Free The Humbug Man by Diana Palmer Page A

open, too. He bit at her lip, his mustache abrasive, his mouth hard. He grasped the back of her neck and pulled her closer, crushing her mouth under the warm pressure of his.
    “Would you bring me a cola, Mr. Hollister?” Blake called suddenly from the office, shocking them apart.
    Maggie could hardly breathe. Tate seemed to be having a bit of a problem in that direction himself. He stood up, blinking. “A what?” he called.
    “A soda.”
    “Sure.” He shook his head, whistling through his teeth as he got one out of the refrigerator. “Heady stuff.”
    “What is, cola?” she murmured dryly, although her heart was still pounding.
    “You,” he whispered and kissed her again, softly, as he went past her to the study.
    She leaned against the counter, watching his broad back disappear into the room with the computer, and she thought dreamily how sweet it would be if they were married and she never had to go back to Tucson.
    But despite their closeness and the way Tate was with them, she had to remember that she was only a guest and in less than five days she and Blake would be in Tucson and this would only be a memory.
    Tears stung her eyes as she finished icing the cake. Only a memory, perhaps, but one that would haunt her the rest of her life. The thought of being away from Tate now was worse than the threat of death. And whatever he felt, he was keeping his own counsel. He wanted her, that she knew. But there was a chasm between wanting and loving, and one was nothing without the other.

Chapter Five
    G etting Blake to go to bed on Christmas Eve was like trying to put a pair of pants on an eel, Maggie thought as she watched him make his fourth reappearance.
    “Mr. Hollister, is there or isn’t there a Santa Claus?” he asked Tate.
    Maggie stared blankly at Tate, who was struggling valiantly not to give the show away.
    “Santa Claus is like a spirit, Blake,” he finally told the boy as he sipped his coffee on the sofa. “So in a sense, yes, he exists.”
    “But he doesn’t come down fireplaces?”
    “I didn’t say that,” Tate replied.
    Blake bit his lower lip, leaning heavily on the crutch Tate had loaned him. “But there’s a fire in it,” he groaned.
    “Fire,” Tate improvised, “can’t possibly hurt a Christmas spirit like old Santa. He can get right through it to the stockings.”
    “Are you sure?” Blake asked worriedly.
    Tate put his hand over his heart. “Blake, would I lie to you?” he asked.
    Maggie had to bite her tongue almost through to keep from laughing at the expression on Tate’s face. But Blake let out a pent-up sigh and grinned.
    “OK,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure. Good night. See you early in the morning!”
    “You, too, darling,” Maggie smiled, kissing his forehead gently. “Sleep well.”
    “Ha, ha,” he muttered, glancing ruefully at the huge pine with its homemade decorations in the corner by the window. All lit with colorful lights and smelling of the whole outdoors, it had turned out to be a better tree than anyone had expected. But the crowning touch was some soap flakes that Maggie had found in the kitchen cabinet. She’d mixed them with water and made “snow” to go on the branches. The finished product was a dream of a Christmas tree, right down to the paper snowflakes that Blake had cut out—something he’d learned to do in art class in school.
    Maggie sighed as she looked at the tree. “Isn’t it lovely?” she asked absently.
    “Not half as lovely as you are,” Tate remarked quietly, his dark eyes possessive on her body in its sleek silver dress, a long camisole of sequins and spangles that had impressed her with its holiday spirit. With her dark hair short and curled forward, she looked like one of the twenties flappers.
    “I’m glad you like it,” she curtsied for him with her coffee cup held tightly in one hand. Like him, she didn’t drink—rarely even a glass of wine. They were celebrating Christmas with black coffee, despite