Save Me, Santa: 5 Holiday Stories of Romance & Suspense

by Nina Bruhns

  Then she kissed him. Long and deep.

  And reached for his buttons… “But this stupid suit has got to go.”

  The End

  About Nina Bruhns

  National bestselling author and editorial director Nina Bruhns decided it was time to change careers and pursue her longtime dream of writing when fieldwork in Egyptology became too dangerous. Five years and five manuscripts later, she became an overnight success with her two debut books. Since then, Nina has achieved bestsellerdom writing for Berkley and Silhouette, various epublishers, and now as an indie author, as well. Nina has earned numerous awards for her nearly thirty books to date, including three Daphne du Maurier Awards for Best Overall Mystery-Suspense Book of the year, two Rita nominations, two RT Bookclub Reviewers Choice Awards, a National Readers Choice Award, five Dorothy Parker Awards of Excellence, and two Golden Hearts.

  Her vast experience and knowledge of the publishing business have brought a fresh eye for content and a wealth of know-how and expertise to her newest adventure, as the Editorial Director for Dead Sexy, the recently launched short romantic suspense imprint from Entangled Publishing.

  www.NinaBruhns.com

  www.DeadSexyBooks.com

  The Old Man’s Back in Town

  by

  Ann Charles

  Goldwash, Nevada

  December 24th

  Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.

  Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh…

  “Would you turn off that Christmas crap and help me clean up all this blood?” I said, throwing a wet rag at my cousin Buffalo as he nursed a mug of beer at the end of the bar.

  Buffalo dodged the rag. “Jeez, Montana, can’t you let a man enjoy a nostalgic moment? Where’s your holiday spirit?”

  “I think I flushed it the other night after you came by bearing green and red M&Ms and spiked eggnog.” I dragged the bucket of sudsy water over to the pool of blood, pulling the stools out on each side of Buffalo.

  Damn, there was a lot of blood.

  The ammonia in my mop water smelled almost clinical, reminding me of a hospital room, blocking out the coppery tang as the red mop-head creaked and swooshed.

  He chuckled. “Girl, you really need to find some new friends.”

  “And family.” I poked him in the ribs, making him grunt mid-drink. “I’m closing the bar early tonight. You can either help me with this mess or drag your sorry ass home to that pitifully fat bulldog of yours.”

  “Leave Brunhilda out of this.” Buffalo wiped the beer foam moustache from his upper lip with the sleeve of his brown thermal shirt. “So, how did all of this blood get here, anyway?”

  I paused, replaying the night’s events. Things had been a little hectic with the drunken caroling and smooching under the mistletoe, making everything jumble together in my memory. Since The Ugly Rooster was the only watering hole in over a fifty-mile radius, the annual holiday party lured in the wild life from the nearby ranges and basins in droves.

  “I can’t remember. It just kind of appeared.” Yet cleaning it up felt like momentary déjà vu.

  “How can you not remember this much blood? You must be getting daft from old age.”

  Sure, all of my thirty-six old years. “You have two years on me, remember?”

  “Yeah, but unlike you, I’m getting wiser.”

  “Wiser? Weren’t you the one who broke your arm earlier this year wrestling with your neighbor’s pig?”

  “There’s a rational explanation for that.”

  I grinned, “Yeah, but you lost the bet, and then your girlfriend left you for the winner.”

  “That woman was nuttier than a squirrel turd. Her leaving was my good fortune.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more, especially after hearing she’d knocked Buffalo out cold with a cast iron skillet during one of her drunken fits.

  “It just confirmed what I’d told you all along,” he continued. “She wasn’t the ‘one’ for me.”

  “Right. I suppose you’re sticking with Brunhilda being your one-and-only still?”

  “Well, she is the prettiest girl in this dusty pit stop. Except for you, of course, but kissin’ my cousin doesn’t pop my pup-tent.”

  “Thank the Maker for that. Now help me clean up this blood or get the hell out of my bar.”

  Buffalo hopped off his seat and started wiping down the legs of the stools. “What has you so ornery lately, Monty?” he asked. “You used to dig the holidays, putting up little trees all over in here, decorating the old joint with colored lights. Ever since Joel left for Vegas, you—”

  I stopped mopping mid-swish. “This has nothing to do with that son of a bitch.”

  “Right. I see you’re still ‘over him’ almost four months later.”

  “If only I had the power to turn men into dung beetles.”

  “Joel always could charm the skin off a snake.”

  With just a wink and a grin that bastard certainly had made me rise up and dance a good too many times to count.

  Leaning on the mop, I frowned down at the wet, scarred up wooden floor. “Honestly, it’s not Joel that has me feeling pissy. I have a gut feeling that something isn’t quite right out there tonight.”

  “It’s just the wind. You never did like it when it howled. Remember when you were a little pissant and you’d hide under the bed during sand storms? Your mom would have to lure you out with Snickerdoodles.”

  My eyes watered for a split-second, remembering my momma and her sweet, coaxing smile. It had been her idea to name me Montana, after her home state. I had yet to see that part of the West with my own blue peepers, which Momma said had reminded her of Big Sky country as soon as I shot out of the womb and blinked them open.

  “Yeah, maybe it’s just the wind,” I said. “But I’d feel safer at home.”

  “Is this about those calls you’ve been getting with all that heavy breathing?”

  Maybe. “Nah, that’s just some stupid kid screwing around.”

  “I still think you should tell the sheriff about them. If not the calls, then at least he needs to know about all of this blood.”

  “Enough about the blood. It’s all gone.” I dipped the mop-head in the red water. “All the sheriff will do is tell me to file a report and change my number. The calls will go away if I just keep ignoring them.”

  “Fine, don’t listen to me, like usual.” He leaned against the bar, watching me rinse the mop-head. “So what makes you think you’re safer alone at home?”

  “My 12-gauge.”

  He laughed. “You want me to bring my forty-five over to spend Christmas with your shotgun?”

  “Thanks.” I squeezed his shoulder. “But I’m not good company tonight. Too many memories. I need to re-align my chakras or some crap like that.”

  “Have you been reading those books full of motivational mumbo-jumbo again?”

  I shook my head. “Somebody keeps carving quotes on my bathroom stall doors.”

  The bell over the door jingled.

  “Bar’s closed,” I hollered.

  “Even for an old friend?” The deep voice raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  I turned slowly, gripping the mop handle to keep from falling over.

  “Well, well, well,” Buffalo said. “Look what Santa brought you, Monty, a hunka-hunka burnin’ heartache. You must have been naughty this year.”

  Joel Andersen closed the door, silencing the wail of a Nevada winter gale.

  My eyes narrowed as Joel strolled closer. His black hair was ruffled from the wind, his chin covered with dark stubble. The lines bracketing his eyes showed a tension that his big, easy grin couldn’t hide.

  Of all of the gin joints in all the tumbleweed-choked towns in the world, he strolled into mine. “I said the bar’s closed.”

  “I heard you, Shooter.” He used my childhood nickname like he still had a right to, the jerk. He patted Buffalo on the back. “How’s the restoration coming along, Buffalo?”
/>
  Buffalo was in the process of fixing up the historic Goldwash Grand Hotel. A dilapidated monument of Goldwash’s prosperous past, the old brick hotel had been left to decay under the harsh desert sun for over forty years along with the rest of the town after the last of the gold had been hauled away.

  “When I’m not tied up in historical committee red tape, it’s great. How are those Vegas lights?”

  “Twinkling,” Joel answered, but his emerald-colored eyes held mine captive, fire burning in their depths like usual when he planned to woo my pants right off of me. “Always twinkling.”

  My heart shook off a layer of dust and started to pitter-patter, the damned lonely traitor.

  There went my plans for a sober Christmas Day.

  “What do you want?” I asked, not mincing words.

  His gaze trailed down the front of my green T-shirt, old blue jeans, and landed on my red cowboy boots. “I missed you, too, Montana. Got your Miss Claus getup on, I see.”

  “Go back to Vegas.” I dragged the mop bucket across the floor and kicked it into the corner. “You’re not welcome ‘round here anymore.”

  And here I’d had the silly notion that I was over the pain of his leaving me. The grinding sensation chewing away in my chest called me on that lie.

  “Come on, Shooter. Is that any way to treat a guy just out of the cold on Christmas Eve? Where’s your holiday spirit?”

  “She flushed it down the toilet,” Buffalo said, hooking a stool with his boot for Joel to sit next to him just like old times.

  “Can it, Buffalo.” I moved behind the bar, pouring myself a shot of whiskey, my trembling hand itching to throw the amber liquor in Joel’s face. How dare he just show up on my doorstep after months of silence? Months! He could have at least sent a postcard. Or called to let me know he was still alive.

  Hold up. Maybe Joel was the heavy breather who had kept calling me this past week.

  I glared at him. “If you’re the jackass who’s been harassing me on the phone, you can knock that shit off.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Harassing you how?”

  After several seconds of staring him down, I bought into his innocence. “Never mind.”

  “Have you told the sheriff about it?”

  “She refuses to tell your brother,” Buffalo answered for me. “She’s still more stubborn than smart. That hasn’t changed since you left.”

  “She never has liked change much,” Joel said, watching me like I might drop my glass and draw on him. “That’s why it took so long to get her to stop thinking of me as just an old friend and go out on a date.”

  And look what happened when I did. My heart had been flattened like road kill.

  That was enough reminiscing for a Christmas Eve. Next they’d want to start singing Bing Crosby and Danny-freaking-Kaye tunes. “You both need to get out of my bar before I fill you full of holes.”

  “She’s bluffing,” Buffalo said. “She just told me her shotgun is at home.”

  “How about one drink for old times’ sake?” Joel suggested, leaning his elbows on the bar. His grin said good times, but his eyes warned of something darker.

  I slammed back the shot, thunking the glass down on the bar. The whiskey burned a trail all the way to my boot heels. “There. Consider that drink done had. Lock the door on your way out.”

  Without another word, I pushed through the swinging half-doors that led back to my office where I planned to hide until Joel went back to Vegas and took his heartbreaking eyes with him.

  The bastard didn’t let me make it that far.

  “Montana,” Joel said from behind me, his tone no longer full of jest. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m busy,” I called over my shoulder without slowing. “Stop back next year sometime.”

  He caught my arm. “This can’t wait.”

  “Really?” I whirled on him. “After months of dead silence, you suddenly feel chatty? I don’t think so. Go home to your fancy Vegas condo and leave me be.”

  I tugged my arm free, stormed into my office, and tried to slam the door behind me. But his foot screwed up my grand exit, sneaking in between the door and frame, keeping me from locking him out of my office and my life.

  He shoved his way inside, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I hit him with a double-barreled glare. “We have nothing left to say to each other, Joel.”

  “I’m not here because of us.”

  I took a step back. Damn, that stung. If there was one thing I could always count on from Joel, before and after we’d started having knock-my-boots-off sex, it was his brutal honesty. “Yeah, well, there is no ‘us’ anyway, so that point is moot.”

  “You are such a lousy liar,” he said, his smirk making a show. “But we’ll get to that later.”

  There wasn’t going to be an “us” involved with “later” as far as I was concerned. My heart was still duct taped from last time.

  “You’ve got trouble coming your way,” he said, all serious.

  “Yeah, I’m looking at it.”

  “You’re going to wish it was just me.” His face hardened. “Your ex-husband escaped from prison a week ago.”

  What! “Are you serious?” He nodded and my knees wobbled. “Oh, shit.”

  Joel grabbed me as I started to fold, leading me to the old silver couch I used as a bed when I was too tired—or drunk—to make it home. He kneeled in front of me, pushing my long bangs out of my eyes. He smelled like the desert, all fresh and spicy, yet sweet and earthy—his scent. I wanted to wrap it around me, to roll around in it like a wild horse in a spring meadow, and forget about my ex out from behind bars, free to kill again.

  “Who escapes from prison in this day and age?” I asked.

  “Ruthless bastards who have connections on the outside.”

  “So, that’s why you’re here, Detective Andersen. The Las Vegas Police Department has you working overtime on Christmas Eve?” It had nothing to do with me, the woman he’d left behind for a job in the big city, rather with an escaped convict he was hunting down.

  “Yes.”

  Brutally honest Joel. He ran true, had to give him that.

  I dropped my focus to my hands, which were all pretzel-twisted together. “Well, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Good, but you’re probably on his list of must-sees this holiday season.”

  “Does your brother know about this?”

  He nodded. “He was supposed to have one of his deputies sitting outside your bar tonight.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Joel. A time for families, not babysitting the local bar owner. But that explains why your brother stopped by earlier at lunch and suggested that I cancel tonight’s holiday shindig.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I couldn’t. It’s a Goldwash tradition. Besides, too many locals need it to make it through the holidays.”

  “You realize he may try to kill you again.”

  “He can try.”

  “Listen—”

  “But I might kill him first.”

  Joel pushed to his feet, pacing in front of me. “Montana, think about what you’re up against. He’s twice your size, built up with years of prison bulk and revenge, and probably pissed as hell at the woman who helped put him behind bars.”

  This explained the anxiety I’d been feeling in my gut for the last couple of days. The universe had been sending me get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge vibes. I needed to go home, grab my 12-gauge and some supplies, and head for the hills for a few days. Maybe Buffalo could cover for me here over New Year’s.

  Brushing my hands down my jeans, I shoved to my feet, testing out my shaky knees. They felt solid again. “Thanks for driving out here to let me know. I appreciate the heads-up.” I crossed to the door. “Now, you’ve done your duty, so you’re free to head out.”

  I held open the door for him.

  “Stop being so stubborn,” he said, grabbing my arm. “I’m not going anywhere to
night.”

  “Joel,” I glared down at his hand on my arm, “you’re out of your jurisdiction, especially when it comes to touching me. Or have you forgotten that fact?”

  He forced the door shut and walked me backwards until I was up against my desk, his body pressed into mine. “I haven’t forgotten a single thing about touching you.”

  Damn, I’d missed his hard angles.

  His long, dark eyelashes lowered, his green eyes full of sins of the flesh. “Did you miss me, Shooter?”

  Like rain in Death Valley. “Kiss my ass, Andersen.”

  “In a heartbeat. Are you wearing a thong or that underwear that only covers half of your cheeks?”

  My core temperature hit a molten level. My limbs tingled, wanting to wrap around him and cling. But I stood still, hiding behind a jutted chin. “Stop flirting with me. You lost that right when you walked out.”

  He trailed his knuckles along my collar bone, teasing. “I asked you to come with me.”

  I clenched my fists, determined not to lean into him. “No, you informed me that your career was stagnant. That there was nothing left in Goldwash for you, so you were going to try your hand in Vegas.”

  “Same thing.”

  I planted both palms on his chest and pushed him back. “Your communication skills have never been your strong point.”

  He allowed me the extra space, dropping his arms to his sides. “And your stubbornness will be the death of you.”

  “That’s no longer your concern.”

  “Bullshit, Shooter.” His eyes traveled down over my T-shirt. “You look thinner.”

  Heartache made for a great dieting plan. Damn him for looking better than ever in his green flannel shirt.

  “I’ve been a little stressed.”

  “How’s your dad doing on his own?” he asked.

  “Coping. He helps out here some nights when the loneliness gets too much.” We made quite a pair—lonely and lonelier.

  “Working with you can’t be easy.”

  “I’m nicer to him than to you.” Dad didn’t choose a career over me.

  His grin came quick. “I mean because you look so much like your mom when she was younger.” He reached out and fingered a strand of my hair. “Especially with your hair the same shade of auburn as hers. I like this longer, wavy cut. Makes you look more bohemian. She’d have approved.”