Harlequin Holiday Collection Page 6

  Holly shifted on the couch, sliding across his lap to straddle him. The emotional moment shifted, changed, becoming heated and sultry as she stared down at him.

  “I want you, Zach. Make love to me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  If Holly had been twenty and unsure of herself, she might not have believed Zach when he told her what had happened the night they broke up. But she was no longer a girl. She was a woman who’d experienced life and sex, truth and lies.

  She knew he was telling the truth.

  “Make love to me,” she repeated.

  Zach’s hungry expression was all the answer she needed. They made love in front of the fire, bathed in the amber light of the flames and in the twinkle of the sparkly lights of the Christmas tree.

  And this time, after they’d exploded in pleasure, Holly didn’t immediately start wondering how to make him go. Because she only wanted him to stay.

  “I do love you,” she whispered.

  Still sprawled naked on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, the flames sending shadow and light dancing across his golden skin, he smiled.

  “I love you, too, Holly.”

  On Tuesday, Christmas Eve, Holly woke up blissfully happy. Not only because Zach had spent another night in her bed—in her arms—but because this was also the day Weekend Getaway was supposed to air the story on the inn.

  She paced anxiously until it started, then held her breath as the opening credits rolled, her hand clenched in Zach’s. Her grandparents watched just as avidly. Until finally, it was there, on the screen, their beautiful home all decked out in its holiday best.

  Holly groaned when she saw herself onscreen. “Oh God, look at my hair.”

  “Well, you had been wrestling a corpse all day,” Zach said.

  She playfully socked him in the upper arm and then shushed him, hanging on every word the reporter uttered. Candy described her visit as the pictures changed and every word she said made Holly’s smile grow.

  “The Hollyberry Inn is one of the most delightful treasures to be found anywhere near Chicago,” Candy concluded as the video from the inn ended and the image returned to the studio.

  Holly wanted to dance for joy. At least until the final moments of the show, when the studio hostess spoke. “You know,” she said to Candy, “I’ve been following an interesting story about those diamond thieves from Chicago. Weren’t they found in the same town where this little inn is located, and one of them had killed the other? I don’t suppose you ran into them on your visit?”

  Her grandmother gasped. Zach leaned forward on the couch. And Holly froze.

  Smiling at her colleague, Candy then turned to look at the camera. She seemed to be staring directly at Holly and her eyes twinkled under the lights. “How exciting, seeing a jewel thief at the Hollyberry Inn.” She laughed softly, but didn’t look away. “Why, just imagine, one of them could have been lounging right there on the sunporch, sleeping as peacefully as…the dead.”

  Holly didn’t move an inch, not until the show ended and her grandfather clicked the TV off. Then she realized Zach was shaking with laughter, as were her grandparents.

  “That Candy,” Nana said, “she’s a good egg.”

  Zach had been so terrified of Holly’s close call on Friday that he hadn’t wanted to leave her side. But he’d managed to slip away for a few hours on Tuesday, long enough to visit a jewelry store to buy her something special. When she opened the tiny package late that night and slipped the solitaire onto her left ring finger, he knew her answer.

  They were still celebrating their surprise engagement on Christmas morning when Holly’s grandparents came downstairs. Zach found himself included in the family celebration, watching as Holly found a dozen reasons to wave her new ring around.

  “It’s awfully pretty—and almost as big as those pretty ones on the tree,” her grandmother said.

  Holly raised a quizzical brow as Zach glanced toward the Christmas tree. The lights were on, twinkling merrily, and for the first time, he noticed the way they reflected off a number of tiny, crystal ornaments that sent out shards of color in all directions.

  “Where did those come from?” Holly asked.

  “I’m sorry, dear, the strand must have broken in the rush to take down the old tree. I found all the beads on the floor, but these eyes are old. I couldn’t see the holes in them to string them back together,” her Nana said. “So I just glued ‘em all onto holders and put them up. Aren’t they pretty? So sparkly.”

  Holly rose. Seeing the color fall out of her face, Zach got up, too and followed her to the evergreen. When she reached for one of the tiny ornaments hanging like jewels from a bough, he suddenly began to suspect the truth. “Jewels…”

  “Oh my God,” she murmured.

  Their eyes met, both of them giggling softly as they realized exactly where the stolen diamonds had ended up.

  “Do you think we should tell her?” Holly whispered.

  “Not yet. It’s Christmas. Besides, I don’t want to interrupt Mark’s holiday. We’ll call him tomorrow.”

  Nodding in agreement, Holly leaned close and wrapped her arms around Zach’s neck. Rising on tiptoe, she pointed to the ceiling. “Mistletoe.”

  Looking up and seeing the tiny green spray, he smiled and lowered his mouth toward hers.

  “I love you, Zach,” she whispered right before their lips touched.

  “Merry Christmas, Holly.”

  Seduced by the Season

  By Merline Lovelace

  Chapter One

  Dublin, Ireland

  Balancing a tray of empty beer glasses, Sophie Hawthorne wove her way to a small booth wedged into a corner of the Bull and Crown.

  Located in the heart of Dublin, just a short walk from the campus of Trinity College, the pub featured a centuries-old oak bar that ran the length of the establishment and a selection of libations that made it popular with students, locals and tourists alike.

  Although it was just midafternoon, the pub was jammed with students celebrating the completion of exam week and their imminent departure for Christmas break. Their noisy chatter and laughter swirled around Sophie as she paused beside the corner booth.

  Its occupant was bent over a guidebook, affording Sophie a view of neatly trimmed black hair and wide shoulders encased in tweed. He was busy scribbling notes on a sheet of yellow, lined paper. One of those notes caught Sophie’s eye.

  “That should be thirty-two hundred B.C.,” she commented, switching the heavy tray to her other hip.

  The customer glanced up, and a jolt went through Sophie.

  Sweet Molly Malone! Despite the guidebook and the nerdy black-framed glasses, this fella sure didn’t look like a typical tourist. With those broad shoulders, strong, square chin and bedroom-blue eyes, he had all the makings of a world-class hunk.

  “I’m sorry.” He cocked his head to hear her over the din. “What did you say?”

  His accent immediately identified him as a fellow American. Sophie herself was solidly Midwestern, but she’d acquired a definite lilt during her years in Dublin.

  “The passage tomb at Newgrange was constructed circa three thousand B.C.,” she said cheerfully, “not two thousand.”

  The customer consulted his book and hooked a brow. “You’re right.”

  She had to grin at his surprise. “Irish prehistory is my specialty, y’see.”

  Clint Walker blinked behind his fake glasses. He’d been so absorbed in his prep work that he’d barely noticed the waitress when she’d approached his table.

  But she had his full attention now! With a shaft of sheer male appreciation, he took in her tumble of tawny curls, laughing green eyes and mile-long legs encased in black tights beneath a short cherry-red skirt. The enticing combination almost made Clint forget the dangerous assignment that had brought him to Dublin.

  Almost.

  “You’re a student?” he got out, recovering.

  “A doctoral candidate at Trinity College. What can I
bring you?”

  “I’ll have a pint.”

  “Original, draft, extra stout, smooth or red?”

  “Draft.”

  “Righto.”

  While the blonde wove her way back to the bar, the interest she stirred in Clint took a sharp turn from personal to professional.

  He was on the trail of an art thief who specialized in obtaining prehistoric artifacts for a shadowy Miami-based drug lord with discriminating and extremely expensive tastes. Two days ago, the FBI’s Art Crimes Division had received a tip that the thief might be one of the handful of spectators who were allowed into the megalithic Newgrange tomb at sunrise on December 22. On that day—and only that day—the rising sun would align at precisely the right angle to illuminate the tomb’s inner chamber.

  Despite the fact that art theft ranked fourth in major international crimes after drugs, people trafficking and arms, most law-enforcement agencies—including the FBI—had only limited resources to devote to it. Hence why he was the only agent assigned to the case. Plus, his superiors hadn’t been impressed by the vagueness of the tip. Nevertheless, Clint had jumped on a plane the very next afternoon and landed in Dublin just a few hours ago.

  Problem was, what he knew about Stone Age tombs wouldn’t fill even one of the beer glasses on the sexy waitress’s tray. He was counter-narcotics, for God’s sake! But this as-yet-unidentified art thief was the Bureau’s best hope of nailing Rafael Mendoza. The drug czar had ruined hundreds of lives—Clint’s teenage nephew among them. One way or another, the bastard was going down.

  A contact in Ireland’s Arts and Antiquities Division had arranged Clint’s entrée into the exclusive group that would watch the sun light up the inner chamber tomorrow. He had until then to transform himself into a prehistoric art enthusiast.

  Like the alluring waitress…

  His gaze tracked the tawny-haired girl as she delivered a round of drinks to a group of boisterous young males. When she bent to place their order on the table, one of them reached out and fondled her rear.

  She stiffened, then smiled sweetly and dumped a pint of foaming stout over the jerk’s head. He leaped to his feet with an outraged bellow. His chair toppled backward, crashed into a gent at the next table and brought him to his feet. Fists bunched, the two looked ready to lay into each other…with the waitress caught between them.

  Clint came out of his booth and had started across the room when the blonde slapped a palm against each combatant’s chest.

  “Behave yerselves, lads! It’s Christmas, doncha know!” Green eyes flashing, she gave the one who’d groped her ass a bruising thump. “And as for you, Michael Quinn, yer a bleedin’ eejit. Lay a hand on me again, and I swear I’ll reef y’proper!”

  Clint had no idea what dire punishment she’d just threatened, but the hulking young male swiped a hand across his dripping chin and muttered a shamefaced apology.

  The tumult had subsided and the noise levels were back to ear-numbing levels when the waitress delivered Clint’s pint.

  “That’ll be five euros,” she said with a breezy smile, as if the fracas had never happened. “Or do y’want to run a tab?”

  “I’ll run a tab.” He leaned against the oak-backed booth and regarded her with a speculative look. “What’s your name?”

  “Sophie Hawthorne. And yours?”

  “Clint Walker. Listen, I was wondering—what time do you get off work?”

  “And why would y’be askin’, Clint Walker?”

  “I have a proposition for you.” She went stiff, and he added hastily, “A business proposition.”

  Chapter Two

  “You’re going to be allowed inside Newgrange? At sunrise tomorrow?”

  Sophie’s voice spiraled to a near-squeak. At the man’s request, she’d dropped onto the bench opposite his to hear his “business” proposition. At his pronouncement about Newgrange, sheer excitement almost brought her off of it again.

  She couldn’t believe he’d won that coveted prize. Twenty thousand nature worshippers, scientists and history buffs—Sophie among them—put their names in every year for the Newgrange lottery. Now here was this fella, this Clint Walker, calmly announcing he’d scored one of the greatest coups in Ireland!

  “How in the world did you get so lucky?”

  Instead of answering her eager question, he gave her a considering, almost suspicious look.

  “What happened to your accent?”

  “Oh. That.” Grinning, she flapped a hand. “I’m a Yank, like you. Born and raised in Des Plaines, Illinois. I did most of my undergraduate and master’s program at Northwestern, but got a scholarship to work on a doctorate here at Trinity. Two years in Dublin have given me a wee bit of the brogue, doncha know?”

  His blue eyes narrowing, he skimmed a glance over her well-worn red jumper and beer-stained apron.

  “You say you’re on scholarship?”

  “I am.”

  “Doesn’t it provide living expenses?”

  “It does, but…well…there are bills. You know how it is.”

  His eyes held hers. “Tell me.”

  Sophie bit her lip. She rarely talked about her personal circumstances. She considered them no one’s business but her own. Yet this man’s steady gaze drew a reluctant response from her.

  “I was raised by my grandmother. Gran didn’t have a lot, only a widow’s pension, but she gave me so much love I never realized we were poor as church mice. She died during her hip-replacement surgery three years ago.”

  Pain splintered through Sophie. Three years, and the loss of her only living relative still sent a lance straight into her heart.

  “I’m almost finished paying off the hospital and funeral bills,” she said with a shrug that made light of the crippling debts she’d worked two and three part-time jobs to pay off while struggling to complete her studies.

  The offer of a scholarship to Trinity College had come at just the right time. Sophie had jumped at it, hoping a change in scenery would heal the gaping hole in her heart.

  Ireland had eased some of the pain, but the holidays always hit hard. Very hard. Especially Christmas, when the campus emptied and everyone went home to their families. Trying not to think about the bleak days ahead, Sophie finished with a deliberate change of subject.

  “Waitressing at the Bull and Crown pays for life’s little extras. Now tell me about this business proposition you mentioned.”

  Clint leaned his shoulders against the high-backed oak booth. Despite the relaxed posture, he was still highly attuned to the instincts that had kept him alive through years of undercover work. Those instincts had gone on red alert when the tumble-haired waitress suddenly lost her Irish accent.

  Even after her explanation, he was still suspicious, so he decided to make a few calls when he got back to his hotel. If she checked out and she was who she said she was, he could sure as hell use her expertise.

  “I want to make the most of my visit to Newgrange,” he said slowly.

  That was certainly true. With any luck, the early-morning excursion would bag an international art thief and, through him, the drug czar Clint was determined to put away. To pull it off, though, he would need to sound at least semiarticulate about megalithic art. Which meant he needed an expert.

  “I want to understand the tomb’s history and that of the people who constructed it. If you have time after you get off work, perhaps you could instruct me. I’ll pay whatever the going rate is at Trinity for private tutoring.”

  “Would y’now?”

  She considered the offer, her lips pursed. Clint caught himself wondering how they’d taste. How she would taste. A sudden tightening below his belt had him rethinking his offer at the same moment she accepted it.

  “As it happens, I finish up at six this evening. We could work here at the pub. Or…” Frowning, she glanced around the jam-packed establishment. “Or at the library at Trinity College. It’s just a few blocks from here and it stays open until midnight, even during the h
oliday break.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “All right, then. Meet me in the small reading room in the Library for Ancient Books and Manuscripts. Six-thirty.”

  When she rose and made her way back to the bar, Clint pulled his gaze from her swaying hips and told himself it was possible for him to stay focused. Ignore this woman’s lithe curves. Tune out her musical lilt and blind himself to her full red lips.

  Or not.

  Clint realized his mistake shortly after they reconvened in a secluded alcove tucked away in a corner of the book-lined reading room some hours later.

  Clint had used the intervening time to check out Sophie’s story. Hadn’t taken long. Sophia Hawthorne’s life was easily traceable through the FBI’s access to public databases. Thanks to academic databases, he’d also skimmed a short summary of her master’s thesis. He was prepared for a session with an acknowledged scholar.

  He wasn’t prepared for the punch to his gut when she breezed in with a stack of books in her arms, her cheeks pink from the cold. Or the hip-hugging jeans and clingy sweater she revealed when she shed her well-worn pea jacket. Or the distracting way she hooked her hair behind one ear, leaving only a loose tendril to feather her cheek when they delved into the books.

  Worse—much worse—were her ready smile and sparkling green eyes. The woman’s engaging personality proved every bit as seductive as her trim curves and astounding knowledge of the great stone megaliths that dated back to one of the earliest eras of human history.

  Ireland and Britain were rife with these monuments, Clint learned as Sophie dived eagerly into the subject. Huge tombs, massive altars, mysterious circles such as Stonehenge and the Stones of Stenness in Scotland—many decorated with symbols and carvings that had to be protected against vandals and souvenir collectors.