by Rhian Cahill
“You’re a bit late.”
“Actually…” He glanced at his watch. “Nope, three o’clock, so it’s midnight in Halifax.”
Emily dropped her forehead to Wade’s chest and laughed until tears streamed down her face. The man was insane. Every hour, on the hour, from nine p.m. New Year’s Eve, ‘til ten p.m. New Year’s Day he had a country they could go to so he could steal a kiss. He still hadn’t worked out he didn’t need to steal them, but she wasn’t about to enlighten the man. She couldn’t think of anything better than having over twenty-four hours of New Years kisses with Wade.
About the Author
Rhian Cahill is the alter ego of a stay-at-home mother of four. With motherly duties rapidly dwindling, Rhian is able to make use of the fertile imagination that kept her sane during those years of slavery. Years living overseas and visiting tropical climates have helped inspire some steamy stories. Multi-published in erotic romance, Rhian — with the help of Mr. Muse — spends her days and nights writing.
When not glued to the keyboard, you’ll find her book in hand, avoiding any and all housework as much as possible. For more on Rhian, visit her website www.rhiancahill.com or you can contact her at [email protected] or connect with her on Twitter –@RhianCahill or Facebook – RhianCahillAuthor.
ISBN: 978-0-85799-005-1
Title: New Year’s Kisses
Copyright © 2012 by Rhian Cahill
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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Excerpt from Christmas Wishes by Rhian Cahill
The squeak of brakes and the blare of a horn told Dean he was out of time.
“Shit.”
Dean opened the top drawer of his dresser where empty space greeted him. The second drawer proved no better. Frowning, he spun around in search of his laundry bag.
“Shit.” He’d forgotten to pick it up at the Laundromat yesterday.
The horn blasted again.
Dean tugged a clean pair of jeans from their hanger and stepped into them. In spite of the summer heat, shorts weren’t a good idea seeing how he’d be swinging in the breeze and the last thing he wanted was a wayward little kid’s hand finding its way up his pant leg. Hopefully the bulk of his time would be spent inside the daycare center where the air conditioning would be pumping out cool air. A longer horn blast sounded as his watch beeped.
“Shit!”
Dean grabbed a t-shirt and shoved his feet into runners as he rushed from the room. He picked up his wallet and keys as he passed the kitchen counter, but lost his grip on both when he flung open the front door. On the fly, he exited the house while his wallet and keys flew back inside a second before the door slammed shut.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” He spun around to stare at the locked door.
Behind him, Talli tooted her horn again. Dean looked skyward. This day was going from bad to worse. And for the first time in history, Tallitha Jarmen wasn’t running late.
Dean unlocked his fingers and let go of the oh-shit handle in Talli’s car. She wasn’t a good driver at the best of times, add in some heavy traffic due to the Christmas rush and a deadline that meant kids would be disappointed if she didn’t show up, and Talli was downright dangerous.
“Jesus. We’ll be lucky if we get there in one piece,” he mumbled under his breath.
“I heard that.” She swung the wheel to the left and he grabbed the handle again. “As much as you dig at my driving, I’ve never had an accident that was my fault you know.”
Dean snorted. “Might not have been by the law, but woman, you’re like an oil spill. Get just a little too close and the shit hits the fan.”
“Just for that you can walk home,” she huffed.
He laughed. “Now where have I heard that one before…?”
Talli looked away from the road long enough to poke her tongue out and give him heart failure.
“Watch the damn road, woman!”
“I’m watching, I’m watching.” He cringed as she zipped around a slow car without indicating. “Anybody would think I’d barely passed my driver’s test.”
“You did barely pass and if you hadn’t worn a low cut blouse and mini-skirt you wouldn’t have.”
Their birthdays were a week apart so they’d gone for their licenses together, just one of many milestones they’d shared over the years. When Talli turned up at his house in a black leather mini and white tie-front shirt he’d known right then regardless of her driving skills she’d be the one coming home with a license. He’d been right too. Dean had failed and had to re-sit the test the following week. The memory put a smile on his face and distracted him long enough for them to reach their destination without any more heart palpitations.
“We’re here.” Talli braked hard, sending them both jolting forward. “Now once we get inside, I’ll show you where to get changed.”
“Changed?”
“And then we’ll get down to taking the pictures.”
She was out of the car and heading for the trunk before he could get another word out. Changed? What did she mean by changed? Dean tried to recall the original conversation as he climbed out of the car, but for the life of him he didn’t remember anything about changing. He didn’t have any more time to dwell on it though; as soon as he reached the back of the car, Talli began shoving small boxes of equipment at him. Left with the choice of dropping them or holding on, he did the only thing he could and held on tight. With arms full, he followed Talli into the building.
And walked into utter chaos.
The noise level was deafening and there were kids running everywhere. Dean tensed, waiting for impact. He clamped his arms tighter around the boxes, the cardboard squashing a little under the pressure, but nothing happened. It was only after peering around his armload that he noticed the conveniently place pool fencing just inside the front door. Someone had obviously thought the kids needed a corral and, while that might not be politically correct, it certainly seemed true.
Glancing around, Dean could see only four adults in the room. They were outnumbered by at least twenty children ranging from crawlers to those racing full speed on tiny legs. He shuddered at the thought of going in, but knew he had no hope of escape now he was here. His knowledge of kids came from television and the occasional encounter at the supermarket. The next few hours would certainly prove to be an education. A harried looking woman rushed over, dodging kids as she made her way towards them.
“Oh, good. You’re here.” The woman leaned over the fence and took one of the boxes from Dean.
“Sorry we’re late.”
“No worries, Talli. This way. I’ll show you where to set up and where you can get changed.”
With enviable skill, the woman juggled the box, then took a couple of bags from Talli, and popped the child-proof lock on the gate. Talli nudged him through ahead of her. Smart woman. He was more than ready to bolt back to the car and lock himself inside. At that moment one of the kids lying on the floor let out a b
lood curdling scream, but as none of the adults rushed to his side Dean figured there wasn’t an imminent medical emergency. He’d taken another couple of steps when two boys raced past him, the first cutting in behind him to run full circle around him.
Dean dodged, stumbled, and the boxes in his arms teetered. It took no more than a second, but seemed like a lifetime. The top box slipped. He lunged forward with a grunt just as the woman in front turned around. Demonstrating an athletic ability to rival any Olympian, she scooped the top box from the pile and steadied the remaining ones with her shoulder.
“Sorry about that.” She turned to the boys playing tag around his legs. “Joshua Bowmen and Nathan Bicknell, take yourselves outside if you’re going to play tag.”
To Dean’s surprise, both boys took off across the room, hollering and hooting as they went out the open doors. He could see more kids outside and again fought the urge to flee. Talli nudged him from behind; there was no getting out of what he’d agreed to do.
“Keep going. It’ll be a rush to be ready before the parents get here as it is. Don’t need you dawdling.” She bumped him again. “C’mon, Dean, move it.”
With only one choice, he followed the woman in front. They crossed the room full of kids and moved into a larger one filled with rows and rows of seats. The area in front of the chairs was set up with a large Christmas tree and a throne that was obviously meant for Santa. A rock settled in Dean’s stomach and he turned his head to look at Talli.
“Tell me I am not dressing up as Santa,” he growled.
Her eyes rounded as her gaze darted to meet his. Talli shook her head. “No. You’re n-not Santa.”
Okay, that was good. So why did the look on her face make the rock sink deeper? They reached the front of the room and there was no more time to press for details.
“I thought you could set up over here behind the tree.” The woman put the bags and boxes down. “That way the little ones won’t get into any of your equipment and you’re close to it for when we do the Santa pictures. You can use my office and the storeroom to get changed.”
“Thanks, Em.” Talli moved passed him. “Speaking of Santa, did he arrive yet?”
“Yeah,” Em grumbled. “I cannot believe that man is going to hold me to my promise.”
Talli laughed. “C’mon, one date with Wade won’t kill you.”
“No, but it might kill him.” Em smiled. “I’m sure I’ll survive. You know where everything is, but yell if you need something.”
“I think I’ve got everything, but thanks. We’ll get set up.”
Dean placed his load of boxes on the floor behind the tree. A closer look at the branches showed the decorations were handmade and he smiled at the misshapen, brightly colored snowmen, reindeer, and Santas. On the very top was an oversized star made of tinfoil. Smiling, he turned to point them out to Talli, only she didn’t give him a chance.
“Here.” She shoved a plastic bag at him. “That’s a storeroom. You can get changed in there and I’ll use Em’s office.”
He took the bag, but before he could look inside Talli moved behind him and placed both hands on his back. She gave him a hard shove and he had to step forward or fall on his face. Pushing until she’d maneuvered him into the small room, Dean found himself shut in before he could spin around and protest. Resigned to the inevitable, he open the bag and pulled out the item on top. Dean sucked in a breath.
“No.” She hadn’t.
Dropping the red and green bundle on the floor, he reached into the bag for the next piece.
“Hell no.” She couldn’t have.
Dean tipped the bag up and stared as a pile of red, green, and white velvet and fur at his feet. What the hell was Talli thinking? There was no way he was putting that thing on. Especially seeing how there didn’t appear to be enough material to cover his extra large body. He used his foot to spread the costume out and almost choked when he got a good look at the pants, or more accurately – tights.
“Talli!”
Excerpt from Drawing Closer by Jenny Schwartz
Zoe bit the tip of her paintbrush, grimaced and reached hastily for her bottle of water. Ugh, much as she needed to break the habit of biting the tip of the paintbrush while thinking, perhaps coating it in gag-inducing Vegemite was a bit extreme.
“You can’t be a true Aussie. Every Aussie kid loves their Vegemite sandwiches.”
The laughter in Nick Gordon’s deep voice sent a shiver down Zoe’s spine. Not that she was about to show him how he affected her. No way. No how. She’d seen how he treated the women who responded to his sex god looks. He had it down pat, one long gaze down and up the length of their body, then one blond eyebrow lifted in derision and he turned away. Zoe valued their friendship too highly to risk him turning away.
Carefully, she replaced the bottle of water at the base of her easel. “I thought you were buying clay.”
Nick was a potter. It was his studio she shared in the heart of the port city of Fremantle. The marina where he kept his yacht was only metres away. Tourists ambled past daily and her vivid paintings of the Australian landscape lured them in just as much as Nick’s pots with their incredibly sensuous shapes and stunning glazes. It was a perfect set up, but one she knew Nick hadn’t wanted to share with her. When his previous studio partner, John Li, headed for Europe, she’d forced Nick to overlook the fact she was female—and therefore, in his experience, susceptible—by a nifty bit of emotional blackmail.
And she wasn’t ashamed, nope, not one little bit.
“I’ve got the clay. Claude came through with terracotta from a different supplier. It’ll work for the chunkier pieces I’m planning for summer.”
“Huh.” She turned back to her painting. Like Nick, she was already planning for summer although it was only early spring. She’d chosen beaches for her theme this year: the blues of the sea and sky, the warm browns of driftwood, white sand and the grey-tinged green of dune grasses. She never painted people into her pictures, although a swimsuit or towel would add a focal point of bright colour. The dilemma of ‘to people or not to people’ was the reason she’d been chewing her paint brush. On the whole, she thought she’d stick with pure, unsullied landscapes, leaving it empty for people to colonise with their own dreams.
“Do you want a cuppa?” Nick headed for the kettle and mugs tucked in a corner of the room.
For all that it exuded an untidy, casual welcome, every inch of the studio was planned with care. The two front rooms displayed Nick’s pots and her paintings, plus coffee and tea facilities for customers, art reference books and the reception desk—a century old, solid jarrah office desk that wore its scars comfortably. She and Nick had separate work spaces in these public rooms—hers defined by her easel and corkboard, and his by a potter’s wheel and blue tarpaulin laid out to catch the messiness of his craft. When they worked out here, they were like performance artists. People enjoyed the sensation of looking ‘behind the scenes’.
Not that customers ever got to see the real back rooms. Nick had the use of most of them for his clay, pots and kiln, but she had her own snug room with canvases and paints, sketch books and photos. She had photos everywhere. She’d sorted through them and pinned her favourite beach snaps to the public corkboard. She took photos wherever she travelled in Australia—and she loved to travel through Australia’s varied landscapes, from tropical beaches to desert and the snowfields that everyone forgot were part of Australia, too. Although she never painted a picture directly from a photo, she liked the reminders of colours and shapes. The photos sparked her memories of how the various landscapes felt. How they smelled, their immensity, the feelings that she wanted to evoke via her paintings.
Nick handed her a mug of tea and took his own with him to the sofa. Its battered leather was stained with paint smears and clay dust. It suited Nick as he lounged there in his faded jeans and a grey corded cotton shirt. He’d rolled up his sleeves.
He usually did, but she was as distracted as always by the si
ght of his powerful forearms. They spoke of his mastery of clay, the pursuit of his craft and the sheer strength that was Nick.
She didn’t even care that there were traces of clay under his nails that even the nailbrush he used couldn’t eradicate. Today’s clay was orange, the terracotta he’d mentioned.
“Earth to Zoe.”
She took a hasty sip of tea. Normally, she was more discreet in how she watched him. A girl couldn’t wear her heart in her eyes.
He set his mug on the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been thinking…”
“Ooh, dangerous.”
He flashed his wicked grin. “The cruise ships will start calling in, soon.”
She nodded. Fremantle was one of the cruise lines main Australian stops, but it was a summer thing. Winter was the town’s quiet time. “Tourists. I can’t wait.” Tourists meant people with money to buy mementos.
“You say that now. Wait till they all come shuffling in, hoping for an air conditioned retreat from the heat.”
“If they buy my paintings, they’re welcome to all the cool air they desire.”
“Fair enough. But my point was that we ought to take advantage of this breathing space before the panting hordes arrive.”
She glanced back at her painting. “I am.” She was painting steadily, aware how lucky she was at twenty-four to have a studio and be working at her art full time.
“I was thinking more of taking a break than working flat out.”
Now he had her full attention. Nick cultivated a relaxed air, but she knew how intensely he worked. Collectors sought out his pots and he already had three in the National Gallery. He might be the only son of one of Australia’s wealthiest businessmen, but Nick was no dilettante.
Her heart squeezed as she suddenly guessed why he’d want a break. She held her mug tightly and turned back to the easel. She didn’t want him to see her face when he told her he had a new girlfriend and would be spending time with her. Just listening to his slow drawl hurt.
