A Holiday to Remember

“Let me know when you want a refill.” She left him alone as she supervised the dinner preparations, making sure the sandwiches emerged from the pan unscorched, the soup didn’t boil over and there were napkins on the table. Making sure, as well, that she didn’t stare at him, didn’t notice—again—the sharp blue of his eyes under thick, spiky lashes, or his sensuous lower lip, or the breadth of his shoulders.

Where in the world was her mind wandering, in the midst of all these teenaged girls? Maybe adolescent angst was contagious.

With golden sandwiches piled high on a plate and chicken noodle soup ladled into nine bowls, Jayne told the girls to sit down and eat. When the flurry of movement subsided, two empty places remained—one beside Chris Hammond and the other at the far end, facing him. Over on the couch, Monique still pouted. So Jayne had the choice of sitting next to him or facing him as if they were parents on either end of the family table.

Avoiding the domestic image, she sat down in the chair at his left hand. She could pour more coffee that way, and monitor his conversation with the girls.

After all, what kind of man did they have stranded with them tonight? He might be a pedophile, for all she knew. He’d stalked her all over Ridgeville just yesterday. And he’d said—she’d blocked the memory in the urgency of the moment—he’d said he’d come to find out why she was lying about her name and about not knowing him. The very idea meant he was delusional, at least. He’d clearly mistaken her for someone else. At the worst, he might actually be mentally unstable.

But she couldn’t have left him out in the snow, injured and bleeding, even if she’d had a choice. Which she hadn’t, because he’d fallen in the door without waiting for permission. Was he dangerous? Would she and the girls all be murdered in their beds?

“What are you worrying about?”

She snapped her head around to look at him. “I—I’m not worrying. Just eating.”

Chris Hammond gave a lopsided smile. “Except you haven’t picked up your spoon or taken a sandwich. You’re staring off into space with that little crease between your eyebrows you always get when you’re worried. And you’re wringing your hands in your lap.”

Jayne immediately relaxed her fingers. “I was just thinking about the storm.” The flush from that lie crept up her neck under her turtleneck shirt. “Do you know how much snow they’re predicting?”

He took a crunching bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “My granddad was predicting a blizzard as I left this afternoon. Maybe I should have believed him.”

“Is he a weather forecaster?”

“Just an old mountaineer.” Chris Hammond turned his head to lock his gaze with hers. “As you should remember.”

Her denial was overwhelmed by Yolanda’s shout from the other end of the table. “Hey, Ms. Thomas, can we go sledding after dinner?”

A chorus of cheers greeted the question.

“In the dark? Absolutely not.” Jayne shook her head. “You can play in the snow tomorrow.”

“There are lights all around outside,” Yolanda pointed out. “It’s practically daylight out there.”

“Yeah, those lights shine in my window every night.” Monique had finally allowed hunger to win, and had taken her place at the table. “I should know.”

“The best sledding hill doesn’t have lights,” Jayne told them. “There’s a little bowl on the other side of the woods, off the hiking path to Hawk’s Ridge. We call it The Nest. Girls usually try to see who can go down one side the fastest and then come up the other side the farthest.” She shrugged. “Of course, if you’d rather settle for the tame little bumps around here instead of spending several hours in The Nest, that’s up to you.”

“Masterful strategy,” the man beside her murmured.

The girls around the table debated for a few seconds. “The Nest sounds cool,” Yolanda announced. “How early can we leave?”

“How early do you plan to get up?” Jayne pushed back her chair and stood. “While you’re deciding, let’s get the kitchen cleaned up. Dishes to the sink, paper to the trash and the leftovers in the fridge. Monique, you’re washing.”

“I know, I know.” Rolling her eyes, the girl went to the sink and began running water. “Get over here and help me, Haley. You didn’t do much with dinner, either.”

“I opened the soup cans,” Haley protested. But she found a dish towel and prepared to dry the wet dishes.

“Wipe the table down,” Jayne reminded them, “while I—”

A big fist closed around her upper arm. Chris Hammond had gotten to his feet. “I need to talk to you.” His set face matched the steel in his tone…and his grip. “Now.”

Sarah came up on Jayne’s other side. “Ms. Thomas? Are you okay?”

“I’m not going to murder or rape her,” Chris Hammond said irritably.

Pale blond hair and light blue eyes might give the impression that Sarah would be timid, but she didn’t flinch in the face of Chris Hammond’s temper. Jayne put her free hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m fine. There’s something Mr. Hammond and I need to get straightened out. I’ll show him where he can sleep tonight and be back here in a few minutes.”

As she stepped past him, the grip on her arm fell away. Jayne walked down the hallway to the private door of her office without looking back, certain he would follow. She motioned him inside, then shut the door and leaned back against it, refusing to let him believe she was scared of being alone with him.

Although, in truth, she was terrified.

“All right, Mr. Hammond, you’ve got what you want—complete privacy with no possible intervention from the police, the girls or anyone else. What in the world do you have to say to me?”

Chapter Three

Chris took his time examining the office. More wood paneling and a wall of bookshelves surrounded a huge desk with brass handles. Leather armchairs and a brocade sofa faced each other on an Oriental carpet. Original oil paintings and velvet drapes at the windows bespoke money and prestige.

“Very nice,” he said crisply, turning to face the headmistress again. “Looks like a cushy job. One you wouldn’t want to lose.”

“Yes.” She didn’t dress to impress, which suggested she was very comfortable with the power she held. Posed with her shoulders against the door, wearing navy blue slacks and white sneakers, a navy sweater and white turtleneck, she looked casual and confident. But he could sense the tension in her body.

“Is that the reason you won’t tell the truth?”

“What truth? What could I possibly be lying about?”

Chris set his jaw. “Your name, for starters. Not Jayne Thomas, but Juliet Radcliffe.”

“I have never heard that name before in my life. And it certainly isn’t mine. You have me confused with someone else.”

He sat on the edge of the big desk. “So where do you come from?”

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “About fifty miles south. My grandmother lived near Nantahala. She raised me.”

“Not your parents?”

“Our house burned down when I was seven. They were killed trying to bring out my little brother.”

“That’s quite a tragedy.”

She gave him a dirty look. “Don’t be so sympathetic.”

“Sorry. But I don’t understand why you would make up a background like that when you’ve got a legitimate past to call on. With me.”

She took a step forward. “You have to believe me. I’ve never heard of Juliet Radcliffe.” Her voice had softened, lowered, as if she were pacifying a wild animal. “You and I met for the first time yesterday.”

“Charlie says different.”

“Charlie?” She stared at him with a puzzled look. “Your grandfather? How would he know?”