She closed her eyes involuntarily, her body weak with longing. Leo had to know what he was doing to her. And judging by the smirk on his face when she finally managed to look at him, he was enjoying her discomfiture.
Turnabout was fair play. “Good things come to those who wait,” she whispered. She stroked a hand down the middle of his rib cage, stopping just above his belt buckle.
Leo sucked in a sharp breath as his hands clenched on her shoulders. “Phoebe…”
“Phoebe, what?” Toying with the hem of his shirt, she lifted it and touched his bare skin with two fingertips. Teasing him like this was more fun than she could have imagined. Her long-buried sensual side came out to play. Taking one step closer so that their bodies touched chest to knee, she laid her cheek against him, hearing the steady, though rapid, beat of his heart.
Between them, she felt the press of his erection, full and hard, at her stomach. For so long she had hidden from the richness of life, afraid of making another tragic misstep. But one lesson she had learned well. No matter how terrible the mistake and how long the resultant fall, the world kept on turning.
Leo might well be her next blunder. But at least she was living. Feeling. Wanting. Her emotions had begun to thaw with the advent of Teddy. Leo’s arrival in the midst of her reawakening had been fortuitous. Six months ago, she would not have had the courage to act on her attraction.
Now, feeling the vestiges of her grief slide into the realm of the past, her heart swelled with joy in the realization that the Phoebe Kemper she had once known was still alive. It had been a long road. And she didn’t think she would ever want to go back and reclaim certain remnants of that woman’s life.
But she was ready to move forward. With Leo.
He set her away from him, his expression strained. “Give me the damn lights.”
* * *
Leo was at sixes and sevens, his head muddled with a million thoughts, his body near crippled with desire. Fortunately for him, Phoebe was the meticulous sort. There were no knots of wire to untangle. Every strand of lights had been neatly wrapped around pieces of plywood before being stored away. He sensed that this Christmas decorating ritual was far more important to Phoebe than perhaps he realized. So despite his mental and physical discomfort, he set his mind to weaving lights in amongst the branches.
Phoebe worked nearby, unwrapping tissue-wrapped ornaments, discarding broken ones, tending to Teddy now and again. Music played softly in the background. One tune in particular he recognized. He had always enjoyed the verve and tempo of the popular modern classic by Mariah Carey. But not until this exact minute had he understood the songwriter’s simple message.
Some things were visceral. It was true. He needed no other gift but Phoebe. When a man was rich enough to buy anything he wanted, the act of exchanging presents took on new meaning. He had always given generously to his employees. And he and Luc knew each other well enough to come up with the occasional surprise gift that demonstrated thought and care.
But he couldn’t remember a Christmas when he’d been willing to strip the holiday down to its basic component. Love.
His mind shied away from that thought. Surely a man of his age and experience and sophistication didn’t believe in love at first sight. The heart attack had left him floundering, grasping at things to stay afloat in a suddenly changing world. Phoebe was here. And it was almost Christmas. He wanted her badly. No need to tear the situation apart with questions.
He finished the last of the lights and dragged one final tub over to the edge of the coffee table so he could sit and sift through the contents. Though the tree was large, he wasn’t sure they were going to be able to fit everything on the limbs.
Spying a small, unopened green box, he picked it up and turned it over. Visible through the clear plastic covering was a sterling sliver rocking horse with the words Baby’s First Christmas engraved on the base. And a date. An old date. His stomach clenched.
When he looked up, Phoebe was staring at the item in his hands, her face ashen. Cursing himself for not moving more quickly to tuck it out of sight, he stood, not knowing what to say. A dozen theories rushed through his mind. But only one made sense.
Tears rolled from Phoebe’s huge pain-darkened eyes, though he was fairly certain she didn’t know she was crying. It was as if she had frozen, sensing danger, not sure where to run.
He approached her slowly, his hands outstretched. “Phoebe, sweetheart. Talk to me.”
Her eyes were uncomprehending…even when she wiped one wet cheek with the back of her hand.
“Let me see it,” she whispered, walking toward the tub of ornaments.
He put his body in front of hers, cupping her face in his hands. “No. It doesn’t matter. You’re shaking.” Wrapping his arms around her and holding her as tightly as he could, he tried to still the tremors that tore through her body cruelly.