Christmas Pie Page 30
“For good reason,” James interposed. All three ladies turned to look at him as if they’d forgotten he was present.
Mrs. Plimsole nodded. “Yes, indeed, Polly. There was good reason for them to be discharged. Remember that, when your soft heart gets to aching for them. They’re not worth it.”
“I believe Mrs. Plimsole is right, Polly dear,” said Lillian thoughtfully. James smiled at her, pleased at her common sense. His little Polly was too blasted kind-hearted.
“Hmm,” Polly said. “Perhaps you’re right. I feel rather bad for yelling at them, though. I don’t suppose my behavior was very ladylike.”
“At least you didn’t kick Mr. Bullock this time, dear,” said Lillian.
“No,” Polly said. “At least I didn’t do that.”
The three ladies looked at each other, and then burst out laughing.
James watched them with amusement. Maybe this was what a family was all about. He’d never experienced it before. He understood Polly’s feelings a little better now. If he’d grown up with all this warmth and sharing, he might feel sorry for somebody who was estranged from his family, too.
As it was . . . Well, the funny sense of loss he’d been feeling lately seemed to have gone away in the last couple of hours. What James couldn’t figure out was how he could feel loss for something he’d never had to lose in the first place. It was too confusing to think about now, so he concentrated on the conversation.
He sat next to Polly on the sofa, everybody apparently too excited about criminal activities in the neighborhood to wonder at the liberty he was taking. He even, from time to time, dared take her hand in his. Polly, leaning forward on her seat to swap suppositions and possible ramifications with her mother and Mrs. Plimsole, would send him a smile over her shoulder each time he did it. He knew she thought he was only agreeing with her opinion when he took her hand. But he wasn’t.
He loved the satiny feel of her skin against his. When, at long last, Mrs. Plimsole departed for her home up the street and Lillian wheeled herself off to bed, James begged a moment or two alone with Polly.
“We should discuss these papers, Polly,” he said, knowing he dissembled.
“All right, James.”
“And you haven’t told me the news you were going to share, either.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, just sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.”
So James sat, and took her hands in his as she related her visit to J. P. Drayton’s office the prior day.
With a frown, James said, “I don’t like the idea of you wandering into that neighborhood by yourself, Polly.”
“Wandering? I wasn’t wandering, James. I knew exactly where I was going. And while I know the docks are rather unsavory for an unescorted lady, still, it was Saturday and a market day. There were dozens of respectable people there at the fish stands.”
On the point of arguing with her, James suddenly gave it up and grinned. “You’re quite an independent little thing, aren’t you, my fair Polly?”
He watched with approval as her darling little chin lifted with pride. “Indeed, I am, James. I’ve had to be.”
Right before James could wrap her in his arms and kiss her, she pulled back and announced eagerly, “And you were absolutely right about your father, James. He’s perfectly awful!”
All thought of improper behavior fled James’s brain in an instant. “Really? You really think so?” He guessed he shouldn’t be happy to hear somebody call his father awful, but Polly’s approbation had come to mean a good deal to him, and he couldn’t help it.
“Indeed, he is. But you know, James, I think he’s honestly trying to change his ways. He simply doesn’t quite know how to go about it.”
Rolling his eyes, James muttered, “Good Lord.” Then he tipped Polly’s chin up and gazed into her eyes. “Don’t believe it for a minute, Polly. It wouldn’t be a wise thing to do.”
“Why not? What can he do to me? Or me to him, if it comes to that. He did us a kindness, James. Don’t forget that.”
When he opened his mouth to protest, Polly put a finger against his lips, sending a shock of awareness through him.
“Oh, I know you don’t think he was being kind. And I agree that he did owe us some measure of compensation for my father’s death, especially if it happened because he’d hired an incompetent captain. But, James, according to you, he’s never done anything of this nature before.”
Reluctantly drawing his mind away from what he wanted to do with Polly, James muttered, “That’s true.”
“Well, then, you see? I think this change in his behavior is most telling, because people don’t generally do things that are out of character unless they’re trying to better themselves. It may be a small gesture on his part—although it seems quite generous to me—but it’s a step in the right direction. I think he’s begun to contemplate growing old and missing out on the joys a family can bring.”
“The joys of a family?” James realized he sounded sarcastic and regretted not tempering his irritation. But the joys of a family? What did his father know about the joys of a family? With a jolt, he recalled his feelings earlier in the evening.
As if she hadn’t heard him, Polly continued, “I told him so, in fact. I told him he’d better mend his ways or nobody would ever want to have anything to do with him.”
“You did?” It must have curled old J. P.’s hair to have little Polly MacNamara read him the riot act. James couldn’t stifle his chuckle.
“Yes, I did. I believe he was quite taken aback when I reminded him that if he continued to be estranged from you, he might never know his own grandchildren.”
“You told him that?” To his knowledge, nobody ever, ever, ever said things like that to J. P. Drayton.
“I certainly did. I believe I caught his attention, too.”
“I’m sure you did.” James nearly choked on his laughter. Polly MacNamara, holding her own with J. P. Drayton. Oh, my.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, James Drayton.”
“Of course not.” Oh, how he wanted to hold her and kiss her and teach her all the wonders of passion. She’d be an apt pupil; James was sure of it.
Unfortunately, Polly’s attention seemed to have a depressing tendency to home in on the business at hand.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose we should go over those papers.
“I suppose we should. It’s getting late.”
“Yes.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “It’s very late. And I have to get up early and go to work. The boss doesn’t like it when his type-writers are late coming in to work, you know.”
James leaned back on the sofa and grinned at her. “He doesn’t, eh? So you’ve decided not to quit?”
She stopped smiling. “As to that, I’m not sure yet, James. I—well, I enjoy the independence of earning my keep. On the other hand, if I don’t need to earn our living any longer, I may choose to devote more of my time to charitable causes and leave the paying jobs to those women who need them.”
“A noble decision, my fair Polly.”
“Don’t be silly, James. Besides, Mother Francis Mary has asked me to direct the children’s chorus. They’re going to sing Christmas carols at the Charity Ball on Christmas Eve.”
“Really? I didn’t know you were musical as well as beautiful, my fair Polly.”
“Well, I am,” she told him with a saucy grin.
“My, my. A virtual font of womanly virtues. Type-writing and music; your skills are never-ending. I’m not sure my firm can survive without you.”
“No,” she said pertly. “I’m not, either.”
Throwing his head back on the sofa cushions, James laughed with unfeigned good humor. He hadn’t felt so good in years, if ever.
Polly settled her fists on her hips and honored him with a stern frown when he stopped laughing and wiped the tears from his eyes. “You know, Mr. Drayton, you are in many ways an enlightened employer.”
“Thank you.”
“No?”
“No. Especially if you plan to hire another rude secretary like Walter Gregory.”
James rose from the sofa and took her by the shoulders. He stared down into her lovely eyes and said, “I wouldn’t dream of doing such a stupid thing again, Polly.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s a good thing.”
Pulling away from him as though she were nervous, Polly turned around and eyed the parlor, still adorned with boxes from decorating. “Yes. Well, I suppose I can pack these boxes up while we chat about those papers.”
“Come here, Polly.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t want you to be scurrying around the parlor while we talk, my fair Polly. I want you by my side.”
James’s soft, seductive voice; his gentle, suggestive words, filtered through Polly’s senses like a fine mist. She turned under the pressure of his hands and found herself caught in the warmest gaze she’d ever seen. Suddenly she felt monumentally nervous. And terribly warm.
“You—you do?”
“I do.”
As gently as a kitten’s paw, his lips brushed hers. Her eyes fluttered shut at his touch. She leaned toward him and felt a swell of disappointment when he didn’t follow up on his discreet kiss with another, deeper one; another like the one they’d shared in his motorcar.
Feeling drugged, she opened her eyes and peered at him. Her lips tingled where he’d touched them, and she felt them with her tongue, longing to taste him on her. She didn’t understand why James groaned softly when she did it.
“Oh, Polly,” he murmured.
Then he folded her in his arms, and Polly was lost. Heat rushed through her until her body felt too small to contain it. Sensations she’d never experienced drove her to encircle James’s neck with her arms and cling to his shoulders, pressing herself against him. She could feel her breasts flatten against his chest, knew her nipples were hard and that he could undoubtedly feel them, and instead of withdrawing as a gentle maiden should, she pressed harder.
Lord, he made her feel good. He made her feel things she’d never known a woman could feel.
“Oh, James.” She knew her words were swallowed by his mouth, and the knowledge made her burn even hotter.
His hands, which had been gripping her waist, began to move. They stroked a hot path up her body until they rested on her ribcage beside her breasts. She felt a wanton need for him to touch her there, too.
When he did, she whimpered, and didn’t care. She felt glorious. Wonderful. She felt like a woman, and the feeling almost overwhelmed her.
“Polly, Polly, Polly. Whatever am I to do with you?”
James’s ragged voice penetrated the mush he’d made of Polly’s brain only slowly. She wondered if he expected her to answer and decided he probably didn’t. If anybody knew what to do with her, that person seemed to be James. Her hand crept up the back of his neck to sink into his luxurious hair and she heard him groan again.
A shock of triumph that she could make this sophisticated, older man of the world moan in passion jolted through her. And she knew it was passion, too. She might be innocent, but Polly MacNamara knew what was what. She recognized his hard, heavy arousal against her thigh for what it was and moved her leg against it, eliciting another ragged moan. Elation stabbed her, sharp and hot.
“Oh, Lord, Polly.”
Polly was monumentally disappointed when James pulled away from her. She opened her eyes to see if he seemed as affected as she by what they were doing together. She felt a small ripple of joy to note he looked ruffled. His eyes glowed like hot, dark-green pools. His chest heaved with exertion. His hair was mussed. His face was flushed. He looked, in short, the way she felt: aroused and ready.
Ready for what? Polly wasn’t sure, but she knew she was ready. Heat steamed inside her, and a delicious pressure had begun to spiral until it formed a pulsing pool of need between her thighs. Instinctively, she knew James was the only man she would allow to satisfy it.
James stared at her for quite some moments without speaking. Polly was grateful for his silence. She needed time to compose her wits, which had been sent scrambling in a thousand directions by his kiss. With a shimmer of understanding, she realized he needed the time, too, for the same reason.
Good. She didn’t want to be alone in this, for heaven’s sake.
She’d just begun to feel uncomfortable, to wonder if he was merely trifling with her, when he spoke again, shattering the unworthy thought.
“I’m sorry, Polly.” He still sounded rattled, as if his wits, too, had gone begging.
“S-sorry?” Her voice was tiny, a mere thread of the voice which had recently ripped Lawrence Bullock and Walter Gregory to ribbons.
She gave a tiny start of alarm when he said, forcefully, “No. Damn it all, I’m not either sorry. I’ve been wanting to kiss you again ever since I kissed you in my horseless carriage.”
“You have?”
Giving her a look hot enough to toast bread, James said, “God, yes.”
“I’m so glad, James.”
So he did it again.
Never had Polly expected to feel as she felt now, vital with life and passion. James’s lips devoured hers. Then, to her amazement, they left her mouth and began to move against her skin, scorching a path to her cheek, her throat. He nibbled her earlobe and she almost cried out in surprise and pleasure. His hand ventured up into her hair, loosening pins, cradling her scalp, holding her still for his tender assault. His hands sculpted her body. For the first time in her life, Polly wished she was not wearing a corset. She wanted to feel his hands on her flesh, unhampered by those ridiculous, confining stays.
As his hands and mouth toured her body, James murmured, “Oh, Polly, you’re so lovely, so perfect. I’ve dreamed of this. I’ve dreamed of you.”
“You have dreams too?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”
Polly felt his tongue press against the frantic pulse on her throat and almost fainted.
Her quick gasp apparently touched a gentlemanly nerve in James, because lifted his head. “My God, Polly.”
Panting hard, he drew away from her. As soon as his hands dropped, she almost did, too. When he withdrew his support, she staggered and sat with a soft thud in an armchair. Unable to speak, she looked up at him, her heartbeat ragged, her hand pressing her medals. Oh, my Lord. She wished they could do that again. And again and again. She wanted to be able to do it forever.
Running a hand through his tumbled locks, James rasped, “I guess we’d better get those papers signed now.” He grinned ruefully, obviously striving for control. “Mind you, I’d rather kiss you again, but I’m afraid your mother might object.”
Polly tried to agree with him, but her throat wouldn’t work. She cleared it with difficulty and said, “Yes.” Because she didn’t want him to think she’d minded, she said, “Although you do it so well, it’s a shame to stop.”
She’d shocked him. She knew it because he stopped fumbling in his briefcase and shot her a look over his shoulder. His dark brows lifted. “Well, we’ll have to practice again soon.”
Oh, Lord, she hoped so. He brought her the papers, which she pretended to read, although she couldn’t concentrate on a single sentence. Then she signed her name on the appropriate line and James folded the papers back up, stuffed them into his briefcase, closed it and tucked it under his arm.