Kenny nodded solemnly. 'I guess you like Charlie, don't you?'

  'I guess I do,' Gallagher said thoughtfully, then changed the subject. 'Say, what are the two of you doing for Christmas?'

  Kenny's delight died. 'Nuthin'. Charlie has to work.'

  'I know,' Gallagher said, 'so do I. But how would the two of you like to come to my place for Christmas dinner, only on Christmas Eve?'

  Kenny shrugged. 'Do you have a TV?'

  'Not one that gets turned on on Christmas Eve,' Gallagher replied wryly. 'But I do have two horses and a sleigh, and a Christmas tree that needs chopping down.'

  Kenny's face was always so open. He was looking at Gallagher with frank adoration. 'Could we, Chuckie, please?'

  'I guess so,' she said. Gallagher was very good with Kenny. Too good. Her strongest reason for avoiding relationships was that people could not cope with, or accept, Kenny as a part of her life. And yet Gallagher was showing every sign of being a man who could cope with Kenny.

  It was ridiculous for that to make hope rise in her like a butterfly shaking free of a cocoon, because so far Gallagher had shown no sign of being able to cope with her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'Wow, you look gorgeous!' Kenny exclaimed. He looked around mischievously. 'Have you seen my cousin, Chuck, anywhere?'

  Charlie laughed at Kenny's joke, but it reminded her that it had been some time since she had dressed formally. She wore a simple black silk cocktail-dress, accented with a gold belt, gold bracelets and gold earrings, all which drew subtle attention to the gold flecks in her eyes. She had added just a dusting of make-up, and then swept her hair up into a coil, leaving a few wisps to curl around her face and neck. Gorgeous? Well, probably not. But it was a dramatic difference from her usual canvas trousers and 'High Heaven' sweatshirt. And she was inordinately eager to see how Gallagher reacted to the difference—to her playing by the rules.

  Half an hour later they arrived at Gallagher's. She noted, with a touch of disappointment, that his yard was full of cars, plus the two minibuses. Somehow, she had thought that the invitation was just for Kenny and herself. From the sounds coming from the house; Gallagher had a thousand people in there.

  Gallagher answered the door himself. Charlie's breath caught in her throat. He looked suave and faintly dangerous in formal black evening clothes. She could easily picture him as a river-boat gambler from days past.

  He stared at her. 'You look very beautiful,' he finally said, a rough edge to his voice, as he stood back from the door.

  'See what a few minutes of fiddling with your face can accomplish?' she returned lightly. He helped her off with her coat, and looked at her with discomforting appreciation.

  'I wasn't quite expecting the crowd,' she commented, breaking her eyes from his and looking pointedly over his shoulder.

  Reluctantly, he took his eyes from her, followed her gaze. 'Didn't I warn you? I guess I just assumed you knew. This place is a madhouse every Christmas Eve. The whole Cole clan gathers, plus I always invite the clients along. I discovered that even though people may choose to be away from home at Christmas, they aren't quite prepared for the reality of waking up on Christmas morning to the bare walls of a hotel-room. It doesn't matter how cynical people claim to be about Christmas. There used to be some pretty forlorn faces when I picked them up to go skiing. Now, I just have everybody camp out on the den floor. It seems to soothe the away-from-home blues.

  'I was hoping, though,' he added, in a low voice, 'that you and I could sneak a few minutes to ourselves later: There are some things I want to talk to you about.'

  She scanned his face, but found no evidence there that Gallagher was planning to be a Scrooge and fire her on Christmas Eve. Still, his voice made it sound important, and she felt a touch of anxiety.

  Soon, however, both her initial disappointment at having found such a crowd, and her anxiety, dissipated. Several children ran by them, laughing. This, she thought, her eyes roaming the festive crowd, was what Christmas was supposed to be. It was the way it had always been when Aunt Joss was alive. She felt, suddenly and comfortably, as though she'd come home.

  Gallagher took Charlie and Kenny around and made introductions. She knew the skiers, a group from France, but not Gallagher's family. Six brothers and sisters. Countless nieces and nephews, who obviously worshipped Gallagher.

  'Kenny,' one of Gallagher's sisters called, 'we, need a big tall guy to help us hang this garland.'

  'They're very accepting, aren't they?' Charlie murmured, watching Bab give Kenny's shoulder a squeeze and point out where she wanted the garland.

  'Very. Of course, they've had a lot of practice, putting up with me for all these years.'

  'That explains it,' Charlie agreed wryly.

  The 'menfolk' went out to get the tree, and Kenny was included in their ranks.

  'Watch him with the axe,' Charlie whispered to Gallagher. 'He can be terribly clumsy.'

  Gallagher cast her a look she didn't like very much, but she quelled her instinctive defensive feeling.

  They arrived back, Kenny unscathed; the tree was decorated, and dinner followed. Charlie felt as though she had been around Gallagher and his family all of her life. She'd missed the teasing and support of family. So had Kenny, she realised, watching him blossom under the warmth and attention he was receiving. She was also seeing Gallagher in a very different and flattering light. He was very relaxed with his family, in his element rough-housing with the kids. She was forced to admit, yet again, that Gallagher was not the philandering playboy type, for all that virile masculinity he exuded. She realised that Gallagher would make a wonderful father, a committed family man. A funny twinge shot through her at the thought.

  She could see that Gallagher came by his somewhat old-fashioned and traditional values honestly, because after dinner the 'womenfolk' all banded together to attack the dishes. His sisters and his mother were all the epitome of femininity, and she was beginning to understand why Gallagher had had such problems accepting a woman in a traditionally male role. Still, she joined them, and actually had fun.

  When they had finished, she realised that she had not seen—or heard—Kenny for some time. She scoured the house for him. No Kenny.

  A dreaded vision of him wandering off into the woods by himself crowded her mind. She saw Gallagher. 'Have you seen Kenny?'

  'He's doing me a favour.' Gallagher frowned at her anxious expression, lightly touched her knitted brow. 'Do you worry about him constantly?'

  'Yes,' she said stiffly, stepping away from him. There, she thought. It was happening, just as she had known it would. He had known Kenny only a few days. Already, he was not accepting of the reality—that being responsible for Kenny took an emotional commitment, exacted an emotional toll.

  Gallagher gave her a puzzled look, and then was gone. A few minutes later she heard the tinkle of sleigh-bells, and looked out of the window to see Gallagher leading the giant, gentle horses through the snow. Waving from the sleigh was Santa Claus.

  A loud 'ho-ho-ho' brought the children scurrying to the windows, squealing their delight. Santa Claus entered the house with Gallagher behind him.

  Charlie forgave Gallagher for his thoughtless slip of a moment ago. It was Kenny in the red suit and beard, and he played his role with fervent enthusiasm, beaming with pleasure at his importance.

  After everyone had had a turn with Santa, they all went to change clothes, and then trooped outside to the sleigh.

  Gallagher pulled her into the shadow of the house.

  'Let's go for a walk, instead. We won't even be missed.'

  'Kenny might wonder what's become of me. I should just --'

  Again she saw a faint look cross his eyes. Or had it?

  'I already told Ken we wouldn't be joining them.'

  'You did, did you?' She arched a stern eyebrow up at him.

  'Sometimes, there's only one way to deal with a stubborn woman,' Gallagher declared. He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

  Charlie was so surprised that a shout of laughter escaped her. She pounded helplessly on the small of his back with her fists. He ignored her, strolling effortlessly out into the woods beyond his house.

  Finally, he put her down, and extended his hand. Wordlessly, the laughter still bubbling within her, she took it. She walked with him, and felt a wonderful peace begin to sneak up on her. It was quiet, save for the muffled sound of their footsteps and the far-off tinkle of sleigh-bells. The world was glorious, moon-washed to tones of silver and black.

  They arrived at a ramshackle bench which was located under the drooping branches of a snow-laden pine tree. Gallagher brushed off the snow, and they sat down.

  'Sorry for the caveman routine.' She could hear the smile in his voice. 'It was just something I had to get out of my system, before I said goodbye.'

  'Goodbye?' she whispered, her voice strangled. So, this was it, after all. He had decided they couldn't continue working together --

  'To the caveman,' he interrupted her whirling thoughts. The silence thickened around them before he spoke again.

  'You know, the other day, when I mentioned rules to you, I think it was the first time I'd ever acknowledged their existence myself.'

  'The man-woman rules?'

  He nodded. 'I've been thinking about them ever since. You know, since Syn died, my relationships—if they could even be called that—have all felt hollow, boring. I thought it was because I still missed Syn.

  'But I don't think that's it. It's because of this game everybody plays, myself included. At first the women I meet are so sweet and helpless and accommodating. And at first that feels good. It makes me feel like a real man. She needs me to look after her, she looks up to me. But then it starts to shift.

  'Suddenly, I'm the centre of somebody's universe. Always expected to make the decisions. Always expected to make life fun and exciting. And before too long it starts to feel like a cage. It starts to feel cloying. And dead and dull. I think it's because nothing real is happening. Everybody's just playing their part, their role.'

  He stopped, studying the night. His voice was very soft when he started to speak again. 'Then, someone genuine comes along—who doesn't play by the rules, who doesn't fit nicely into their allotted role. And, strangely enough, that doesn't feel good, either. It makes me feel bloody threatened, in fact. But it's never boring—there are times when it seems like it could be the most exciting thing that ever happened.

  'If I let it. If I can let go of my need to always be the one with the answers, to always be the strong one. I guess I never thought of a relationship in terms of equality before. And now it seems I can't think about it in any other terms at all. Anything less than a man and a woman who can be totally real around each other seems like an empty sham. Anything less than a person I can share with totally, respect totally, be challenged by totally, doesn't seem like it would be worth having. Am I making any sense, Charlie?'

  Well, he was making sense, but was he telling her a philosophy, or was he saying this applied to her? To her and him, together?

  'You're making sense,' she offered cautiously, 'but I'm not sure where you're going.'

  He laughed. 'I'm not sure where it's leading, either. Or if I'm even on the right track. I just know I don't want what I accepted as a relationship any more. I want it to be deeper and stronger. It may not always feel better but, dammit, it always feels alive—like it's going to change and grow endlessly, not wither and die, strangled by its own traps and pretences.'

  'Are you talking about us, Gallagher?'

  'Dammit, yes! I'm not sure what's going on between us, Charlie. Never have been, not from the first day. But I want to find out. Just one step at a time. Will you let me get to know you?'

  'Yes,' she said simply. She knew she was finally allowing risk to come into her life. It didn't seem as scary as she had anticipated it would. It felt right. It felt so beautifully right.

  They walked some more, talked some more. In the distance they could hear Christmas carols drifting over the night air. Finally, shivering with cold, they rejoined the others at the house.

  The children were put to bed, and the adults gathered around the fire to sip eggnog, and roast chestnuts. Kenny fell asleep in the big wing-chair beside the fire, and one by one the others stretched and said their goodnights.

  Gallagher's eyes caught on hers, and he moved from his chair to the seat beside her on the sofa.

  'I should go,' she said, without much conviction.

  'There's a guest-room upstairs for you, if you want to stay. Kenny can have the couch.'

  It sounded so good. She was pleasantly exhausted, and not looking forward to the drive home. 'Thank you.'

  'Merry Christmas, Charlie James,' he said softly, and a finger found its way to her hair, and traced a glittering strand downwards.

  She returned his gaze, and longing erupted inside her. For his kiss. For more than his kiss. For a life of sitting in front of fires with him. For a life of being his partner and his soul-mate. A life of Christmas celebrations just like this one. A life of being the one he shared his dreams with, of his being the one she shared her dreams with. A life of sharing his bed. His heart.

  'Gallagher,' she whispered. Her hand reached out and touched the firm line of his lips. She knew the truth in an instant—that she loved him, and that .it felt wondrous to love. Like a gift—like her very own Christmas gift—from the heavens.

  She leaned forward, intending only to brush her lips across his. Intending only to cherish this gift for one brief moment in time. She was aware that, for all his words tonight, for all that she was willing to take the risk, in the back of her mind lingered the thought that life would catch up with her.

  His hand found its way to the back of her neck, and the kiss became more than a brush—it became a lingering exploration. His other arm came down and wrapped around her, and she felt herself being pulled into the hard wall of his chest. She was beyond a point where she could have voiced objection. It would have been like asking someone dying of thirst to back away after only one taste of cool, refreshing water.

  His lips were like wine, though, not water. They had their own flavour and texture and, like wine, one small sip enticed yet one more. She unhesitatingly drank of his heady wine, letting herself explore and be explored, feeling the beat of his heart against her breast, smelling the aroma of hay and horses and chestnuts that clung to him.

  His tongue parted her willing lips, and slipped into the hollow of her mouth. What had been gentle became more urgent—a summer breeze heralding the coming of a storm. It had whispered softly at first, but now it was increasing in tempo, the soft whisper turning into something stronger, more intense, more electrifying. She felt herself being swept willingly into the eye of the storm, riding on rolls of thunder, quaking as each of his kisses ripped through her like a lightning strike ripping through an indigo sky.

  His lips left hers, and scattered kisses like hard raindrops over her upturned face. He anointed her eyelids and forehead, her cheekbones, the tender hollow of her throat. She was quivering now, like one who had indeed been caught in an unexpected onslaught of wind and rain. She did not feel cold, but white-hot, the fingers of heat flashing through her, touching here, touching there, until her whole being was on fire.

  It was a torrential downpour—but not of rain. Fire. Painful, exquisite, searing fire. She ignited, her lips seeking the heated surface of his skin—flame meeting flame, touching tentatively, reaching out, mingling, dancing back, like some exotic African rite of passage. The flames teased and played, leaping together, surging, in each intricate motion moving closer to the joining, the melting . . . moving closer and closer to the one act that would finally, exultantly, extinguish the fire that grew so intense it was impossible to tell whether this raging heat was pain or pleasure.

  'Charlie,' he moaned, his voice husky and tormented. 'Oh, Charlie.'

  She lifted his head from her breast, looked deep into the sapphire eyes—eyes as clear and deep as a mountain lake. She saw in those eyes the promise that he would flow over her, smothering the fire gently, soothingly. It would be like slipping into a cool, tranquil pond on the hottest of summer days.

  'Come to my room,' he murmured, nipping her ear.

  'Yes,' she replied simply. 'Oh, yes.' There were no other words in her vocabulary at that moment. Intellect and reason had fallen swiftly, been-swept away by the fire-storm of emotion, of pure physical need that raged within her.

  His arms locked around her and he lifted her, setting her gently on her feet. She wrapped her arms wantonly around the strong column of his neck, pressed herself against his hard length, and then opened her eyes, wanting to drink of him, to let each of her senses act greedily, to let each of her senses have its feel of this wondrous storm.

  But she saw Kenny, sleeping in the wing-chair, his chin dropped on to his chest.

  'We should cover him,' she said softly, reluctantly. She felt instantly resentful of this small intrusion, this lull in the storm, this reminder of reality. And then ashamed of her resentment.

  Gallagher sighed heavily, let her go. 'I'll get a blanket.' She could tell that he, too, resented reality. And probably always would, she thought dully. He left the room and her intellect tumbled back in force, as if annoyed that it had been held in abeyance for so long.

  'Oh, lord,' she murmured, and sank wearily on to the couch. She noticed that the buttons of her shirt had come undone and, with a blush burning in her cheeks, she quickly redid them.

  She couldn't go to his room with him. Kenny was here. Good lord, his mother was here! She did not want to be discovered tangled in his arms in the early-morning light. Even less did she want to sneak away from him after the loving, as if it were a criminal act, a thing of shame.

  He came back into the room, tossed a quilt over Kenny, then turned to her. The fire flickering in his eyes died, and his shoulders heaved.