One Christmas Knight

at him he froze, a terrible fear prickling his skin. Her eyes were huge and dark with tears; he could see them glistening, too, on her cheeks.

“Don’t you see?” she said, her voice so gentle and sad it just about broke his heart. “You don’t know who I really am, either, any more than they did. You don’t know me-how could you? You’ve only seen me…what-when I was in labor. Weak and helpless and scared to death and vulnerable. And now with Amy, when I’m such a soppy, sentimental fool. That’s not me. I’m not at all like that!”

He would have reached for her right then, pulled her into his arms and murmured reassurances into her mouth, but she put up both hands to ward him off, and continued in a rapid, breathless voice.

“I’m an impossible person to live with. I’m moody, and I really need my privacy, my own space. I’d organize you to death-I’m frighteningly efficient. And a compulsive planner. I always have my Christmas shopping done-and everything wrapped-by mid-October. I’m bossy and argumentative, and I always have to be right. I stick notes on things, and underline in magazines. I…I’m a health nut. I don’t eat red meat. And I really do hate country music!”

He studied her as she wound down through the laundry list of her shortcomings, saying nothing to derail her. But as he listened and watched her, he felt the fear slowly leave him, and the quiet joy of certainty come to take its place. He knew he could have kissed her then, and in a very short time thereafter had her in his bed. But it wasn’t about that. It never had been. It was more important than that. There was a lot more at stake here than a few passion-filled hours. This was about the rest of his life. Except for the issue of her virginity, he couldn’t see how taking her to bed was going to solve anything important.

He didn’t think arguing with her was going to solve anything, either. He thought about it-about finally making his pitch like a traveling salesman and telling her all the ways he’d figured out that she could have a life with him here in Georgia and still do the things she liked to do out there in L.A.; how she could start her own business, if she wanted to, and go to Atlanta for shopping and concerts and plays, or to Athens, even to the university.

But he knew this wasn’t the right time for that, either. She was right about a couple of things-she did dearly love to argue, and she did hate being wrong. At the moment she was on a roll, and he had an idea if he tried to argue with her she would just dig her heels in and get stubborn about it, more than ever determined to prove she was right.

“Reminds me of one of the great movie lines of all time,” he drawled, when he saw she’d finally run down. He paused, shrugged, and delivered it: ‘“Oh, well…nobody’s perfect.’”

She blinked, then let go a misty gust of laughter. He saw a look of confusion flash like a bird shadow across her face.

“Gettin’ cold out,” he said gently. “Gettin’ late. Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll show you to your room.”

He put his hand on her back to guide her through the door he was holding open for her, and felt her tremble. He almost lost it then, all his resolve and patience and self-control. Okay, he thought, so maybe making love to her wouldn’t solve anything important between them, but it sure as heck would take care of her trembling, not to mention the hunger that was burning up his insides.

He was starting to worry about that, too. If things kept building up in him the way they were, he was afraid that when he finally did make love to her, he might have trouble being as gentle with her as he knew he was going to need to be. This whole thing, in fact, was turning out to be a lot more complicated and difficult than he’d thought it would be. It was going to take just about all the patience and self-discipline he had in him to get it to work out right. But he never doubted that it would. Or that she was worth it.

I really hate this, thought Mirabella. Here she was, all primed to have it out with him once and for all, and he’d left her flat, with nobody to fight with. Now she felt frustrated, and a little foolish.

Also confused. She didn’t understand him. She’d seen the way he’d looked at her, the way his eyes had seemed to glow with some deep, inner fire. Everywhere they’d touched her she’d felt hot-as if the sun itself was burning her naked skin. And yet at the same time, she shivered. Chemistry, she thought, then scoffed at herself. Chemistry, hell Call it what it is, girl. It’s just plain old desire.

Desire. Oh, yes, she was awash in it, on fire with it. Her body pulsed with it. She wanted him. She could taste him on her tongue. He was in the air she breathed. Her legs felt like melted wax.

And now… he was going to say good-night?

Cold, confused, and wobbly with uncertainty, she picked up Amy’s carrier and watched him while he locked up and turned off lights. She offered no objection when he took the carrier from her, but moved ahead of him to the stairs, feeling his hand like a knifepoint at the small of her back. She climbed slowly, breathlessly, wondering if her legs would support her to the top.

“This is my room,” he said softly, opening a door at the top of the stairs. He turned on the light, then stood back out of the way so she could see.

It’s nice, she thought. Tidy, like the sleeper in his truck; wholly masculine, but with touches of gentleness and beauty, too, in the shelves full of books and Indian pottery, the Navajo rugs that covered the floor, and in the magnificent, hand-carved four-poster bed.

“What a beautiful bed,” she murmured, meaning nothing more than that.

Jimmy Joe glanced at her and nodded. “Bought it from a man up in North Carolina. He told me he carved it from the wood of four-hundred-year-old walnut trees.” He waited while she admired it, then said quietly, “It’s too big for a man alone. I’d like to share it with you… when you’re ready.”

But I am ready! She wanted to shout it at him. Why couldn’t he see that? Why couldn’t she tell him? She suddenly felt as though she were enclosed in glass, walled up inside herself; that there was a door between them that hadn’t been opened yet. He held the key-she knew he did. But for some reason, whatever it was, he hadn’t used it; not yet. Please, Jimmy Joe. Please say the words that will make it right.

He touched her elbow and smiled, just the faintest shadow of his sweet, Jimmy Joe smile. “The guest room’s this way,” he said.

Jimmy Joe lay awake on the living room sofa listening to his house creak and groan in the stillness of night. It sounded to him like the wind was picking up outside; the rain he’d driven through from Texas to Pensacola would be here by tomorrow. He thought about that, about the rain and the trip and his truck, and all the little things he had to do now that he was home. He thought about them hard, as if they were big problems he had to solve, trying every way he could to keep his mind off the woman sleeping upstairs.

It occurred to him that some of those creaks and groans had taken on the rhythm of footsteps. He thought it might be J.J. looking for him, or getting up to use the bathroom or get himself a drink of water. He waited for the boy to come down the stairs. When he didn’t, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and went to investigate.

The door to his bedroom was open. When he looked inside he saw Mirabella standing beside his bed, framed in a rectangle of light from the yard lamp outside. She was wearing her nightgown-something long and slim and white-and he thought she looked a little like a candle standing there, with her hair the gleaming flame.

“I was looking for you,” she said, her voice soft and faraway sounding. She threw a bewildered glance toward the quilt that covered his bed, still smooth and undisturbed. “You haven’t been to bed?”

He moved toward her, feeling his heartbeat grow stronger with every step he took. He made a gesture, a small throwaway with his hand. “I don’t sleep here much. Told you, it’s too big for one person. Just makes me feel lonely. Usually I sleep in the guest room. Tonight-” he smiled and shrugged “-I’m on the couch downstairs.”

She shivered when he came up behind her. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around her and brought her warm and snug against him. “You said you were lookin’ for me,” he murmured into her hair. “How come?”

He felt her soften in his arms as she let out the breath she’d been holding. He could barely hear her whisper, “I wanted…to tell you I’m ready. I want…you to make love to me. I want to share this bed with you.”

“For tonight?” he asked, holding himself still, “Or from now on?”

She didn’t answer. His heart knocked heavily against her back.

He shifted his arms, nestling her more securely against him, and drew a breath. “I have to tell you about this bed,” he said. “I told you I bought it up in North Carolina, in the Smoky Mountains, from an old man who’d carved it from the wood of four-hundred-year-old walnut trees. He told me about it, told me it was something special, not just for sleeping in. A marriage bed, he called it. Said it was a bed to last a lifetime, and that I probably wouldn’t understand that then, but I would someday.

“Well, I remember thinking, who is this old coot, and who does he think I am-a kid, or something? Shoot, I