Christmas In Snowflake Canyon. RaeAnne Thayne

is happening, all because of some stupid Christmas carols.”

      “I like Christmas carols,” Rachel said.

      “So do I,” Genevieve answered hotly. “Believe me, I do. But not on a Friday night when I only wanted a few drinks and some good music.”

      “You can explain that to the judge, I’m sure. Come on. Let’s go.”

      She headed for the door, pushing her still-protesting prisoner ahead of her. Dylan, by default, had to go with them.

      When she opened the door, a blast of wind and snow whirled inside, harsh and mean.

      He was aware of Genevieve’s sudden shiver beside him and some latent protective instinct bubbled up out of nowhere. “It’s freezing out there. At least let the woman put on her coat.”

      Rachel raised an eyebrow at him, as surprised as he was by the solicitude. Genevieve apparently didn’t even notice.

      “That’s right. I can’t leave without my coat. And my purse. Where’s my purse?”

      “I’ll get them,” Jamie offered.

      “Where are they?” Pete asked.

      “I was sitting over there.” She gestured toward her table. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had pressed her chest against his shoulder so she could bug Pat about her mojito. “My coat should be hanging on the rack. It’s Dior. You can’t miss it.”

      Jamie found the coat and purse quickly and handed them over. “I can’t say this is how I expected to spend my last night of leave.”

      “Sorry.”

      “No worries. I’ll call Andrew. He’ll have you out in an hour or two.”

      The only thing worse than the lecture in store for him from Pop would be the similar one their older brother would likely deliver.

      “If they send me to the big house, take care of Tucker for me, will you?”

      Jamie threw him a look of disgust. “This isn’t a joke, damn it. You’re under arrest. These are serious charges.”

      “It was just a bar fight. Drew can handle that in his sleep. On second thought, Charlotte can take care of Tuck. He likes it at her place.”

      His brother shook his head. “You’re insane.”

      He must be. Despite the indignity of being shackled to Genevieve Beaumont and hauled out through the biting snow to the waiting patrol car, Dylan was astonished to discover he was enjoying himself more than he had in a long, long time.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THIS WAS A DISASTER. A complete, unmitigated catastrophe.

      The rush that had carried her through the altercation—had she really punched a woman in the nose?—was beginning to ebb, replaced by hard, terrifying reality.

      Her father was going to kill her.

      Her mother was going to pop a couple of veins and then kill her.

      She slumped into the seat, wondering just how her life had descended into this misery. A week ago, she had been blissfully happy in Paris. Long lunches with her friends at their favorite cafés, evenings spent at Place Vendôme, afternoon shopping on the Rue de Rivoli.

      Okay, maybe, just maybe, she should have been looking for work during some of those long lunches. Maybe she should have tried a little harder to turn her two internships into something a little more permanent.

      She had always figured she had plenty of time to settle down. For now, she only wanted to grab as much fun as she could. What else was she supposed to do after her plans for her life disintegrated into dust like old Christmas wrapping paper?

      She had been in a bit of a financial hole. She would be the first to admit it. She liked nice things around her. She would eventually have climbed her way out of it.

      How was she supposed to do that now, with a record? She slumped farther back into the seat, vaguely queasy from the scent of stale coffee and flop sweat that had probably seeped into the cheap leather upholstery along with God knows what else.

      Her father would see her arrest as just more proof that he needed to tighten the reins.

      She burned from the humiliation that had seethed and curled around in her stomach since that afternoon. Her parents were treating her as if she were twelve years old. She was basically being sent to her room without supper in a grand sort of way.

      She should have known something was up when they sent her a plane ticket and demanded she come back to Hope’s Crossing, ostensibly for Thanksgiving with them and her brother, Charlie. Stupid her. She hadn’t suspected a thing, even though she had picked up weird vibes since she arrived home Wednesday.

      Thanksgiving dinner had been a grand social affair, as usual. Her parents had invited several of their friends over and Genevieve had endured as best she could and escaped to her room at the earliest opportunity.

      Then this morning after breakfast, William had asked her to come into his study. Her mother had been there, looking pale and drawn. As usual, sobriety wasn’t agreeing with Laura.

      It certainly hadn’t agreed with Genevieve as she had sat, sober as a nun, while William outlined the financial mess she was in and then proceeded to give her the horrifying news.

      He was closing her credit accounts, all of them, and withdrawing her access to her trust fund.

      “I’ve been patient long enough.” His grim words still rang in her ears, hours later. “For nearly two years, I’ve let you have your way, do what you wanted. I told myself you were healing from a broken heart and deserved a little fun, but this is becoming ridiculous. It stops today. You’re twenty-six years old. You graduated from college four years ago and haven’t done a damn thing of value since then.”

      Her father had thrown her one miserable bone. Her grandmother Pearl had left her hideous house to her only son when she died in the spring. If Genevieve could take the house, fix it and sell it at value within three months, she could take the earnings back to Paris to seed the interior-design business she had been talking about for years.

      And if she could turn a profit within the first year of her business, her father would release the rest of her trust fund permanently.

      William had been resolute, despite her best efforts to cajole, plead or guilt him into changing his mind. She was stuck here in Hope’s Crossing—this armpit of a town where everyone hated her—throughout the winter.

      Furious with all of them, she had packed her suitcase, grabbed the key to Pearl’s house and left her parents’ grand home in Silver Strike Canyon—the second biggest in town, after Harry Lange’s.

      Yet another big mistake. Pearl’s house was far, far worse than she had expected. Was it any wonder she had gone to the Lizard with the intention of getting good and drunk?

      True to form, she had taken a lousy situation and made it about ten times worse. She could only blame it on mental duress brought on by hideous pink porcelain tubs and acres and acres of wallpaper.

      That was really no excuse. What had she been thinking? She didn’t pick fights, take on annoying people, punch someone, for heaven’s sake! She had just been so angry sitting there in the Liz, feeling her life spiral out of control, certain that she would have to spend the next several months in this town where everybody snickered at her behind their hands.

      Now she was sitting in the backseat of a police squad car, handcuffed to Dylan Caine, of all people.

      He shifted in the seat and she was painfully aware of him, though she couldn’t seem to look at him. He used to be gorgeous like all the Caine brothers—tough, muscular, rugged. They all had that silky brown hair, the same blue eyes, deep creases in their cheeks when they smiled. Keep-an-eye-on-your-daughters kind of sexy.

      He was still compelling