One Christmas Knight

whispered, “Thank you.”

“Dad? Who’s that you’re talkin’ to?”

“Uh…listen, J.J., I’m gonna have to call you back after a while, okay?”

“Oh, please,” the woman inserted hastily, “don’t-not on my account. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“That’s okay, I was about done anyway,” Jimmy Joe assured her as he was hanging up on J.J.’s wounded- sounding, “Da-ad…” Then for a minute or two he had a bad case of the fidgets, while he tried to adjust to her being there and at the same time figure out how he felt about that.

One thing he felt was nervous, which was understandable; he never had been real comfortable around beautiful women. Pretty, okay. He liked flirting with a pretty woman as much as the next guy. But knock-your-eyes-out, movie-star gorgeous? Uh-uh. Women like that made him feel like he’d forgotten how to breathe. With that dark red hair and pale-as-milk skin of hers, what she reminded him of more than anything was paintings he’d seen of the Madonna. Except the thoughts he’d been having about her… Well, he would have been ashamed to think them in church-put it that way.

On the other hand, beautiful or not, she was damn well ticking him off by the way she was acting, driving across the country all by herself, taking chances with that baby she was carrying. Which was also understandable; having lost one child because of a woman’s pure selfishness and irresponsibility, he had a low tolerance level for that sort of behavior.

What had him confused, though, was that now that she was sitting right there across the table from him, and he could see in her eyes how tired and scared she was, it was real hard for him to stay mad at her. Although he did mean to try. For one thing, it made it a whole lot easier for him to overlook how beautiful she was.

“Hi,” she said as she settled herself, in a kind of breathless and sheepish way that for some reason made her seem more likable than she had up to now. Then she stuck her hand out and, in a more forward and businesslike way than most of the Southern women he was used to, added, “I’m Mirabella Waskowitz.”

And he decided he liked that, too.

“Jimmy Joe,” he said, as he took the hand she offered.

Chapter 3

“Boy, I got heartburn so bad I’d give five dollars for one Rolaid.”

1-40-New Mexico

His hand felt nice. Firm and warm and strong. Just the kind of hand you hoped would be there to reach for if you really needed one.

Which was precisely why Mirabella let go of it as quickly as she possibly could without being rude about it. She didn’t want a hand from anybody, especially a man. She was doing just fine without one, thank you.

But he was just so damned adorable. That Southern accent, that Robert Redford hair and smile, and that name…Jimmy Joe? Really, it was almost too cute.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she said, her relief so overwhelming she was unable to hold back a sigh. At least, tank God, she hadn’t burst into tears. But it had been close. Too close.

He mumbled, “No problem…my pleasure.”

Polite, thought Mirabella approvingly. Kind of distant, too, which she also happened to like; she despised men who presumed they’d earned the right to instant familiarity the minute they told you their names. Still, she found herself wondering about it; wondering if Jimmy Joe really was shy, or if this was an example of that Southern reserve she’d heard about, or if maybe the coolness she’d detected in his eyes was only the natural wariness of someone who wasn’t about to get involved with the problems of a total stranger.

Which was fine with her and just as well, because after all, here she was just four weeks away from becoming a middleaged, unmarried mother, and she ought to be ashamed of herself for even having such thoughts about a kid who probably couldn’t even buy beer without getting carded.

It was just awkward, that’s all. It was hard to get past the fact that she was sitting across from a man who was the walking-around-in-the-flesh spitting image of her unborn child.

And impossible to deny the secret delight she felt when she thought about the prospect of having a little towheaded toddler version of Jimmy Joe running around her house sometime soon-a version, of course, that would be possessed of both athletic and musical talent and an IQ in the “gifted” range. She was absolutely confident of that-those qualities having been even higher on her list of priorities than a tall, lean body and olive-toned skin. When Mirabella planned something, she left as little as possible to chance.

“You want somethin’ to eat?” Jimmy Joe asked, stretching around to look for a waitress. “Let me see if I can get somebody-”

“No, that’s okay,” said Mirabella. “I’m not really hungry. I just needed…to sit down for a while.” The miniature-genius version of Jimmy Joe in her belly chose that moment to execute an athletic maneuver closely resembling that of a frolicking dolphin, causing her to lean sharply backward in her seat and suck in air in an audible hiss.

“You okay, ma’am?”

Since she had her eyes closed, she couldn’t be sure whether it was alarm or compassion she heard in Jimmy Joe’s voice, although she thought it was probably a little of both.

She waited until the worst of the pains had gone shooting off down her legs, then nodded and let out along, slow breath. “Oh, yeah, it’s just too much sitting, I guess.” If I could just lie down, she thought. God, please…just let me lie down.

It suddenly occurred to her that she was teetering on the brink again. She recognized that weak, hollow feeling, the one she’d had earlier as she’d stood helplessly surveying the jam-packed restaurant dining room, just moments before she’d spotted Jimmy Joe sitting all alone in a booth big enough for two. She knew she was just one shaky step from the edge, one kind word away from tears.

Panic seized her. She couldn’t humiliate herself in front of him-she couldn’t. “Well- better go-thanks for the breather,” she chirped, not even caring how ungainly she looked, frantically hitching her beachball-shaped body along toward the edge of the bench. Or how crazy she sounded. leaving so abruptly when she’d only just sat down. All she could think about was getting out of there, away from people, away from him, before she made a complete fool of herself.

But before she could make good her escape, Jimmy Joe’s hand shot out and snagged her elbow. And there was nothing shy or reserved about the way he held on to it, or the tone of his voice when he demanded, “Hey-wait a minute. Where’re you off to?”

Ordinarily, Mirabella’s tolerance for being manhandled or questioned was just about zero. However, at the moment she was operating on sheer bravado, and the best she could come up with was a superior smile and a toss of her head meant to convey the impression that she was just bursting with selfconfidence.

“Listen-thanks very much. It was nice of you to let me, uh, share your table for a moment,” she heard herself babble. All the while she was looking anywhere but at Jimmy Joe, at anything but the strong, masculine fingers curled around her arm, or the earnest young face leaning close, now, to hers.

“But…I’m pretty tired. So I think I’m going to go out to my car and lie down for a while.” Yes-oh, yes, that would do it. She could curl up on the back seat. That would be better than nothing. Or did the front seats recline? She had no idea; she’d never had occasion to test them. Just…please, God, let me get out of here. Please let me lie down.

She was standing now. So was he. Desperately, Mirabella focused her eyes on the picture of the ugly bulldog on his University of Georgia sweatshirt. She stuck out her hand, not an easy thing to do since he was still holding her elbow, and said, “Well. It was nice meeting you, Jimmy Joe.” And she was thinking, Please, God, don’t let me cry.

Jimmy Joe knew he was about to do something rash the minute he saw those big gray eyes of hers go wide and shiny, and realized she was about one blink away from spilling over. That panicked him; he never had been able to stand seeing a woman cry.