12 Men for Christmas Read online

  Suzanne raised her eyebrows. Emma took a deep breath and made a decision. It was no use, she told herself. From what she’d seen from their few meetings so far, Suzanne seemed like a genuine person, and unlike some people, she also had a sense of humor. Emma decided she deserved the truth. Besides, she felt she’d tasted enough deception and spin over the past few months to last a lifetime. Most of it from her ex, Jeremy Forbes.

  “My boss was shagging my boyfriend. I threw something at her, and she sacked me,” she said, straight-faced.

  Suzanne laughed out loud. “Sounds like a perfectly good reason to me.”

  Emma realized with a start that Suzanne thought she was joking. Maybe it was just as well, after all. Maybe her new friends weren’t quite ready for the whole truth just yet.

  “Don’t feel you have to resort to the parish mag again,” said Suzanne, leaning back against the countertop. “Why don’t you come out for a drink after the meeting? I doubt the Black Dog could produce a mojito, but they do have a half-decent glass of red wine. And if you’re very lucky, you might get chatted up by Silas from the dominoes league.”

  “Is he hot?”

  “In 1947, I’m sure he was.”

  Emma grinned. “Then I’ll definitely come.”

  Just then, a swell of voices drifted in, signaling the door of the meeting room had opened.

  “Ah. The moment of truth. I believe my vote is required. Are you coming, Emma?”

  “I think I’ll stay here. It might be less embarrassing. Tell them I’m washing up and come and fetch me when you know the result.”

  “OK. But I wouldn’t worry. They’ll go for it. Money always talks.”

  As Suzanne was half out the door, Emma had a sudden thought.

  “Suzanne, if we can’t get enough guys to agree, is there any chance you would pose for one of the shots?”

  The doctor stopped, turned, and smiled. “Emma, I know how much the rescue team needs a new base, and I’m willing to help you in any way I can. But pose naked on a calendar with that bunch? Not unless I was drugged, tied down, and certified insane. You’ve got more chance of getting Will to do it.”

  Well, that was plain enough. But she didn’t blame Suzanne. Being the only woman made things a bit awkward, and being a local GP probably made it much worse. It was no use moping; she’d better get on and do something while the team was discussing her idea and putting it to a vote.

  She turned on the tap, hoping the heater might produce enough warm water to at least give the dirty mugs a cursory rinse. If she could only find a drop of dishwashing liquid, that would be a big help. She smiled. Back in London, they’d never dreamed of making their own tea. Her boss, Phaedra, had very few virtues, but indulging herself was one of them. If there wasn’t a pot of Blue Mountain bubbling somewhere in the office, there was always some assistant willing to fetch a Starbucks coffee or a smoothie. Emma shivered. That last beverage was now off the menu. In fact, she hoped she’d never see one as long as she lived. Not after what had happened on that fateful day with Rogue.

  She opened a cupboard under the sink, hunting for the dish soap and finding only a half-empty bottle of some dubious-looking solution in between the bleach and an old mousetrap. Emma tried not to notice the small black droppings next to the trap. This was the country, after all, and she didn’t want to be a wimp. And what was that they said? You were only ever six feet away from a rat in London. Urban myth or not, she knew where most of them hung out.

  Pulling off her jacket and longing for some dishwashing gloves, she set to work on the mugs. With only her bare hands and no detergent, it wasn’t very effective, but she was doing her best. Most important, she was being useful.

  “Here. Try this.”

  Emma turned around. It was that voice again. Deep and distinctive, the soft Cumbrian accent taking the edge—a tiny bit—off the gruffness. A big hand, sprinkled with hair, reached above her head to a shelf and pulled down a bottle of green liquid.

  She ought to have said thanks, but after the reception she’d gotten from Will earlier, the words seemed to stick in her throat. She took the bottle from his hand ungraciously.

  “Shouldn’t you be in the meeting room, making the case for the prosecution?”

  He leaned against the counter. It had warmed up in there, next to the boiler, and Emma again felt herself grow uncomfortably hot in her suit. “Aren’t you going to vote against me?”

  “I abstained.”

  “Oh.”

  Squirting a splotch of liquid into the sink, she wondered why she felt so self-conscious. She kept her eyes on the sink and her hands busy, whipping up the foam with her fingers, feeling a bit shaky.

  “And if I had voted, it wouldn’t have been against you.”

  She plonked a wet mug on the drainer. Will picked up a tea towel and started drying the mugs.

  “Do you mean that?” she asked.

  He placed the cup on the counter, shining and clean. “I wouldn’t have voted against you personally. Only against your idea.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she managed, dropping a plate in the sink and succeeding in splashing his trousers.

  “You’re welcome,” he said without a trace of irony.

  Emma had never known that washing a few cups and plates could be so excruciating—or complicated. She felt confused. Was he holding out the olive branch by helping her? Or was he here to let her know he meant business and wouldn’t be denied his say? His directness about the calendar was irritating in one way, unnerving even, but at least he’d laid his cards on the table, which was more than some men did.

  Will also wasn’t giving her any clues. He didn’t say anything else, just carried on drying crockery and placing it on a shelf above the sink. Occasionally, he waited, a trifle impatiently perhaps, if she couldn’t keep up with his drying.

  She also found herself trying hard not to touch him in any way, which was difficult given the smallness of the room. Once, she brushed against his arm and felt the hairs on it touch her bare wrist. He didn’t seem to notice, but Emma felt the tickle go on after they’d lost contact. As she scrubbed at a plate hard enough to wear a hole in it, debating whether to try and make conversation, Suzanne poked her head around the door again.

  She was good, Emma gave her that. Her face barely registered her surprise at finding them in apparent domestic harmony at a kitchen sink.

  “Keeping busy?” she asked mischievously.

  “Team building,” said Will, startling Emma.

  “See—he does have a sense of humor lurking somewhere,” laughed Suzanne.

  Will threw the tea towel down on the countertop without smiling. “For some things,” he said and strode off toward the meeting room.

  Emma stood with her mouth open, and Suzanne shook her head. Emma hardly dared to ask the outcome of the vote, but as they trooped back to the room, she was soon put out of her misery.

  “There. Told you, you had nothing to worry about,” Suzanne hissed as Bob’s voice rang out, confirming that the motion to take part in a nude calendar had been carried unanimously.

  “Where’s Will gone?” Emma whispered, searching for him among the other men.

  Suzanne rolled her eyes. “I think he’s sorting out some gear. Anything to get away, probably. What was he doing in the kitchen?”

  “He wanted me to know he only hates my fundraising methods, not me personally.”

  “That’s something, I suppose. I told you he’s not that bad.”

  Emma was saved from replying by Bob.

  “So that’s eleven in favor and one abstention,” he declared to the group. “It looks like that’s it, lads—and Sue. There’s no going back. Get yourselves in training, and stock up on the fake tan.”

  Predictably, groans filled the room.

  “That won’t be necessary,” reassured Emma. “It would be better if you went
for the natural look. Although I’ll volunteer to do a spot of waxing if anyone needs it.”

  Leafing through a calendar, Suzanne frowned. “Wait a minute. You said that eleven people had volunteered. That means we’re one short.”

  Jason put up his hand. “We could have a group shot,” he suggested. He was so sweet, Emma thought, picturing him au naturel, cuddling one of the rescue dogs.

  “It would be better if we had a guy for each month. You know, Mr. January, Mr. February, Mr. March, et cetera. You can all put your name down for one,” she offered, handing out a pad and pen. What difference it made, she really couldn’t see; they were all going to be starkers, but it was always good to give people the illusion that they had a choice. “Maybe choose your birthday month? That would be appropriate. Jason, you go first as you seem to be so keen.”

  “I only want to help the team,” he said, turning strawberry again. Poor lad, Emma thought. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. She wondered what his mum would think.

  Ten minutes later, the pad came back, with more crossings out than her old math book. Two of them had wanted October, having creative visions involving Halloween pumpkins, and one man couldn’t decide between his wedding anniversary and his wife’s birthday, but things had been arranged, somehow, to most people’s satisfaction.

  “Only Mr. December vacant, then?” asked Emma, feeling relieved and far happier than she knew she deserved. “No one fancy being the Christmas cracker?”

  Jason laughed. “More like a turkey.”

  “We’re going to have to find someone else,” said Bob.

  Phil, the ponytailed man, gave Emma her pen back. “Yes, but who?” he asked. “We can hardly go around asking for contributions from friends and relatives, and it is meant to be a team project.”

  “What about asking Wardale MRT to put someone forward?” suggested Suzanne.

  “I don’t think so,” said Bob.

  “No way!” cried Jason.

  “What’s wrong with Wardale?” whispered Emma to Suzanne.

  “Penis envy,” replied Suzanne, forcing Emma to stifle a giggle. “There’s a bit of a history there. They got a lottery grant for their new base, and we missed out.”

  “But don’t they help you out on rescues?” asked Emma. “I mean, I’m sure Bob told me the teams often work together.”

  “Of course we do, and quite often if there’s a major incident. It’s all strictly professional on a callout, naturally. But afterward”—Suzanne gave a sharp intake of breath—“never the twain shall meet.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I suppose,” said Bob, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “We might have to, if we’re desperate…”

  “What about Harry Caversham?” offered Suzanne.

  Bob nodded. “Hmm. I did wonder. He may be one of them now, but he was a member for five years until he moved house.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Emma stared at the door where Will had managed to creep back in without her noticing again. He moved quietly for a grumpy giant. “But only if I absolutely have to,” he added, eyeing Emma.

  “Don’t feel obliged on my account,” said Emma primly.

  “I don’t,” he said, smiling at her now with what looked like a flash of amusement in his eyes. It was gone before she had time to register it, and his trademark glower was back on his face. “But it’s a damn sight better than dragging outsiders into this bloody charade.”

  Bob laughed. “Very gracious, Will. Don’t put yourself out, mate.”

  Will didn’t laugh back but just shrugged his shoulders. “The offer’s there.”

  Emma was trying desperately not to look too smug or too surprised. She picked up the pad, wrote down his name, and gave him a brief professional smile.

  “Thank you, Will. It looks like you’re Mr. December.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her and stalked off again as the meeting broke up, leaving Emma exhausted and a bit shell-shocked, with a sticky blouse and a mouse dropping stuck to her cuff.

  * * *

  “Well, I have to admit, I never thought I’d see that,” said Suzanne as they walked out of the base later, en route to the Black Dog. “Will agreeing to take his clothes off in public.”

  “It was a surprise,” agreed Emma, wondering for the umpteenth time just what she had let herself in for.

  “Then again,” said Suzanne mischievously, jangling her car keys, “I didn’t think he’d want Wardale getting involved. And you have to admit, miserable bugger though he is, he is going to look rather aesthetic…”

  “Sue, you’re married!” giggled Emma, realizing how Will had been backed into a corner. And Suzanne was absolutely right. Emma had to concede, even though it went against all her principles, that at six foot three, dark-haired, and disgustingly handsome in a rugged, rough-edged kind of way, Will Tennant was the only one she’d have paid good money to see naked.

  Chapter 2

  Six months earlier, as a security guard had guided her onto a London street, Emma Tremayne had vowed that henceforth, she would live the life of a PR nun. She’d leave her city life behind her and find a quiet little corner of England where nothing humiliating or painful was ever going to happen.

  Now, as she dragged her aching legs up six hundred meters of hillside a few weeks after the rescue meeting, she was having doubts. A tiny voice in her head was hinting that maybe—just maybe—volunteering to help the Bannerdale Mountain Rescue Team hadn’t been such a good idea.

  To be fair, Emma told herself as she stepped over a pile of sheep droppings, her diary entry for that Saturday afternoon hadn’t read ogle naked guy on top of mountain. It had said finish unpacking. Even now, there were still boxes blocking the way to the closet in her lakeside flat.

  She’d actually had her hand in one box when she’d gotten the call to “supervise” the photo shoot for the calendar. Her new boss, James Marshall, had sounded even more fraught than usual. And how could any woman refuse a man whose wife had gone into labor early?

  “Oh, James, I can hardly go along and stare at twelve naked guys,” she’d protested. “It’s strictly an all-male affair…we promised them!”

  “Emma, I wouldn’t ask you, but I’m desperate. They’re waiting for me in the delivery suite now.”

  She had a sudden vision of James, his suit trousers rolled up, wading into a birthing pool. “If you really can’t get anyone else, I—”

  “Fantastic! I knew I could rely on you. Besides, it’s only one man today—Will. The main shoot was last week, but he was away on business.”

  “Will? Will Tennant?”

  “Yes. Him. Why? Is there a problem?”

  “No. No problem at all,” she lied as her pulse accelerated. “Apart from the fact he’ll be in his birthday suit, I’m sure he’ll relish the prospect of me staring at him. Where’s it happening?”

  “At the summit cairn on top of Black Fell. Make sure you take your walking boots, and make sure they do something creative with Mr. December!”

  “Give my best wishes to your wife…” she’d begun, but the line was already dead.

  Will. Emma sighed. It would have to be him, wouldn’t it? She knew how much he hated the idea of the calendar, and she hadn’t seen him since the meeting where he’d decided, albeit reluctantly, to go ahead with it. Now she’d been sent to “supervise” him while he took his clothes off…

  Emma was nearly at the summit now. Just a few more yards and she’d be upon him. She stumbled on some loose stones before hauling herself over the last ridge as a trail of moisture trickled down the small of her back. Then she saw him. Standing behind the cairn—self-conscious and with his usual scowl, but every bit as magnificent as the view.

  Mr. December.

  One glance was enough to take in the full glory of the naked Will. Dark-brown hair tousled by the breeze, designer stubble,
and the kind of lean yet muscular body you only got from lots of healthy activity. His light golden tan, while not all over, had clearly not been acquired in Northern England. She would like to have focused on the color of his eyes. Liked to have, but currently they were concealed by a pair of wraparound shades.

  “Sorry!” she heard herself shout above the noise of the wind whistling across the fell top. “It’s Emma Tremayne. I came to help supervise the photos…but I can see I’m a bit late.” She cringed even as the words left her lips. What a stupid thing to say—and she simply had to stop staring at him.

  “It’s OK. I’m not looking,” she said, hoping that holding her hands over her eyes would make him feel more comfortable with the situation.

  It didn’t.

  A deep voice, as icy as the frost crystals on the rocks, snapped her back to reality. “You’ve seen me now, and we’re all adults, so you may as well come over here. We’ve nearly finished, haven’t we?”

  The photographer obviously knew when it was time to quit, and he began to fold up his tripod and equipment. So she’d come all this way for nothing. OK. Fine.

  Mr. December shivered and hugged himself. “Any chance whatsoever of me having my coat?” he demanded. “It’s right next to you.”

  “Well…are you sure it’s OK?”

  “Just get me my coat…please.”

  There was a note of desperation in his voice. It really was very chilly up here.

  Picking up his red high-tech jacket, she approached him, eyes firmly fixed on the rocks at her feet. The second she was within range, she held it at arm’s length. A moment later, he was standing there, almost respectable.

  “It’s safe to look now,” he said.

  Hmm…safe…not sure about that. She lifted her eyes and found they ended up somewhere about the middle of his broad chest. From behind his dark glasses, he was gazing down at her glowing cheeks with a wicked grin that did nothing to cool them down.

  “So, Emma, how did you wangle your way into being here?” he asked, a teasing note creeping into his voice. “I thought we’d all agreed that James Marshall would direct the photo shoots.”