“The world according to Disney,” Gabe murmured, once again sounding more than a little uncomfortable at being stuck atop that pedestal his daughter had created for him.
“Nothing wrong with fairy tales,” Holly murmured back, even though her own mother had never allowed her to read them. Or go to Disney movies.
Better, she’d said, for little girls to grow up believing in reality. Of taking charge of your own life. Because waiting around for knights in shining armor and expecting happily ever after endings could only lead to heartbreak.
Still, Holly hadn’t needed to spend a bundle talking about her childhood with some Freudian shrink to make the connection between her father’s murder and her having grown up to be a mystery novelist.
Perhaps NYPD had never managed to catch George Berry’s killer, but in Holly’s stories, the bad guys were always captured by the final chapter, justice prevailed in the end, and the good guys—and women—went on to live happily ever after.
It was, in its own way, every bit a fantasy as the one those romance novels her best friend, Jeanine, who ran the Body Beautiful Day Spa next to the Starbucks down the street from her apartment, gobbled up like chocolate-covered coffee beans.
“Which is why they call it fiction,” Holly had been quoted as saying just last week during an interview on Seattle’s KOMO’s Northwest Afternoon program.
Since selling her first book the same week she graduated from college, for the past seven years crime had been Holly’s business. And fortunately, since people seemed to be endlessly fascinated by murder and mayhem, business was good.
Still, she was intrigued by the idea of this hottie Marine sitting in a theater, or even on a couch in his living room, watching The Little Mermaid.
“Ms. Berry has had a long day,” he said on a mild tone that nevertheless brooked no argument. Holly figured the quiet authority must have served him well in the military. “We need to see about getting her a room for the night.”
“She could stay with us,” Emma volunteered quickly. A bit too quickly, Holly thought. “We’ve got lots of room.”
“I think Ms. Berry might feel more comfortable with other arrangements.”
His fingers curved around Holly’s elbow as he led her across the room, which she was surprised to find tastefully decorated for the season. The fragrant green fir had been draped in white fairy lights, its branches adorned with what appeared to be hand-carved ornaments. Fresh wreaths hung on the windows, and the staircase was wrapped with pine garlands.
There were no animal heads on the walls, no inflatable snowmen or waving Santas.
Unfortunately, there was a juke box from which Lonestar was promising to be home for Christmas.
Yeah, right, Holly thought.
Great group. Stupid song. In fact, it was, thanks to her own personal history, her least favorite song ever recorded. Unfortunately, this particular one seemed to have been covered by anyone who’d ever picked up a microphone and it was impossible to get through the holiday season without being bombarded by various versions.
At least the country edge to this rendition kept it from being as saccharine as the one by The Carpenters, which had come onto the Highlander’s radio as she’d left Seattle.
The kitchen had been built with a large window, allowing diners to watch their meals being made. It also, Holly thought, enabled the kitchen staff to keep an eye on their customers, thus allowing better service. The smells emanating from the room outfitted with what appeared to be state-of-the-art equipment made her mouth water. Then again, all she’d had to eat since that bagel this morning had been a thermos of coffee and a package of M&M’s.
The fire he’d told her about probably made it impossible for the long check-in counter to be original, but it certainly looked antique. Perhaps an old bar from an 1880s saloon. She ran a finger over the crease in its polished surface and imagined a bullet skimming by during some long-ago gunfight.
A woman, with fashionably silver hair cut in a short bob, wearing a white chef’s apron over jeans and a blue Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt came out of the kitchen.
“It’s about time you got home.” She wrapped her arms around Gabe’s wide shoulders, went up on her toes, and kissed his beard-roughened cheek. “I’ve been a little worried.”
“I was delayed.” He ran the back of his hand down the side of her face, the gesture easy and natural, demonstrating yet again that he was a man comfortable with physical displays of affection. “Holly, this is my mother, Beth O’Halloran. Mom, this is—”
“Holly Berry.” Twin dimples that echoed her son’s creased in her cheeks as she smiled. “I’m a huge fan.”
A slender gold ring flashed in the twinkling white lights of the Christmas tree as she held out her hand. “Welcome to the Ho Ho Ho Inn.”
“Holly had an accident on the road,” Gabe revealed. “She swerved for Blitzen.”
“Sam said he’d gotten out again,” Beth agreed. “But, thank heavens, he’s back home now.” Hazel eyes swept over Holly’s face. “Let’s get some ice on that eye while I fix you some dinner.”
“I was thinking perhaps, since we’re booked solid, she could stay with you and Pop until her SUV’s fixed and the roads open again,” Gabe suggested.
“Well, now, of course you’d be welcome,” Beth agreed. “But as it turns out, we’ve a lovely one-bedroom cabin that just opened up today. The Davidsons’ daughter went into labor early,” she informed Gabe. “Even if they could get over the mountains, which they probably can’t, since your father’s been out putting up road closure barricades all day, they understandably decided to stay in Portland.”
She smiled at Holly. “They’ve been regulars since their daughter, Madison, was about Emma’s age. We’ll miss them, of course, but it’s a lucky timing for you.”
“It seems to be.” Holly decided her luck had definitely been mixed the last few hours.
“Is Madison okay?” Gabe asked.
“Better than okay. The Davidsons are now proud grandparents of twins.”
“That’s good news.”
The genuine warmth in his tone suggested he knew the new mother. Which only made sense. Of course, there could also be a history there, Holly considered. She couldn’t imagine many teenage girls not noticing Gabriel O’Halloran. Especially in a town this small. As the idea of a Christmas vacation fling with a hunkier younger version of the Marine single dad came to mind, Holly felt a little twinge of something that felt uncomfortably, ridiculously, like jealousy.
“Fabulous news,” Beth agreed. “Anna sounded over the moon about being a new grandmother when she called to cancel. Why don’t you take Holly’s things over to the cabin, Gabriel,” she suggested, “while I fix her something to eat.”
“I’ll help,” Emma chirped up. “Do you like gingerbread?” she asked Holly.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Holly responded, suspecting that was the answer the little girl wanted to hear.
“Good. Because Gramma makes the best gingerbread in the whole world. I helped her make it this morning.”
“Emma’s quite the little helper,” Beth agreed, her smile once again reminding Holly of her son’s. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Five minutes later, Holly was sitting at a small table in the kitchen, a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel against her eye, while Beth whipped up a serving of the daily special—gravy-smothered chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes.
Even as she could practically see the dinner attaching itself to her hips, Holly, who was more accustomed to nuking a Lean Cuisine or takeout Chinese, couldn’t deny it smelled heavenly.
If she was going to get stranded somewhere, a town called Santa’s Village definitely would’ve been her very last choice. Well, at least right above hell.
Still, as Emma chattered on like a little red-haired magpie about her various aunts and uncles’ adventures, and Beth bustled around the kitchen with an ease a finalist on Top Chef would’ve envied, Holly decided it was
actually rather pleasant.
When Gabe’s mother put the white plate in front of her and she discovered the calorie-laden dinner tasted even better than it had smelled, she decided she could have done a whole lot worse.
Chapter Eight
The cabin, which was stone and wood on the outside, was warm and cozy, with overstuffed furniture covered in sturdy fabric designed to take a lot of abuse. The furniture was an eclectic mixture of pine and other woods, the plank coffee table wide enough to encourage visitors to put their feet up.
Someone—it had to have been Gabe—had lit a fire in the stone fireplace while she’d been eating dinner. There was a powder room and large but cozy combination living room and kitchen separated by a granite-topped counter downstairs. Upstairs, in the loft, was a bath with separate shower and oversize whirlpool tub that looked out onto the dark expanse of forest, and a bedroom boasting a king-size four-poster bed created from logs.
Yellow plank pine walls glowed like warm butter beneath the wrought iron chandelier. A second fireplace, this one gas, flickered in the corner and a Native American print quilt and pillows covered the bed.
A smaller blanket, bordered in deep brown and blue woven petroglyphs, hung on the wall opposite the bed. A fanciful figure in colors ranging from red to bright yellow stood in the center of the blanket.
“It depicts a spirit quest,” Gabe told her as she paused in front of it, “symbolizing a young brave seeking his destiny. The petroglyphs were designed after those found near the Columbia River. They’ve been dated back to over ten thousand years. The ones on the stones,” he said. “Not the blanket.”
“It’s lovely,” she murmured. The woven wool was incredibly soft to the touch. “It must’ve been nice. To believe in such a thing.”
“Nice?” He tilted his head and looked down at her.
“That’s not exactly the word I mean. More life affirming. The idea of a quest to follow your fate.”
“And you don’t believe in that idea?”
“I believe we all make our own fate…. What?” she asked, after a long, humming moment when he didn’t respond.
“I was just thinking how I used to believe that, too. When I left town on, I guess you’d have to say, my own spirit quest.”
“Which led you into the Marines.”
“Yeah. Where I learned that despite all the training, despite being a member of the strongest military in the world, fate has a helluva lot more to do with life than most of us want to admit.”
Suspecting that he’d seen a lot during his years in the service, Holly didn’t want to argue. Besides, if she was going to get technical, she suspected fate had played more than a little part in that Manhattan murderous mugger being on the street corner that long-ago Christmas Eve.
“Well.” She blew out a breath. “Thanks for rescuing me. And for the place to stay. And the dinner.”
“The Ho Ho Ho Inn prides itself on its hospitality.”
She couldn’t help smiling.
“What?” His chiseled masculine lips quirked just a bit in response to her smile.
“I was just thinking how amazing it is that a big tough Marine can say the name of this place with a straight face.”
His rich, warm laugh was every bit as intoxicating as the buttered rum Beth O’Halloran had insisted on sending with her in a foam to-go cup, along with a plate of ginger spice molasses cookies.
“Believe me, it took a while.” His eyes warmed like gleaming pewter in the glow from the wrought iron chandelier’s candelabra bulbs. “Nearly as long as it took me to get used to the idea of being an innkeeper.”
“It seems a little—” She paused, taking time to find the right word. “Staid for someone who’s obviously accustomed to more action.”
“Which is precisely why I’m happy with staid for the time being. Plus, there’s Emma to think of.”
Holly wondered how he’d ended up in America’s most Christmassy town the single dad to a little girl. Where was the former Mrs. O’Halloran? If there’d even been one.
“She’s darling. And going to be a heartbreaker when she grows up.”
“Oh, Lord. I don’t even want to think about that.” He’d unzipped the parka he’d put back on to walk her to the cabin, and now rubbed a hand against his chest. “I’m thinking about locking her in a closet at puberty and letting her back out at thirty. Or seeing if I can talk her into a convent.”
“Well, those are two possible solutions.” She wondered if her own father would’ve felt the same way. Felt a tinge of the sadness at the idea she’d never know.
“Probably not the most practical,” Gabe allowed. His lips were still smiling, but his heavily lidded eyes, as they moved slowly, intimately over her face, were not.
“What?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft after another long, drawn-out pause.
“I was just thinking about fate.” Thoughtful little lines appeared at the corners of those unreasonably sexy eyes. Once again demonstrating he had no concept of personal space, he ran a hand down her hair. This time Holly did not—could not—move away.
“What about it?”
“How if all of the events of the past few years hadn’t conspired to bring me back to this place I always swore I wanted to escape, I wouldn’t have happened to have been on that road today.” He combed the long, dark fingers of his left hand through her hair, which was still a bit damp from having walked out into the snow again from the inn to the cabin. “Just a few minutes after you’d run into that snowdrift.”
“It was more like forty-five minutes,” she managed through lips that had gone ridiculously dry.
“Then I guess I’m damn lucky that fate kept some other guy from getting there before me.”
At this moment, Holly was almost hoping that some other man had. Someone like, perhaps, Sam Fraiser, the owner of Kris Kringle’s Workshop, out searching for his runaway reindeer. If only she’d been rescued by the village’s own personal Santa, she wouldn’t be so tempted by those lips that were getting closer to her own.
And she definitely wouldn’t be going up on her toes to help him close the gap.
“Gabriel.” His name came out on a ragged breath.
“That’s funny.” His free hand slid beneath the back of her sweater, roughened fingertips warm against her flesh.
“What?”
“The only person who’s called me that since sixth grade is my mother.” He drew her closer. “But it sounds really, really different coming from your lips.”
He lowered his mouth and brushed at those lips with a feather-soft touch that was more temptation than proper kiss. The hand on her back was both gentle and confident as it pressed her even closer against him.
“Say it again.” His breath was warm against her lips. He tasted of coffee, and cinnamon gum, and desire. A desire that was ribboning through her own veins.
“Gabriel.” The archangel’s name came out on a shuddering breath. “Please.”
“Please yes?” His lips continued to drift over hers in a slow, lazy seduction that was as enticing as it was enervating. “Or please no?”
Although her taser pen was back inside her bag, which was currently lying on the coffee table in the other room, Holly knew she could stop him. She had, after all, taken that protection course at the police station, and while she might not be able to break bricks with her bare hands, she knew moves that could have him writhing on the floor gripping his wounded balls.
But she knew that she wouldn’t need those GET skills with this man. Knew that she could simply step away and he’d stop.
But, oh God, his mouth was so amazingly clever. The almost kisses so tempting, drawing her into complacence, even as they excited.
Telling herself that it was only because it’d been a very long time since she’d been with any man, that this hot, intoxicating pleasure had nothing to do with Gabriel O’Halloran himself, or the admittedly unusual circumstance that had landed her in first his SUV, then his arms, Holly twined her
arms around his neck.
“Yes, dammit.”
Chapter Nine
She closed her eyes, expecting the former Marine to ravish, to take what she was so willingly offering. But instead, she felt the curve of his lips against hers.
“Well”—his voice, husky with lust, but tinged with humor, had her toes curling in her Uggs—“since you put it that way.”
Needs. Hunger. Lust. They surged through Gabe, battering away at his hard-won self-control, demanding satisfaction.
In response to her demand, he crushed her against him as his lips turned hard. Fueled by his own burning hunger, driven by her uninhibited response, he wanted to devour her—her warm, ripe mouth, her hot, peach-scented skin, which was practically melting beneath his now roving hands.
His tongue was in her mouth, his hands were beneath the sweater on her breasts, and as he pressed against that soft, womanly place between her thighs, he felt about to burst all five metal buttons beneath his fly.
Too fast, he told himself as her mouth clung to his and her silky soft hands dove beneath his sweatshirt. Too soon. Although his aching body was shouting at him to take her the hell to bed, now, when he did make love to her, and Gabe had every intention of doing exactly that, he wanted to be able to take his time. To give, as well as take.
When her greedy touch went lower, her fingers slipping between denim and skin, he grasped hold of her wrists.
Not yet ready to quit, he pinned her hands to the wooden post of the bed and slowed the pace, lips plucking at hers again, rather than devouring, his tongue leaving the lush hot moistness of her mouth to skim a slow, tantalizing circle around her parted lips.
“Dammit.” His breath was rough. Ragged. His body ached and his damn heart hadn’t pounded against his ribcage this hard since the last time he’d been on a battlefield. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
And because he did want her, more than was either reasonable or safe, he let go of her and backed away.
“I think that was fairly evident.” Her eyes were wide, and just a little unfocused, which was sexy as hell, as she rubbed her wrists.
Silver Bells Page 13
