Christmas Pie Page 20

  Even she, Polly MacNamara the modest type-writer, could afford an ice cream soda every now and again. And she could certainly afford a wagon ride to the Cliff House and admission to the zoo. By rights, she needn’t even come this far. A walk along the beach to look for shells, such as the one she and James had shared after luncheon, cost nothing at all.

  Amazing. It was truly amazing. Her mother’s words filtered through her brain like wisps of smoke. This sort of activity is what her mother wanted for her, she guessed. Lillian didn’t want Polly devoting her life and youth to the care of an invalid. She wanted her to experience the fun of being young and alive. She wanted her to be a participant in her generation’s prime years rather than a stiff and lonely observer.

  Right now, Polly felt more alive than she’d felt since her father died. Even with Stephen’s fate uncertain, she felt vital and more animated than she could recall feeling in ages and ages. That so simple a thing as getting out in the fresh air should revive one’s spirit and energy astounded her.

  “I believe she’s right.”

  “What’s that, my fair Polly?”

  Polly didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until she heard James’s teasing question. She also could recall when he’d begun referring to her as his “fair Polly,” either, but she liked it, even if it was shockingly familiar.

  She shot him a look and a giggle took her by surprise. The two of them must look like a couple of alien creatures out of a Jules Verne novel, draped in their scarves and motoring coats, with their goggles wrapped around their faces.

  “I said I believe my mother was right when she told me I should get out of the house more often, Mr. Drayton.”

  James’s answering grin might have lit the darkest winter day. “I believe your mother and I are of a mind about that, my fair Polly.”

  Since Polly could only take a small dose of his glorious smile without blushing, she turned her head and peered at the scenery once more. She was observing how the cedar trees at the edge of the road were being whipped into a frenzy by the wind made by their motorcar when James’s voice surprised her.

  “I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to call me James, could I, fair Polly?”

  His request startled her, and she turned quickly to stare at him, caught between joy and uncertainty for a moment. When reality hit, it did so with an almost shattering burst of focus. She felt the smile she’d been working on shrink.

  “Thank you, Mr. Drayton, but I don’t believe that would be a good idea. I can’t thank you enough for today. But as an employee of your firm, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to address you by your first name.”

  She realized the motorcar was slowing down and a flutter of alarm assailed her. When James pulled it over and parked in a gap among the trees beside the road, the flutter grew into a gale-sized tempest. He turned off the engine and the sudden silence almost deafened her. She turned to stare at the trees again, fearing another glance at James would be her undoing.

  “Look at me, Polly. Please?”

  His gentle voice sent rivers of warmth coursing through her. When she dared take a peek at him, his expression heated those warm sensations and set them to dancing a crazy, hot reel.

  She realized he was removing his gloves and goggles and gulped. “Wh-what are you doing, Mr. Drayton?”

  He reached over to remove her goggles and Polly stiffened. She’d been so relaxed and happy a moment ago. Now tension held her rigid in her seat, her back so straight and her jaw so set, they both hurt.

  “I’m making you listen to reason.”

  After the goggles, he began working on her next layer of defense: the big motoring scarf tied over her hat.

  Polly felt James untie the knot at her throat and immediately lifted her hand to stop him. As soon as her fingers touched his, even though hers were still swaddled in her motoring gloves, she realized what a mistake that had been. It took every ounce of her resolve to keep from twining her fingers through his and drawing his hand to her lips. She wanted to kiss him so badly she ached.

  Sweet Lord, have mercy.

  Quick as lightning, Polly snatched her hand away and hid it in her lap. She wasn’t sure whether she was more afraid of what he planned to do to her or of what she wished she could do to him.

  Then James cupped her cheeks in his two big hands and Polly realized what she really feared was the pleasure she took from his touch. She couldn’t afford to feel this pleasure. The disparities in their social standing rose up in her mind, an insurmountable barrier to any kind of relationship other than that of employer to employee.

  Frantically, she tried to hold that thought in her mind. Almost immediately, James’s tender, stroking fingers put it to flight again.

  “Please, Polly, what can I do to make you see us as a man and a woman rather than an employer and employee? There must be something I can do.”

  Polly opened her mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. She felt her eyes widen as James’s face came closer and still closer to hers. Her gaze fastened on his full lips until she could no longer see them; then she felt them, and reason fled.

  She heard a little noise and knew it had come from her. She couldn’t help herself. His lips grazed hers softly, their touch undemanding yet compelling. She didn’t know what to do and felt foolish. She was dimly aware of James’s other arm as it inched around to draw her closer until her gloved hands were trapped between his chest and her breasts.

  James drew away only far enough to murmur, “You’re so lovely, Polly. So sweet.”

  His words blended with his gentle assault to create a steaming kettle of emotions in Polly. Although her brain screamed at her to remain alert, her eyes fluttered shut and her resistance seemed to melt.

  She heard him whisper, “Please, Polly. Relax for me,” and wished she could. For once in her life, she wanted to forget her troubles and be a woman in this man’s arms; to forget he was the boss and she a mere type-writer. More than that, she wished he would forget it; really forget it and look upon her as a woman who was his equal in every way save one.

  A groan from James shot through her like wildfire and all at once Polly abandoned reserve. So what if she wasn’t experienced? She didn’t care. Never in her life had she savored the feelings James’s touch evoked. His hands seared through her confining clothing, sending the sweet heat of passion burning through her veins. Liquid pressure coiled deep within her, and oh, how she liked it.

  Forgetting herself entirely in the thrill of the moment, Polly slid her hands from James’s chest. Then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed into him shamelessly, her breasts flattening against his chest. She could feel them, tingling like the rest of her body, and felt her nipples harden. She knew her behavior was shocking. She didn’t care. If this was lust, then hooray for lust. It felt just grand.

  She wished their passion could last forever.

  It was while James was in the process of discovering the sweet taste of Polly’s mouth and wondering how delectably soft her naked flesh must feel that his scrupulous nature reared its ugly head and smote him. Hard. Right in the conscience.

  Good Lord, what was the matter with him? Here he was, alone with Polly MacNamara in his horseless carriage—an improper circumstance to begin with—and he was taking shameless advantage of her. Him. A person who, as a gentleman and her employer, was charged with her protection. Polly MacNamara was no Cynthia Ingram to trifle with and be trifled with in turn. She was an innocent, demure young lady who deserved better at his hands than this.

  No matter how right it felt. No matter how much he wanted her.

  No matter what.

  Unless he was prepared to declare his honorable intentions, a notion so new and startling he could barely contemplate it, he was behaving in a manner that declared him to be no better than a cad. A roué. A bounder whose reputation, no matter how ill-founded until this minute, he had just proved he deserved.

  With a groan of thwarted desire—and of regret that his character
should be so weak—James gently eased the embrace he and Polly shared. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? Lawrence Bullock, that great profligate ox, held nothing over James Drayton when it came to tawdry seduction.

  Polly looked stunned when he peered into her eyes. Her innocence could not disguise her passion, and a beastly part of James reveled in the fact that he’d stirred her. He knew it was the first time she’d been so moved, and was glad it was he who had done it.

  As soon as the thought entered his head, a blinding awareness nearly leveled him, and he knew he wanted to be the only one ever to stir Polly’s passions. And, by God, he wanted to be the only one ever to satisfy them, as well.

  He sucked in a breath and could only hold onto her shoulders and stare at her in amazement for several seconds. Her lovely eyes were round as holly berries and her cheeks pink as Christmas punch. He wanted to kiss her again and knew he’d be demeaning her if he did. He would die before he dishonored her.

  He loved her. God help him, he loved her.

  No. Good Lord, no. That was absurd thinking. Ridiculous.

  James Drayton knew better than to believe in romantic love. Physical love, the love of a man for a woman, was a transitory thing; a mirage. The only real love in the universe was a transcendent spirit of helpfulness. James knew he was fortunate to be endowed with enough wealth to act upon his love of mankind. Why, he took in stray dogs, helped orphans and downtrodden Chinese boys and—and even heartsick type-writers.

  There was no such thing as love on a personal level. The concept of romantic love was one fostered by poets and idiots to beguile people into stupid acts. It was promulgated by people who probably believed in fairies and elves and little green folk. The notion of love was akin to a belief in magic, Father Christmas, and perfect happiness.

  Still, as he continued to stare into Polly’s eyes, James couldn’t help but feel regret. His gaze strayed to her hand. She had lifted it, as she often did, to her breast. For the first time, he noticed she seemed to be clutching something beneath the fabric of her shirtwaist.

  Because he had no idea what he could say to explain his wretched behavior, he put his own hand over hers. Even through her motoring gloves, he could feel the smallness of her hand. A world of wishes jumbled up in his head; wishes for her; wishes for him; wishes for the both of them together. On top of the other wishes—and in spite of all he knew about life, the world, reality, and everything—was the wish that he and Polly could share the kind of love the poets wrote about.

  He couldn’t say that. It was too stupid. Instead, he said, “What are you clutching so tightly, my fair Polly? Why does your hand so often stray to your bosom?”

  She blinked once or twice, as though he’d spoken to her in Urdu or Swahili or some other exotic foreign language. Then her gaze fell to their hands, too. His was so large it had hidden hers.

  “I—” She had to clear her throat. “I wear a St. Christopher medal Stephen sent me from one of his journeys. And a coin given to me by—by an old Chinese lady.”

  He squeezed her hand and said, “I wish I could see them someday.”

  “What?” Polly lifted her head suddenly When James’s gaze met hers, she was staring at him in open-eyed amazement. “What did you say?” she asked unsteadily.

  James could feel his lips lift in a grin. She was so adorable. With his hand still covering hers, he wished he could take her home and keep her forever.

  “I said I’d like to see them someday, fair Polly. They seem to be dear to you. You touch them often.”

  “No.”

  James lifted his brow wryly at the one short word. There she went again, blurting out her first thoughts. When she gave herself time to think, she was generally the most diplomatic of females. The stain of embarrassment immediately painted her cheeks pink. James was delighted.

  “I—I mean—I mean, no, that’s not what you said.” Polly looked down at their hands again and whispered, “You said you wished you could see them. I heard you.”

  Tilting his head, puzzled by the odd note of vehemence he detected in her voice, James said, “Well, I suppose I might have, at that.”

  “You did.”

  “Is it important? I would like to see the medal and coin which seem to mean so much to you. May I? Some day?”

  Obviously trying to pull her composure together, Polly said more firmly, “Of course you may, Mr. Drayton. Some day. Certainly.”

  Although he was almost vibrating with the need to kiss her again, James drew away and opened his embrace. He dropped his hand and Polly inched away from him. He saw her shoulders slump when his hand left hers and wanted to draw her into his arms again.

  “I guess we’d better get you home now. We don’t want your mother to worry about you.”

  “Oh! Oh, no. No, of course not.”

  She looked uneasy, and James could have kicked himself for being so maladroit. If he knew nothing else about his companion, he knew that any mention of her mother immediately stirred her guilt.

  A long-ago conversation with Mother Francis Mary slithered into his memory and his grin tilted a bit. “Such a useful emotion, guilt,” the tiny Mother Superior had told him. He wondered how those wry words applied to Polly.

  Although he tried several times, he was unable to draw her into any sort of sustained conversation the rest of the way home. Every time he looked her way, it was to find her 214‘staring at the scenery to her right. He got the impression she wasn’t seeing the trees, though, but was lost in her own thoughts. He hoped those thoughts were not unpleasant.

  They drew up to the MacNamara residence a little earlier than Polly was used to getting home from work. James hurried to help Polly out of the car, afraid she was so upset with him she wouldn’t let him see her to the door.

  “May I say good evening to your mother, Polly?”

  He held her arm, being very careful to show her nothing but gentlemanly courtesy. She still seemed distracted, and James was certain she was recalling the kiss he’d thrust on her and hating him for it. And probably hating herself. Damn. What had possessed him to do such a cursed fool thing?

  “Of course, Mr. Drayton. I’m sure Mother would be happy to see you. She enjoyed meeting you and having you join us for dinner yesterday.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, Miss MacNamara.”

  He grimaced, aware that he was becoming more formal with every step he took away from the freedom of his motorcar. Somehow calling Polly by her Christian name in the recesses of the home which had been her—what?—prison?—for so many years—seemed almost sacrilegious.

  “Oh, no,” she blurted. “I’m not being kind. It’s the truth.”

  The charming flush crept into her cheeks again, just as it always did when she uttered one of her spontaneous truths. Even though he scorned the institution, he wished they were married—or at least formally promised—so he could snatch her up off the porch steps and hug her.

  Alas, such a pleasant fate was not to be. Instead, Mrs. MacNamara met them at the door, and James’s conscience was wrung yet again when he beheld Lillian’s pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Apparently neither MacNamara lady had slept much last night.

  Lillian smiled when she saw James. “My goodness, Mr. Drayton, how nice of you to bring Polly home this evening.”

  “It was my pleasure, Mrs. MacNamara.”

  “Oh, Mother, he didn’t just bring me home. Why, he—he showed me every kindness. Every kindness.”

  “Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea, Mr. Drayton?”

  James shook Lillian’s proffered hand. “Thank you. I should enjoy that above all things.”