Xmas with Xavier: Libros de Amor, #3

Many Thanks To ~

Kim Killion for her imaginative and elegant cover. 

Jennifer Jakes for the interior formatting.

Julian Christian for portraying my Spanish hero so perfectly.

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Edited by my dear friend Cheryl Jeffries,

who—as Alena Stuart—writes wonderful books.

Chapter 1.

White Falls,

Lake Champlain, VT.

Christmas Eve

Heather Fairchild sighed and clicked the Weather channel off. Why did they rattle on about the snow as if it was an unusual occurrence? Most of their Christmases were white, that was for sure. The snow that had been falling for most of the day would not let up much in the next three or four days. She nodded to herself, glad that she had done her grocery shopping the day before. Now, she wouldn’t have to drive in heavy snow to the heart of White Falls, a pretty village that got its name from a waterfall rounding the cliffs and falling into the south end of the Lake.

She glanced out of the window. She hadn’t seen a car going by for some time—small wonder. Her house was one of the last on Lake Drive, and late shoppers would’ve turned their cars into one of the streets leading away from the lake to the small business centre of White Falls, where there were shops and a supermarket, small cafés and an Italian restaurant.

As she began to turn away, she saw a grey, low-slung sporty-looking car nosing its way along the Drive, and she frowned, remaining at the window, willing the car to negotiate that nasty bend in the road. On no! He hadn’t made it. He hadn’t made it? She nodded to herself. For some reason she felt that a man would drive this car. Some stranger on his way somewhere else—surely no one would pick White Falls as a Christmas destination? There was nothing going on here to attract tourists, and the inhabitants of White Falls liked it fine that way. She kept watching, hoping he could reverse, but there was no movement at all. Was the driver injured? She frowned. She couldn’t leave someone stuck, probably hurt, and maybe the car was damaged too.

Heather saw the driver’s door open slowly, and a man got out, instantly slipping on the snow, hitting his head against the door frame and falling back into the driver’s seat. Aghast, she hurried to her vestibule, put on her parka and snow boots, and began to half run, half slide down her driveway. She was glad she had sanded it that morning, and fortunately the fresh snow hadn’t yet obliterated the sand.

When she got to the man and his car, she saw that he had pulled the door closed—probably trying to keep out the snow and the cold. She smiled. Snow meant that it was only a few degrees below freezing. On the other hand, this car seemed very foreign, so this man might not know that. She hastily glanced at the car’s front wheels, frowning at what she saw. It would take a tow truck to get the car back on the road. Never mind, she would deal with the car later. Right now, she had better help the man. She gazed intently into the driver’s window. His hair was very dark, which made it difficult to see whether he had hurt himself, but when he moved his head slightly, she could see blood oozing from a cut just below the hairline. Of course, head wounds always bleed copiously. It needn’t be deep. She hoped it wasn’t.

She tried the door handle. Locked. She tapped on the driver’s window. After a few moments, the man turned his head to her, his eyes gazing at her in surprise. He must be in shock. She pointed to the lock. Open your door? she called.

The man nodded, instantly wincing, and unlocked the door. Heather quickly opened it, and held out her hands to him. Speaking slowly, she said, You’ve hit your head, you’re bleeding. Let me help you. Get out of your car—lean on me to get to my house—there— she pointed. You can phone for help. See? It’s just up the driveway. 

She gazed worriedly at him. Seeing the flicker of intelligence in his eyes, she went on. We will lock the car and phone the tow truck guy. We’ll probably have to wait a while until he can come—the local television station said there were a lot of accidents on the road.

Holding out her hands again, she asked, Will you come? I have a first aid kit and can dress the wound in your forehead. A doctor lives two houses south of me, he will come if you should need him. Meanwhile, I’ll help you if you’re unsteady on your feet.

After a few moments, he closed his eyes and opened them again, gazing into Heather’s eyes. I—can—walk, he asserted with more assurance than he had so far shown. His deep voice had a faint accent—she couldn’t place it, and shook her head impatiently. Never mind about his accent. He needed help.

I will help you, she repeated.

I can walk, he said again and stepped out of the car, instantly slipping on the snow, and almost collapsing into Heather’s arms. By exerting every ounce of strength she could muster, she managed to stay upright and give him the support he so obviously needed.

Lean on me, she panted. And walk where you see the sand strewn on the driveway, she pointed to where the sand was, ...see? There, on the side. It will prevent your shoes from slipping.  She put his left arm over her shoulder, hanging on to it with her left hand, sliding her right arm firmly around his waist.

A glance at the man’s feet had shown her that he was wearing a pair of probably handmade shoes, Italian or Spanish, she couldn’t say. Not what people wore in Vermont in winter. Fortunately there was still enough sand to give the man’s shoes purchase, and after some tense minutes they arrived at her house. She was glad she’d left the front door ajar—she had been in such a hurry to help the man. Just as well, it was easier to get him inside now.

Come in, she said. Not used to Vermont winters, are you? Snow boots are a must.  Now that the man was walking on her antique oak flooring, he moved more steadily. She steered him to her living room-cum-library. She was glad she had an open fire going—the general warmth of the central heating never seemed enough for her on a snowy day. The man would need both—he looked frozen. Or maybe it was partially due to the shock of not being able to make that sharp turn?

She glanced at her father’s big, dark olive-green lounger with ottoman—the man could rest there. She’d take his shoes off and go to what used to be her father’s bedroom—he had always used those shoe trees to keep his shoes in shape. She would also take off the man’s wet, thin socks. Give him a pair of her father’s winter socks to wear while he thawed by the fire. Good thing she hadn’t got around yet to giving her father’s clothing to charity.

Let’s see—what else was wet? Ah yes, his overcoat. She’d removed that as soon as he was in her living room. Wow, what a coat—black cashmere, lined with some sort of fur. A rich man’s coat. She shrugged. He was welcome to what help and sustenance she could give. It obviously would be well below his usual standards. Glancing unobtrusively at the man, she thought he seemed grateful for her help, rather than irritated that there wasn’t the degree of luxury he was no doubt used to.

Now that he was seated in her father’s big leather chair, she put his feet on the ottoman, saying soothingly, First, I’ll clean your head-wound and put a bandage on it. Next, I’m going to take your shoes off, I will wipe all the snow away, and put them on shoe trees. My father had them for all his shoes. And I’ll remove your wet socks...

She found the salt-water spray and cleaned the wound. She nodded—not too deep. She cleaned the blood away and put a sterile gauze bandage on, careful not to get the paper tape sticking to his glossy black hair.

Better? she asked.

Thank you, he sighed. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and she realized that he had the longest, thickest black eye-lashes she had ever seen. And that wasn’t his only stunning asset. His face was spectacular. High cheek-bones carved by a master, a straight, aristocratic nose with thin, sensitive nostrils, and a mouth to die for...  Stop staring at him! she admonished herself.

She hastily busied herself with his socks, frowning when she got them off and felt how chilled his feet were.

You’re chilled right through, she said. I’ll massage your feet until I’ve got your circulation going again.  She glanced up at him. "I used to do that for my father, the last year of his life. I’ll get a pair of my father’s winter socks for you. As soon as your feet are taken care of, I’ll make you a hot drink. Coffee, tea—or some of my father’s cognac, or scotch or bourbon?"

It’s very good of you, the man said through slightly chattering teeth. I am grateful you found me when you did. Thank you for—  He moved his hand slightly. After a moment, he said, If you’re sure it isn’t too much trouble, coffee would be very welcome.

Coffee coming up as soon as I’ve got your feet dry and warm, Heather said.

Thank you, he said faintly. As if suddenly aware of an oversight, he added, My name is Xavier Luis-Miguel Alejandro de Mazzarón. 

She nodded, smiling. I’m Heather Fairchild.  Ah. That faint accent of his was Spanish. She kept on massaging his feet, and was pleased that they were beginning to lose their icy feel. And they did not look so pale any more—his golden skin and his permanent tan seemed to be coming back.

He explained, I was staying with friends in Washington, DC, when my sister phoned.  No need to tell her I was the guest of the Spanish ambassador...

He added, My sister had been invited to ski with friends of hers in Stowe, I think it was called? 

Yes. You’ve gone a bit off course, you are south and west of your destination.  She gazed at the snow, which showed no signs of abating. In this weather you’ll never make it to Stowe—even if the tow truck manages to free your car, and there is no damage. Moreover, I think perhaps you’re still in shock from the accident. You shouldn’t attempt to drive anywhere until you feel a whole lot better.  She gestured to the phone, standing on a small desk in one corner of the room. Please go ahead and call your sister. I’ll go and make the coffee.

Thank you, I have my cell. I agree I’ll have to call her and tell her I cannot make it.  He glanced at Heather. It was clear and sunny in DC when I flew to East Hampton, and got my car out to drive to Stowe. The New York weather forecast gave no indication of snow. 

She smiled. Not the New York forecast for Long Island—East Hampton is on Long Island, isn’t it?

He nodded, wincing instantly. Yes, it is.  Gesturing ruefully to his clothing, he added, Breakfast was rather a formal occasion, this morning. When I got to the little airport at East Hampton, I decided not to change into ski clothing, as I didn’t want to drive all that way so bundled up. I thought I’d buy ski clothing when I got where my sister was, and was planning to change at the Stowe hotel.

Heather nodded. You were lucky to get a flight out of DC at such short notice...

He shook his head, wincing again. I had my own plane there.

Dear God – this man is seriously rich...his own plane...

She quickly said, "Don’t shake or nod your head. You hit your head on