle faded. "Appreciating beauty is a big part of what you do, Greg, but I hope to heaven you don't think you love me just because of the way I look. Will you leave me when I get gray and plump and wrinkled?"

  Startled, he recognized the insecurity under her words. He studied her beloved face. She wasn't wearing a shred of makeup and fine lines showed at the corners of her eyes. It wasn't the face of a film icon, but a real woman—the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

  "I'll love every wrinkle and gray hair and soft curve, and give thanks for the chance to see them develop. If I were struck blind tomorrow, I'd still laugh at your jokes and rub your back when you're tired and talk to you long into every night because I love your ideas and humor and kindness and . . . and your general wonderfulness." He kissed her as if she were made of the finest porcelain. "I hate that we're not going to see each other for months. Maybe you can arrange your shooting schedule to come down for a few days? We can have a Groundhog's Day holiday fling."

  "I'm sure Marcus will be able to arrange for me to have a few days with you, since it will improve my morale so much. But no more holiday flings, my love," she whispered. "Every day with you will be a holiday."

  The Christmas Cuckoo

  JACK Howard, late a major in the 51st Regiment, gave a depressed sigh as he folded his large frame into the chair nearest the fire. After eight weeks of nonstop travel, he was rumpled, tired, and in dire need of a haircut and a shave. He had looked forward to reaching the Red Duck Inn so he could eat, sleep the rest of the afternoon, eat again, then perhaps enjoy a spot of socializing in the taproom before retiring for the night. By morning he would have been sufficiently recovered from the rigors of travel to endure the ordeals ahead.

  Instead, no sooner had Jack set foot from the stagecoach than he had been intercepted by a small gray clerk. The aptly named Mr. Weezle was secretary to the countess—everyone always called her "the countess," as if she were the only one in England—and he had been meeting the Portsmouth Courier every day for the last week. After the barest minimum of civil greetings, Mr. Weezle had swept Jack off to the coac
hing inn's private parlor, then pulled a paper from his pocket and begun reading through the items, ticking each off with a pencil. And the more the secretary talked, the more depressed Jack became.

  Weezle punctuated his monologue by pulling, a card case from his pocket and handing it to Jack. "The countess took the liberty of having new cards made for you."

  "The countess has taken rather a lot of liberties," Jack said dryly as he glanced at the top card before slipping the flat gold case into the single piece of baggage by his feet. At least the spelling was correct. But then, it was hard to mistake a name as common as John Howard.

  Ignoring Jack's ungracious remark, Weezle adjusted the spectacles on his nose and consulted his list again. "There are some people the countess wishes you to call on before you leave London, but of course you cannot do so until you are properly attired. After we leave here, we will stop at Weston's. Though this is a busy time of year, Mr. Weston has promised to produce some decent clothing for you overnight. Naturally, the garments won't be done to his usual standards, but at least you will be presentable. A more appropriate wardrobe will be sent to Hazelwood within a week."

  "Obliging of Mr. Weston, but I have no intention of visiting any tailor this afternoon. When I do go to one, it will probably be Scott."

  "The countess would not like that," the secretary stated, as if that settled the matter. For him it did. "Of course you need a valet, but it's impossible to hire decent servants at this time of year. A pity you didn't reach London last week, when you were supposed to. With Christmas just three days away, there simply isn't time to accomplish all that should be done before going to Hazelwood. One of the countess's cousins here in London has agreed to instruct you on how to get on in society, but there will be time for only a single lesson."

  Among his friends Jack was famous for his imperturbable good nature, but Weezle's words triggered a slow burn of anger. "No," he said flatly. "My manners may be rough by her ladyship's standards, but I'm too old to learn new ones."