 CHRISTMAS PRESENCE:
Three Tales of Love
Donna Birdsell
• Lisa Childs • Susan Crosby
December 2007
Harlequin Next #97
ISBN-13:978-0-373-88147-5
Naughty or nice?
Meet three sophisticated women who aren't above a little mischief
under the mistletoe to relieve holiday stress.
CHRISTMAS PRESENCE ~ Donna Birdsell
Young widow Astrid Martin wants to boycott Christmas—but her husband's ghost
won't let her! Before long she has a tree, even a gift-wrapping job at the mall,
where she meets the man who holds the key to her Christmas future.
SECRET SANTA ~ Lisa Childs
When Maggie O'brien receives gifts from a secret Santa, she suspects one of the
three men in her life has finally wised up to how special she is. Who's the
mystery man—her ex, her boss, or that good-looking car mechanic? Come Christmas
morning, will true love be waiting under Maggie's tree?
YOU'RE ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS ~ Susan Crosby
Divorcée Lauren Wright opts for a Bahamas Christmas getaway—only to be stranded
at the airport by weather. But a very personable fellow traveler makes the time
fly—and temperatures rise. Bahamas or no Bahamas, things are about to get
steamy....
Reviews
"Start your Christmas season off right with CHRISTMAS PRESENCE: Three Tales of
Love by talented authors Donna Birdsell, Lisa Childs and Susan Crosby. CHRISTMAS
PRESENCE: Three Tales of Love...is uplifting and highly entertaining. This is the perfect holiday
read by three wonderfully talented authors. Grab a cup of Christmas cheer and
snuggle up in your favorite reading chair for an evening of pleasure with
CHRISTMAS PRESENCE. " -- Donna Zapf,
SingleTitles.com
"These three sugar without spice Yuletide romances
will warm the hearts of contemporary romance readers."
--
Harriet Klausner
"The stories in Christmas Presence
(3) are like cookies and hot chocolate -- warm and
sweet. " -- Page Traynor,
RT BookClub
Maggie
O'Brien's breath escaped her aching lungs in little puffs of white mist. Her
fingers numb, she struggled to turn the key in the ignition. A nail chipped
against the metal, the snap of the cuticle the only sound in the interior of her
minivan. Not a gear ground or a crank spun, the engine refused to start, the
battery completely dead.
Maggie slumped forward and rested her forehead against
the steering wheel, the plastic cold and hard against her skin. "Damn, damn,
damn..."
If only she hadn't turned off the van...
But after the grocery store, she'd stopped back at the
office to drop off the coffee and filters she'd bought, just in case someone
beat her to work in the morning and wanted to brew a pot. But in the seven years
she'd been employed at the insurance agency no one had ever beaten her to
work and no one made coffee but her.
A sigh slipped through her lips, forming another wispy
white cloud that floated toward the frosted windshield. She uncurled one cold
hand from the wheel and reached to the passenger's seat, fumbling in her open
purse for her cell phone. At least she only had to maneuver her stiff fingers to
push one button to speed dial the garage that regularly serviced her lemon.
While the phone rang, she glanced at her watch; the illuminated dial read seven.
Fortunately the garage had twenty-four-hour tow service. She waited for the
click of the call-forward, but someone answered, "Mallehan."
Her heart kicked against her ribs at the low rasp of
the male voice. "Hi...you're still there?"
"Maggie?"
Her heart rate quickened, spreading warmth through her
despite the bite of the December night. "I call so often you recognize my
voice?" She'd like to think that was why she recognized his, but he usually
didn't answer his phone. He had a secretary.
Patrick Mallehan chuckled. "If you ever replace that
heap, I'm going to start missing mortgage payments, Maggie."
"Glad I'm putting a roof over your head." Since her
divorce six years ago, she'd struggled to keep a roof over her own and her kids'
heads. Now with one in college, one playing high-school hockey and another with
a video game addiction, the providing-shelter thing had gotten even trickier and
was why she hadn't replaced the lemon with a new car.
He chuckled again, then asked, "Where are you?"
"At the office." Where she spent entirely too much of
her time.
"That's good -- "
"Breaking down is never good -- "
"But at least you're warm," he
said, his deep voice so full of warmth her ear tingled.
But maybe the tingling had nothing to do with his
voice and everything to do with frostbite.
"It's freezing out there
tonight," he said.
"Yes, it is." She should have gone back in the office
to call; that would have made sense. "The van's completely dead. How soon can a
truck get here?"
She glanced again at her watch. While she was grocery
shopping, the kids had called to let her know they were heading to the mall to
catch a movie. She doubted they'd be home yet, so she would need a ride. "Do you
think the driver can drop me home?" He had before.
"Sure, Maggie. It'll be just a few minutes," he
assured her. "Sit tight."
He broke the connection, leaving Maggie feeling
bereft. Without the warmth of Patrick Mallehan's voice, she shivered with cold,
her teeth clicking together. She peered through the frosted window toward the
office, which occupied a corner of a small strip mall. They shared the space
with a dog groomer, a beauty parlor and a tobacco store. Because her boss was
cheap, they turned down the heat after hours. With lots of windows and thin
walls, the office wouldn't be much warmer than the van.
He had said just a few minutes, and Patrick Mallehan
was always true to his word. That was why his service stations -- he had four
locations -- were so successful. He was that rare mechanic that a customer could
trust. Before she could have unlocked the office door, had she decided to wait
inside, a Mallehan tow truck, black with a light bar on the roof, pulled into
the parking lot.
She breathed a sigh of relief, filling the van with
white mist. As she opened her door and stepped out, the driver hopped down from
the tow truck, landing on the pavement right in front of her: six feet plus of
Patrick Mallehan, proprietor of Mallehan Service Stations.
"It's...you," she murmured, surprised that he'd
personally make a service call.
He chuckled. "Hey, I may be a little out of practice,
but I remember how to hook up a tow."
Maggie was a little out of practice, too, with how to
react to a man like him. She resisted the urge to check her hair and make-up in
the side mirror. Was her red hair a mess, standing on end? Had her eyeliner run
so that it rimmed her green eyes? Maybe it was better that she didn't know.
She tipped back her head, so she
could meet his gaze, his blue eyes gleaming in the glow of the parking-lot
lights. Damn, he was tall and broad, his shoulders testing the seams of his
black leather jacket. A navy-blue sweater stretched across his chest and dark
jeans hugged his lean hips and long legs.
"Damn, it's cold," Mallehan said, his big hands
closing over hers. "Where are your gloves?"
"My daughter borrowed them." Because Kirsten couldn't remember where she'd
left hers-at home or in the college dorm room.
He wore no gloves, but his
skin was warm, chasing the chill from her fingers, which tingled now as feeling,
probably too much feeling, rushed back. As Kirsten would have said, the man was
hot. Embarrassment heated her face. Kirsten could call guys hot; she was
twenty. Maggie was not.
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