Christmas Sanctuary

by Lauren Hawkeye

  “And y’all should know. I’ve never liked chocolate.”

  Chapter 3

  From above, Salt Spring Island resembled three chunks of land that some unseen hand had smooshed together, a solid-looking mass furred by pine trees covered in snow.

  So much snow.

  Thanks to the modern wonder that was social media, Emma had quickly tracked her father to the tiny Canadian island off the coast of Vancouver. There had been no denying that the man in the Facebook photos was the right Michael Nagorski. In fact, she’d gotten quite a jolt when she’d first clicked on his profile.

  Emma looked nothing like her mother, who was of average height, with curves that she controlled carefully through strict diet and rigorous exercise. She had sleek dark hair that always made her look like she’d come straight from the beauty salon.

  Emma, on the other hand? Emma was tall and slender, like she’d never quite gotten over the gawky phase of adolescence. Her hair was so blond it was nearly white, like corn silk, and her eyes, set in a pale ivory face, were the light-blue of ice. Next to her mother, she’d always felt washed-out, a photocopy that didn’t quite capture the detail of the original.

  Looking at the photo of Michael Nagorski, Emma finally understood where her unusual coloring had come from. The man didn’t have many pictures uploaded, and those he did were all candid, preventing her from getting a clear look at his face, but there were things that leapt right off the screen—the sunshine-colored hair, the ghost-white skin, often reddened with a sunburn since he clearly didn’t share Emma’s affection for SPF 50.

  Yes, she believed that he was her father. And that was why, two and a half weeks before Christmas, she was one of five passengers seated in a tiny Cessna 208 seaplane, clutching her stomach to keep herself from heaving as the pilot landed on the rollicking waves and maneuvered the plane into the dock.

  When she finally set foot onto the dock’s wooden planks, she gulped in the brisk air, and her stomach settled slightly. With sweat drying on her brow and one arm wrapped around her waist against the cold, she grabbed for the handle of her practical brown suitcase and hurried toward one of two taxis that waited by the small building at the end of the dock. Goose bumps pricked her arms as the light wind bit through her thick sweater.

  She’d read up on the local weather before she’d left Georgia. The temperatures here were about half of what they were back home, but all of her research indicated that the Vancouver area was mild compared to some regions of Canada. Being here now, with dampness hanging over the frigid air, heavy as wet wool, she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to be touring anywhere else in the large country anytime soon.

  The taxi driver shoved Emma’s suitcase into the trunk and she sighed with relief as she scrabbled to get into the backseat, where the dry blast of warmth from the heater chased the chill from her skin. A faded Santa Claus ornament hung from the rearview mirror, making her grin. Pulling out her phone, she read off an address, then settled back in the seat to catch her breath.

  She was really here. She’d really done it. She’d called off the wedding, and she’d gone against her mother’s orders to leave well enough alone.

  She was going to meet her birth father.

  Outside the window, the greenery was a snow-laden blur as the taxi headed inland. Emma couldn’t focus on it with the nerves that were suddenly doing a tap dance in her belly.

  What would this man who had supplied half of her genetic code be like?

  It was a curious thing, discovering that what she’d believed all her life had been a lie. She’d never known Sawyer Kelly, the man her mother had created as her father figure, so she’d never loved him, not exactly. Still, the loss of that ideal hurt, or maybe it was more that it had turned her life upside down when she thought her path was finally set.

  She knew half of her story, but the rest was unwritten. Or rather, it was written, she just couldn’t read the pages. She knew that she looked like him…Michael…her father…what was she supposed to call him? Yes, she looked like him, but she didn’t know anything else. His Facebook profile had helped her track him to an art gallery in Vancouver and, from there, his studio on this small island. So she knew her father was an artist whose focus was sculpture, but until she met him, what meaning did a fact like that have?

  “This is it.” The driver, a man with his plaid sleeves rolled up like it was the middle of summer, stopped the taxi in front of what appeared to be a shabby double garage, its cornflower-blue paint faded and even peeling in some places. One of the doors was open, and Emma could see sparks coming from inside.

  Was her father in there right now, working on one of his pieces? Would he be happy to see her? Angry? Shocked? How would she feel in return—what would replace this gnawing anxiety that she couldn’t seem to shake?

  She paid the driver, looking closely at the change he gave her in return, certain he was shorting her because it was all coins, but apparently in Canada there were no one- or two-dollar bills. It only enhanced the sensation that she was Alice, steps away from falling down the rabbit hole.

  The snow in the driveway was a milky blanket, untouched until she stepped gingerly forward, wary of ice beneath her ankle boots. It was becoming increasingly clear to her by the second that these boots were inappropriate for the weather. Behind her she tugged her suitcase, which left stripes from the wheel tracks in the snow.

  This was it. She’d literally left prints here—there was no leaving and pretending that none of this had ever happened. Sucking in a deep breath, she looked up, studying the string of Christmas lights draped crookedly from the roof. The string alternated red and green, except for a swatch by the open door, where two reds stood beside each other. The change in sequence caught her eye and held it, and her fingers twitched with the need to pull the string of lights down and fix it.

  Get a grip, Emma. They’re Christmas lights. Not a big deal. They don’t have to be perfect.

  Except, up until a few days ago, she’d lived with the notion that that was exactly how her life was supposed to be—perfect. Anything that marred that image was cause for upset.

  She didn’t want to be the person who had to fix the pattern in a string of stupid Christmas lights to feel comfortable or even happy. The thought spurred her forward, the sound of her steps muffled by the white carpet underfoot.

  The sound started as a quiet, discordant buzz, and by the time she stood in the open door it had intensified to something that sounded like bacon sizzling in a frying pan. The garage was of an average size, but crowded with what at first glance looked like junk but on closer inspection proved to be scrap metal and tools. There was so much clutter that it almost blocked any sign of life, but from the corner came those sparks that Emma had first seen from the end of the driveway.

  Was that her father?

  “Hello?” The crackling noise drowned her out, so she slowly skirted a pile of jagged metal. On the other side, bent over a workbench, was a tall, sweaty man. Dressed in ripped jeans and a filthy white undershirt, he wore a visor that obscured his face, but even if she hadn’t been able to see a shock of chestnut hair, she would have known that this wasn’t her father.

  Have mercy. Setting aside his—was that a welding torch?—the man straightened, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms out over his head as he studied the thing he’d been working on—a sculpture. The movement caused the fitted cotton of his shirt to rise up, giving Emma a glimpse of a rock-solid abdomen, and she was pretty sure that her mouth actually watered.

  Have mercy was right. Just looking at him, she had to stomp down the urge to go run her hands over the exposed skin. The need shocked her, because she’d never felt that kind of raw attraction for Matthew—Matthew, the man she’d been about to marry.

  This man was a stranger—one whose face she still hadn’t seen—and he was in her father’s studio. Her father didn’t seem to be anywhere around.

  So who the heck was this guy?

  Chapter 4

>   Nick wasn’t sure how he knew someone was there, but something made him look away from his work. Standing not five feet away from his worktable was a leggy blonde dressed in fitted black pants and a thick pale-pink sweater. Her hair, a startling shade of white-blond, was pulled back neatly in a ponytail, and her arms were tightly crossed in an obvious attempt to ward off the cold that Nick didn’t feel when he was working.

  Annoyed at the interruption, he pushed his visor up off of his face. The woman’s lips formed a soft O as she made a breathy little sound that caught his attention.

  “Like what you see?” He grinned as his sudden desire eclipsed any irritation he felt at the disruption. “I’ve got more I can show you if you’re interested.”

  This time when she inhaled sharply, the sound carried insult. “I’m looking for Michael Nagorski.”

  Her voice—wow. If he’d been intrigued by her just because of the way her sweater hugged her curves, he was downright turned on by the slow drawl in her voice, sweet as a ripe peach. “I was told I could find him here.”

  “Just you and me here.” Tugging off his protective mask and elbow-length gloves, he tossed them on the table and picked up a bottle of water, chugging half of it down in big, messy gulps. “And much as I like being all up close with you, you’re going to want to step back a bit. Be a shame for these sparks to hit that pretty face of yours.”

  She frowned, her eyes narrowing, and he felt—almost—like he should bite his tongue. He’d perfected his flirtatious patter, and on the island here, even back on the mainland, it worked just fine.

  This woman clearly wasn’t impressed. Nor was she moving to do what he said—instead she stayed exactly where she was. “You’re wearing far less than I am. That can’t be safe.”

  He shrugged the comment off. Yeah, he should be fully covered when he worked. No, he wasn’t going to change his work uniform, now or ever. When he wore too much clothing, his creativity was stifled. He’d rather risk the scars.

  Not that the piece he was working on was going all that well, anyway. Furrowing his brow, he glared over at the shelf that held Michael’s most recent creations. His mentor had never been blocked. Probably because he did his best work when he was depressed, a pretty habitual state of being for him.

  That sweet southern drawl melted into his consciousness again, drawing his attention back to the woman standing in his garage.

  “What was that?” He set his now-empty water bottle back on the table.

  “I said, when do you reckon he’ll be back?” The look in her pale-blue eyes was full of exasperation, and something about the way she compressed her lips tugged at his mind.

  She looked like…no. No way.

  “Who are you, exactly?” Stepping closer, he watched her spine straighten as he looked her up and down. The Game of Thrones dragon-lady hair color…the tall, slender frame. The same crinkle of frustration that Nick had seen on Mike’s face a million times, usually directed at him.

  “My name is Emma Kelly.” Her words floated in honey, sweet and heavy. So different from Mike’s clearly enunciated voice.

  She wasn’t old enough to be a sibling, yet the resemblance was undeniable. The next logical relation would be a daughter.

  “I’m his…it seems that Mr. Nagorski would be…my father.” Well. That confirmed it.

  Mike had never mentioned a daughter to Nick. Not that it was any of his business, but he was surprised. Shocked, actually. He’d met Mike ten years ago when he’d signed with the same agent as the older man. Mike hadn’t been too happy when Hannah had pushed him into mentoring her new client, and Nick hadn’t been overly thrilled to be receiving advice from someone who was so sure he was right all the time. Somehow they’d pushed through their differences, and Nick was pretty sure he was the closest friend that Mike had. Hell, the whole reason that he was on Salt Spring Island in the first place was to keep an eye on his friend, who was prone to slip into deep depressive episodes without someone nudging him along.

  Okay, that was about half the reason. But it was a generous half. Mike was an antisocial creature, happiest when he was alone in the studio or camping in the woods, and Nick knew he was pretty much the only confidant that the other man had. Which was why he was startled that he’d never heard even a whisper of a daughter from his friend.

  The woman—Emma—cleared her throat, and Nick realized that she was waiting for more information. Where she could find Mike, probably, or when he would be back.

  His attention went to her lips again as she ran a delicate pink tongue over them, leaving a sheen of moisture behind. Usually, when he was attracted to a woman, he didn’t hesitate to flirt, to use deliberately cocky words and arrogant charm to draw her into his bed. Or onto his worktable—that would work, too.

  Emma, though? She was clearly not impressed by his tricks. He couldn’t deny that it intrigued him.

  It occurred to him that the reason Mike had never mentioned her might be because he didn’t know she existed. As his friend, the best thing Nick could do was get her out of the way long enough for him to give Mike some warning.

  Pulling his attention away from those full lips again, he felt a strangely strong surge of disappointment. Nick usually used sex to help him achieve that blankness of mind that he needed to chase away his grief, but he suspected that if he had this southern lady beneath him, it would be more than that.

  She was Mike’s daughter. And there was no way he would hurt his closest friend by sleeping with his kid. Especially if Mike didn’t know he had one. So, she had to go. And he’d learned that the best way to chase women off was just to be himself—after all, there was a thin line between arrogant charm and asshole.

  He looked up at her again, at her long legs and white-blond hair, both obviously inherited from Mike. The instant attraction to her was potent, yet at the same time the clear reminder of who she was—the daughter of his best friend—created an uncomfortable dissonance in his mind.

  He and Mike had been friends for a long time. The fact that he even found Emma attractive was enough to bring guilt weighing down on him.

  “Well, baby, I’m afraid Mike isn’t going to be coming back anytime soon,” he said as he turned back to his torch, reaching for his gloves. “So unless you want to stick around and entertain me until he does, I’m going to have to ask you to go.”

  Chapter 5

  Nick regretted the words the second they left his mouth. Yeah, for Mike’s sake he needed her to go, but this wasn’t the way to do it. He opened his mouth to smooth over his gaffe, expecting those big blue eyes to brim over with tears.

  Instead he found himself open-mouthed when the coolly elegant blonde let out a snort of exasperation.

  “I doubt that that line has ever worked, so let’s just get to the point, shall we?” She spoke slowly, her accent thick, but Nick was rapidly coming to see that that didn’t mean she was stupid. “Y’all are…what? His business partner? I’m doubting that you don’t have at least an inkling of where the man is today.”

  Ouch. Direct hit—that line actually hadn’t ever worked. Not that he needed a line to convince a willing woman to warm his bed. He was decent-looking enough, so all he had to say was “artist” and he had it made. Or, he supposed, laid. In any case, he had just enough ego that Emma calling him on his bullshit stung. Smirking back at the woman who looked so damn sweet and was clearly anything but, he crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking her stance.

  “Maybe I do know. Doesn’t mean I’m obliged to tell you.” He arched an eyebrow. “And seems to me that you can wait a few more days. After all, you’re what, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? You’ve hardly hurried to introduce yourself.”

  “I’m twenty-six!” She sank her teeth into her lower lip, clearly thinking hard, and he jerked his stare away—what the hell was his fascination with her lips about? “And I didn’t know he existed until four days ago, so sorry for not coming calling sooner.”

  Oh, shit. He’d stepped in it again. He opened his mouth
to speak, but she steamrolled right over him.

  “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a little empathy from y’all, so I’ll be going.” Lifting her chin, she somehow managed to look down her nose at him, even though he had a good six inches on her. “And here I thought Canadians had a reputation for being nice.”

  With that she was gone, turning on the heel of boots that were in no way made for the snow. She exited the garage, right back into the weather that she was in no way dressed for. Where did she think she was going to go? The studio wasn’t within walking distance of anything.

  Scrubbing his hands over his face, he weighed his options. Okay. So he owed Mike the loyalty of his friendship. But even if the other man didn’t know about Emma yet, wouldn’t he want Nick to treat his daughter with respect?

  Snagging his phone and an old jacket of his from the hook by the open door, he called a cab as he chased Emma down the gravel drive. How the hell was she moving so fast in those boots?

  “Hey! Wait up!” Cab ordered and call ended, he tucked his phone in his pocket. Hand held out like he was approaching a wild deer, he slowly closed the distance between himself and where Emma stood at the end of the driveway, shoulders hunched as she shivered.

  “I am fit to be tied right now, so just leave me alone.” The South in her voice thickened when she was upset, and damn if that didn’t tug at his heart a bit.

  “You’re going to get sick if you run around without a winter coat. You’re not in the South anymore.” He draped the jacket over her shoulders, expecting her to protest, but instead she sighed with relief at the warmth, her shivers less visible. “Consider this my way of saying sorry.”

  “Are you always an ass?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” No point in lying. “Look, I’m just a little protective of Mike, okay? He’s a good friend. But that’s no reason to be a dick.”