The Christmas Angel (The McBride Series Book 1)

by Tina Radcliffe

  Indian rugs covered the polished wood floors, along with large pillows haphazardly scattered on the rugs and furniture. Every available surface was filled with stacks of books, potted plants of the crawling ivy variety, or a framed photo. Sometimes all three fought for the same space.

  Cheap tourist treasures lined an entire coffee table. Judd blew the dust off a tiny Eiffel tower standing in the center of the menagerie. He could figure out no rhyme or reason to the collection that included paper weights labeled Bali and the Virgin Islands, two leis from Hawaii, and coins from all over the world.

  Across the room, an impressive collection of water globes spanned a mantel.Flamboyant travel posters of the Caribbean islands plastered the walls. Did she dream of those places? Had she been there?

  “It’s in here. Can you help me get it out of the closet?” Samantha called out.

  Judd skirted around a large box of Christmas decorations and followed the sound of her muffled voice to a room off to the left.

  Room? It wasn’t a room. It was four walls and the biggest bed he’d ever seen in his life. There was barely enough space to walk around the monster.

  Neither queen nor king, it was the whole royal family, complete with four elaborately carved wooden posts that kissed the ceiling. An old fashioned quilt and frilly pillows were piled neatly on the massive bed. What did the woman need such a big bed for? You could get lost in a bed that size.

  For days.

  He began to back out.

  “Can you grab it?”

  Grab it? Grab what? Running his hands through his hair, he took a deep breath and entered the room again.

  She stood next to a closet door on the other side of the bed. He inched his way around the mattress. Squeezing past Samantha was another matter.

  “Uh, sorry,” she squeaked as her chin pushed against his shoulder.

  Yeah, not half as sorry as he was. He’d spent too much time with his nose to the computer grindstone, and now his dormant nerve endings were responding by firing off warning flares. He could only hope the rest of his body didn’t join in the melee.

  With his body wedged into the small space next to Samantha, he reached into the closet. A dimly lit bulb illuminated the area, which smelled of musk and vanilla. Obviously her trademark perfume. On either side of him, clothes dangled in his face. Boxes, precariously stacked on the shelves, loomed over his head.

  Taking the cot from her hands, he began to lift it clear. Resistance. He tugged. The cot broke loose, and a scrap of red silk flew past his face and landed on Samantha’s head.Samantha snatched the silk and crushed it into a wad, her face reddening.

  “Sorry.” He started to slide past her, trying desperately not to let their bodies touch. Impossible.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she murmured as they connected and her arm rubbed against chest.

  Out! He had to get out.

  Once in the living room, Judd gratefully sucked in fresh air and wiped the sweat from his face.

  Then he heard it.

  Music to his ears. The soothing sound that lulled him to sleep at night. The hum of a computer.

  Slowly rotating his neck, he inspected the room. There it was, buried under the clutter on the far wall. He removed folded dishtowels from the wireless keyboard and walked around the system, examining it from all angles.

  A hidden jewel.

  Nice, very nice. He knew only one other person with such a sweet set-up. And that was him.

  Definitely top of the line. He pulled a towel off the printer and tossed it on the chair. The brand name and model testified to the fact that it was at least as powerful and as expensive as his own. The double monitors alone were larger than most flat screen television sets.

  The government had paid for his equipment. Who paid for hers?

  Samantha McBride had a computer, all right. She had one heck of a computer. He’d been dropkicked right in the belly, and he’d never seen it coming.

  Charlie’s word’s echoed in his ears. “All the evidence points to her. Find out what’s going on.”

  “Judd?” From somewhere in the distance, he heard her voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Nice set-up,” he fairly growled.

  “Thanks, my brother—”

  Grabbing the cot, he walked out, mumbling his thanks.

  If it weren’t the middle of the night, he’d give in to the urge to stomp up the steps and throw the cot against the wall. Did it really matter? Everyone in the crazy place was awake or deaf.

  Instead, he controlled himself. Always controlled. He set up the cot and unfolded the sheets, stripped off his clothes and tossed them on a box. Then he lay down and stared at the ceiling.

  Just because the woman had a top of the line computer set-up didn’t make her a spy or a hacker or whatever Charlie thought she was.

  Or did it?

  And just because she had the face of an angel didn’t give him the right to expect, assume, or maybe just hope she was everything her smile promised.

  Who was Samantha McBride?

  He tossed and turned on the creaky cot that was far too short for his long body. Every time he moved, the scent of her reached up and whispered to him.

  The only thing he could bank on was that sleep would be elusive tonight.

  2

  Samantha dug in her pockets for her gloves. She turned her head and glanced around. Craning her neck, she looked up at the tall windows on the third floor of the brownstone.

  Judd Mason stood in window, contemplative, a cup of coffee in his hands. He wore faded jeans, low on his hips, and a white T-shirt.

  Samantha waved without thinking. He returned the greeting. The brief smile that transformed his serious face reached out to trip her heart into hammering.

  Averting her gaze, she took off in the direction of work. She kept her head down, so he didn’t see her blush again.

  The man was an enigma. One minute he growled, the next he seemed vulnerable and innocent.

  After a week, she still hadn’t figured him out, though not for lack of trying. He didn’t get mail, and he didn’t go anywhere. No visitors, except Mr. Chung. Garfield Chung joined him for coffee almost daily. Well, she liked coffee as much as the next person, but according to Mr. Chung, Judd was a coffee aficionado, creating brews from the coffees he collected in his exotic travels.

  His travels? She remembered a time when her dreams included traveling. A time when she promised herself she’d visit all the places her twin brother Kevin sent her souvenirs from. Since his death, the only place she traveled to was work.

  Earlier in the week, boxes had arrived for Judd. She’d offered to sign for them. But no, they insisted she get the man himself to sign.

  Ten boxes. The lump sum total of the man’s life? They weren’t even marked. Take that information and combine it with the fact that he had no furniture, and what did you have?

  Nothing. A big fat nothing.

  He could be a spy or a wanted felon. Or worse, some kind of serial killer. After all, why would an attractive guy like Judd choose, of his own accord, to live in this neighborhood? Quiet? She didn’t buy that. Obviously he was hiding something.

  Samantha had been raised properly by her Irish mother. “Ear-to-the-ground,” that would be her mother, Mary Margaret McBride’s advice. If Judd kept secrets, then Samantha would take extreme pleasure ferreting them out.

  It surprised her when she turned the corner and realized she’d already arrived at The Irish Pub. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes early.

  Adjusting to the dim light inside, Samantha walked a wide berth around the hanging mistletoe, dodged a low hanging tinsel garland, and headed straight for the kitchen. She pulled a forest green logo apron off the wall, grabbed her clipboard, and passed back through swinging doors out to the bar. With the edge of the apron, she mopped her forehead and then tied the fabric around her waist.

  Things were quiet this time of day. A few regulars enjoyed a late lunch at the tables scattered around the horseshoe bar.


  “Have a nice run?” her brother Michael asked.

  She reached out to tweak his red beard. “I wasn’t running, Mikey.”

  “That’s Michael to you.”

  Samantha chuckled. At six feet and five inches tall, Michael McBride was a blend of muscle-bound, over-pumped ego and sarcastic wit. He could turn on the McBride charm whenever necessary and needed frequent reminders that he was not the boss.

  “I sent Mom home with a cold.” He ducked beneath the bar and began to lift boxes onto the smooth mahogany counter.

  “Is she okay?” Samantha slid onto a stool.

  “Just a precaution. Oh, and Luke stopped by. He wants to know if you can take Danny this week-end.”

  She released a sigh.

  “Tell him no,” Michael said, tearing the top off a cardboard box.

  “I can’t do that. Luke needs a break. It’s not easy being a single dad. And if Mom’s not feeling well, then I should do it.”

  “You get to have a life, Sam. You can’t be the Band-Aid for all your brothers and sisters.” He turned to face her, his face lighting up. “In fact, I have a friend.”

  “No!” She hopped off the stool and attempted a quick retreat.

  “Sam, I didn’t even finish.”

  “No!”

  Something soft struck her head. Pulling the bar towel off, she turned and stuck her tongue out, then aimed and missed his large frame.

  Michael caught the fabric with one massive hand. “He’s loaded and drives a Benz,” he offered with what he must have thought was an enticing wiggle of his red brows.

  Samantha laughed. He looked ridiculous.

  “Mara’s brother.”

  “Mara has a brother?” Samantha said, recalling her brother’s frequent companion of late. “Surely God stopped when he reached perfection.”

  “Why is it women are always jealous of beautiful women?”

  “Did you just insult me?” She pointed a finger at her barely-older-than-her brother. “And I’m not jealous.”

  “Right. Look, if you’ll go out with us Friday, I’ll take Danny off your hands Saturday afternoon. I can take him to a ball game.”

  “You’re going to take Danny out in public? Do you think that’s wise?” She walked back over to the bar and helped him fill peanut and pretzel bowls.

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “I didn’t say he was bad. Danny simply has an overactive mind. You know as well as I do that if you turn your head one minute, he’ll be gone. I lost him for twenty minutes at the zoo last month. A nightmare experience I don’t want to ever relive.” “Found him at the monkey house right?”

  “How did you know?”

  Michael tapped his forehead with a finger. “You have to be able to think like a hyperactive, seven-year-old, genius.”

  Samantha choked on a laugh. “Like I said, how’d you know?”

  He ignored the comment and kept talking. “What do you say? An even trade?”

  She paused to consider the idea. At least if her date was Mara Bishop’s brother, she could be relatively certain he walked on two legs. The blue-blooded Bishops would insist.

  “Fine,” she breathed. “But only because I hoped to get my Christmas tree up Saturday and do a little cleaning.”

  “You? Cleaning?”

  “Don’t start. Just one more word, and you can forget about me going out with... What’s his name?” She gestured in the air with a wave of her hand.

  “Wesley. Investment banker.”

  “Great. Just great,” she muttered.

  “How about Friday night? We’ll pick you up.”

  “We can’t both take off. The back room’s rented for a Christmas party on Friday night.”

  “Sam, there is no reason why Joey and Kathleen can’t run things by themselves. They’re plenty old enough.”

  “Okay,” she said without conviction. “But pick me up here. I want to peek at the hors d’oeuvres before we leave.”

  “You mean you want to check on Joey and Kathleen before we leave.”

  She held the clipboard to her chest and turned on her heel without bothering to deny it.

  Samantha jiggled the knob. Positioning her shoulder against the door, she pushed. Nothing happened. The stupid thing was stuck. Again. She thought about ramming the wood as she’d done last week, but hesitated. If there was one thing she didn’t need, that was a repeat of last week’s humiliation. Besides, for once it was quiet in the building.

  Leaning against the frame, she dug in her purse for her phone. Midnight. She must be the only one still awake. She glanced up and down the hallway. Hard to believe only an hour ago she’d fought to stay awake while her date droned on and on about himself. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  Rule number one: Never, ever go out with anyone who has your brother’s stamp of approval. Her instincts were always right. She just couldn’t get a handle on saying no—precisely how she got herself into these messes.

  Dinner with the terminally vain Mara and her catatonic brother, Wesley, was an ordeal. She’d spent most of the evening tuned out, only to realize her agony would be prolonged with two hours of a bad French film without subtitles. Michael had the nerve to act like he understood and actually spoke French. The only language besides English that Michael McBride dared claim fluency in was Pig Latin.

  She shook her head.

  “Ovelay enchfray oviesmay, my foot.”

  “Need any help?” The sound of the now-familiar voice greeted her from the darkened stairwell.

  Judd. Leaning negligently against the banister with a cup of coffee in one hand, he stood watching her.

  She inhaled. Life would be so much simpler if he had a plastic pocket protector and tape on his glasses. But no. He had to be endearingly rumpled in jeans and a flannel shirt. She noticed for the first time that his eyes were the soft, brown color of coffee without cream.

  “You drink an awful lot of that stuff,” she said. “I can smell it brewing through the vents pretty much twenty-four seven.”

  “Drug of choice.”

  Moving slowly down the stairs to the landing, his gaze never left her. “So, you’re hanging out in the hallway talking to yourself?”

  “The door’s stuck, again,” she mumbled.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Ever since I bought the bed. It seems to have weighted down the left side of the apartment.”

  With a solemn nod, he handed Samantha his cup. Moving past her, he firmly gripped the knob and turned it while simultaneously lifting the door in its frame. The unmistakable click of the lock echoed in the empty hall as door swung open.

  “Neat trick,” she grinned, handing him his coffee.

  “Just made some Ethiopian. Want some?” he asked with a quick smile, adjusting his glasses.

  “Ethiopian?”

  “Fresh Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee.”

  “Yirgacheffe, huh?”

  He nodded. “Handpicked on a farm high in the mountains.”

  “You know that, how?”

  “Been there.”

  Samantha nodded and considered his offer. She’d probably be up all night if she drank any of his high-octane brew. The thing to do was get some sleep. She’d need sleep to keep up with her nephew, Danny, tomorrow.

  “Doesn’t all that coffee keep you awake?” she asked.

  “I do some of my best work at night.”

  Samantha opened her mouth and then closed it, pausing to reassess him. The McBride men were giant, brawny lumberjacks. Judd was tall, with nicely broad shoulders, but definitely not in the same category as her brothers. Maybe it was the wire-rimmed glasses, she decided, or the way he adjusted them with those long, tapered fingers. He had a deceptively intellectual yet vulnerable appeal. It was that appeal that worried her.

  “What is it you do?” she asked.

  “Have some Ethiopian and we can talk about it,” he replied.

  No. Just say no.

  “Sure.” The words were out of her
mouth before her brain registered what was going on.

  Judd’s brows lifted. “I would’ve bet money you were going to say no.”

  “Me too,” she muttered.

  He shot her a quizzical look before starting up the stairs.

  Samantha followed, lecturing herself to concentrate on the threadbare stairwell carpet and not on Judd’s softly faded jeans.

  She had a weakness for guys with great back pockets.

  He pushed open the door and stood politely waiting for her to enter.

  Samantha hesitated for a moment before kicking herself. What was she thinking? She was a woman on a mission. This presented the perfect opportunity to see what Judd was up to. Not only that, but she truly loved this apartment. If she could afford it, she would have grabbed it long ago.

  She inhaled deeply. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the fresh paint smell hanging in the air.

  Giddy with resolve, she stepped inside. This was the only apartment on the third floor, and it was twice the size of hers.

  The sound of her booted footsteps echoed on the polished wood floor as she trailed behind Judd. Tall, unadorned transom windows stole her attention. Beautiful.

  Neatly stacked yet unopened shipping crates filled the space to the left of the windows. Across from them, an array of high-tech computer equipment was spread over a utility table. Ignoring the equipment, she stepped toward the boxes, her fingers curling open and then closed with piqued curiosity.

  “You coming?” Judd called.

  “Right behind you,” she said, proceeding reluctantly into the kitchen area as the strains of smooth, soft jazz drifted around her.

  Except for a gleaming, stainless steel espresso maker sitting regally on the granite counter, this room was also empty. Samantha narrowed her eyes, imagining a black, wrought iron bistro table with chairs in the corner. What about a cute black and white print cushion in each chair, and a single Gerbera daisy in a small vase on the table?

  “What are you looking at?” Judd asked.

  She whirled around. “Nothing.”

  He bent over to inspect the contents of a stainless steel carafe sitting next to the machine.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said.