“I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I know for a fact that I’ll be staying here long enough to celebrate my birthday.”
“Okay, there is something you’re not telling me. Spit it out.”
“What makes you think that?” Hannah asked, her voice radiating the joy that suffused her entire being.
“Come on, Hannah. How long have we known each other?”
“I can’t remember. Long enough.”
“Well, if you really want to know, it’s been seven years, three months, and two days. That is how long we’ve known one another. Long enough for me to know you’re keeping something from me. Now spit it out.”
Hannah took a deep breath, wrapped her free arm around Liam’s waist, and whispered into the phone, “I think I’ve met the man of my dreams.”
She looked up at Liam. He whispered in her ear, “And I know I’ve met the woman of my dreams.”
“I can’t hear you, speak a little louder,” Camden said.
“I am only going to say this once more, then I am going to hang up because I have been invited for a midnight stroll through the snow with the man of my dreams!”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, Camden. I have never been this serious in my life. One more time. Liam McConnell, the security dude I told you about, the one with the Learjet. He is the man of my dreams, and I am going to hang up now so I can go on that stroll. Good night, Camden.”
“ ’Night, Hannah. And hey, congratulations.”
Hannah pushed the END button on her phone, then turned to the man of her dreams.
“Are you ready to take that stroll now? I think I’ve got everything that needs to be under control controlled.”
“Let’s go, Hannah Ray. I’ve waited for this moment for a lifetime,” Liam said, his voice filled with love.
“Ditto, Liam. Ditto.”
Together, hand in hand, they strolled down the snowy path, knowing that this was just the beginning.
White Hot Christmas
NANCY BUSH
Chapter 1
Christmas . . .
It was less than a week away and I wasn’t ready for it.
About a month ago, my boss and mentor, Dwayne Durbin, had called me and said he was moving his investigation business from his cabana on Lakewood Bay to an office on B Street in the city proper. I was initially resistant. I mean, first of all, it was almost Christmas. Second, I like Dwayne’s cabana. At one time, he’d tossed out the idea that we could use his attic as an office, and I should have said, “Great idea,” and just gone with it, but instead I’d complained about its steeply gabled roof, seeing myself smacking my head into the rafters time and again, so that idea tanked. Last, I was afraid that his relocation meant he was jettisoning me, his almost partner, though I’d been wrong about that.
But back to Christmas . . . It was coming at us with the speed of a freight train. Though I’m not a holiday traditionalist with the need to throw up scads of decorations and plan parties and dinners and family get-togethers and buy copious amounts of presents for all and sundry, the upcoming holiday and the weather report of rain, freezing rain, and then snow, diminished any interest I might have had in helping Dwayne move. He had to offer me my own office before I perked up, a small one across the short hall from the bathroom, while he took the main space. Then, finally, he’d tossed out the pièce de résistance: The new offices shared a common wall with a wine bar that had just opened.
I can throw away my reservations and scruples pretty fast with the right incentive. Wine . . . right next door? I was in. Dwayne seemed to want to stick with me, though I’d barely cut my teeth as a private investigator, so if he’s game, I was, too.
Now I sat down at my desk, which I’d set up to face the door. I happily swiveled my chair with one foot. This was all right. I’d added a skinny credenza on the back wall, which sat beneath a high, narrow window. The window faced the front of the building, and I could see outside each time I walked in the door, though from the outside you couldn’t see much more than my office ceiling. Above the credenza was a four-prong electrical outlet for the charging of myriad electronic devices. Dwayne had asked for it to be moved from its original place down by the floor, as he had for the outlet in the main office, too. It was almost too good. We’d been working out of his living room since our partnership began, and this was like, real. My cell phone was currently charging away on the credenza, and I’d propped my new laptop on my desk.
I touched a key on the laptop. I have a love/hate relationship with it: I love that it’s new, I hate pretty much everything else about it. There’s a steep learning curve, apparently, one I’m dragging myself up inch by inch. Computers try my limited patience. There’s only one answer they’ll accept or they just damn well won’t work. If you don’t know that answer, you’re toast. I’m sure there’s a computer voice out there somewhere laughing her ass off whenever I’m screaming in frustration. I’ve never resorted to actually hurling a laptop across the room or attacking it in some way, but, as they say, there’s always a first time. I still don’t own a tablet for the very reason that they’re light enough to really launch. I’m too cheap to buy one, anyway.
Outside my window, I heard a group of kids strolling along singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of their lungs. Their voices weren’t all that bad, but the song made my mind wander to the holidays ahead. I’m not sure what I think about Christmas as a whole. I like some of it, but all the folderol can sometimes give me the heebie-jeebies. Actually, too much of anything can do that to me. I have a very limited tolerance. When I’m getting close to the edge, like after being overloaded with Christmas commercialism and forced gaiety, it’s like closing in on an electric fence. You can sense it the millisecond before you stumble into it, but by then it’s too late and you’re suddenly screaming with pain.
Luckily, thus far I’d managed to keep from running into the electric fence this holiday season. My mother, who lives in Southern California, has made plans with friends this year, so I’ve been spared a trip south, and my brother, who’d recently broken up with his fiancée and is currently circling my friend, Cynthia, told me he has no interest in getting together for the holidays unless he brings Cynthia. Since I’m still not sure how I feel about them being together, I’ve steered clear of any commitments. Booth had been engaged to Sharona before their breakup and I still picture them together. This thing with Cynthia appears to be a rebound, and I just see problems ahead.
I shut down my laptop and looked fondly at the brass nameplate sitting on my desk, which read JANE KELLY, INVESTIGATOR. It was an office-warming gift from Dwayne. I’m struggling not to make too much of that. Yes, I suffer from a simmering desire to jump into a hot and wild affair with Dwayne, but I tell myself daily to leave him alone. We’re friends. We’ve been friends awhile. Yes, we’ve shared a kiss or two, and yes, I have a tendency to run those memories around my brain like a needle on a broken record, but I know better. Deep down, I know better. If I let his slow-talkin’, slow-walkin’ cowboy style and his blue eyes, dry wit and humor get to me, it will kill our working relationship. Besides, there are a lot of men out there I could date, right? About any of them would be a better choice than Dwayne. And Dwayne has backed away from me as well, so maybe we both know it’s better to keep things as they are and not take them any further. At least that’s what I keep telling myself . . . every minute of every day.
I have no idea what Dwayne’s doing for Christmas, and I’m not going to care because whatever his plans may be, it’s best if I’m not invited. Too much mistletoe around. Too many chances to wake up in the morning after a whole lot of mistakes. My plan is to stay home this season and celebrate Christmas and New Year’s solely with my newly adopted pug, The Binkster.
Romantically speaking, if self-preservation is the name of the game, put me in, coach, I’m ready to play.
I went to the door and peered into the main room toward Dwayne’s desk, which netted me a backside view of Dwayne
bending over a file drawer. I took a moment too long eyeing those jeans-clad legs, lean hips and butt, so I ducked back into my office and gave myself another stern talking-to.
Staying out of sight, I called, “How’s the wireless setup coming?”
“Coming.”
“Gonna be done soon?”
“Mmm . . . yeah . . .” he murmured distractedly.
I peeked out again and down the short hall that led to the back door. It opens onto an alley, the parking lot and the rear entrance to the wine bar. I’d been about to suggest Dwayne and I close up shop and imbibe—another bad idea, but apparently I was listening to the devil on my shoulder, not the angel—but it was clear Dwayne was still engrossed in getting us up and running and it would be a while longer. Deciding I was being unreasonably chicken, I stepped out of my office again in time to see Dwayne run his hand down his right thigh in an absentminded gesture that was becoming habit. He was still recovering from the broken leg he’d received at the end of the summer, the result of one of the hazards of our job. Certain people just really don’t like it when we probe into their lives and reveal secrets they’d rather not have exposed, and one such person ran Dwayne down in a vehicle, pinning him against a tree and breaking his leg in the process.
But he’s better now. Lots better. In fact, most of the time, you’d never even know he’d been injured by the way he moves around now.
He’d been leaning over the back of his desk, but, as if feeling my eyes on him, he glanced back at me, his hair falling in his eyes. “The modem’s a lemon.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s not working.”
Not exactly what I was looking for. “Hmmm . . . I’m impressed you already know it’s the equipment. I would’ve blamed it on myself.” I walked toward him and saw a cellophane-wrapped packet of mistletoe atop his desk. “What’s this?”
He was ripping wires out of the back of his laptop, which was also sitting on his desk. Glancing at the packet I now held in my hands, he said, “Mistletoe.”
“I got that. Where did it come from?”
“A tree, probably. We used to shoot it out of oak trees back home.”
“Shoot it, with a rifle?”
“Yup. Some of it was pretty high up.”
Knowing he was being deliberately obtuse, I decided to be ornery myself. “You know mistletoe’s a parasite. Lives off a host.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Enough of this stuff can kill a tree. Sucks the life right out of it.”
“Never known it to kill a tree.”
“Can happen,” I warned. “You gotta look out for parasites.” When he didn’t respond, I asked again, “So, was this a gift or something?”
“I bought it so that we could stick it over the door and see what happens between us.”
My mouth dropped open, but then I saw his amused sideways glance and pulled back. Though Dwayne and I have had our romantic moments, I’ve managed to keep from going to bed with him thus far. We’ve been skirting this issue in recent months, acting like we both have amnesia about the kisses . . . a few of them pretty deep kisses. Tacitly, we’ve both decided to keep our relationship platonic. That’s why I was surprised he was even teasing about it. It rattled me more than I cared to admit, but I would rather die that let him know, so I said, “Let’s get right on that.”
He grinned at me, and I had to look away or risk blowing everything. “When I went to buy some coffee, they were handing them out at John’s Market. I’m not trying to kiss you again.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Unless you want me to kiss you.”
“Nope. Uh-uh. That is not who we are.” I cleared my throat. “I’m ready to get my drink on, so I’m heading to the wine bar.”
“Should I join you?”
He’d straightened and was waiting for my response. Of course I wanted him to come, but I knew it was dangerous. We’d just opened an office together, and it was better to keep things at the friendship level. And anyway, I didn’t want to admit that I had a thing for him. A small thing, but nevertheless a thing. What his feelings are for me is harder to ascertain. If I really push things, Dwayne will capitulate. After all, there was that time when he pressed me against the wall.... But he doesn’t seem all that eager to go down that road again, either. We both know it would be a bad idea.
But then, I’ve never professed to be someone who’s afraid of bad ideas.
With an effort, I pulled back from the precipice. “Nah, go ahead and finish whatever you’re doing.”
I went back to my office in search of my ski jacket, which I plucked from the back of my chair, and my wallet, which I zipped into the right jacket pocket. It was cold outside and destined to get colder. I’d never gotten the hang of using a purse very well, but I’ve given up entirely during working hours; too many times I’ve been forced to break and run, and I can’t have a purse flopping alongside me when that happens.
It was looking like a solo trip to the wine bar. While drinking alone might not be the ideal social plan, it was better than not drinking at all. Before I left, I unzipped my pocket and took out my wallet, examining its contents. A trip to the ATM looked imminent. I’m notoriously cheap and had half hoped I could rely on Dwayne to buy me a glass of cheer, but that was not going to happen, and maybe it was just as well. I was definitely feeling kind of unsettled where Dwayne was concerned.
Donning my coat, I debated whether to head out to my Volvo wagon and drive the ten blocks to the ATM or hoof it and keep my parking spot. The back lot wasn’t large, and I could see we were all going to be highly competitive over the spots. I’d just decided to walk and was heading out the back when I heard the front door open and Dwayne say, “Good afternoon,” in his Texas drawl. Most times, you can’t hear the Texas, as he’s been an Oregonian since he was a teenager, maybe before, but he sure as hell can pull it out when it suits him. I pictured him thrusting out a hand and giving the newcomer his slow smile, while they took in his somewhat unkempt, longish blond hair and sexy, cowboy thing. I felt a little flutter of jealousy that royally pissed me off at myself. I’ve pretty much blown every romantic relationship I’ve ever had, and I’m not going to do it with Dwayne.
But it was a male voice that answered Dwayne, not a female one, and then I was bowled over when I heard him ask, “Is Jane Kelly here?”
My first thought was to feel vastly important. First my own office, and now someone coming to the agency to ask for me? Well, la-di-da. Dwayne’s been telling me and telling me that I have all the makings of a good private investigator, but I’ve been very leery about believing in what I perceive to be his bullshit. I’m afraid I won’t live up to the hype, and though Dwayne’s the biggest reason I’m in this job, let’s be honest: This line of work’s dangerous. Sure, I like to pry—basic Nosiness R Us—but getting myself killed or maimed or taken hostage or God knows whatever other terrible thing might happen when you poke snakes, which is what we do, does occasionally give me pause.
I turned around and retraced my steps to give the newcomer a good hard look. He gazed back at me, and I got the sense that I knew him, but I didn’t know from where. He was about my age, somewhere in his early thirties, with trimmed brown hair and a lean build. He wore a green golf shirt teamed with a pair of khakis, the attire that’s just a level or two under business casual. I half expected him to ask me directions to Lake Chinook Country Club until I noticed the anxiousness around his eyes.
“Jane!” he said in relief, then rushed over and grabbed me in a bear hug. I slid my eyes toward Dwayne, who gave me the who’s-that? look, but I spread my hands and shook my head.
“Well, hi,” I responded.
“You don’t remember me?” He pulled back in disbelief, and I got a good close look at him.
Recognition slowly surfaced. “Uh . . . James . . . ?”
For an answer, he hugged me again, even tighter. “Long time no see. My God, it feels like a lifetime ago.”
Ja
mes Wexford. His full name came back to me. He and I had been classmates at Braxton High in Los Angeles. We weren’t great friends, didn’t even run in the same circles, so I was a little surprised by his enthusiasm. I’d left LA years earlier, moved to Oregon and had pretty much dropped thoughts of Jane Kelly, The Early Years, from my mind, and James just wasn’t a big part of my memory bank anyway. However, his high-school girlfriend had made a big impression on me. Darcy Collier, I recalled with a sort of mental ugh. A real pain in the ass. Precocious and smart, Darcy had been both a brownnoser and a cause joiner, enough to make me run for the hills. She’d also always wanted to be my bestest friend for reasons still unknown, and, following my usual pattern when people alarm me, I did my damnedest to steer clear of her. My recollection of her is mostly her bubbling over with loud eagerness and me sidling away whenever I happened to be anywhere in her vicinity.
“You remember Darcy,” James said now, as he released me.
Uh-oh. Taking a step back, I tried to sound casual. “You dated in high school, right?”
“Did you know we got married?”
“No, I sure didn’t.”
“We moved to Portland a few years back, probably about the same time you did, from what I understand.” He looked around and asked, “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”
Dwayne, who’d been watching our exchange with interest, gestured toward his desk. “Help yourself. Jane’s got another chair in her office. I gotta head out anyway.”
“You’re leaving?” I asked him sharply. “You’re . . . you’re finished setting up?” He was being way too magnanimous. I didn’t want him running out on me and he knew it.
“Got a few things to pick up,” he said.
“What about the wine bar?” I was seriously trying to hint that I didn’t want him to leave, but he just furrowed his brow.
When the Snow Falls Page 9