The Sheikh's First Christmas - A Warm and Cozy Christmas Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  THE SHEIKH’S FIRST CHRISTMAS

  By Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2015 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Table Of Contents:

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ONE

  Christmas in Seattle was typically a cold, rainy affair, with gray skies and muddy streets that would never feature on a holiday card or storefront display. This year was no exception. It was two days before Christmas, and if you didn't have much holiday cheer of your own, the scenery and weather were not about to inspire it. I had none, so I frowned as I switched my car radio between stations, looking for any music that wasn't about warm hearths and trees all aglow. As I drove away from town and toward the high-end suburbs, I passed manicured yards decorated with glowing lights, light posts wrapped in pine boughs and red bows, nativities and reindeer and evergreen wreaths. Christmas was everywhere.

  "Soon," I murmured. "Soon, all this junk will be gone."

  I heard the bitterness in my voice and sighed. I hadn't always been this tired, irritated person, eager for the holiday season to hurry up and be done. I'd loved Christmas growing up. I'd been raised by a single mom, and we'd never had much, but she'd always managed to make the holiday special for us. A stocking full of sweets, a special dinner, a treasured gift or two -- it might not have been impressive to kids who'd grown up in wealthier families, but, for my sister and me, it had been utter magic.

  I said a silent prayer for a different kind of magic as I parked my car, a battered old Ford. I chose a spot at the back of a little-used alley that ran behind a bank and a drug store, both closed at this time of night. There was little foot traffic through here, and even less chance that one of the homeless people or shift workers who passed through would notice or remember my unremarkable car. I killed the engine and jammed the keys into the pocket of my jeans. I got out of the car, settling my backpack on my shoulders as I did.

  It took almost twenty minutes to walk from the commercial district to the upper-class neighborhood that had been my favorite for the past few months. Twenty minutes wasn't long enough for me to quiet the fluttering in my belly. I knew there was no real reason to be afraid. I'd prepared meticulously, checking the house I'd chosen again and again over the last week. The work I did was risky, but I always did everything I could to make that risk as small as possible. And, of course, I always made sure the risk was worth it.

  My first visit had told me that there were things inside worth stealing. It wasn't just the size of the house, which would be more correctly described as a mansion—hell, add a few turrets and a moat, and the place was a castle. I liked more than the size of this one, though. It was small details that told me the occupants appreciated nice things, expensive things. The curtains visible through the windows were heavy, elaborately-woven tapestries, the kind of custom dressings that cost tens of thousands of dollars. Through the half-moon window in the front double doors, I could make out a brass and crystal chandelier that I was sure cost more than I'd ever earned in a year. Even the planters on the front porch, some empty, their summer flowers dead and gone; some displaying round, glossy-leaved bushes, looked high-end. There was no question of coming away from this house with a valuable haul.

  Of course, a fancy home full of pricey knick-knacks wasn't all I looked for when I chose a target. All the valuables in the world are worthless unless you can get in and out without getting caught. The sprawling mansion on Bradford Lane was protected by only the most perfunctory security system, an outdated model that did little more than a thumb lock when it came to keeping out an experienced thief. I spotted the sticker on my first visit to the place and could hardly believe my luck. I knew this system inside and out, and had gotten past it easily a half dozen times before. It was one of the few systems today that still relied on a landline phone connection; cut the connection, and the system died with it. And cutting the connection would be easy, because this house had an advantage that I simply couldn't pass up: it was empty.

  It wasn't unusual for houses in this neighborhood to be empty at this time of year. Seattle was wet and overcast for most of the year, but it was particularly dismal in winter. Wealthy people often chose to spend the colder months elsewhere, in places where the air was still warm and the sun shone. I guessed this is what the owners of my target had done, speculating that they probably had six house-castles like this, all over the world, to suit whatever mood they happened to wake in. There were cars parked in the massive garage, but rich people always had extras. I'd set a stick against the base of the garage door to check whether anybody came or went, and the stick hadn't moved all week. The curtains inside the windows hadn't opened, I'd neither seen nor heard a soul around the place, and no mail had been delivered, either—a sure sign that the occupants had stopped delivery while they relaxed on some sunny beach in Florida or Spain.

  Despite my attempts to imagine them as rude, careless aristocrats, I felt a pang of guilt as I imagined the homeowners. I pushed it back hard. I wouldn't take much, I told myself, just enough to keep my lights on and my rent paid, and to cover my sister, Marion's, spring tuition. More likely than not, they wouldn't even miss the handful of trinkets I took from them. And even if they did, I needed them more than they did.

  It'll just give them an excuse to go shopping. Rich people love to shop.

  Arriving at the front of the house, I walked up to it without hesitation. This was important—no one noticed you if you acted as though you belonged. I knew that some thieves used the tactic of a workman's uniform and clipboard to blend in. I'd done that a couple of times, at the beginning, but I never felt that it worked for me the way it did for older, male burglars. I was too obviously female, too young and too petite to pass for a laborer. I'd decided instead to act as though I was a college student, perhaps a grown child of the homeowners, coming home late from a party. When I was preparing for a job, I put my long, blonde hair into a ponytail, slipped on a university sweatshirt (a good school, a place only the children of wealthy parents could afford to study), and strapped on an empty backpack. The backpack was a particularly inspired choice, since it gave me a way to carry out stolen items without notice.

  I'd never been caught, or even questioned. Sometimes, the neighbors even waved at me and called "hello." Later, once the burglary was discovered, they might be able to tell the police abo
ut the woman they saw, but they would never have a better description than young, pretty and blonde. I disguised my eyes with sunglasses and never stuck around long enough for them to get more than a quick glance at me. I'd burgled more than a dozen houses in this way. It was almost too easy.

  Of course, I was always a little afraid. The thing about getting caught is that it only has to happen once.

  I silenced that fear as I strode up the front walk toward the mansion. I didn't go to the front door, choosing instead to circle around to the back of the house. A high privacy hedge protected the back yard from view and would give me cover while I worked on the security system.

  "There we go," I murmured, as I spotted the utility box attached to a rear brick wall of the structure. It only took a moment to figure out which cable was the phone line. I pulled a pair of utility snips out of my pocket and swiftly cut the line.

  Now that I knew my intrusion wouldn't draw the police with a silent alarm, I stepped back from the house, trying to decide how I'd get in. I considered the patio doors, or perhaps the cellar entrance. I wasn't an expert lock pick, but I'd been working at it, and I could probably get one of the doors open. Still, if I could find an easier way, I would.

  I looked up at the second story and saw that there was a window open, just an inch or two. I frowned. Most people closed all their windows before heading out of town, but I was sure that the place was empty. I stood on the lawn for a few moments, deliberating. I finally decided to accept the homeowner's lapse in attention for the gift that it was and go in through the upstairs window. It wasn't standard practice, but it wouldn't be the first time I'd found a multimillion dollar mansion with open windows or unlocked doors. Complacence is a thief's best friend.

  There was a sturdy iron terrace on part of the back wall, a second piece of luck that almost made me want to whistle "Deck the Halls." I scaled the terrace easily, climbing from there onto a lower portion of slanting rooftop beneath the open window.

  When I got to the window, rather than opening it immediately, I waited, listening. I held perfectly still, straining to detect the sound of a voice, a television, a washing machine, anything that would signal I'd been wrong about the place being empty. I crouched in place, forcing myself to keep still and wait. Three minutes ticked by, then five. It was dark enough that I didn't need to worry too much about anyone spotting me up here, but my position was still too exposed for my comfort. When almost ten minutes had passed I decided it was long enough. I hadn't heard a sound from inside the house. I lifted the window and slipped inside.

  Once inside, I located the small flashlight in the side pocket of my backpack. I closed the drapes over the window I'd just come through before switching it on.

  I was in a bedroom, a large one. I ran my beam over the perimeter of the room, and over the furniture. The bed and dressers were all heavy wooden pieces, stained dark and polished glossy. I immediately spotted silver picture frames, carved statues, and a mahogany box that likely held jewelry. Something else caught my eye, too, something wrong. The massive four-poster bed had been left unmade—not how the one per cent generally left their homes when they were away for an extended period of time.

  I guess money's no guarantee that someone's not a slob, I reasoned, not quite convincing myself. I stepped closer to one of the dressers and saw that there was a thin film of dust on its wooden surface. See? No one is here. Stop freaking yourself out and get to work.

  I couldn't shake my uneasiness, though, imagining the homeowner out of bed for a drink of water. Coming back, finding me here. He'd call the police, and they come quick to this neighborhood. Why did I park the car so far away?

  Stop it. Stop this right now.

  I curled my fists into tight balls, counted slowly to ten, and forced them to relax open.

  You did the work. You are careful, and you are correct. The house is empty. Now get to work.

  Calmer now, I nonetheless decided to make this one as quick as possible. I went for the jewelry box first. When you're committing a burglary with only a backpack, it's essential to pick items that are expensive, but small. I opened the box and was disappointed to find it mostly empty. It contained only a men's wristwatch. Holding it in the beam of my flashlight, I smiled. It was gold, Cartier, and almost certainly the real thing. I hadn't seen very many of these, but I guessed that the watch would have sold for about $45,000 new. Of course, I wouldn't get that much for it, but it'd easily pay for Marion's tuition for a semester, even longer.

  And a nice dinner for me, maybe a massage, a bottle of wine...

  I slipped the watch into my backpack and zipped it up.

  I considered the other items on the dressers and shelves. There were some wooden carved figurines, beautiful, but in an abstract way. I reached out to pick up the closest one, then changed my mind. They would be hard to fence; art always was. I'd get back only a small fraction of their value, and I'd be at huge risk of having the statues tracked back to me once the owners reported the burglary. More than that, though, the statues were exactly the kind of items that I didn't steal, for the sake of my own conscience. They had sentimental value and the owner would certainly miss them. I only stole replaceable things if I could help it. For now, the watch would be enough—I still had the rest of the house to search.

  Or, I could go now.

  I glanced at the window. If I left now, I reasoned, this job would still be a success. I still had that feeling, that sense that something about this place wasn't quite right. Some part of me had wanted to go since I'd seen the open window, and the longer I was inside this house, the louder that part got.

  I tried to talk myself down again.

  You're being stupid. Take your time and do this right. A couple more jewelry boxes, and you won't have to steal for another year.

  That thought pulled me away from the window and out of the bedroom to check out the rest of the house. As I went, I accidentally brushed against a low bookshelf, knocking a thick, hardcover volume to the floor. The muffled thump seemed as loud as a gunshot in the silence of the bedroom. I cursed silently and froze, bracing myself for... what? No neighbor was going to hear a book hitting the carpeted floor. I forced myself to take a deep breath and keep going.

  I made my way down the dark hallway, keeping my hand over the flashlight beam so it cast only as much light as I absolutely needed in order to find my way. There weren't many things more suspicious than flashlight beams spotted through the window of your neighbor's supposedly vacant home. I had no intention of being caught because of such a foolish mistake.

  I found another bedroom, but after a quick search I guessed it was a spare room with nothing worth taking. The bed was neatly made, but there were only a few pieces of furniture in the room, and no personal items. The dresser drawers were empty. The lamps were gorgeous designer pieces, but I couldn't carry out a lamp in my backpack. I moved on.

  I opened a door at the end of the hallway and was surprised to find a short flight of narrow metal stairs on the other side. Maybe an attic, or some kind of storage room? I decided to check it out.

  At the top of the stairs was another door, standing open. It was heavier than the bedroom doors, made of some kind of reinforced metal. I stepped inside, even as the uneasy part of me told me to turn around and go, now.

  I swept the beam of the flashlight in an arc around the room. It was windowless and almost entirely empty. There was a chair, a small cot, and a miniature refrigerator clustered together in one corner. The only other item in the room was a black case in the corner opposite the cot. It was made of thick plastic, the size of a large suitcase, with latches on all sides holding it closed. I recognized the brand stamped onto the plastic from other jobs, where I'd found expensive cameras, binoculars, and other delicate items that needed protecting in the same kind of case.

  Cameras were easy to sell, and they fit into backpacks. So were binoculars, and lots of other things someone might keep in a case like that. I hurried to the case and started to open it, st
ruggling a bit with the latches. After finally getting the last latch to pop open, I opened the case and shined my flashlight on what was inside.

  "What the hell?" I murmured.

  The interior was padded with foam, with openings cut to fit the items inside. That was normal enough, but the items themselves, together, made no sense.

  The first was a black metal handgun. This one surprised me the least. I found a lot of weapons in the houses I burgled. I never took them, though. To fence a gun, you had to get rid of the serial number, unless you wanted someone to trace it back to the owner, who could then trace it from the pawn shop and, ultimately, to the thief. Plus, guns would only end up on the street, and despite my illegal occupation, I went to great efforts to avoid association with the wider criminal community. It seemed to me that getting more deeply connected with other criminals would change stealing from something I did to something I was. And, anyway, guns made me nervous. Guns were how simple break-ins went wrong; how jobs went out of control, and people got hurt. I left the gun where it was.

  The next item was another case, a small, red one. A quick examination told me that it was a first-aid kit, and not the kind you'd find in a soccer mom's trunk. I pulled it out and popped it open. It had all the things you'd expect—bandages, burn cream, gauze—and a lot of more serious medical supplies, too. There were suture kits, bottles of antibiotics and narcotic pain medications, tourniquets, and many other items I couldn't identify. I began to wonder if my homeowner was one of those people obsessed with preparing for the apocalypse, someone who'd leave an upstairs bedroom window open because they worried more about a zombie invasion than an opportunistic thief; someone who didn't worry about making the beds because he had bigger things, like the collapse of society, on his mind. Whatever their reasons, I wasn't interested in taking the medical kit. I put it back where I'd found it.