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A Miracle For Christmas. Grace Green
Читать онлайн.Название A Miracle For Christmas
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Автор произведения Grace Green
Жанр Современные любовные романы
Издательство HarperCollins
‘Good health.’
‘Good health,’ she murmured. And without thinking, added, ‘Merry Christmas.’
He didn’t respond to that, other than with what sounded like an unpleasant ‘Hrmmph!’ as he turned his back and crossed to the window. From where Stephanie was sitting, she could see his reflection in the darkened glass. What a grump he was, she thought, as she made out his now-familiar scowl. What an absolute grump.
‘You’ll be pleased to know,’ she said sweetly, ‘that I’ll be out of your way soon. I phoned Grantham Towing when I saw the snow had stopped, and they’re going to be sending out a truck early this evening.’
He wheeled round. ‘And what do you intend to do if your van is out of commission? It’s possible you may have damaged the transmission, or—’
‘Mr. Grantham said if there’s any problem, I’ll get a drive back to Tarlity with the driver of the tow truck, and I can go on from there by taxi or bus or whatever.’
He frowned. ‘Did you make any other calls?’ ‘No,’ Stephanie snapped, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll pay you for the three I made to Grantham Towing. Really, I—’
‘Miss Redford,’ his voice had a weary edge, ‘I don’t give a damn about the money. I was just concerned that since you’ve been stranded here, there might be someone—other than family—who might be concerned about you if they knew you hadn’t reached your destination.’
‘Oh.’ Suddenly she felt very small. ‘Sorry.’
‘Well?’ he barked. ‘Is there?’
‘Is there...what?’
‘Anyone else in your life!’
He meant a man, of course. Though why that should have made him sound so mad was beyond her. At any rate, she wasn’t about to tell him about Tony—Tony, who’d be in Aspen now, partying with the Whitneys...and with their beautiful daughter Tiffany, who’d been crazy about him for years.
‘No.’ Stephanie kept her voice light. ‘There’s nobody in my life. At this moment.’ And she certainly didn’t want to discuss the matter further. ‘So,’ she went on, running a fingertip around the rim of her glass as she looked up at him, ‘tell me, Mr. McAllister, what do you do for a living?’
He had taken up a stance at one side of the fire, and was leaning now against the mantelpiece. At her question, his eyes became shuttered.
‘I draw.’ She thought he sounded oddly evasive. Then his gaze flicked to the large oil painting that had given her the creeps the night before. ‘And paint. Which is why I built this place. The scenery here is—well, you don’t need me to tell you about the beauty of Vermont.’
Putting her glass down on the coffee table, Stephanie got to her feet, and rounding the sofa, walked over to look at the painting from several feet away. ‘You did this?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re exceptionally talented,’ she said quietly after a long moment. She turned, to find he was still over by the hearth, but he was watching her. Waiting.
‘That’s not much of a critique,’ he said in an offhanded manner that didn’t fool her.
She hesitated, before turning to look at the oil again. ‘The effect is stunning, compellingly vivid and dramatic, and the reflections in the lake so cleverly done...’
‘But...?’
He had heard the doubt in her voice. Damn! She squared her shoulders. ‘I’m afraid, though, that I shouldn’t like to have this particular work in my home. I should find it too... unsettling.’
‘Unsettling?’ His cool voice prodded her.
‘Mmm. And disturbing. The darkness of the valleys, the blackness of the clouds, the vague sense of threat from the vulture hovering over the wounded deer—’
‘It’s not a vulture, Miss Redford—it’s an eagle.’
‘Oh, I know it’s an eagle,’ she said impatiently. ‘But I like eagles and the effect here is more... sinister.’ She grimaced and made a small sound of distress. ‘I’m sorry.’ She walked back across the room and dropped into the sofa again. ‘That’s obviously not what you wanted to hear, but I have to be honest. You see, I like to surround myself with pictures that give me pleasure. There’s enough ugliness in the world without choosing to bring it into one’s home.’ She went on hesitantly, ‘Had I seen this in a gallery, I’d have thought the artist must have been very unhappy at the time he—’
‘My God, can’t you just look at the picture and see what’s there, without delving for something underneath?’ He sounded furious; he crashed his glass down on the mantelpiece so abruptly it was a wonder the crystal didn’t shatter. ‘Everyone’s a psychologist! Did I look at your damned teddy bear and say, “You’re exceptionally talented, and this little bear is a beautiful shade of brown...but I wouldn’t want him in my house because it would be a reminder that every home is not a happy home and every child does not get a teddy bear for Christmas?’”
Aghast, Stephanie stared at him, and felt the blood drain from her face. How she hated being shouted at; it hurt her as much as a slap. ‘Excuse me.’ With a painful lump swelling in her throat, and her eyes stinging, she rose from the sofa and started toward the lobby, hoping she’d get to the powder room before she dissolved into tears. But she’d gone barely ten feet when with long strides, he caught up with her.
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