Santa Reads Romance Read online

  Santa Reads Romance

  Dara Joy

  Other titles by Dara Joy:

  DEATH BY PLOOT PLOOT

  THAT FAMILIAR TOUCH

  CAT SCRATCHED

  WILDCAT ARROWS

  IN KIRKPATRICK'S WOODS

  MY ONE

  KNIGHT OF A TRILLION STARS

  TONIGHT OR NEVER

  REJAR

  MINE TO TAKE

  TASTE OF THE DEVIL

  HIGH ENERGY

  HIGH INTENSITY

  SANTA READS ROMANCE

  ____________________

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2011 Dara Joy

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address House of Sages at [email protected]

  Visit Dara Joy on the World Wide Web at: WWW.OFFICIALDARAJOY.COM

  It is illegal to send an e-book to a person who did not pay for the copy or to post a copy of an e-book anywhere on the internet or offline for public consumption. By purchasing this e-book you are legally swearing not to take part in any of the aforementioned illegal practices. If you know of someone who is distributing e-books illegally report to [email protected]

  Santa Reads Romance

  for WHISKERS

  (11/17/81— 3/21/96)

  Who stood up on his chubby hind legs and danced

  for a scallion ,

  Who unlocked every door and cabinet in my house

  simply to prove a point ,

  Who bravely captured tie-wraps and wrestled them to death

  with his patented immobilizer ,

  Who slept with me when he thought I wasn't looking ,

  Who always came when I called his name

  and stayed with me in my darkest hours ,

  Who passed on to loving memory

  the day I completed this story.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Author Note

  Excerpt High Energy

  Chapter One

  Writers. They were the bane of his existence.

  Unfortunately, they were his bread and butter too.

  C. Hunter Douglas slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel of the rental car. What came into their strange little minds that caused them to react so… so…

  They had to be from another planet. Probably plants of an alien race, put here to slowly drive the sane mad.

  He peered through the windshield into the darkness.

  A snow squall had sprung up out of nowhere, adding to his rising irritation. The Weather Channel had conveniently left this piece of information out of its travel report this morning. He should have realized. Maine. Christmas week.

  It was a trip only a sailor returning home from war or a desperate publisher would attempt to make.

  His hand slammed on the wheel again.

  One million dollars.

  Of his money.

  And no manuscript.

  Normally he was not a violent man, but the idea of grabbing the oh-so-talented Rex Stevens by the throat and slowly squeezing the air from his self-indulgent lungs held great appeal. He'd show the horror writer something really scary. A pissed-off publisher.

  What was he going to do?

  Publicity and marketing had been set in motion, a book tour ready and waiting, appearances on talk shows, tie-ins… Shit, the whole thing was going to fall apart!

  He had counted on this. Placed all of his dwindling profit-margin eggs in Rex's basket of frightening words. His uncle had made some terrible financial decisions; Hunter had been called in to clean up.

  Everything would have been nice and tidy if the “writer”— he grimaced at the word— had delivered as contracted!

  When the manuscript had still not arrived three weeks after the deadline, an uncomfortable, nauseous feeling had settled in the pit of his stomach.

  It was a feeling he recognized.

  Hunter called it his “imminent author sickness.”

  He had called the man and his agent several times, leaving message after message. The agent was in the hospital for his ulcers (Hunter bet he knew why), and Rex had not returned his calls.

  So Hunter had flown up to Maine.

  He would've flown to Timbuktu to get his hands on that manuscript.

  Only when he arrived on Rex's doorstep in this godforsaken rural town, the house keeper had cheerfully informed him that Mr. Rex was not there.

  Mr. Rex was in Sri Lanka.

  At an ashram.

  In search of himself.

  Hunter's left eye twitched. Writers.

  Chapter Two

  May threw another log on the fire.

  She watched the sparks fly up the chimney as if it were the most interesting sight she had ever seen. Unfortunately, the amazing spectacle was over in less than a minute.

  She sighed, wondering what else could suddenly capture her attention. Surely something?

  Come to me.

  Her green eyes began to cloud over at the subliminal suggestion.

  You must come to me…

  Her shoulders scrunched up as she tried to fight off the insistent voice.

  Get your butt over here!

  The damn laptop was trying to get her attention again. It was the voice of conscience and reason. It was the voice of a deadline fast approaching. It would not leave her alone!

  May desperately scanned the room, searching for an important task that needed to be done immediately. Perhaps the ceilings needed vacuuming? Never mind that they weren't her ceilings— anything was better than staring at that empty screen.

  This was the stupidest idea she had ever had.

  And she had had some whoppers.

  When her neighbor Billy had told her about his cabin in Maine, May had practically begged him to let her use it for a few weeks. It seemed the ideal hideaway where she would write, diet, and reflect.

  The perfect solution.

  She could remove herself from the temptations of everyday life, finish her book, and maybe lose a few pounds at the same time.

  Most importantly, she would not be surrounded by well-meaning family and friends who smothered her in sympathy invites at Christmas. The holiday that never failed to remind her: a) she was alone; b) she was alone and; c) she was alone.

  It was supposed to be “the great escape.” After all, she would be working; she had the perfect excuse to turn down all the invitations.

  Everything would be accomplished in one fell swoop.

  Only it hadn't quite worked out that way.

  Even though Billy had warned her that the cabin was remote, secluded, and had little in the way of conveniences, she had somehow ignored all that, her inner sights focusing on a new and improved May. A May armed with a completed novel.

  After two days here, she was beginning to question the wisdom of the plan.

&nbs
p; The one-room cabin with kitchenette was starting to get on her nerves.

  What ever had possessed her to come here equipped with only a laptop, a sack full of frozen diet dinners, a giant box of Cheerios, and ten pounds of Braeburn apples? What kind of diet was that?

  Thankfully, she couldn't bear the thought of giving up coffee cream, so she at least had a small carton of Half-and-Half to stare at and dole out like liquid platinum.

  Well, enough suffering! Tomorrow she was going to drive into the little village she had passed on her way to the cabin and lay in some writer's survival supplies. Lots of Chippy Nicks, Chocomongos, and Jelly Wellys. Her stomach growled agreement with the fine idea.

  Seeking security of another kind, her sights went to the overflowing carton in the corner near the fireplace. At least she'd had sense enough to bring her favorite romance novels. She sighed contentedly at the lovely sight. Food she could live without. Creature comforts she could live without. Romance novels, however, were a different story.

  Come to think of it, this cabin was the perfect setting for a romance book.

  Her imagination took flight. Yes… remote cabin, two strangers thrown together by chance…

  She giggled to herself. How often had she read that particular story line? Too many times. It was the plot du jour. Although she had loved so many of those stories.…

  A few snowflakes fell softly against the windowpane.

  Her brow furrowed. She hadn't heard anything about snow this morning on the radio. Probably just a small snow shower.

  Shrugging, she threw another log on the fire and avidly watched the sparks fly up the chimney.

  That's another minute down.

  Chapter Three

  Perhaps if his mind hadn't been wandering along the lines of throttling his favorite author, he would've noticed the man sooner.

  He had just turned down the main street of the town. The snow had picked up in the last fifteen minutes, although visibility wasn't that bad. He should've seen him.

  Even though it was just past eight in the evening, the streets were deserted. It seemed as though one moment it was clear sailing, and the next a surprised visage materialized in front of his windshield, followed by a sickening thump.

  Christ! He had hit somebody!

  Hunter slammed on the brakes, sweat breaking out across his forehead. The car skidded to a stop, but Hunter was already out the door while the car was still rocking.

  A red lump lay unmoving in the gutter. He ran to the huddled shape, falling to his knees in the shallow snow. Hunter had never been so scared in his life.

  The man was dressed in a Santa suit.

  Next to him, lying on the pavement, was a large sack full of presents. If possible, Hunter felt even worse. He had run over Santa Claus! Not even a disgruntled publisher would intentionally do that.

  “Talk to me!” Gently he placed his hand on the man's shoulder. “I didn't even see you there, pop, I swear it! Hey, buddy, say something, please! Are you hurt bad?”

  Leaning over, he worked his palm under the man's shirt to feel for a heartbeat. Something wet licked his hand.

  “Jesus!” Hunter fell back in the snow. What the hell was that?

  A piteous groan came from under the prone figure. It did not sound human.

  Hunter blanched. He had read too many of Rex's books lately— they always seemed to involve horrific happenings in the backwoods of Maine…

  “Don't just sit there gawking at me, boyo! Help me up!”

  The acerbic words penetrated Hunter's fog-brain. He let out a sigh of relief. At least the man was conscious and speaking.

  “You okay, mister? Maybe you shouldn't move.”

  “And how am I supposed to be gettin' up if I don't move? C'mon now, help ol' Santa up. Benny's not happy.”

  Against his better judgment, Hunter crawled toward the man, helping him to sit up. A wave of cheap gin assailed his nostrils.

  Uh-huh. The picture was getting clearer. The old coot had probably fallen into the path of his car in a drunken stupor. Idly Hunter wondered what Benny was supposed to be a euphemism for. As if he needed to know.

  “Santa” sat up, swaying slightly, his eyes round and bleary. He shook his head several times, slapped the back of his head twice, and hiccuped.

  Hunter viewed him askance. “Are— are you sure you're okay, old-timer?”

  “Fit as a fiddle. It's Benny took the brunt of it, poor little fellow.”

  Hunter winced. Yeah, the old coot had probably landed right on his… well, he'd never heard it called a benny before. “Ah, yah, must've hurt like hell. Sorry.”

  The man looked at him reproachfully. “And him being such a tiny little thing.”

  Hunter stared at him. He blinked. What could he say to that? He rubbed his forehead. “Hey, you know, cold weather and all… ”

  Santa raised one bushy eyebrow and, shaking his head, muttered under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like “twit.”

  The old coot seemed okay. Drunk as a skunk, but okay. Impatiently, Hunter looked at his watch. He had a flight leaving from Bangor in a little over three hours and this was one flight he did not want to miss. The sooner he exited this horror-hotel the better; so far the trip had been one long nightmare.

  Besides, the chances of him getting another flight out tonight during Christmas week were probably five trillion to one. Conservatively speaking.

  “Well, if you're sure you're all right… ”

  “I told ya, lad, I'm fine.”

  Nodding, Hunter turned and started to walk back to his car, missing the old man's surprised look. He had just reached the driver's door when an ear-splitting yell pierced the night, shattering Hunter's ear drums.

  “Me leg! I can't move me leg!”

  Hunter raced back to him, face pale. “You are hurt! Don't worry, I have a cell phone in the car. I'll go call an ambulance. Stay put— I'll be right back—”

  “I ain't getting into no meat wagon!” the voice wailed indignantly.

  “But you—”

  “You'll take me then, won't ya, sonny?” Santa looked at him slyly.

  Hunter sighed. He was being sucker-punched and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. “All right.”

  The old coot grinned. “Put your hands out so I can give ya Benny.”

  Hunter's eyes widened. He stepped back. Three steps.

  “Now, there's nothing to be afraid of. Benny's real friendly. I'm sure you're going to be very fond of him—”

  “The hell you say!” Hunter took another step back.

  Santa clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes heavenward as if asking for divine interference. Reaching into his voluminous velvet shirt, he extracted a small reddish-brown bundle of fur with floppy ears. A blue bow was tied around its neck.

  A puppy. Benny was a puppy. I've been living in New York too long, Hunter concluded. He tentatively reached down and took the little guy from the man.

  The puppy immediately licked his hand. Then, wagging his wispy tail, he looked up at Hunter with big brown eyes.

  Cute little tyke. Unconsciously, he petted the dog's head. “Nice puppy,” he murmured distractedly. He had never been around dogs much. “What kind of dog is this?”

  “That there's a genuine long-haired dachshund. Don't see too many of them dogs about. Kinda special, they are. Benny's being relocated.”

  “Relocated?”

  “His old family didn't treat him none too well, poor mite. And him being the fine dog he is.”

  Hunter stroked the soft little head. “Too bad. How old is he?”

  “About a year old.”

  Hunter was surprised. “I thought he was just a puppy.”

  “He is; always will be. That's the magic of some dogs,” he confided before hiccuping drunkenly.

  Hunter looked at him askance. “Ah, yah. Do you need a hand up?”

  “Probably. But ya need to take me bag first.” He nodded to the sack lying near him on the snowy pavement.

  Hu
nter quirked his brow. “Let me guess, gifts to be dispensed?”

  “Right ya are, boyo. I was headed to the children's home before ya ran me down like some no-account slug in the gutter.” He speared him with a pointed look from beneath bushy brows.

  “Now wait just a minute, old-timer, you—”

  “The bag, sonny.”

  Letting out a hiss of disgust, Hunter retrieved the huge sack of wrapped gifts, throwing it onto the back seat of his car. Then he helped the old coot into the front seat, almost passing out from the alcohol fumes.

  He wondered if it would affect him like secondary smoke in the closed confines of the automobile.

  The way his day had been going? Absolutely.

  He could see it now. He would get pulled over by the Maine police and get arrested for secondary drunk driving, and while he was hauled away, he would babble pitiful phrases about million-dollar advances and an ashram in Sri Lanka.

  Hunter decided he definitely needed a vacation.

  “You'll just have to do it, boyo!”

  “Santa” lay on the hospital bed, propped up by three pillows and surrounded by four pretty nurses. Never mind that the ER doctor could find nothing wrong with the old coot. For a man supposedly in pain, he seemed remarkably comfortable. And smug.

  Go figure, but the young women couldn't do too much for the guy. Even his white beard looked as if it had the snarls combed out of it.

  Hunter's brow furrowed. Odd how the man had seemed to sober up as soon as they entered the emergency room. Even the noxious alcohol fumes had mysteriously disappeared.

  In response, the corner of Hunter's mouth lifted in a semblance of a sarcastic grin. “I don't think so, pop. I got a plane to catch.”

  A screech of utter despair filled the room. “Aw, the children! How will they get their gifts? The chi-i-l-l-dren!”

  The pitiful wail of anguish bounced off the green walls, causing the four nurses to cross their arms over their ample chests in unison and level looks of utter disdain at Hunter.

  He felt like a first-class heel.

  He tried to explain. “Look, I have to get back to New—”