12 Gifts for Christmas

by Various

  “No, it’s not! I only caught a glimpse before I was attacked, but I remember now noticing that distinctive herringbone pattern. It’s not an Irish or English design. I’ve never seen it in any store in Dublin.”

  That was enough for Clint. Shoving through the crowd, he planted himself in front of the woman and reached into his back pocket for his credentials.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m Special Agent Clint Walker with the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you—Hey!”

  The woman whirled around and took off at a run. Thrusting through the crowd, she raced straight toward Sophie.

  Their glances met for no more than a second. Just long enough for a flash of surprised recognition to leap into the redhead’s eyes. Barely long enough for Sophie to thrust out her foot.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN the redhead went down, Sophie’s dreams of a cozy Christmas snuggled in front of a fire with Clint bit the dust, as well.

  She spent the rest of Christmas Eve at the police station, and most of Christmas day alone while Clint and Inspector Fitzgerald worked the case. Warrant in hand, they searched the woman’s hotel room and found not only the Newgrange stone, but also a Bronze Age ax blade reported stolen some weeks ago from a museum in Cobh and a tiny clay fertility figure at least four thousand years old. As Clint had speculated, the thief—who used Nola Atwood as just one of her aliases—had been waiting for the heat to die down before attempting to smuggle her prizes out of Ireland.

  Faced with the evidence, Atwood admitted to a long history of well-planned and brilliantly executed heists. She also agreed to provide the FBI with information about her wealthy Miami-based client in exchange for immunity from prosecution. As a consequence, Clint rushed through an extradition request, and made travel arrangements to leave Ireland late Christmas afternoon.

  “I need to hustle her back to the States and into interrogation before Mendoza hears she’s been arrested,” he told Sophie during a hurried farewell at her flat. “If nothing else, we’ll get the bastard on at least three or four felony counts of commissioning and financing traffic in stolen goods. I want more, though.” His voice vibrated with raw intensity. “Much more.”

  If Sophie had needed proof of how much his job meant to him, he’d just handed it to her. She could feel the impatience in him. In his mind he was already on that plane and headed across the Atlantic … away from her.

  “The museum in Cobh offered a reward for information leading to the recovery of the ax blade,” he told her. “It’s not much, only two hundred euros, but Inspector Fitzgerald promised to make sure it came to you.”

  She nodded her thanks, her throat too tight to speak.

  “And before I forget …” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small package in seasonal paper. “Merry Christmas, Sophie.”

  Her heart aching, she unwrapped a three-CD set of ancient Irish chants.

  “The shopkeeper said the oldest chant was penned about fourteen hundred years ago,” Clint told her with an apologetic grin. “Not exactly Mesolithic, but there’s one in there about Newgrange.”

  This was all Sophie would have of him. She knew it in her heart. Just these few days and a medieval chant that spoke of ancient times.

  “I got you something, too. Nothing grand, but …”

  The keychain was made of braided black leather with a silver ring at one end and a weighted Celtic knot, also in silver, at the other. She didn’t tell him it was a love knot. She couldn’t, with him so impatient to be away.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He curled a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face to his. “I’ll be back.”

  “Will y’now?” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she dredged up a saucy tone. “And when will that be, me boyo?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  The week between Christmas and New Year’s was one of the loneliest of Sophie’s life. The colored lights in the shop windows seemed to mock her. The empty quad at Trinity College echoed her footsteps when she went to the library. Even the Bull and Crown was quiet, with most of the students gone for the holidays and only a handful of tourists hardy enough to brave the icy streets.

  Clint emailed her twice. Once the morning after his return to the States to say Nola Atwood was singing like a canary on steroids. And then again the following day to let her know he wouldn’t be able to communicate for a while.

  She interpreted that to mean he was going undercover and she worried nonstop that the vicious drug lord he was after might see through his disguise. The fear congealed into a hard lump she carried around for the rest of that week.

  It was still with her on New Year’s Eve, when the entire pub emptied and the patrons headed to Christ Church for the ringing of the bells. The owner, Mick, tried to shoo Sophie out with them.

  “Aren’t you going t’hear the bells?”

  “No, Mick. You go. I’ll mind the pub.”

  “Are y’sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Sophie tried to numb the ache around her heart by keeping busy. As the chimes began to sound, faint and clear in the distance, she ducked behind the counter to set up rows of glasses for the patrons who would return eager to toast the New Year.

  “Auch, it’s a bloody fool I am,” she muttered as the pub door opened and a late customer entered on a blast of cold air and pealing bells. “What was I about, fallin’ in love with a great glom I’ll probably nivir see again?”

  She swiped her hands on her apron and turned to tend to the customer, only to find him grinning at her.

  “A great glom, am I?”

  Stunned, she gaped at him. If she’d passed him on the street, she wouldn’t have recognized him! A week’s worth of dark whiskers stubbled his cheeks and chin. His eyes were rimmed with red, and a vicious bruise mottled one side of his face, but triumph radiated from every bone in his body.

  “We got him, Sophie. Mendoza’s toast.”

  “Oh, Clint! Good on ya!”

  Laughter lit his eyes. “Not only that, my knowledge of prehistoric art so impressed my supervisors that I’ve been detailed to a special Interpol task force. I’ll be working here in Europe for at least as long as it takes you to finish your studies.”

  “Are y’serious!”

  “Absolutely.” He cocked his head as the bells rose to a riotous clamor. “Sounds like you’ve got about ten seconds to get yourself out from behind that bar so we can kiss in the New Year. Move it, woman!”

  Laughing, Sophie ducked under the counter, rounded the bar and fell into his arms.

  “Happy New Year, love.”

  “Happy New Year, Clint.”

  Christmas Evie

  Karen Templeton

  About the Author

  KAREN TEMPLETON, a bestselling author and RITA® Award nominee, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty nappies are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasising about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.

  She loves to hear from readers, who may reach her by writing online at www.karentempleton.com.

  Look for new novels from Karen in Mills & Boon® Cherish™ and Intrigue.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “DAD?”

  Eyes shut, slouched in the most uncomfortable airport waiting-room seat ever, Nolan Clarke muttered “Hmm?” at his six-year-old son. He had nothing against Albuquerque, but getting stuck there the week before Christmas because the airplane that was supposed to take them to Dallas had decided to take a sick day didn’t exactly top his list.

  “That elf just said a bad word.”

  Nolan cracked open one eye. “Elf?”

  “Over there,” Casey said, pointing toward the check-in counter.

  Hoisting open his other eye, Nolan looked. His son hadn’t lied. There, groaning at the big
Delayed sign on the board, stood one seriously pissed green-haired elf in a red top, green shorts with suspenders, candy-cane-striped stockings and kick-ass Nike running shoes.

  Then the elf turned and Nolan was the one doing the swearing.

  “Dad!” Casey said, scandalized, as Nolan’s heart lunged for his throat.

  The elf took a cautious step closer, squinting. Then her jaw dropped.

  “Nolan?”

  “Evie?”

  “You know a real live elf?” Casey gasped, but Nolan was already rising to meet Evie—and time-warping back to another Christmas encounter ten years ago, that one absolutely rife with bad words. And tears and raised voices, slammed doors and broken hearts. Nolan’s chest tightened around the scar tissue.

  Color tinged Evie’s face before her gaze dipped to Casey. “He’s yours?” she said, wonder in her voice, as though the Decade Without Evie had never happened.

  “Yes,” Nolan said through a thick throat. “This is Casey.”

  “You’re married,” she said, not looking up.

  “Was married. I’m a widower.” Her Caribbean-blue eyes flashed to his and he registered the stunned pity within them. “You have green hair,” he said, preempting her questions.

  She smirked. “It washes out.”

  “Aw, you’re not a real elf at all, are ya?” Casey said.

  Hands on striped knees, Evie crouched in front of Casey, whispering, “I’m just pretending to be an elf ‘cause it’s Christmas.” Then she bestowed upon his unsuspecting son the same bright smile that had once been Nolan’s reason for living. “I’m really an old friend of your dad—”

  Friend, fiancée, love of my life … But why quibble over semantics?

  “—but let’s not spoil it for the other kids, okay?” Evie proposed.

  “‘Kay,” Casey said, grinning, instantly head over heels.

  Like father, like son.

  Evie straightened, hitching her carry-on onto her shoulder. “Well,” she breathed a little too brightly. “Is this weird or what?”

  Don’t get sucked in, don’t get—

  Too late, Evie thought as Nolan’s calm, steady, Godiva gaze did just that. For ten years she’d fought to forget those extraordinary eyes, always twinkling behind his glasses. That smile. The laughter. The deep, down-home voice. That spine-tingling thing he used to do with—

  Don’t.

  “So …” Nolan cleared his throat. He nervously eyed the stranded passengers milling around them, reading, sleeping, bitching. Bored, Casey clambered back up onto his seat, swinging his legs. “You’re going home?” Nolan asked.

  “Yeah. You?”

  He nodded. Coughed. “What’re the odds we’d be stranded in the same airport? At the same gate?”

  “I know,” she said. “Crazy, huh?” They both sort of laughed. Nolan gestured that they should sit. So they did, Nolan pulling Casey onto his lap.

  “And you’re dressed like an elf because …?”

  Evie sighed, something at which she’d become extremely adept lately. “Gig I was doing at a kids hospital ran overtime and the taxi got hung up in traffic on the way to LAX, so I basically threw my bag at the check-in chick and ran for the plane.” She shrugged. “No time to change.”

  “So you’re still in L.A., then?”

  “Of course,” she said brightly, melting into those chocolate eyes. “You still in Denver?” she asked, trying to ignore how good he smelled and not to think about how cute Casey was, cuddled against his father’s chest… . Or about how much she loved kids and how feeble her prospects were for having her own. That it was getting harder and harder to convince herself she hadn’t been a fool to break it off with this espresso-eyed, velvet-voiced, delicious-smelling man sitting next to her.

  “I am,” he said, smiling. “I’m the assistant principal in one of the high schools there.”

  Kiss me, she thought, then flinched at her lack of control.

  “Happy?” she said, smiling.

  “Yeah,” Nolan said, on a genuinely contented sigh. The kind one rarely heard in L.A. Evie wanted to grab that sound and cram it into her purse, along with the tissues and Tampax and Tylenol, so she could take it out and lift her spirits like applying her favorite lipstick. “And what are you up to?” he asked.

  “Oh, still plugging away,” she said—still smiling. “You know.” Suddenly she was very self-conscious of the ridiculous red-and-green getup.

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m glad,” Nolan said, like he wasn’t glad at all. “I just can’t believe …”

  “What?”

  “That it’s you,” he said, letting his gaze slide right into hers, and she had to fight the urge to grab him by the front of his Broncos jacket and—

  “I gotta go,” Casey announced.

  Nolan’s attention swung to his son. “Again?”

  The kid shrugged and Nolan sighed. “Mind holding the fort? I fought off two old ladies for these seats.”

  “Sure,” Evie said, determined to stay upbeat and cheerful as she watched the pair walk to the other end of the terminal.

  “Miss Elf?”

  Startled, Evie blinked at the sudden appearance of a tiny Asian girl in front of her, hugging a dilapidated bunny. Despite feeling as though she’d had rusty nails for lunch, Evie’s heart melted. “Yes?”

  “Do you know any Christmas songs?”

  “Uh, yeah … but … where’s your family? You’re not alone, are you?”

  “Uh-uh, I’m with them,” the sprite said, dismissively gesturing to a family with many loud, older boys.

  Just then, a uniformed man at the counter announced they were bringing in another plane from Minneapolis, urging passengers to be patient and to hang on, that they’d be in the air in about an hour.

  At the chorus of moans in response, Evie glanced around the waiting area, noting the tired whines and the antsy little limbs climbing over everything. Lots of kids about to blow. Lots of parents about to self-destruct. She looked back at the little girl. “And what kind of sorry elf would I be if I didn’t know any Christmas songs?” she said, pushing herself to her feet. “Hey, kids!” she called out, pulling her elf hat out of her bag and cramming it over her spiked, lime-hued hair. “Who’s up for singing ‘Rudolph’?”

  The plane had barely leveled off before the drone of the engines lulled Casey to sleep, his head heavy against Nolan’s arm. Several rows ahead of them sat the woman responsible for preserving the sanity of all the adults during that last, interminable hour before they finally boarded.

  Not only had Evie led the kids in every holiday song known to man, but she’d also even staged an impromptu production of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, thanks to one little tyke who’d brought the book with him. Evie played the Grinch, of course, her antics and rubber face putting Jim Carrey to shame. It was no surprise that her captive audience was eating out of her hand.

  Nolan couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. Or when Casey had, Nolan thought, shifting so his son could snuggle more comfortably. Nolan smiled, remembering the waves of giggles bubbling up from someplace deep inside his oh-so-serious little boy.

  And the sparkle in Evie’s eyes as she unerringly found her spotlight, even in a crowded airport terminal.

  Ahead of him, Nolan caught a glimpse of a striped leg and jiggling Nike shoe twenty feet up the aisle. Nothing’s changed. The realization was an anvil weighting the balloon of his earlier good mood. Evie Gallagher was only happy when she was in the spotlight, as if there was simply too much of her to be contained within an ordinary body, an ordinary life. She still pulsed with excess energy, with the need to give of herself, to spread the joy to everyone she met.

  Falling in love with her had been a no-brainer. Even if, ironically, the very qualities he’d been helpless to resist ultimately broke them apart.

  Nolan let his head drop back against the airplane seat, his breath rushing from his lungs. They’d b
een so young when they’d met—Evie, a college sophomore, double-majoring in elementary education and theater; Nolan, a first-year grad student in secondary education. They’d been at a lame Texas A&M mixer, but had broken away early and stayed up late. Very late.

  She’d never been shy, she’d told him that first night. Whereas other little kids had to be coaxed to sing a ditty for Aunt Susie or recite a poem for Grandma and Grandpa, at three Evie was already lining ‘em all up in the living room and belting out “Tomorrow” from Annie like there wasn’t one. She lived to entertain. But to placate her conservative, middle-class parents, she’d planned on becoming an elementary school teacher. A perfectly acceptable alternative, she’d said, for someone who loved kids as much as she did.

  For a while she did a good job of convincing herself it was the life she wanted, too. Just as she’d made Nolan believe that she’d really wanted to marry him, have his kids, live the suburban middle-class dream. They’d been each other’s first great love and best friend. She’d been his light, just as he’d been her ballast, the one person she swore she could always count on when things got crazy. So for three years Nolan had simply ignored the tiny, constant flame of yearning in Evie’s eyes that flared into brilliance whenever she had an audience.

  A flame that their love, all by itself, could never douse.

  The wedding was barely eight weeks away when she tearfully admitted she wasn’t ready to settle down. To settle, period. Not until she at least took a decent shot at a film career.

  He could still hear her begging for his understanding… . Please, please understand why I need to do this.

  And just like that it was over.

  He hadn’t even entertained the possibility of moving with her to L.A. He’d just landed a good teaching position in Denver and he’d hated every second of the few times he’d been to L.A. But really it was because Evie had thrown him a curveball, a ball that had slammed into him and exploded everything he had known to be true. How many times over the next week had he hurled the same arguments at her, that this wasn’t the life they’d talked about, wasn’t what he’d signed on for when he’d asked her to marry him? Suddenly it was all about her—her chance, her career. And where would that leave him?