by Lisa Jackson
“For the love of God, Santana,” she said, clasping his hand and hauling him to his feet. “I’m not ready for this. You know that. What the hell are you doing?”
“Proposing,” he said dryly.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, but . . .”
“But what?” he asked, and his eyes were sparkling a bit. Was it the reflection of the Christmas lights, a single strand he’d hung over the front room window, or her imagination that he might actually be amused at her confounded response?
“We’ve been over this before. I thought you understood. It’s not that I don’t love you—you know that I do—but me and marriage . . . it’s just never worked out.”
“Because you were always with the wrong guy.”
“Or they were with the wrong woman,” she said. When she saw that he was about to argue with her, she put out a hand to stop whatever arguments he came up with. “You know I don’t believe any one person is the blame of a marriage cracking or rotting. It takes two people to work really hard and . . .” She sat down on the old ottoman, so that now she was the one looking up, the one pleading, “Frankly, I just don’t know if I’m up to it.”
“It could be fun.”
“And it could be a disaster. My kids—”
“Will get used to the idea. You can’t live your life for them, you know. This is for you.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But what?” His playful attitude seemed to shift. “Either you want to get married or you don’t.”
“Oh, sure. If it were just that simple.”
“It’s as simple as you want it to be.” He arched a dark eyebrow and she felt her heart melt. In beat-up jeans, a dark T-shirt, and an open flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, he was earthy and male, whip-smart and cocky, a cowboy type with a murky past who had appealed to her from the moment their gazes first clashed.
It had always been that way with Santana. One look and he could turn her inside out. She was a strong, no-nonsense woman who couldn’t be bullied into anything, a hard-nosed detective who had been accused more often than not of being stubborn to the point of mule-headed. She’d never been the wishy-washy sort.
Except when it came to the subject of Santana and marriage.
She shouldn’t have been so floored. She’d seen this coming for a long time; a bullet she couldn’t dodge. She didn’t know if she was ready and truth be told, she wasn’t sure she ever would be.
“Come on, Pescoli,” he said with the slightest bit of irritation beneath his cajoling. “Is it that hard to say ‘yes’?”
She shook her head. “No, that part would be easy, it’s the rest. The believing it will work out, that we’ll always love each other, that it won’t turn into something ugly where all we do is try to get even.”
“That won’t happen,” he said, and for a second she believed him. “Not with us.”
“I think that’s what everyone who stands before God and family or a justice of the peace believes.”
For a second he didn’t say anything; then he snapped the box closed and set it on a table. “Tell ya what. It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve got one week.”
“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” She couldn’t believe her ears.
“You are a brilliant detective,” he said and smiled faintly as he leaned over to stoke the fire. Not bothering with gloves, he tossed a couple of chunks of pine into already-glowing embers, then stood and dusted his hands. All the while she’d noticed the way his battered Levi’s had stretched over his buttocks, and when she realized that she’d been staring, even fantasizing, she was annoyed at herself even further.
“I’m not going to be backed into a corner and forced to make a decision.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Yeah?”
“Okay. Fine. Think of it that way, then.” He shrugged as the fire popped behind him. “I’m not going to bug you about it. In fact, I’m going to stay out of your way; I’m not coming over to your house tomorrow. You have your time with your kids alone. But on New Year’s Day, I expect to hear that you’re ready to plan a future, that you and your kids are going to move into the new house with me, or . . . you’re not. If you can’t commit, then I think we’d better take a good, hard look at what we’ve got here.”
“And?”
“And if it’s not working out, then we’d better face it, don’t you think?”
“What I think is that we have a damned good thing going and even if it’s not . . . conventional . . . or even expected, it kind of works for us. No rules. You do your thing and I do mine. Everyone’s happy.”
His look called her a liar. “Then you’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is that I want to make you my wife. I want us to be a family. We’ve had our . . . fling.” She nodded, remembering their hot affair and how it had started, purely physically. “And it matured into this”—he motioned back and forth between them with one hand—“relationship that we’ve got now.” Her throat was tight, but she couldn’t help but agree. “And you’re right, it’s been great.”
“Really great.” Not only the best sex of her life, but a feeling of belonging, of trust, of letting this man see all the complex sides to her and loving him despite his flaws.
“So, now I want to take what we’ve got to the next level. Do you?”
The room seemed to shrink, to the point that it was just the two of them alone in the universe, which was just plain ridiculous because she was still a mother. Letting her breath out slowly, she said, “It’s not about want or desire. It’s not about not having dreams of us being together forever. It’s about being practical.”
He had the nerve to smile, that same slow, crooked slash of white that she’d found so impossibly sexy. “It’s about fear,” he countered, clasping her hands and pulling her to her feet. “Your fear.”
“Bullshit.”
“You know I’m right.”
She felt suddenly close to tears. Stupid tears. Woman tears. “I just don’t want you to end up hating me.”
He half-laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “Do you really think that’s possible?”
“Yes.”
“Then you really don’t know me, now, darlin’, do you?” Before she could answer, he drew her close and kissed her forehead, a soft brush of his lips against her skin. His breath was warm, his arms strong, and she felt the urge to melt into them. “It’s Christmas. Let’s not argue.”
“Is that possible?”
“Probably not.” When she tilted her face upward to stare into his eyes, she saw a spark of mirth, and deeper in those dark depths, something more, something that he quickly hid. She realized she should resist, that they needed to work this marriage thing out, but she was tired of arguing and besides, it would serve no purpose. And he was right: It was Christmas.
His lips found hers and as he kissed her, he swept her into his arms. “Wait . . .” she said, but Nate paid no heed as he carried her into the bedroom and dropped her unceremoniously onto his bed. “You’re presuming a lot, mister,” she pointed out, fighting her own smile.
“You bet I am.” He was already falling onto the old mattress with her and starting to unzip the front opening of her sweater.
“You know you’re a bastard, Santana.”
“Yep, and you love me for it.”
“Probably.”
“No probably about it, Detective.” He yanked both of his shirts over his head and tossed them into the corner. “And I think I’m going to prove it to you.”
She laughed. “That’s way too corny.”
“Yeah, I know.” Nuzzling her neck, he rolled atop her and, nose-to-nose, said, “I’ve got to find a way to convince you to marry me.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“What do you think?”
His hands, large and warm, pushed aside her sweater. “Good,” he murmured across the top of her breasts, “Because, darlin’, I’m definitely up for one.�
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“You’re bad,” she said, holding her breath as her blood began to heat.
“The worst.” He kissed one of her nipples and looked up at her, his eyes glistening in the half-light.
Regan sighed, slowly sinking into sweet capitulation, at least in this.
“Hey, Alvarez! Give it a rest.” Pete Watershed’s voice nearly echoed through the quiet offices of the sheriff’s department. He’d been striding past her open doorway, the scent of tobacco smoke clinging to him, but he’d stopped and backtracked to her when he’d noticed her still at her desk, her computer monitor glowing with images of the victims of the latest serial killer to make Grizzly Falls his personal killing grounds as recently as two weeks before. He’d been dubbed the Ice Mummy Killer by the press and the name had stuck.
“Got any idea what time it is?” Watershed asked. A lanky road deputy with a perpetual scowl and propensity for crude jokes, he, too, had volunteered to work the night shift. She didn’t much like him, but he was a decent enough cop, and willing to give up his Christmas Eve so another deputy with a family could spend the night at home.
“A vague idea.”
“Yeah? So what’re you tryin’ to do, make the rest of us look bad?” He chuckled and his laughter turned into a cough, the result of a two-pack-a-day habit.
“Yeah, that’s it: My ultimate plan,” she said, and he laughed even more. “Fortunately with you, I don’t have to try very hard.” She half-smiled.
“Well, that was uncalled for.” The coughing attack slowly subsided.
“Actually, I’m packing it in.” Gathering up her keys and purse, Alvarez pushed her chair away from the desk. Her leg, from her most recent injury, pained a little, but she fought through it, barely wincing. Though she hated to admit it, Watershed was right, the digital readout on her computer monitor registered 1:16 a.m. She should have left the office over an hour earlier, but, of course, she’d put off going home. Again. A habit she’d tried hard to break. For years her job had been her life, and she’d seen nothing wrong with being known as a workaholic. It had suited her just fine until Dylan O’Keefe had barreled back into her life a little over a month ago. They’d been together ever since, and though their relationship was far from smooth, she was hopeful that it could develop into something permanent. Tonight, O’Keefe was with his family in Helena, so she was alone.
“Good, because I’m already on overtime and the department can’t afford us both.”
He wasn’t kidding. The sheriff’s department’s budget was stretched to the max. In early December there had been an intense, seemingly unending blizzard that had required extra man hours for road closures, electrical outages, and evacuations of the elderly. The recent serial killer’s rampage had added an extra strain to the resources of the department.
“If you’re so worried about the budget, why’re you still here?”
“Finishing up a report.” His eyes darkened a bit and he rubbed the beard stubble evident on his jaw. “Single-car accident out by Horsebrier Ridge.” Shaking his head, he added, “Nineteen-year-old kid.”
“Dead?” She felt a sudden chill deep inside.
“Nearly. Helluva thing for his parents to hear on Christmas Eve.”
“Or anytime,” she said, thinking of her own son in Helena, a boy being raised by another family as she’d given him up for adoption at his birth. Her heart twisted a little when she thought of Gabriel, the sixteen-year-old who had so recently come bursting back into her life.
Watershed asked, “So why are you still here?”
Slipping into her jacket, she decided to duck the question; the answer was just too personal. Since O’Keefe wasn’t returning to Grizzly Falls until the morning, she was avoiding her town house and all the ghosts of Christmases past. “Just tying up some loose ends.”
“On Christmas Eve?”
With a shrug, she wrapped a scarf around her neck and pocketed her keys.
“I thought you were on restricted hours or half time, or something.” He pointed at her leg.
At the thought of her struggle, how she’d nearly lost her life during her encounter with Grizzly Falls’s latest serial killer, she shuddered inwardly but forced a smile she didn’t feel. “The doc says I’m good to go.”
“And the sheriff?”
“Grayson knows.”
“Sure.” Obviously he thought her explanation was bogus, but he didn’t press it. “Okay, I gotta run. So, Merry Christmas, Alvarez. Have a good one, well, what’s left of it.”
“Got a whole day, Watershed. Or at least twenty-three hours left.” And it was going to feel like forever. She already wished the holiday was over.
Watershed didn’t hear her remark as he was already walking toward the area of the offices where the restrooms were located.
Usually the department was a bustle of activity, phones jangling, footsteps in the hallways, voices of officers and witnesses, keyboards clicking, the occasional burst of laughter or clink of chains on shackles, but tonight, with most of the lights dimmed and only a skeleton crew tucked inside, the offices were eerily quiet.
“Silent night,” she muttered under her breath as she slid her pistol into her holster and snapped off the lights.
Quickly, she zipped her jacket and headed toward the back of the building. Hopefully she wouldn’t meet anyone else and have to again dodge why she was here so late, why she had such an aversion to the holidays.
For the first half of her life, growing up in Woodburn, Oregon, in a large Hispanic family, she’d felt that special electricity that seemed to surround Christmas. Midnight mass with her family, the smell of tamales her grandmother created, the laughter and anticipation of her siblings as they decorated the tree, the anticipation of Christmas morning; it had been a magical, special time in an outgoing girl’s life.
And it had been stolen from her in an instant.
Her stomach soured when she thought of her cousin and how she’d been violated, how her innocence had been stripped from her.
“Get over it,” she whispered under her breath as she walked through the deserted lunchroom, but she knew she never would. There weren’t enough psychologists or antidepressants or kind, consoling thoughts to erase that particular pain. It would always be there, a scar that was just only lightly healed.
But she’d learned to deal and cope and now . . . even love again.
Maybe.
In contrast to the muted lights of the offices, the lunchroom was ablaze, fluorescent bulbs burning brightly overhead, while white Formica-topped tables seemed to reflect that very light. And everywhere, of course, shiny, silver snowflakes and gold wreaths, suspended from the ceiling and plastered to the walls, created weird mirrors.
Joelle Fisher, the department’s receptionist, was an uber Christmas enthusiast. Well, make that any holiday. She was up for celebrating all of the majors, like the Fourth of July and Christmas, as well as the minors, like Arbor Day and Flag Day. It seemed to be Joelle’s mission to find even the most obscure holiday and find a way to celebrate it here at the office. Joelle was never more in her element than around the end of the year when the biggies came: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Bang, bang, bang! From mid-September through February fifteenth, Joelle’s personal mission was to spread the cheer.
Ad nauseum.
Joelle’s idea of celebration meant decorating the office in the brightest, most glittery, and sometimes gaudiest decorations available. Somehow Alvarez didn’t think that tinsel and colored lights blinking rapidly enough to bring on seizures were exactly how God thought the world should celebrate the holy day, but then, what did she know? And she wasn’t one to complain, not like Pescoli, her partner.
A few reindeer cookies remained on a plastic platter cut into the shape of a snowflake. Alvarez resisted, as she was determined to return to her normal diet and exercise regimen. As she stepped outside, the nagging pain in her leg reminded her once more of her last struggle with a madman. She actively ignored it, concentrating inste
ad on how much better her life was now. If she let it, the magic of Christmas might just steal into her heart and touch her soul.
Maybe.
The jury was still out on that one.
Chapter 3
Pescoli floored it.
Though it was snowing and the roads were dicey at best, she hit the gas and her Jeep sprang forward, following the snaking road through steep canyons and sheer mountains. The forest was silent, aside from the rumble of the Jeep’s engine, the stands of pine and hemlock blanketed in three inches of fresh, pristine snow. Picture-postcard perfect, but she barely noticed. She was tired as all get-out from a sleepless night of tossing and turning and inwardly fretting. After making love to Santana until nearly two a.m., she’d tried to fall asleep, but her churning thoughts had kept her awake for hours. Should she accept his proposal? Could she give up her independence? What would happen to her kids? Her job? The life she had worked so hard to carve out for herself after her divorce from Lucky?
Marrying Santana seemed like a no-brainer, and, she supposed in the warmth of her SUV, if she hadn’t been down the slippery slope of marriage before, she would have leaped at the chance to become his wife. But she had already suffered through two messy marriages and though she was leaning toward saying yes, it pissed her off to be put on the spot, be given a deadline.
Shifting down for a corner, she told herself how ridiculous that sounded. He had the right to move on if the relationship didn’t develop the way he wanted. Still, she was bugged.
She flipped her wipers onto a faster rhythm, the blades scraping away snow from her windshield as the engine purred and the tires whined. The police band crackled a bit, and she turned on the radio straight to Burl Ives singing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” for about the three millionth time this Christmas season. Quickly, she punched in another station that was all talk radio and the news.
Her kids were coming over this morning, well, make that the afternoon as Jeremy had trouble getting his butt out of bed before eleven these days, so she didn’t have much time. She hated the fact that she had to share them both, especially during the holidays, but couldn’t argue the fact. Luke, a louse of a husband while they’d been married, was slightly better as a stepfather and father, though she wasn’t that crazy about his wife. Still south of thirty, Michelle had a killer figure, and despite the dumb-blonde routine was, Pescoli estimated, at least a little smarter than she let on.
