Free Nickolai's Noel by Alicia Hunter Pace Page A

Louisville, friends and neighbors would be dropping in for a Christmas visit by now, and she’d be serving dessert, pouring coffee, and replenishing the silver dishes of cheese straws, candy, and nuts. Her mother had been beside herself because there would be no cheese straws, bourbon balls, and divinity for the guests. All that was still sitting packed in tins in Noel’s car at Beauford Bend.
    It made her tired to think about it. She liked where she was now just fine. And why not?
    Though Nickolai was sleeping soundly, he hugged her tight from time to time. She refused to wonder who he might be dreaming about; she refused to do anything except enjoy these last hours with Nickolai. Somehow, she was beginning to get the feeling that he didn’t know these were their last hours; he seemed to believe he’d think about her again after he left.
    But Noel knew better. He’d go to practice and snap into his real life of glamorous women, reporters, and ad campaigns. She had no illusions about how devastated she was going to be. Nickolai might have enjoyed this unexpected magical lark, but, for him, it was only that—a lark. For her, it was life changing, and probably not for the better.
    But for now, there was still magic to be had in her sweet little snow globe, and she was going to enjoy it.
    And she did—until the sound of that earsplitting doorbell ripped through the quiet peace of her cozy haven and set her snow globe on a precarious perch.

Chapter Eight
    —
    Noel jumped off Nickolai and began to search for her shoes. She had always hated the shrillness of that doorbell and never more than now. It had all the charm of a World War II, Nazi Gestapo siren.
    “What? What?” Nickolai was on his feet, bleary-eyed, with his head snapping around like a spectator watching a fast tennis match.
    “My doorbell!” Noel had to raise her voice to be heard because whoever was down there was now leaning on the bell, and the sound was relentless. “Someone’s downstairs.”
    “Don’t go. They’ll go away.”
    “I can’t.” She moved toward the door. “Lots of the of the owners live above their shops. These people are my friends. Someone must be in trouble.”
    He was hot on her heels as she trampled down the stairs. “Maybe it’s a robber come to loot. Such things happen in disasters.”
    “Yes, because looters are usually quilters who always ring the bell. And this is hardly a disaster.”
    “Is disaster,” he grumbled sleepily. “Tore Noel from my arms.”
    At the back entrance, Noel punched in the security code and threw open the metal door.
    And there stood Tewanda wearing boots with four-inch heels and a calf-length, white fur coat. It looked like mink, maybe fake but probably not.
    Nickolai gasped like a dying man, and Noel’s world stopped.
    Tewanda dramatically threw back her hood, and the wide aura of fur that had surrounded her face fell to drape around shoulders. Noel had no choice but to step aside as Tewanda strolled in as if it was her due. As she passed, she looked Noel up and down.
    “Sweet shirt, Noel.” After their second round in the bedroom, Noel had put on an oversized red monogrammed sweatshirt because Nickolai had gotten baby oil on the shirt she’d had on earlier. Never mind how. “I’m always amused at women who feel they must put their initials on everything they own—makes me wonder if they plan on scattering their clothes hither and yon. Though you’re not the type.” Tewanda smiled the meanest smile Noel had ever seen. “Or are you?”
    Then she slinked over to where Nickolai stood. “Merry Christmas, baby.”
    And she opened her to coat to reveal that she was wearing nothing but a big red satin bow and emerald green underwear that made Noel’s look like Pollyanna’s pinafore.
    Nickolai held his hands, palms out, in front of him and made a sound that could only be described as primal and enraged.
    “
Vse zayebalo! Pizdets na khui blyad
!” His face reddened, his eyes bugged,