Her Mistletoe Husband

CHAPTER TWO

ELISSA had no idea what she thought she was doing, leaning against her desk, arms crossed belligerently. She was acting as though she intended to block Alex D’Amour from gaining access to her fax.

That was the most ludicrous idea she’d ever had, and her brain screamed, Jump out of the way before he flattens you, idiot! Nevertheless, her body resisted. Stubbornness was a flaw in Elissa’s character—according to her sisters—but she had always thought of it more as, well, being right.

Elissa watched D‘Amour lift his arms and she stiffened, visualizing herself being thrown through the office door. She clenched her teeth, warning in a low voice, “Go ahead—try to use my fax. If you dare.” She lifted her chin. An instant too late it occurred to her that giving him such a conspicuous target wasn’t very bright. Okay, Mr. D’Amour, she cried inwardly, if you’re looking for some knee-in-the-groin revenge, here’s your chance!

Two steps and Alex D’Amour was close enough to strike. A growl issued from his throat and he grasped her upper arm, tugging her away from the desk. Against her will, she cringed as he leaned around her. He’s not going to simply throw me out the door, Elissa thought in panic, he’s going to throw me over his shoulder-and then out the door!

His hand came down, rubbing hard across her backside—hardly what she’d expected. Instinctively she jumped sideways, only to be caught again as he returned to his rubbing. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, shocked and breathless.

“Hold still.”

She wrenched at his grip, but he held her fast. The lethal glare she shot him missed its target, since his attention was focused on her back—her hips to be brutally precise. Furious, she shifted so that she could knee him the way she had that morning, but he deftly dodged the attempt, releasing her so suddenly she nearly fell.

“Only one free groin shot to a customer, Miss Crosby.”

When she righted herself he had turned his back and was swabbing a handkerchief over her desktop, soaking up some dark liquid. Suddenly she realized what he was doing. “My coffee spilled?”

“It isn’t mine.” He refolded his handkerchief and sopped up the remainder of the liquid that was snaking toward the fax machine. Elissa inched up beside him, tentatively touching the seat of her wool skirt. She detected a faint dampness. Twisting around as far as she could, she squinted down at the herringbone pattern. “Did it stain?” She arched around until she’d turned in a full circle. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see her rear end, much less a stain on her skirt.

His large hand on her shoulder halted her halfway through her second spin. “You remind me of a puppy chasing its tail,” he said. “And no, it didn’t stain.” He held the soaked handkerchief toward her. “Where can I put this?”

She glowered at him as the harsh fluorescent light above his head accentuated his rugged good looks. Thick, black hair that tapered neatly to his collar gave off a soft luster, begging for fingers to stroke and caress. Tall and straight, he was a remote yet majestic figure, with the trace of silver at his temples and eyes that glowed like mercury. In other words, the man was sexy-as-hell. The instant the wayward thought surfaced in her mind, she squelched it, growing angrier. She had never acted like a fluttery female in her life, and she didn’t intend to start now. Especially not because of him!

Mild amusement rode his gaze, hiking her agitation. Her lips parted with an urge to tell him exactly where he could put his handkerchief, but a rush of gratitude stopped her. His quick thinking had saved her favorite skirt. Before she could form an answer, his lips lifted in a sardonic smile. “I’ll rephrase that. Where is your laundry room?”

Though she knew she should thank him, she stubbornly pursed her lips. Part of her wanted to tell him she was grateful, but most of her wanted him to take a flying leap off a cliff. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but civility won out, and she nodded toward the office door. “The laundry room’s across the hall.” She extended a hand, surprising herself even more. “I’ll take it.”

He appeared as startled as she felt. “Thanks.” He placed the dripping mess into her open palm. “Now, Miss Crosby, may I use your fax?”

She had pivoted toward the door. With his question, she halted, bitterness swelling inside her. He had some nerve asking her permission when they both knew what would happen if she refused. She turned back, her glare unblinking and reproachful. “I’m going to fight you on this, Mr. D’Amour. I’ll prove my ownership.” She paused, struggling to suck in a breath that didn’t catch in her throat. “I may have to put up with you for a few days, but don’t get the notion I believe you have any claim to my property. Once I get verification that this inn is mine, I’ll call the police to have you tossed out on your ear. Do we understand each other?” The last words were a rough whisper.

One dark brow curled upward. “Is that a yes?”

Her temper flared. She couldn’t remember when she’d been this outraged. How dare he not be intimidated. She felt a spark of misgiving at that, but tried to reassure herself. Mr. D’Amour is a lawyer, trained to disguise his emonons, to look supremely confident even when he’s quaking with fear. She’d been out of the profession a long time, and was rusty at the game. Unfortunately he was at the top of his.

For all her loathing of this man and his plans to take away her inn, she had to give him credit. He was good. He just stood there, watching her, making her doubt herself without saying a word.

She’d never met anyone who could affect her that way, and she had a sinking feeling he wasn’t cloaking any fear with false calm. He was simply very sure of himself. That realization tore her confidence. No! She couldn’t accept that. For if it were true, then she didn’t own...

She fought back the thought, too horrible to allow full-blown into her mind. Digging deep within herself, she managed to straighten her face and square her shoulders, giving him back the same, self-assured air that he displayed so flawlessly. Two could play at this game. Elissa Crosby did not cower or admit defeat!

She managed a polite expression, a miracle, considering her internal turmoil. “Guests of my Inn may use the fax for free, Mr. D’Amour.” She shifted to go, then glanced over her shoulder, her smile calculated. “I’ll run you a tab.”

Elissa’s bravado was wearing thin. It had been a long day, especially considering how little sleep she’d had the night before, crouched in the D’Amour mansion closet. She hadn’t realized the thought of going down to her bedroom would engender as much emotional chaos as spending the night in a frigid, cramped enclosure in fear for her life. But that’s how she felt as she headed toward the basement stairs.

Since her staff had immediately recognized the D‘Amour name, she’d told her housekeeper, her cook and her part-time assistant that Mr. D’Amour was going to be a neighbor. She had “been delighted” to offer him lodging while he was refurbishing his mansion. She had no intention of stirring up fears among her employees about the possibility of their losing their jobs. She wouldn’t give that idea a moment of her time. It simply would not happen.

With her new, part-time employee manning the registration desk, Elissa trudged down the stairs. To her great discomfort, she would have to pass by Mr. Stealerof-Dreams. When she opened the door to the basement, she noticed a light on, making it clear that he was still awake.

She decided she’d better knock before barging around the comer, though it grated on her nerves that she must make any concessions for this man. She rapped against the partially open door.

“Yes?” came a deep voice.

“I’d like to go to my room. Are you decent?”

“No, I’m buck naked.”

Her cheeks warmed at the risquе vision that passed through her mind. The unexpected reaction irritated her, and she wasn’t sure why. Stiff-backed she marched into the room. “Sarcasm is a poor excuse for humor, Mr. D’Amour.” Though she’d vowed not to look at him, movement caught her attention and she turned, only to stumble to a halt as her unwelcome guest wrapped himself in a towel. “Oh...” she cried, feeling as though she’d been hit in the stomach.

“Thanks for that bulletin about sarcasm, Miss Crosby.” He tucked the comer of his towel at his side to secure it “But I rarely lie about being naked.” He bent down to his open suitcase and plucked up what looked to be a shaving kit. Glancing narrowly at her, he headed for the bathroom that opened out into the basement parlor. His long legs ate up the distance, flexing calf and thigh muscles drawing her gaze. When he reached the door, he turned to lounge a shoulder against the jamb. “Did you say something?” An eyebrow rose in question.

She could do nothing but shake her head. Waning emotions squeezed her throat like a vise. She despised the man, but some basic womanly instinct sent a ripple of appreciation through her as she saw what a marvelous male specimen he was.

“Oh? Too bad.” He appeared thoughtful. “I thought you might have apologized for barging in. My mistake.”

Her face was flaming and had to be the same color as her hair. She attempted to speak, knowing she should atone, but no sound would come.

His lips curving in the vaguest smile, he slowly cocked a hip. Elissa caught the movement and stared, experiencing a lurch in her chest. With the lazy, calculated move, the ends of his towel separated nearly all the way up his thigh, leaving only his masculine essentials to the imagination. Unfortunately her imagination decided to go there with a vengeance. Pulling in a deep breath she belatedly forced her gaze to his face. She was appalled to see that his grin had grown shrewd. “Been a long time, huh?”

Her jaw almost hit the floor when she realized what he meant. Had she been obviously devouring him with her eyes? It was true that she hadn’t dated anyone in a while. But running her inn was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Her lack of male companionship was her choice. Was he suggesting she was a poor, deprived old maid, lusting after him? Him! Of all people in the world! Realizing her mouth was open, she pressed her lips together and counted to ten. “I beg your pardon!” she finally demanded in a raspy whisper.

He straightened, deftly tossing the shaving kit from one hand to the other. “I accept your apology, Miss Crosby.” His gaze taunting, he took a step back and closed the door between them.

She didn’t know how long she stood there scowling, wishing looks could drill through doors and vaporize arrogant interlopers in their tracks. Her body fairly vibrated with fury. The man was impossible! How long could she bear to have him underfoot, acting so superior, so smug while insisting he owned her inn?

The click of a door opening made her start and she was mortified to be caught still rooted there like a potted geranium. When Mr. D’Amour came out of the bathroom this time, he was wearing a pair of gray shorts. He glanced her way, a sparkle coming to life in his eyes. “How nice—company,” he said, without even a hitch in his step. It was as though he expected her to be there waiting for him. “What can I do for you now, Miss Crosby?”

He began to remove cushions from the sofa, preparing to open it up into a bed. Elissa watched him, noting the play of muscles along his arms and shoulders, the tautness of his belly as he bent over. Not an ounce of extra flesh bulged over the elastic waistband of his shorts. Blast him! As her mind began to wonder about how many sit-ups it might take to create a belly like his, he straightened. Holding a cushion, he gave her a rather amused, speculative look. She frowned. What had he asked?

Laying the cushion aside, he indicated the sofa. “I bet you stayed to help me open the bed.” His eyes were challenging.

Her emotions jangling with embarrassment and indignation, she planted her hands on her hips. “Mr. D’Amour, the only thing I’d care to help you open is an artery.” She jerked her head toward the bathroom. “There are clean sheets and blankets in the linen closet.” In an icy monotone, she added, “Just so you’re perfectly clear on this, I do not consider you a guest, I consider you an intruder.”

His unwavering gaze disconcerted her. After a few ticks of the clock he nodded, then bent to tug open the bed. With a high-pitched creak, it unfolded revealing the thin mattress that covered the springs. When he straightened and looked at her again, he propped his fists on his hips in a gesture that was plainly mocking. “And just so you’ll be perfectly clear, Miss Crosby, I do not consider myself a guest, either. I consider myself a property owner who is being very lenient with a squatter.”

She gasped, horrified. “Squatter!” The suggestion was so outlandish it was laughable. She only wished she could laugh. “If I were you, Mr. D’Amour, I’d watch who I called a squatter. You’re sleeping on my sofa, remember.” She wheeled around toward her bedroom.

“Then maybe you should call me Alex.”

She had taken hold of the doorknob when she started to turn back, then decided against it. She might not be able to keep herself from hurdling the sofa bed and strangling him. How dare he bait her. She was no hypocrite. She didn’t intend to call her worst enemy by anything as intimate as his first name, and he knew it. Especially not after he had suggested it. Too angry to trust her voice, she squeezed the doorknob until her knuckles whitened.

The silence between them grew heavy with tension. “Mr. D’Amour,” she managed to say at last, “don’t ever again wander around my inn—naked.”

Elissa couldn’t recall a time when her luck had been worse. As she opened her door the next morning, she found herself facing the obnoxious Alex D’Amour. His bed had been folded into a sofa again and he was dressed in a pair of jeans, work boots and a burgundy turtleneck sweater. He didn’t look much like a high-powered California lawyer, today. When he noticed her, he spread his arms, palms up. “Okay?”

She frowned, puzzled. “What?”