Spirits of the Season: Eight Haunting Holiday Romances

by Amanda DeWees

  “A phone call? My dear Nicola is receiving accolades for making a phone call?”

  “Niki saved my life and the life of a little boy caught in an avalanche. Without her, we’d both be dead.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Bryce McInnis, ma’am.”

  “Bryce McInnis,” Delia repeated. “A strong, handsome Scottish name.”

  For Niki, the alteration in her mother’s voice from one sentence to the next was unmistakable, husky, lulling, and hypnotic. Delia’s power flooded the room, seeking to crowd out all sane and independent thought. Still, Niki refused to look at her and could only imagine those irresistible blue eyes working their influence on Bryce.

  “I’m glad my daughter has such a fierce defender at her side to keep that media you mentioned at bay,” Delia said. “It’s quite a circus out there. Everyone, it seems, is interested in my brave little girl, People, TMZ, Access Hollywood, E! and all the regular news. I know you know who I am. Wouldn’t it make sense to have someone with experience handle them on Niki’s behalf?”

  “You’re not welcome here, mom,” Niki said. She’d never tripped over her words so much, never had a more difficult time speaking, but she did as loudly and forcefully as she could, hoping to cut through at least some of her mother’s spell. “Please...leave.”

  Delia ignored her, concentrating her efforts on Bryce for the moment. “Wouldn’t you agree that would be a good idea, Bryce, to ask me to handle the media?”

  Despite Niki’s urgent desire to flee from it, that voice...that voice so compelled she almost found herself nodding her head in agreement with Delia’s suggestion. Any longer and Niki wouldn’t need eye contact with her mother in order to fall blindly into line.

  “They’re really a bunch of wolves,” the soft, tranquilizing words continued. “I should know. One false step and our Niki can go from heroine to hoax, no matter what the truth is, and that would be tragic for–”

  “You heard your daughter,” Bryce said, sharp and curt.

  Stunned silence drained away some of the psychic backwash in the room.

  “What?” Delia said at last.

  “Niki doesn’t want you here.”

  Bryce’s response sounded calm, so in control, Niki couldn’t help herself. She had to look. Bryce’s back was to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but her mother’s confused, open-mouthed stare left no question. Delia’s talent had collided with a wall.

  Her mother closed her mouth, recovering quickly. “I think I’d prefer to ask her directly.” Delia trained her eyes on Niki.

  Bryce turned to include Niki in the conversation. “Niki’s already made herself clear on that point,” he said. His eyes showed no signs of the fog that muddled Delia’s victims. If anything, he was annoyed.

  Look at me, not her, his expression said.

  Harder even than speaking her mind was doing as Bryce urged, but she managed it, barely, meeting Bryce’s gaze.

  He nodded, proud of her.

  “No. I don’t want to see you,” Niki told her mother without looking her in the eyes again. “Ever.”

  Delia pleaded. “Nicola, Niki...”

  Bryce reached out to politely turn Delia about and direct her toward the door.

  “Hands off!” Delia said, brushing him off.

  And with that, she was out the door.

  “Quite agro, your mum,” Bryce said once he returned to her side.

  “I haven’t a clue what that means.’

  “Aggressive.”

  Niki marveled. “You’re only the second man I’ve ever known who could refuse Delia Lusk.”

  “And the first was who? Your Da, I presume?”

  “My fiancé.”

  He stiffened beside her and the surprised look that crossed his face betrayed unmistakable hurt.

  “You’re engaged?”

  “He died in a car crash along with my best friend, Iris,” she said. “A year ago Christmas Eve, at Sapphire Ridge. I’m sorry I lied to you and told you my name was Iris, but privacy is the default for me and we had just met and–”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Niki,” he said, “for your loss.” She noticed, however, he relaxed almost imperceptibly at the news he didn’t have competition.

  Secretly, his reaction thrilled her, and surprising herself, she felt no guilt. Dante was gone from her thoughts at last, dead and buried.

  “So that’s why the trip to the resort alone on Christmas Eve?” he asked. “To mourn and commemorate?”

  “To let them go.” She stroked the side of Bryce’s rough stubble chin. “To reclaim Christmas for what it’s meant to be, a day of celebration.”

  They looked at each other for several seconds, so content to be with each other no words were required. Finally, curiosity made her ask, “Seriously, how did my mother’s gift not affect you?”

  “That little bit of mojo she tried on me, you mean?” Amusement lit up his eyes.

  “Not so little. Like I said, I’ve only known one other who could resist it. I’ve fought it all my life and it’s cost me.”

  “I find when someone calls to me, needing help,” Bryce said, “very little can get in the way or stop me.”

  “But I’m here. I’m safe. How can I still be calling?”

  “Oh, we’re not done, you and me. Not by a long shot.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  He returned to the guest chair he’d occupied earlier, but instead of sitting in it, bent down to retrieve a package. “Which reminds me. I bought you a Christmas gift. You know, on the oft chance you awakened.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  He’d had the package— large, rectangular, and shallow—professionally wrapped in pale silver paper with green velvet ribbon. He handed it to her and watched her eagerly as she opened it.

  “Snowshoes? You bought me frickin’ snowshoes?” she said with an aggrieved sparkle in her protest. She picked up one of the shoes and threw it at him. He caught it neatly.

  “I thought you should probably have some of your own,” he said. “The woman you ‘borrowed’ yours from was…miffed.”

  “Hey, we were saving someone.”

  “She saves people every day.”

  “Didn’t impress her, huh?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “I’ll tell you what impresses me,” Niki said. She grabbed the end of the snowshoe Bryce held in his hand, and succeeded in pulling him to her.

  He beat her to the punch line first, however, saying it before she could.

  “You,” he whispered.

  With another of his trademark grins, which nearly achieved devilish smile status, his lips took her away from the ghosts of her past who were no longer allowed here. She might have been the one with the talent for heat, but his kiss scorched her deliciously. Every. Where. It. Touched. His hands. Every. Where. They. Touched. The delicate skin behind her ear. The bare line of her shoulder. Circling the sensitive boundary of darker skin between breast and nipple. Their tongues met and ignited the fire she’d privately feared since waking might have bleed away into the snow out there. It flared to life, built between them so that she wanted to get closer and closer to the flames. He was her banked fire. He would become her conflagration if she let him, and she would.

  Hold me. Pull me into your heart. Set me alight.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  They parted abruptly.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He explored his lower lip with the tip of one finger.

  “I think you burned me.”

  “Really?” She pretended contriteness.

  His scowl was offset by the amusement in his eyes.

  “I’ll have to watch that in the future,” she said.

  Placing a hand flat against the mattress on either side, his upper body straddled hers.

  “See that you do,” he said and leaned in to devour her.

  Out in the hospital corridor, giggling could be heard coming from behind t
heir closed door. Throaty laughter followed.

  About the Author

  Aileen Harkwood is a Readers’ Crown finalist for Best Paranormal Romance and the author of Spell Touched: Breens Mist Witches, and Dangerous Dreams. She has been listed in Amazon’s Top 100 Most Popular Authors in Paranormal Romance, and in 2015 organized the box set Magical Weddings: 15 Enchanting Romances, in which The Last Wedding at Drayhome: A Breens Mist Witches Novella appears.

  To learn more about Aileen, sign up for her newsletter on Facebook to receive sneak peaks of upcoming releases. She also enjoys hearing from readers at aileenharkwood@yahoo.com.

  You can find more books by this author on her author page at Amazon.

  Mistletoe and Magic

  Lynda Haviland

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Lynda Haviland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  151016.210803

  Chapter 1

  Five…Four…Three…Two…One…

  In her mind, Hannah popped the cork of a champagne bottle. She waved as the very last of her guests pulled out of her small parking lot, the tires of their rented Cadillac crunching across the shells until they found the smooth pavement of the road.

  Christmas vacation!

  Hannah hugged herself, excited to settle into her first vacation in… well, forever.

  Turning back, she caught a view of her inn at the perfect moment. The sun dropped below the roofline, silhouetting the main house against a fan of golden rays. She felt the house sigh as if basking proudly in the fading quiet warmth.

  But Hannah wasn’t fooled. She knew that the house, like its original owner, was happiest when it was full of people. “You look gorgeous.” Hannah walked along the porch railing and smoothed a kink in the garland wrapped around it. “But you’ve earned this break too.”

  The aging wood moaned in weak protest.

  Up until a few weeks ago, she and her staff had been decorating the inn to host a Christmas wedding group. But for the very first time in her history at the Beachcomber Bed & Breakfast Inn, the wedding party cancelled. They’d booked the entire property – the Main House, the Carriage House and all seven cottages – for maximum privacy.

  Hannah chose not to accept other reservations in the last few weeks. She loved the idea of a little time off, but it felt bittersweet as it came at the expense of someone’s marriage. Although she would never know, she wondered what had happened between the bride and groom.

  “Don’t worry.” Hannah patted the front door frame. “We’ll make good money this coming season, enough to give you a new beautiful coat of paint. You’ll look stunning.”

  The house continued to pout, creaking as it settled in for a lonely night.

  For Hannah, there was one more thing to do before she could officially launch her time off.

  Mistletoe bouquets.

  The arrival of the mistletoe shipment today had come as a complete surprise. She remembered cancelling the floral order, since there was no longer a wedding to make the holiday bouquets for. Maybe she’d just cancelled the white roses.

  Whatever had happened, Hannah had a huge box full of fresh mistletoe and red satin ribbon to make something with. Grabbing the box, a pair of scissors and a basket of shiny craft bells, she settled in front of the unlit fireplace and turned the coffee table into a workstation.

  Movement drew her attention to the bookshelf. An opaque figure materialized as if it had walked through the wall.

  “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.” Truthfully, Hannah had no idea who he’d been when he was alive, but by dress and manner he looked like a character straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

  As usual, he was punctual. Sundown. And as usual, he strolled silently across the room to stand at the window overlooking the ocean. White wisps and blurry orbs swirled around the ghostly form as he smoked his pipe.

  Although her guests could never see him, occasionally someone would comment on the subtle scent of tobacco in the room.

  “I hope you won’t mind the mess in here tonight.” Ghost or human, Hannah appreciated the company. Otherwise, she would be talking to herself, and that would be sad. “The wedding party cancelled. I probably already told you that. But the fresh mistletoe came today and it’s too pretty to let it go to waste. So I’m making traditional holiday decorations. I’ll give some to Meg to hang up at Nellie’s Bar for Christmas.”

  As Hannah wrapped up several mistletoe bundles to take with her, the antique anniversary clock on the bookshelf announced the hour with ten chimes.

  “Time to go. Keep an eye on things while I’m gone.” Ghosts might be quietly faithful companions, but they were horrible for security purposes. Hannah grabbed her keys and started to head for the door. “Mr. Darcy, you forgot to remind me to refill the gumball machine. Shame on you.”

  Hannah grabbed a roll of quarters, emptied the roll into the coin chamber, and left the gumball machine in the corner of the front porch.

  Vacation officially begins.

  Chapter 2

  Hannah’s scooter ride to Nellie’s Bar lasted all of ten minutes, but it was long enough to blow the curls out of her hair. Catching her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, she fingered a few curls back into place.

  “There you are! I thought you’d get here a lot earlier.” The bartender came around the end of the bar and wrapped her arms around Hannah.

  “Hi, Meg. I let my last guests check out late.”

  “Why?” Meg poured a frosty glass of her seasonal special – pumpkin beer.

  “They needed a few extra hours to pack.” Hannah gave both thumbs up on the beer. “Tom Sawyer struck again.”

  “What did he do this time?”

  Hannah giggled. “It looked like he blew up their suitcases. Their clothes were absolutely everywhere. All over the floor. Draped over the furniture. Every single piece of clothing had been pulled out of their bags. So they needed time to repack.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth, mostly. I told them Tom liked them and didn’t want them to go.”

  Meg shook her head and poured a beer for herself.

  “I gave them the usual line, that Tom is a cat.”

  “Hannah, if you’d just come clean with the world about the ghosts in your place, you’d make a killing. Paranormal vacations are big business these days.”

  “I like my business just the way it is – normal.”

  “But you could be famous. You could have your place featured on that reality show with the ghost investigator.” Meg picked up one of her Hollywood magazines stacked at the end of the bar. “Oh, better yet! Maybe they could film an episode of Dark Haven at your inn. You know they do a lot of on-location episodes.”

  Hannah ignored a tiny stab of guilt that she hadn’t told Meg, her best friend in the world, that the wedding guests were from Hollywood. It was a moot point since they’d cancelled the wedding anyway, but Hannah still felt a sense of duty to respect their privacy. “The whole point of Pearl Key is privacy. That’s why they call this part of Florida the Hidden Coast.”

  “Well, nothing stays hidden forever.”

  “It’s what my guests enjoy most about the Beachcomber.”

  “Right now, you don’t have any guests at all.”

  “I’ll toast to that.” Hannah clinked her glass against Meg’s. “I’m going to relax and enjoy my first Christmas vacation in fifteen years.”

  Meg squealed with excitement. “Give me something to dream about. Where are you going on your vacation? Hawaii?”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “New Orleans?”

  “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “New York?”

  “That would be perfect. I’ve always wanted to go see a Broadway show and the
city decorated for Christmas.” Hannah folded her arms on the bar and buried her head in the middle. There were thousands of possibilities. Why hadn’t she thought about this sooner? “It’s so hard to choose, because I’ve always wanted to go everywhere.”

  “The perks of owning a business. All the money goes back into the biz and so does all the free time.” The draft sputtered at Meg, signaling time to change the keg. “I’ll be right back.”

  Hannah had known for weeks that she had this free time coming, and yet she’d never stopped to actually plan something. She was in the business. She knew better than most that Christmas was a terrible time to travel on a whim. Her DNA was wired for practicality and organization. She planned things months in advance. So what had stopped her from making solid plans already?

  Her gaze wandered across the photographs on the wall above the liquor bottle display. Grainy, black-and-white promotion photos of sideshow entertainers from the early nineteen-twenties. In those pre-disability awareness days, deformity was the sideshow entertainment of the era. Exploitation for profit. Yet, the people in this collection of photos postured proudly. Their smiles were genuine. A sense of adventure lit up their eyes.

  None on the wall seemed happier than the centerpiece of the collection, the original owner of the bar, Nellie Pearle. At the time the picture was taken, Nellie had been at her professional peak of more than five hundred pounds. In her photo, she was absolutely naked underneath a feathery boa, and she obviously loved every ample inch of herself.

  In life, and in death, Nellie Pearle had the reputation for being a meddling matchmaker. Local rumors said that Nellie only appeared to women at a moment when they most needed help with their love lives. But it was not unusual for Hannah to see Nellie’s ghost – like all other ghosts. Hannah had been sitting at this very bar the first time Nellie appeared to Meg a few years ago.