Silhouette Christmas Stories

Chapter One

One alligator, two alligators…

The instant the radio died, Carroll Stilwell jumped up and mentally began counting. She freely admitted that her groan, uttered as she trotted to the bay window that overlooked both her deep front yard and that of her new neighbor, was loud, self-indulgent and self-pitying. She was entitled.

Three alligators, four alligators, five alligators…

Unconsciously using her eight-year-old daughter's favorite method of tolling the seconds, she twitched the lace curtains apart and stared across the sunlit half acre of pine trees, waiting for the rangy, broad-shouldered man to erupt out of his front door.

Six alligators, seven alligators, eight alligators…

Slade Ryan had moved into the sprawling house next door-a house much too large for a single man, everyone in the small mountain community nosily agreed-just two weeks earlier, and in that time Carroll had already devoured her month's emergency stash of chocolate-covered caramels. The tension was definitely giving her an ulcer, she brooded, morbidly prodding a slim finger at her belly.

Nine alligators, ten alii-

Even though she had kept her expectant gaze riveted on the front of his house, Carroll still winced when the sturdy oak door flew open and the big, dark-haired man exploded out onto the porch and down the stairs, heading straight for her place. He wore his work clothes-faded jeans and a maroon knit shirt. Over the past fourteen days she had learned that his appearance at her door in snug jeans and a colorful shirt meant that he had been sitting in front of the computer-at least, until the power had failed.

One part of her mind noted that he was getting faster; yesterday it had taken him eleven alligators. Another part registered the set of his wide shoulders and the long-legged stride that had all the elements of an angry stalk, despite its fluid grace. He definitely wasn't coming over for a friendly chat.

So what else was new? she asked herself wryly. With the single exception of their first meeting, every time she had talked to Slade, he had been ready to wring somebody's neck. No, not somebody's. Kris's.

Sighing philosophically, Carroll headed for the front of the house, arriving just as a fist pounded on the door. She cracked it open and looked up into furious gray eyes.

'Where is he?' Slade demanded, resting one big hand on the doorjamb.

Carroll's tentative smile widened a bit as she took in his straight, dark hair; it looked as if he had been trying to tear it out at the roots. 'Now, Slade, you wouldn't hurt an old man who looks like Santa Claus, would you?'

He exhaled sharply. 'Right now I'm ready to throttle an old man who thinks he's Santa Claus.' He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. Carroll had a strong hunch that most people ran for cover when he bit off his words that way. 'Where is he?'

It didn't take even a second's thought on her part; she did what she had always done: protected her grandfather. 'How would you like to talk about it over a cup of coffee and a piece of Mom's famous graham torte? She made it this morning.'

He gave her a harried glance. 'I don't want to be fed, I just want to stop him. He's driving me nuts!'

'It's fantastic,' she forged on. 'You've got to try it. You can yell at him later.' She held out her hand and waggled her fingers. 'Come on.'

As usual with Slade, she got more than she bargained for. He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, stopping only when her soft palm rested snugly against his hard one. Startled, she looked up and met his waiting gaze. A definite mistake, she decided belatedly. His silvery eyes had the same expression of masculine hunger that she had spotted several times before. And it bothered her now just as much as it had then. She didn't need a complication like Slade Ryan in her life. No, all in all, with things as they were, it was safer to have him mad.

Besides, Carroll reminded herself as she turned and led him toward the large, cheerful kitchen, he did have a legitimate grievance. Her grandfather, Kris K. Ringle, was a man with a mission: an obsessive determination to turn their small town into a winter fairyland of twinkling lights. And he was going to do it before Christmas or bust. This Christmas. The townspeople, to a man, woman and child, were crazy about the idea, and they supported his efforts. Just as they had last Christmas, and the one before that, and the ones before that.

This year, they had even volunteered to do without electricity for a couple of hours each afternoon so Kris could test the lights he had strung all around town. And therein lay the problem. He didn't test every afternoon between one and three, just when he could no longer do his testing at night. Unfortunately, the closer Christmas came, the more frequently the need arose.

It was a cozy arrangement, the sort of thing that could only happen in a small town. The people who were at home declared a moratorium on cooking and housecleaning, using the two hours for leisure time, doing anything that didn't require the use of electricity. Even the small shops in town had rigged up various emergency alternative methods of recording sales-some of them quite creative-to use when they sold their wares to the tourists.

And in the way things had of happening, the tourists from San Diego and the surrounding cities were charmed by the spirit of small-town cooperation, and intrigued by the ruling passion of one aging, plump, determined man. The fact that he did look like Santa Claus merely added a piquant element to a good story. The early tourists had told their friends, who in turn told their friends, and now the small town had a steady stream of visitors coming to check on the progress of the lights and, incidentally, contributing to the economic enhancement of Pinetree. Since the stream swelled noticeably during the holiday season, everyone was happy with the arrangement-the chamber of commerce, the business owners, the residents.

Carroll cast an oblique glance at Slade's stubborn expression as she waved him to a chair with her free hand. Well, she amended, almost every resident. Slade Ryan, with his high-tech computer graphics and an imminent deadline, was the one glaring exception. He was definitely not a happy camper.

When Slade slid his hand to Carroll's wrist, he felt a shock jolt through her body and allowed himself the indulgence of a split-second fantasy. It was over before it was fully formed, because if Slade was anything, he was a realist. Carroll Stilwell's pulse wasn't racing because she had an uncontrollable urge to crawl all over him and drag him off to her bedroom. No, much as he would like to think it was, there was another reason.

The wary expression in her deep blue eyes said it all. As far as she was concerned, he was a stick of dynamite about to go off, and she wanted her family to be out of range when he blew.

'I don't bite,' he assured her grimly.

'Really?' She raised a skeptical brow, then looked pointedly at the large hand holding her wrist captive. It was strong and tan, dusted with dark hair. When he reluctantly released her, she filled two mugs with coffee and cut a hefty piece of the torte for him. After transferring everything to the table, she slid into the chair across from him. 'You could've fooled me,' she told him, leaning back and eyeing him with a severe frown. 'You're as cranky as a hungry bear.'

Slade winced. She had a point. He was. Both bad-tempered and starved. And he'd been that way since the day after he had moved in, the day she had strolled over with a home-cooked meal, a welcome to the neighborhood, and a smile that practically knocked him to his knees. His body had gone on alert, and it hadn't eased since.

Short blond hair just skimmed her jawline. Her deep blue eyes were candid, curious and cautious. He had ticked off the first two items the instant he'd opened the door. The rest hadn't been long in coming. One glance at his expression had apparently triggered her alarm system, and her changing smile had both warned him not to get his hopes up and attempted to reassure him, just on the off chance that he had a knee-jerk masculine reaction to the meal she was offering. It told him clearly that the food was only a neighborly gesture; she wasn't aiming for his heart via his stomach.

He'd opened the door and fallen in behind her when she'd carried the steaming casserole to the kitchen. Her lance-straight back, slim waist and swaying hips had made his palms tingle. She reminded him of one of the long- stemmed mountain wildflowers, bright yellow, with a deceptive air of fragility. When she'd turned, her eyes widening at his speculative expression, the lady hadn't been pleased. With a blink of her lashes, the No Trespassing signs had been posted.

They were still up.