Kiss & Tell. Alison Kent
one left hanging.”
“Being left hanging never killed a guy.” He gave her a look that left her unable to breathe.
Oh, this was going so many places she wouldn’t have expected when singing for him tonight, places she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Not according to the stories I’ve heard.”
“Old wives’ tales. Trust me. But just to be on the safe side…” He shifted forward, leaning toward her with an intent that wasn’t threatening, but unnerved her because of what she sensed he was going to say. “I’ll come prepared to tomorrow night’s show.”
“Thanks. Now I’ll never be able to perform,” she said, sighing as she popped the chip and cheese into her mouth. It kept her from having to say anything more, and gave her a chance to catch the breath she still hadn’t found.
He didn’t press, gave her the time, finally asking, “Were you a performer before coming here?”
Reaching for her drink, she cut her gaze sharply toward him. “Is this the man who works in the arts asking?”
He shook his head. “Just the man who kissed you.”
And thank goodness he left his comment at the kiss. “Then, no. Not a performer. Unless you count singing in the shower and the church choir.”
“A soloist?”
“From time to time. Always at Christmas.”
“Do you do anything special for Christmas here?”
“Besides my regular shows? No. Though I do change up the set. Christmas isn’t Christmas without Bing Crosby. Alan’s wife is trying to get me to sing at the high school’s holiday dance, but I just can’t.”
“Why not?” he asked, refilling both of their glasses. “Afraid some of the boys might be lonely?”
“Oh, that is so not funny,” she said, though she couldn’t stifle a laugh. “But, no. I don’t take Candy out of Club Crimson. Except to raid the fridge.”
He studied his plate, picked up a bagel crisp. “I would think a local celebrity would be in demand.”
“In demand for what?” she asked, curious as to how he saw her alter ego. “Mistletoe doesn’t have political fund-raisers or charity events. It’s too small a community—one of those places where everybody knows your name. Besides,” she went on, “I like my privacy. And Candy’s not real. She’s a fixture here at the inn just like the huge stone fireplace in the lobby and all the knotty-pine tables.”
“I disagree. You’re not huge or knotty.”
“Very funny,” she said, tossing a wedge of bagel at his chest, wondering whether to put an end to their evening, or forget sleep and talk to him until morning. She was exhilarated, exhausted….
When he lifted the bottle to pour her more wine, she found her hand coming up to cover her glass. And there she had her answer. “It’s late. Beyond late. And unfortunately, I’m not a woman of leisure.”
“Meaning your real self needs to get home so tomorrow you won’t fall asleep during brain surgery, or while coming in for an emergency landing, or plowing the back forty, or whatever it is you do when you’re not a redhead.”
“And that depends on the day of the week,” she replied teasingly, wondering what he’d think if he knew about her pedestrian life as a florist. “But, yes, I need to go. This has been the best evening I’ve had in ages. Thank you.”
He followed suit as she got to her feet. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“If you’re in Club Crimson at showtime you will.” You and your condom. She closed up the bagel crisps, covered the cheese spread, stacked their plates and reached for the wine. “Take this with you.”
“Consolation prize?”
She held on to the bottle. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’ll take it with me and celebrate.”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “You, Candy Cane, or whoever you are, are some piece of work.”
Good. She was glad he wasn’t taking her for granted. “I wouldn’t want you to think you could have me without putting in some effort.”
He hooked a possessive arm around her neck. “C’mon, mystery woman. Let me walk you back to your dressing room.”
She stopped first at the refrigerator, then at the baker’s rack, then at the sink where Earnesto took the plates and glasses before waving her and Caleb on their way.
Wearing her sequined gown, her long wavy wig, a warm pair of sheepskin Uggs on her feet and Caleb’s jacket over her shoulders, Miranda walked beside him down the hallway from the kitchen to the club. Neither one of them hurried, neither one of them spoke.
It was as if Caleb didn’t want to let go of her any more than she wanted to tell him goodnight. They fitted so well as they walked, fitted, too, as they talked. She was certain it would be no different when they made love.
When. She was assuming it would happen, rather than accepting they might have nothing but tonight. Counting on more, looking forward to more wasn’t smart. Doing so was tantamount to throwing away the past five years she’d spent making a new life. She couldn’t do that to herself. She wouldn’t do it for a man about whom she knew nothing.
Then they were at her dressing room, the trip over too soon, the silence lingering as she reached out to punch the code into the keypad lock. Caleb stopped her, covering her hand, turning her and pulling her arms above her head as he backed her into the door.
He spread his legs, captured her hips between them, leaned his lower body into hers and rested there. His eyes were fierce, bright, and she was almost unable to draw a breath for thinking about all the things he might want. She scared herself with all the things she wanted.
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