The chime of the house alarm alerted Olivia Armstrong
Mallory that someone had opened the front door, rousing her
out of her light sleep. The door squeaked open and then
clicked shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous hallway.
As footsteps sounded on the parquet floor, she sat up on the
couch, smoothed her brown hair and blinked at the Christmas
tree—the sole light illuminating the expansive living
room.
She'd only closed her eyes for a moment—or so she
thought. However, a quick glance at the mantel clock begged
to differ. It was after three in the morning.
Jamison.
Her husband had finally arrived home.
As a United States senator who was being groomed for the
presidency, Jamison Mallory wielded a lot of power, but one
thing beyond his control was the weather. It wasn't his
fault that ice and snow had grounded all planes coming in
and out of Washington, D.C.
It's a wonder he's home now, she reminded herself
as he appeared, suitcase in hand, in the archway that
divided the living room and the foyer hall.
"Liv, you're still awake?" His deep voice was flat.
"You didn't have to wait up for me." Even in the low
light, she could see that his handsome face looked drawn.
His chiseled cheeks looked hollow, despite the day's growth
of blond razor stubble. The dark circles under his pale blue
eyes hinted that he suffered the kind of travel-weary
exhaustion that comes from long flight delays and
blisteringly cold weather.
"Of course, I waited up for you. It's Christmas Eve,
Jamison—well, it was. Merry Christmas." Olivia
stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her red silk dress. She
made sure the clasp to the pearl necklace she always wore
was in the right place. When her husband didn't move toward
her, she swallowed her pride and crossed the room to him.
One of them had to extend the olive branch. In the spirit of
Christmas, and for the sake of their marriage, she'd be the
peacemaker tonight.
Two-and-a-half months apart—with only a brief
Thanksgiving Day visit—was more than enough time to
help her realize that her marriage was
that
important. In their seven years of matrimony, this
trial separation was the longest they'd ever been apart.
She'd missed her husband so much it hurt—a deep,
gnawing pain that only grew worse each day they were apart.
Jamison set down his bag and raked a hand through his short,
wavy blond hair before opening his arms to her. Olivia
slipped inside the circle of her husband's embrace and tried
to find that place where she fit so well. She wanted nothing
more than to bury her face in his chest, to lose herself in
the feel of him. But his hug felt stiff, almost perfunctory.
As she shifted to find
her spot, he dropped his
arms and pulled away ever so slightly.
She hesitated a moment, processing the conflicting emotions
that swam to the surface as she stood face-to-face with this
handsome familiar stranger. But, no, she wasn't going to
make an issue of it. So she slammed the door on the
irrational thoughts goading her to take his aloofness
personally.
Spending Christmas Eve stuck in the airline's Executive
Lounge surely wasn't his idea of a good time. He must be so
tired and—
"You must be starving." She started toward the
kitchen. "I kept dinner warm for you. Sit down and I'll
fix you a drink and a plate."
She glanced over her shoulder in time to see his frown
deepen as he shook his head.
"Olivia, I'm exhausted. I just want to go to bed."
His brusque tone made her wince. As was often the problem
between them, it wasn't so much
what he said, but
how he said it that cut her to the quick.
Tonight, though, she was willing to overlook it.
"Yes, of course," she said. "I can see that
you're worn-out."
He picked up his suitcase, walked over and kissed her on the
forehead. Then, without another word, he turned and took his
bag into the first-floor guest room, closing the door behind
him.
Olivia stood alone in the living room. Confused, she crossed
her arms over her chest, trying to ward off the numbing
chill coursing through her. She could understand that
Jamison was bone tired. She could even accept that he didn't
want to eat a meal and go to bed on a full stomach. But
choosing the guest room over
their bed?
That hurt worse than his gruff tone.
Suddenly, the cold distance between them yawned like a vast
canyon, full of all the reasons they'd decided to separate
in the first place.
She'd had such high hopes for the evening. But nothing was
turning out as she'd hoped.
Wasn't that par for the course these days?
It hadn't always been that way, though. Once upon a time,
not so long ago, their love seemed invincible. There was
nothing like it from the moment they'd set eyes on each
other. She'd never forget the first time she saw him. In
person, that is, because every red-blooded woman in America
knew of Jamison Mallory,
Panorama Magazine's
"Sexiest Bachelor in the Universe" for several
years running. With his tall, bronzed, quarterback body and
his All-American blond, blue-eyed good looks, the man simply
needed to flash his lightning-strike smile and women fell
under his spell.
As a Harvard Law graduate and the youngest elected U.S.
senator, Jamison had come back to his alma mater to deliver
a commencement address. They'd bumped into each
other—literally—as Olivia rounded a corner,
rushing from one of her classes to a rehearsal for a Harvard
Ballet Company performance of
Sleeping Beauty.
She'd dropped her dance bag and books and he had helped
her retrieve her ballet slippers from underneath a shrub.
Somewhere between, "Excuse me," and "It was so
nice to meet you, Olivia," he'd asked where she was
going and she'd nervously rattled off information about the
ballet performance, which was the next night. She had never
dreamed he'd be in the audience—front and center.
Because he was
Jamison Mallory. She was simply a
shy, college freshman who'd barely had any experience with
men. After all, up until meeting Jamison, her one true love
had been dance.
Later, they'd both sworn it had been love at first sight.
He'd often said that from the moment he'd looked into her
eyes as he handed her those slippers, he'd known he'd met
the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.
"It was cosmic." He used to flash his devastating
smile when he'd tell that to reporters. "The feeling was
so much bigger than anything I'd ever felt before, I knew it
was right."
Now it was the small things that stood between them and what
was really important. The minutiae blurred the perspective
so that they couldn't keep the big picture in focus anymore.
If they couldn't get past the small stuff, how in the world
were they going to reach the real issue that was keeping
them apart?
Feeling as if she were dragging a heavy weight, she made her
way into the kitchen to put away the uneaten dinner. She and
Jamison had always spent Christmas Eve with her family and
Christmas Day with the large Mallory clan at his mother's
palatial compound in the Berkshires. This year, she'd opted
out of Christmas Eve with her mother, father and three
siblings—all of whom were married to their careers at
the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Well, except for her
brother Paul who, though he was still the consummate
workaholic, had recently met his love match in Ramona Tate,
at the institute. Olivia wanted to spend their first night
back together alone. Just the two of them. Little had she
known how alone she'd actually be.
Staying home had seemed like the right thing to do at the
time, especially since none of the family knew about her and
Jamison's current living arrangement—that Jamison
hadn't come home on weekends during the congressional
session. Or that he'd stayed in Washington after the session
had adjourned. They'd told everyone he was busy with a
particularly demanding committee, that he needed to focus so
that he could wrap up work in time for Christmas. They'd
played their roles so well that no one had a clue that their
marriage was actually deeply in trouble.
Olivia hoped to God she'd find a Christmas miracle in her
stocking, because it seemed as if nothing less than a
miracle would save them now.
Jamison awoke to a slant of sunlight streaming in through
the white plantation shutters, hitting him square in the
face. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, and then it all
flooded back to him. He was…home.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table: seven-thirty.
Although he could've told the time without the clock, thanks
to his internal alarm. No matter how little sleep he'd
gotten the night before—in this case only about four
hours—his system awakened him at seven-thirty every
morning. It was fail-safe, and there was no sense fighting
it. He might as well get up, because he wouldn't be able to
go back to sleep. Plus, he and Olivia needed to get on the
road by noon to make the two-hour trek to his mother's for
the Christmas Day festivities.
He stretched, and his arms slid over the cold, empty side of
the queen-size feather bed. He wished he was waking up in
his own bed, with Olivia in his arms, rather than realizing
another morning alone—especially Christmas morning in
the guest room of his very own house.
He'd been so exhausted by the time he'd arrived home last
night, he'd barely been able to string together a coherent
sentence, much less have a discussion with her about
sleeping arrangements. After being separated from Olivia for
two-and-a-half months, he wanted to be fair to her. Even
though sleeping apart from her wasn't what he wanted, he
didn't want to seem presumptuous on their first night back
together—and even more, he didn't want to fight.
He'd been beyond exhausted and, yes, a little cranky. He
knew himself well enough to know that combination was a
recipe for disaster. But now, in the bright light of
morning, his head felt clearer, his purpose stronger. Eager
to talk to his wife about their next step in their
relationship before they joined his family for the annual
Christmas Day festivities, he showered, shaved and dressed
before making his way toward the kitchen in search of a
good, strong cup of coffee… and Olivia.
The house was dark and quiet. Even before he flicked on the
kitchen light, he could see that the room was
pristine—everything in its place. The only evidence of
the dinner Olivia had offered him last night was the
ghost-aroma of something delicious mingling with the faint
scent of dish soap and the slightly smoky traces of the fire
that must have blazed in the fireplace.
He breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar, comforting
scents of home. But as he did, guilt tugged at him. He knew
his wife had not only prepared a delectable Christmas Eve
feast that neither of them was able to enjoy, but she'd
probably stayed up long after he went to bed putting
everything away and cleaning up the mess of a dinner that
never happened.
The least he could do was let her sleep a little while
longer and then make her some coffee.
No, he'd go one better and surprise her with breakfast in bed.
Before their separation, the kitchen had been foreign
territory to him. One thing he'd learned in the time they'd
been apart was how to cook up a mean batch of scrambled
eggs—the trick was to use low heat so that they cooked
slowly and the outside didn't scorch. Hmm…the
low-heat approach would also benefit their marriage. Because
the other thing he'd learned during this time apart was that
he loved his wife desperately. He missed her…he
missed
them. It was time to put all the ridiculous
fighting and blaming behind them and move on.
Time to use the
low-heat approach.
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