12 Gifts for Christmas

by Various

  “Well, sure,” he said, taking her hands in his. His dimple flashed, and the band around her heart loosened. “What’s the point of you being here if I’m living in Manhattan?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ANNIE held her breath, wondering if she’d heard him right. “You’re moving to New York?”

  “That’s my plan.” Brent shrugged. “I was kind of looking forward to you being there, too. But …” He trailed off, amusement dancing in his eyes.

  Annie opened her mouth, but couldn’t seem to form words.

  From behind her, Annie heard the shuffle of pillows. “I think that’s my cue to exit,” Faith said, then headed down the stairs.

  He held out a hand for her, and she came willingly, knowing that in his arms was exactly where she wanted to be—and exactly where she belonged.

  Slowly, as if savoring every tiny touch, he traced his finger down her neck, following the V line of her sweater. The room was toasty warm, but she shivered anyway.

  His fingers dipped under the cashmere, then traced the lace of her bra. She moaned, low and in the back of her throat. More. She wanted to beg for more, but her voice didn’t work, and so she could only hope in silence that he understood her desire.

  Of course he did, and she stifled a groan of pure pleasure, as his rough fingertips met the soft skin of her breast. He grazed her nipple, teasing with the lightest of touches designed to drive her over the edge. “Oh, Brent,” she whispered.

  “Mmm?”

  She wanted answers—wanted to know why he was moving to New York. But she knew he’d tell her soon enough. And right then, she couldn’t think anyway. Couldn’t even focus. Heck, she could barely form words, managing only to force out her simple request. “More …”

  With a low, guttural groan, he dipped his lips to her neck, tasting and teasing as he worked his way lower. “Are you very attached to this sweater?” he whispered.

  In answer, she grabbed the hem and pulled it over her head. “You can burn it for all I care.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, then kissed a trail from her neck to her breast, teasing the sensitive skin.

  His tongue laved her nipple, her skin puckering in a sweet parody of pain. He was torturing her with his hands, stroking and exploring. And with every little touch, she seemed to melt a little bit more.

  He still wore a jacket and T-shirt, and she reached out, urging the jacket over his arms until it dropped to the floor. She concentrated next on her bra, needing to feel nothing but Brent and air against her skin. Releasing the clasp, she wriggled out of the thing, even while managing to wriggle closer to Brent.

  “Take your shirt off,” she demanded, wanting to melt under his heat.

  He complied, then urged her to the couch. She tugged at his waistband. “You need to lose these.”

  “A woman who knows what she wants,” he said. “I like that.”

  “Yeah?” She cocked her head. “And what is it you want?”

  “I figured that was pretty clear by now. I want you, Annie,” he said, his voice low and raw. “I want you now, and I want you in New York.”

  It took every ounce of strength in Brent’s body not to make love to her right there. Etiquette, however, suggested that he wait until they reached his apartment, and so they simply cuddled together, curled up in each other’s warmth and enjoyed the last few minutes before they braved the cold and let Faith have the apartment to herself.

  As he stroked her skin, he knew he’d never be happier than when he was with Annie. She made him feel whole. As if he’d been looking for the other half of himself and had finally found it in her.

  With a little sigh, she shifted off his lap, nestling against him on the couch as he tightened his arms around her. After a few minutes, she looked up, her eyes wide and questioning.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to be near you. I don’t want to lose you, Annie. Not ever. Not if I can help it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the long, velvet box. “Merry Christmas.”

  Her eyes lit up. “But I haven’t gotten you anything.”

  “You’ve still got time. According to my dad, there are plenty of shopping days left.” He nodded to the box. “Open it.”

  She did, revealing the delicate chain and the silver heart pendant. “Brent, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “You’ll always be in my heart.” He grinned and lazily stroked her thigh. “And I hope you’ll be in my bed, too.”

  She laughed. “You won’t get any argument from me.” She paused then, and licked her lips.

  His heart tightened. Surely she wasn’t having doubts. He’d bet his soul that she felt as he did, but what if he’d been wrong? “But …?” he urged, taking the plunge.

  “But New York.” She sat up, pulling away, but not letting go of his hands as she faced him. “How can you just pack up and leave?”

  “Do you want me there?” He had to hear her say it.

  “Of course. But you’ve got your job here. The family business. Everything.”

  “You mean more.” He sighed, then kissed her palm. “I never wanted to work at Carrington’s. But Dad pushed, and I gave in, and I ended up with an MBA I didn’t want and didn’t need. I had a long talk with him this afternoon. He doesn’t completely agree, but he’s supporting my decision.”

  “What did you want?”

  “Law school. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and I recently applied to four schools. I got into all of them. I’m planning on going to Columbia starting next semester.”

  “Columbia’s in New York.”

  He pulled a face of mock surprise. “You don’t say?”

  She laughed, then turned serious. “Is that the school you want to go to?”

  He saw the insecurity on her face. “It’s exactly where I want to be.” Brushing away a loose strand of hair, he met her eyes. “I don’t want to rush you. If you’re not ready, or if you don’t want—”

  “No!” Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. “I mean, of course I want you, too. Can’t you tell?”

  “I’d hoped.” Oh, how he’d hoped.

  She nibbled at her lower lip. “What about your dad? I’m not exactly from the same breeding stock as a Carrington.”

  He laughed, knowing that despite the sarcastic tone she was truly concerned about his relationship with his dad. “Don’t worry. We had a long talk. He knows how I feel, and he understands. And he’s pretty impressed with you, what with all your academic achievements and now this new job.” He shrugged. “My dad’s a tough nut, but eventually he cracks.”

  She snuggled against him. “Good.”

  He stroked her hair. “I love you, Annie. It hit me fast and hard, but I can’t deny the truth. And the truth is, I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, as the weight of the world lifted from her heart. “I think I always have, and I know I always will.”

  Snuggling back into his embrace, she let out a contented sigh. “Who would’ve believed it?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “That all my Christmas wishes would come true. And it’s not even Christmas yet.”

  Closing his eyes, Brent hugged her tighter, this woman who, for the first time he could remember, had brought pure joy to him for the holidays … and beyond.

  A Home for Christmas

  Laura Marie Altom

  About the Author

  After college (Go Hogs!), bestselling, award-winning author LAURA MARIE ALTOM did a brief stint as an interior designer before becoming a stay-at-home mom to boy/girl twins and a bonus son. Always an avid romance reader, when she found herself replotting the afternoon soaps, she knew it was time to try her hand at writing. When not immersed in her next story, Laura teaches reading enrichment at a local middle school. In her free time, she beats her kids at video games, tackles Mt. Laundry and, of course, reads romance!

  Laura loves hearing from readers at either PO Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 7
4101, USA, or e-mail BaliPalm@aol.com. Love winning fun stuff? Check out laura mariealtom.com!

  CHAPTER ONE

  “RACHEL!”

  Ignoring Chance Mulgrave, her husband’s best friend, Rachel Finch gripped her umbrella handle as if it were the only thing keeping her from throwing herself over the edge of the cliff, at the base of which thundered an angry Pacific. Even for Oregon coast standards, the day was hellish. Brutal winds, driving cold rain …

  The wailing gloom suited her. Only ten minutes earlier, she’d left the small chapel where her presumed dead husband’s memorial service had just been held.

  “Please, Rachel!” Chance shouted above the storm. Rachel didn’t see Chance since her back was to him, but she could feel him thumping toward her on crutches. “Honey …”

  He cupped his hand to her shoulder and she flinched, pulling herself free of his hold. “Don’t.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Whatever. I just—”

  She turned to him, too exhausted to cry. “I’m pregnant.”

  “What?”

  “Wes didn’t know. I’d planned on telling him after he’d finished this case.”

  “God, Rach.” Sharing the suffocating space beneath her umbrella, his demeanor softened. “I’m sorry. Or maybe happy. Hell, I’m not sure what to say.”

  “There’s not much anyone can say at this point,” she responded.

  “Wes is gone. I’m having his child … but how can I even think of being a mother when I’m so emotionally …”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” he said. “No matter what you need, I’m here for you. Wes and I made a pact. Should anything happen to either of us, we’d watch after each other’s family.”

  “But you don’t have a family,” she pointed out.

  “Yet. But it could’ve just as easily been me whose life we were celebrating here today.” He bowed his head. “Seeing you like this … so sad … makes me almost wish it was.”

  Me, too.

  There. Even if Rachel hadn’t given voice to her resentment, it was at least out there, for the universe to hear. Ordinarily, Chance and her husband worked together like a well-oiled team, watching each other’s backs. But then Chance had had to go and bust his ankle while helping one of their fellow Deputy U.S. Marshals move into a new apartment.

  If Chance had really cared for Wes, he’d have been more careful. He wouldn’t have allowed his friend to be murdered at the hands of a madman—a rogue marshal who’d also come uncomfortably close to taking out one of the most key witnesses the Marshals Service had ever had.

  Her handful of girlfriends had tried consoling her, suggesting maybe Wes wasn’t really dead … but Rachel knew. There had been an exhaustive six-week search for Wes’s body. Combined with that, of the five marshals who’d been on that assignment, only two had come home alive. Another two bodies had been found, both shot. It didn’t take rocket science to assume the same had happened to her dear husband.

  “Let me take you home,” Chance said. Despite his crutches, he tried to angle her away from the thrashing sea and back to the parking lot, to the sweet little chapel where less than a year earlier she and Wes had taken their wedding vows.

  “You’re soaked. Being out here in this weather can’t be good for you or the baby.”

  “I’m all right,” she said, again wrenching free of his hold. This time, it had been her elbow he’d grasped. She was trying to regain her dignity after having lost it in front of the church filled with Wes’s coworkers and friends, and she just wanted to be left alone. “Please … leave. I can handle this on my own.”

  “Rachel, that’s just it,” he said, awkwardly chasing after her as she strode down the perilous trail edging the cliff.

  His every step tore at her heart. Why was he alive and not her husband? The father of her child. What was she going to do? How was she ever going to cope with raising a baby on her own?

  “Honey, you don’t have to deal with Wes’s passing on your own. If you’d just open up to me, I’m here for you—for as long as you need.”

  That was the breaking point. Rachel stopped abruptly. She tossed her umbrella out to sea, tipped her head up to the battering rain and screamed.

  Tears returned with a hot, messy vengeance. Only, in the rain it was impossible to tell where tears left off and rain began. Then, suddenly, Chance was there, drawing her against him, into his island of strength and warmth, his crutches braced on either side of her like walls blocking the worst of her pain.

  “That’s it,” he crooned into her ear. “Let it out. I’m here. I’m here.”

  She did exactly as he urged, but then, because she’d always been an intensely private person and not one prone to histrionics, she stilled. Curiously, the rain and wind also slowed to a gentle patter and hush.

  “Thank you,” she eventually said. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate you trying to help, but …”

  “I’m not just trying,” he said. “If you’d let me in, we can ride this out together. I’m hurting, too.”

  “I know,” she said, looking to where she’d white-knuckle-gripped the soaked lapels of his buff-colored trench. “But I—I can’t explain. I have to do this on my own. I was alone before meeting Wes, and now I am again.”

  “But you don’t have to be. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I’m here for you.”

  “No,” she said, walking away from him again, this time in the direction of her car. “Thanks, but definitely, no.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eighteen months later …

  THROUGH the rain-drizzled, holiday-themed windows of bustling Hohlmann’s department store, Chance caught sight of a woman’s long, buttery blond hair. Heart pounding, his first instinct was to run that way, seeking an answer to the perpetual question: Was it her? Was it Rachel?

  No. It wasn’t her. And this time, just as so many others, the disappointment landed like a crushing blow to his chest.

  That day at the chapel had been the last time he’d seen her. Despite exhaustive efforts to track her, she’d vanished, destroying him inside and out.

  When eventually he’d had to return to work and his so-called normal life, he’d put a private investigator on retainer, telling the man to contact him upon finding the slightest lead.

  “You all right?” his little sister, nineteen-year-old Sarah, asked above an obnoxious Muzak rendition of “Jingle Bells.” She was clutching the prewrapped perfume box she’d just purchased for their mother. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Might as well have,” he said, taking the box from her to add to his already bulging bag. “Got everything you need?”

  “Sure,” she said, giving him The Look. The one that said she knew he was thinking about Rachel again, and that her wish for Christmas was that her usually wise big brother would once and for all put the woman—his dead best friend’s wife—out of his heart and head.

  Two hours later, Chance stuck his key in the lock of the Victorian relic his maternal grandmother had left him, shutting out hectic holiday traffic and torrential rain. Portland had been swamped under six inches in the past twenty-four hours. The last time they’d had such a deluge had been the last time he’d seen Rachel.

  “Where are you?” he asked softly, as the wind bent gnarled branches, eerily scratching them against the back-porch roof.

  Setting his meager selection of family gifts on the wood bench parked alongside the door, he looked away from the gray afternoon and to the blinking light on his answering machine. Expecting the message to be from Sarah, telling him she’d left a gift or glove in his Jeep, he pressed Play.

  “Chance,” his P.I. said, voice like gravel from too many cigarettes and not enough broccoli. “I’ve got a lead for you on that missing Finch girl. It’s a long shot, but you said you wanted everything, no matter how unlikely… .”

  Despite the fact that Rachel had run off without the decency of a proper—or even improper—goodbye, her tears still haunted him when he closed his ey
es.

  Chance listened to the message three times before committing the information to memory, then headed to his computer to book a flight to Denver.

  “Wesley, sweetie, please stop crying,” Rachel crooned to her ten-month-old baby boy, the only bright spot in what was becoming an increasingly frightening life. Having grown up in an orphanage, Rachel was no stranger to feeling alone in a crowd, or having to make it on her own. So why, after six months, was this still so hard?

  Despite her hugging and cooing, the boy only wailed more.

  “Want me to take him?”

  She looked up to see one of Baker Street homeless shelter’s newest residents wave grungy hands toward her child. She hadn’t looked much better when she’d first arrived, and Rachel still couldn’t get past the shock that she and her baby were now what most people would call “bums.”

  After reverting back to the name she’d gone by at the orphanage—Rachel Parkson—she’d traveled to Denver to room with her friend Jenny. But while Jenny had gotten lucky, landing a great job transfer to Des Moines, Rachel had descended into an abyss of bad luck.

  A tough pregnancy had landed her in the hospital. While she’d been blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby, at the rate she was going, the hefty medical bill wouldn’t be gone till he was out of high school. Wes’s life insurance company had repeatedly denied her claim, stating that without a body it wouldn’t pay.

  Making a long, sad story short, she’d lost everything, and here she was, now earning less than minimum wage doing bookkeeping for the shelter while trying to finish out her business degree one night course at a time through a downtown Denver community college.

  She was raising her precious son in a shelter with barely enough money for diapers, let alone food and a place of their own. She used to cry herself to sleep every night, but now, she was just too exhausted. She used to pray, as well, but it seemed God, just like her husband, had deserted her.