Page 24

The storm left the city—normally dirty and littered despite the sanitation department’s best efforts—beautiful and clean, buried beneath a pristine blanket of white. And with its passing came the sun, electricity, and blessed warmth. God, she’d never been so cold in her life. She’d invited Cam into her bedroom and he’d come, keeping her warm until sometime during the night when, to her growing consternation, he’d retreated to his pallet downstairs. She’d removed it, told him he had no need for it, and still, he disappeared each night leaving her frightened and worried come morning.

And he’d not eaten more than was necessary to keep him alive in days. At first, she feared he was coming down with the flu, but he had no other symptoms. When she pressed him to talk to her, he’d simply mumble, “I dinna feel like eating.”

More worrisome was his reticence to share his fears or plans. Oh, he’d tell her tales about his past life, about the time he broke his arm going over a waterfall in a wine cask or the first time he’d gone into battle, tales about his family, even about the first time he’d kissed a woman—him all of twelve at the time—often in haunted tones after he’d make love to her in slow, wonderful fashion. But he never would speak of the witches and what had happened that night. Nor would he discuss what he planned to do with the rest of his life no matter how she approached the subject. She’d be furious if she wasn’t so damn frightened. Something was eating him alive.

The buzzer on her stove went off and she flipped off the oven. Tonight she was pulling out all the stops before he went off to work at the Purple Pussycat, a job she knew he loathed. Roast beef—dark outside, blood red, and all but mooing on the inside—French fries, gravy, and peas. His idea of heaven on earth, food-wise at least.

She pulled the roast out of the oven and checked the meat thermometer—perfect—and turned up the heat on the rest of the meal, then stuck her head out the living room window. “Cam!”

He looked up from where he was shoveling snow and smiled. “Aye?”

“Supper in fifteen minutes.”

He waved, then went back to work, the smile gone.

She reached for dishes and the kitchen phone rang. Please don’t let it be Victor. I can’t handle any more right now. “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Sergeant Evans with the Boston Army Recruitment Center. May I speak with Cameron MacLeod, please?”

Deep breath. No need to panic until you have a reason to. “I’m sorry but he’s not here right now. May I take a message?”

“Yes, will you let him know that I spoke with my superiors and I’m afraid we can’t give him anything in the UK. But I can guarantee him a year in Germany, so he can jump the channel anytime he has leave.” He chuckled then said, “We’ll start processing him as soon as he comes in. The next basic training course starts in three weeks.”

Oh sweet merciful God. Take another deep breath. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

The phone missed the cradle when she tried to hang up and it landed with a crash on the floor.

Cam! What the hell are you thinking?

She’d never worried about him joining the military—a natural fit, she supposed and an obvious fascination for him as witnessed by his attention to the news and their ads on TV—because she thought there was a law against non-nationals joining the armed forces, but apparently not.

She made a mad dash for the bathroom. By the time she got there, the wave of nausea had blessedly subsided. She leaned, arms braced, over the sink, and looked into the mirror. She wouldn’t have recognized the haunted face looking back at her had it been a photograph. “Oh, Cam.”

He wanted home that badly?

“Claire?”

She jerked at the sound of Cam’s voice and shouted, “I’ll be right out!” She splashed ice-cold water on her face, then looked in the mirror. “You have to hold it together until you can think of something. He did this because he’s proud and homesick and thinks this is the only way he can get home again. Not because he doesn’t love you like you love him,” which she suspected in her heart of hearts was true but she wasn’t going there. Not now. “It’ll be okay. You’ll think of something.”

Please, dear God, let me think of something.

She tapped her cheeks with cold water again and stepped into the kitchen, a smile plastered on her face. “I made your favorites tonight.”

Grinning, he grabbed her and slipped his ice-cold hands beneath her sweater, making her squeal. Keeping her trapped, he leaned down and kissed her. “It smells delicious but ye shouldna go to such trouble.”

She patted his chest. “Go wash your hands while I set the table.”

A moment later, they were situated before a veritable feast. An hour later, neither of them had done much more than pushed their food around their plates.

Cam, looking at her plate, asked, “Are ye feeling unwell again? Should ye lie down? I can make ye a toddy. I have the whiskey.”

The Scotch had been the first thing he’d bought after she cashed his check claiming her wine was fine but there were times when a man needed a real drink. “No, I’m just tired.”

It had been a long day. Many of last week’s customers had returned with girlfriends in tow to ogle Cam under the pretext of shopping or having their fortunes read by the incomparable Madame Grouse. And she couldn’t blame them. Cam MacLeod was, beyond doubt, the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on, and apparently she wasn’t the only one to think so.

“Cam, we need to go Christmas shopping tomorrow.”

“For Mrs. Grouse, you mean?”

“For you, for me, and for a Christmas tree.”

“But I thought ye didna celebrate Christmas.” She’d told him about going home and finding her mother Christmas morning.

“Well, I think it’s about time that changed.”

With Cam in tow, Claire stopped before the smart Christmas display in the Tall-E-Ho window and pointed to the mannequin dressed in a navy worsted blazer, a turtleneck, and striped shirt. “What do you think? Can you picture yourself in something like that?” It really was handsome. “Cam?”

She looked around and found she’d been talking to air. Cam was nowhere in sight. Where the hell had he gone? He was right behind her a minute ago. “Damn it.”

She started backtracking, stopping to look inside Victoria’s Secret, a place that held him fascinated for several minutes when they passed it initially. She wound her way through the racks to the back without seeing him.

“May I help you find something?” a young saleswoman in curve-hugging jeans asked.

“I’m looking for a great-looking guy about six and a half feet tall, black hair, and great dimples.”

She smiled, “Aren’t we all?”

“Ya.” Obviously he hadn’t been in. She ran out the door and stood on the sidewalk looking right and left. Well, he hadn’t walked past her, so she turned left. Seeing the telescope in the Sharper Image window, she grinned and went inside.

“Claire! Ye have to try this.”

“There you are.” He was sitting in a vibrating chair grinning like an idiot. When his gaze narrowed and traveled over her, she knew precisely what he was thinking. So did the salesman at his side who wiggled a brow at her. Heat rose up her neck. “Come on. We have more shopping to do.”

Laughing for the first time in days, he rose and followed. Catching up with her, he wrapped an arm about her waist and nuzzled her neck. “We could have a wee bit of fun in that, no?”

Claire swatted his arm, grinning despite herself. The man was incorrigible.

She dragged him—protesting every inch of the way—into Tall-E-Ho where they found a salesman rolling his eyes while a woman, obviously harassed and jabbering into her cell phone, pointed at several items she wanted.

“Look,” the woman growled into the phone as she pointed to a striped tie. “I don’t care if he’s dying of TB, he has to be at that shoot. No. No. Need I remind you he’s under contract?”

When she followed the salesman to the counter, Cam whispered, “A bit of a shrew, aye?”

Claire nodded and steered him toward the sports jackets.

“You tell him,” the woman shouted as she faced them, “I’m suing his sorry—” her gaze raked Cam, “—ass. I’ll get back to you.” She snapped the phone closed, said something to the salesman, and headed straight for them. Looking at Cam, she smiled and said, “Excuse me, but haven’t I seen you before? You’re with the Elaine Pummel Agency, right?”

Cam smiled, flashing his dimples. “Nay, I dinna ken such an agency.”

To herself the woman muttered, “God, this gets better and better.” She held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Maggie Wheaton, Dynamics Inc, and you’re just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Cam, his expression now wary, took her hand and bowed over it. “Sir Cameron MacLeod at yer service.”

The woman literally beamed up at him. “Would you mind if I took a picture of you?” Before he could respond, she’d reached into her large designer handbag—a two-thousand-dollar alligator exclusive if Claire’s memory served—and pulled out a digital camera.

“Hi,” Claire stuck out her hand. “I’m Claire MacGregor and who are you exactly?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The woman, fortyish and dressed head to toe in Ellen Tracy black, reached back into her bag and pulled out two business cards, handing one to each of them. “I’m with Dynamic Inc, the modeling agency.”

Claire fingered the heavy linen card between her forefinger and thumb as she read the fine embossed print. Maggie was more than with the agency; she was vice president. Already knowing the answer, Claire asked, “And why do you wish to take Cam’s picture?”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, they were sitting in the Russian Tea Room, the only place Claire could think of in her agitated state that might offer them some privacy to talk. Sitting across from them sat Maggie Wheaton staring at her camera.

“As I’d hoped, the camera loves you. Look.” She held the camera out to Cam, who looked at the images, shrugged, and handed it to Claire. She clicked on each of the poses Maggie had taken on the street and with a sinking heart suppressed a sigh. Yup, the camera did love him. No question.

“Given your size, I’ll have to work to convince the European designers to let you do runway. They’ll have to rethink some styles, rework patterns—” she flapped a hand as if they understood all the nuances of the fashion industry, “but then again, they’re not stupid. They’ll know that the female buyers will just have to take one look at you and they’ll be buying everything you showed.” She took the camera back and smiling, scanned the photos again before putting it back in her bag. She looked at her watch. “Damn, I have to run. I have another appointment.”

She waved over their waitress and paid their bill over Cam’s protests. “My pleasure,” she told him.

Maggie rose and Cam did, as well. She held out her hand to him. “As soon as you have a passport, call me and I’ll call Brinker and line up a shoot to start your portfolio. We can’t do anything without one.”

She then shook Claire’s hand and thanked them both for their time. Halfway to the door, she called over her shoulder, “We’ll go over the contract at the studio.”

When the door closed on her, Cam collapsed into his chair. “The woman is a bloody whirlwind. I’ve never seen the like.”

Nor had Claire. “She’s from New York.”

“And ye ken this how?”

“From her accent and the way she dresses.”

He shrugged, crossed his arms on the table, and leaned toward her. “I didna ken half of what she said and dinna believe she heard a word I said.”

Oh, she’d heard all right. Maggie Wheaton was just determined that he wouldn’t say no. “She believes you have the potential for a very promising career.”

He scoffed. “Strutting around like a bloody dandy in someone else’s garb? I dinna think so.” He shuddered. “Wouldna be the least manly.”

Not from his perspective, she supposed. “But it could be quite lucrative.”

That caught his attention and he frowned at her. “How so?”

“Some models make hundreds per day.”

“Ye mean hundreds per week.”

“No. Hundreds per day.”

“Humph!” He scowled at her for a moment, then pushed back his chair. He held out his hand to her. “ ’Tis still foolishness and a moot point in any event. I dinna have a passport.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Prayers sometimes were answered.

* * *

The next day, Claire smiled as she held out her hand to Tony Delucci. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Delucci.”

Victor’s uncle returned her smile, taking her hand in his, then pulled her into a bear hug. “Please, Claire, call me Uncle Tony, and it’s been too long.” When he released her, he said, “Let me look at you. Ah, as lovely as ever. It’s been what, three years since I’ve seen you?”

She nodded. “Not since your niece’s wedding.”

“Far too long. You tell that nephew of mine to bring you around more often.” He motioned to the booth. “Sit and join me for lunch. I hate eating alone.”

Claire doubted she could eat a thing given why she was here, but nodded and started unbuttoning her coat. A waiter stepped up to assist her. When he walked away, she slid into the white, tablecloth-draped booth opposite Uncle Tony and looked around. “It’s lovely.” And everyone looked normal.

“Is this your first time at Isabella’s?”

She wiped her sweating palms on her slacks before resting them on the table, hoping she appeared more relaxed than she felt. Tony Delucci was still smiling but his dark brown eyes were as hard and calculating as she remembered them being the last time they’d met. “Yes, it is.”

“Victor should be horsewhipped.” He looked at the menu, then grinned. “I can recommend the Clams Casino.”

“You remember.” The man must have a mind like a steel trap. She’d gorged on them at the wedding reception.

He winked at her. “Of course. A gentleman never forgets a lovely woman’s favorite food.”

The waiter arrived, he ordered for both of them, and then rested his elbows on the table, leaning toward her. “So, my dear. What brings you here … to me?”

Oh God, where to begin. If she lied to this man she’d be buying trouble the likes of which she didn’t even want to contemplate. “Did you happen to see the story on TV about the stolen reindeer?”

“Yes, funniest damn thing I’ve seen in years, watching the cops running and falling in hip-deep snow trying to catch them. Why?”

Here we go. “Well, Cam, my friend, stole the reindeer and I turned them loose in the park … sort of.”

His laughter rang through the restaurant, heads turned, and he sobered … sort of. Still grinning, he said, “I’m sorry. But last I heard, lifting a few reindeer wasn’t a hanging offense and neither of you were caught. Why do you need my help?”

“You’re going to think I’m insane.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

She didn’t bother to swear the man to secrecy. Secrets were part and parcel of life for him. When her tale was done, he studied her for several minutes, then said, “It’s doable. But it will cost you since it will need to be legitimate and security is tight, as well it should be. He’ll have to use it within forty-eight hours or it might be dangerous. Everything is computerized now.”

But it was doable. Cam could go home. “How much?”

He spread all ten fingers on the table. “Due on delivery Christmas Eve.” He took out a pen and scribbled an address on a packet of sugar and slid it across the table to her. “Get him there within the next 48 hours. They’ll take the photo.”

Before she could get over the shock that it was doable, could even contemplate where she’d get ten thousand dollars, he smiled and said, “Ah, our lunch is here.”

The waiter placed her lunch before her. “Lovely. Thank you.” Where on earth would she get ten thousand dollars?

As he cut into his veal scallopini, Delucci murmured, “You should know that if it had been anyone else but you asking, for whatever reason, the answer would have been no. You I’ve known for only a few years but your mother I knew from way back when. You favor her.” He looked at her then, his eyes as gentle as those of a cocker spaniel’s. “She was a good woman.”

Claire looked down, afraid she’d burst into tears. He wasn’t doing this for her or Victor or even for Cam. He was doing this for her mother. She was going to cry.

“Here.” She looked up to find Tony Delucci holding out a pristine monogrammed handkerchief.

She took it and mopped up her tears before they fell all over her clams. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now tell me about your plans for Christmas.”

An hour later, Claire stood on the sidewalk, her cell phone pressed to her ear. She’d crossed the line, now stomped flat-footed in the world of black, but she knew precisely where and how she’d get the ten thousand dollars. She could only hope it wasn’t too late.