A Little Country Christmas - Carolyn Brown Page 0,139
the life vest over her head and then his gaze dropped to the neckline of her ridiculous dress. She stifled the urge to tug at her bodice. Meanwhile, Jim licked his lips like a hungry wolf.
Her insides took a wild free fall. For a crazy moment, she thought he might actually kiss the top of her breast or maybe bury his nose in the prominent cleavage created by the costume’s ridiculous bodice. But he didn’t.
“Come on.” He captured her cold hand in his warm one and pulled her down a passageway that led to a series of staterooms.
The rooms were small, except for the captain’s quarters at the back of the boat. That room was nothing short of gorgeous, fitted out with burled wood on the bulkheads and luxury linens on the queen-sized bed.
One glance at the beautiful bed and Brenda’s heart took off at a full gallop. For a moment, she wondered if Jim might ravish her like a pirate.
Good God, she didn’t really want to be ravished. Did she? No. But somehow the idea of being seduced by a man in a frock coat was terrifying in an absolutely sexy way. Like the little girls who had been pretend-scared of the pretend pirate earlier this evening.
She leaned against the doorway to the stateroom, not trusting herself to step inside the bedroom with him. When she stopped he turned, his blue eyes darkening and his laugh lines deepening. He cocked his head for a moment, and then his gaze shifted upward. A ridiculously jolly smile touched his lips right before he said, “I’m afraid you have made a tactical mistake.”
“What?”
“You’re standing under some mistletoe.”
She looked up. Damn. But before she could escape, Jim took her by the shoulders, slanted his head, and moved in.
The kiss was surprisingly rich and dark for a man who appeared to be yo ho ho–ing his way through life. He tasted like cinnamon and vanilla in their unsugared form. A little hot on the tongue. A little untamed.
He pulled the mob cap from her head and ran his fingers through her hair, and she became unmoored in time and space. The touch of his hand against her overexposed breast set off fireworks that were more suited for the Fourth of July than Christmas.
She leaned into the touch and emitted a deep hum from the back of her throat. But that little noise pulled her back down to earth. Wait a second. This was idiotic. And dangerous. If she didn’t run now, Jim might unleash a tsunami of yearning and insanity that would leave nothing but wreckage in its wake.
She braced her hands on his shoulders and gave him a gentle but firm push. He stepped back, his eyes dark, the look on his face more solemn than she’d ever seen before.
“I—” he began.
“Don’t,” she interrupted, turning her body sideways in the small passageway and hurrying back to the main salon. He didn’t follow right away, which was just as well. The kids were out of control, and Jenna and Jude St. Pierre had no idea how to corral them.
She cleared her throat and dropped right into teacher mode. “Come, children,” she said in that authoritative classroom voice that cut right through the roar. “Let’s sing some songs. Who knows ‘Frosty the Snowman’?”
Chapter Nine
Jim sat down at the piano and blew into his hands to warm them up. The weather had taken a surprising turn toward cold since the Festival of Lights on Saturday. And he’d managed to lose his gloves somewhere.
Today the Christmas Chorale was rehearsing in the Rutledge High auditorium, where the performance would be held in just two weeks.
There was a lot to accomplish before then, but he had faith in his new choir director. He checked his watch. It was five to seven, and almost every member of the chorale was present with music folders in hand.
Brenda had the choir exactly where she wanted them. He studied her for a moment. She stood at her music stand in front of the group, studying her notes with a deep frown on her face.
Jim knew well enough now that the rumple in her forehead had nothing to do with her frame of mind. She always frowned when she concentrated. He’d played enough music with her to know that she frowned even when she was in the groove—the magical place every musician reaches for, where the sound gets inside your head and you stop thinking.