Her Mistletoe Husband. Renee Roszel

she felt a flood of relief, knowing that a man of such serene wisdom was on her side.

      “Send me everything you have, Elissa. I’ll see what I can find out.”

      She swallowed, her gratefulness making her teary. “Thanks, Dr. Grayson. I’d feel better with somebody who’s up on things to go over this.” Her voice breaking, she winced, then admitted as evenly as she could, “I’m afraid I can’t be objective. This man is trying to take away my life.”

      There was silence for a moment, before Dr. Grayson spoke. “I hope we can find a loophole, dear.”

      There was another bothersome pause and Elissa’s anxiety level soared. “What? What is it you’re not telling me?”

      “Nothing, dear. Nothing to worry about.”

      “Dr. Grayson,” she insisted. “Tell me!”

      He cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t have left the law, Elissa. You have good instincts.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “It means I do know something that might upset you. And I wish you weren’t so intuitive to sense it.”

      “What is it?” She felt pain and realized she was digging into her knee with her nails.

      “Well...” Her professor cleared his throat again. Not a good sign. “I’ve heard of Alex D’Amour. He’s one hell-on-wheels litigator. You remember that Hildabrant Industries toxic waste suit out in California?”

      She felt a surge of nausea. “He won that?”

      “Got a hundred million dollar settlement for the families in the affected area. I’m afraid he may be hard to beat.”

      Elissa closed her eyes and sagged in her chair. “Oh—Dr. Grayson. You have to find something to prove I’m the rightful owner. I’ve put every cent I’ve made back into this place. If I lose it, I’ll have nothing.” Her lips quivered and she pulled them between her teeth.

      “Try not to worry. If there’s a way to keep your inn, I’ll find it.”

      She nodded, but couldn’t speak. Her voice was too quivery to trust.

      “This is Sunday, so tomorrow, overnight-mail your documents to me. Okay?”

      She cleared her throat, but her “okay” was fragile, almost undetectable. “First thing.”

      “And, Elissa...”

      “Yes, Dr. Grayson?” She toyed with the handle of a mug, half full of day-old coffee.

      “Try to have a Merry Christmas.”

      She inhaled unsteadily. “I won’t be merry until I know the inn is mine.”

      “I’ll do this as quickly as I can, but you know how things go. Especially around the holidays.”

      “I know.” She cringed, disconcerted that her turmoil was spilling over into her voice. She hardly ever cried, but she was right on the verge. “Thanks...” She whispered, swiping at a tear.

      “Goodbye, dear.”

      When he broke the connection, Elissa couldn’t move. She didn’t know how long she sat there with the receiver clutched in her hand.

      A knock at her office door made her jump, and she dropped the receiver. The clatter it made hitting the cement floor, then bouncing up into her metal desk, then dropping back to tap-dance across floor, was nerveracking.

      “Are you okay?” came a deep male voice.

      She lurched to her feet, grabbing the receiver by the cord and drawing it up. “What do you want?” After a couple of fumbled tries, she managed to get the stubborn thing into the phone’s cradle. “I’m busy.”

      “I need to use the fax.”

      “Don’t you have some fancy laptop computer you could use?”

      “Not on me.”

      She slumped to perch a hip on her desk, crossing her arms before her. “What if I told you you can’t use mine?”

      There was silence for a long minute, a silence that was far from reassuring. “What if I told you to get out of my inn, today?” he challenged.

      She gasped. “I—I you wouldn’t!”

      “I need to use the fax.”

      He opened the door. Some small comer of her mind caught on the fact that he’d changed out of his dark three-piece suit and was now wearing soft beige trousers and a matching polo shirt. She was startled to note that he was more muscular than she might have expected of a man who spent his days drinking three-martini lunches and filing wordy briefs.

      Formidable and grim, he stood there watching her with those breath-stealing eyes, his resolve electrifying the air around her. “Are you going to move, Miss Crosby?”

      Never overly thrilled at being ordered around, she gritted her teeth and dug in her heels. “Have you heard of the phrase, ‘When pigs fly,’ Mr. D’Amour?”

      He took a step toward her; the scratches along his jaw jumped as muscles flexed beneath the skin—a silent testament to his anger.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ELISSA had no idea what she thought she was doing, leaning against her desk, arms crossed belligerently. She was acting as though she intended to block Alex D’Amour from gaining access to her fax.

      That was the most ludicrous idea she’d ever had, and her brain screamed, Jump out of the way before he flattens you, idiot! Nevertheless, her body resisted. Stubbornness was a flaw in Elissa’s character—according to her sisters—but she had always thought of it more as, well, being right.

      Elissa watched D‘Amour lift his arms and she stiffened, visualizing herself being thrown through the office door. She clenched her teeth, warning in a low voice, “Go ahead—try to use my fax. If you dare.” She lifted her chin. An instant too late it occurred to her that giving him such a conspicuous target wasn’t very bright. Okay, Mr. D’Amour, she cried inwardly, if you’re looking for some knee-in-the-groin revenge, here’s your chance!

      Two steps and Alex D’Amour was close enough to strike. A growl issued from his throat and he grasped her upper arm, tugging her away from the desk. Against her will, she cringed as he leaned around her. He’s not going to simply throw me out the door, Elissa thought in panic, he’s going to throw me over his shoulder-and then out the door!

      His hand came down, rubbing hard across her backside—hardly what she’d expected. Instinctively she jumped sideways, only to be caught again as he returned to his rubbing. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, shocked and breathless.

      “Hold still.”

      She wrenched at his grip, but he held her fast. The lethal glare she shot him missed its target, since his attention was focused on her back—her hips to be brutally precise. Furious, she shifted so that she could knee him the way she had that morning, but he deftly dodged the attempt, releasing her so suddenly she nearly fell.

      “Only one free groin shot to a customer, Miss Crosby.”

      When she righted herself he had turned his back and was swabbing a handkerchief over her desktop, soaking up some dark liquid. Suddenly she realized what he was doing. “My coffee spilled?”

      “It isn’t mine.” He refolded his handkerchief and sopped up the remainder of the liquid that was snaking toward the fax machine. Elissa inched up beside him, tentatively touching the seat of her wool skirt. She detected a faint dampness. Twisting around as far as she could, she squinted down at the herringbone pattern. “Did it stain?” She arched around until she’d turned in a full circle. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see her rear end, much less a stain on her skirt.

      His large hand