Mistletoe Man. Kathleen O'Brien

might have wrapped itself around a Douglas fir?

      Suddenly the double doors of the lodge opened, and two men emerged onto the wide front porch. Lindsay peered through the dim light, but the swirling white air was like bad reception on a television set, and all she could see were two tall, male figures. Frustrated, she opened the door and slid out, sinking ankle deep in snow and dropping her briefcase as she tried to steady herself.

      “Curses!” She knew stronger words, gratifying Germanic words that would have fit the occasion much better, but she had long ago trained herself, for Christy’s sake, not to use them. She bent over to retrieve the case, dragging her coat hem through the snow. It was old snow, wet snow, she discovered, lifting the briefcase and the coat simultaneously. A very cold, very slushy snow. “Double-dog-curse the man.”

      By the time she was fully upright again, her hair was sticking to her cheeks, and one of the men she had seen on the porch was standing at her side. “Can I help you?” His voice was solicitous, with a hint of a Southern accent, and she knew instantly that it wasn’t Daniel McKinley. She’d never forget the deep timbre of McKinley’s voice.

      “Gosh, I’m sorry,” the man was saying. “If we’d known it was you…I mean that you were a woman…” He sounded flustered, and he fumbled for her briefcase, nearly dropping his own case in the process. “I mean, Daniel said he was expecting someone named Robert.”

      Lindsay tried to ignore the anxiety that surfaced at his words. It was true, of course. Daniel had, quite rightly, been expecting Robert Hamilton, owner of Hamilton Homes, to be on this helicopter. She knew Daniel wouldn’t be pleased to have to deal with a mere assistant in Robert’s place. And when he found out who the assistant was, when he found out it was Lindsay…

      But that couldn’t be helped now. She peeled a hank of half-frozen hair from the edge of her mouth and swallowed a lump of cold air as the second man—Daniel himself—began walking toward the helicopter. Her fingers twitched nervously inside her gloves.

      “Daniel!” The man at her side sounded amused. “Your guest has arrived, but I’m afraid it’s no Robert.” He tilted his head at Lindsay. “Perhaps a Roberta?”

      “Lindsay,” she corrected, but her voice was husky, nervous. She cleared her throat.

      “Roberta Lindsay?” The man’s smile broadened.

      Lindsay shook her head. “No,” she said, trying to read Daniel’s expression through the snow, trying to see if he recognized her. “Lindsay Blaisdell.” She squared her shoulders and put out her gloved hand. “Hello, Mr. McKinley.”

      “Miss Blaisdell. What a pleasant surprise.” But he didn’t look surprised—he didn’t even look annoyed, which he must have been, especially if he connected this Lindsay Blaisdell with the one he had fired three years ago. But of course, like all good businessmen, he was a master at hiding his emotions.

      “Robert wasn’t able to come after all,” she began, already absurdly defensive, especially considering she was answering a question he hadn’t even asked. “He’s not here.”

      Daniel smiled. “Evidently,” he said mildly. He turned to the man with the briefcase. “Well, I think we did a good day’s work, Steve. I trust you’ll have a smooth trip back. Wind’s up, but my pilot is very good.”

      “He’s very sick,” Lindsay was surprised to hear herself speaking again, but Daniel’s indifference to her presence was somehow galling and she felt an overwhelming urge to make him notice her. How dare he turn his back on her? “His appendix burst.”

      Daniel turned slowly, dark brows raised over his quizzical blue gaze. “My pilot?”

      Lindsay flushed. He’d noticed her, all right. Noticed her making a fool of herself. She had always felt gauche and tongue-tied around Daniel McKinley, but, darn it, she’d been only twenty then, and ridiculously innocent. Besides, he had no power over her anymore. She didn’t work for him. He couldn’t just summarily fire her for making a stupid comment. He’d already done that.

      “No, of course not your pilot,” she said quickly, nearly stammering anyway. “Robert.” When he still looked quizzical, she tried again. “Mr. Hamilton.”

      “Yes, of course.” He was smiling again, and she knew he was making fun of her. “Mr. Hamilton, who isn’t here.” He reached across her shoulder to open the helicopter door. “You must tell me all the details as soon as we get inside. But first we have to get Steve in the air. He has a closing in Denver in less than an hour.”

      She backed out of the way, biting her lips together to keep from saying anything else idiotic, and watched with mute envy as Steve climbed into the chopper. Taking her elbow, Daniel eased her back even farther as the rotor began to turn, whipping the snow into a frenzy of white, stinging needles. He kept his hand on her arm, and for an uncomfortable moment, as she watched the helicopter rise through the trees, his grip felt like a chain, holding her hostage here, alone with him in this godforsaken outland.

      At the last minute Steve waved, his gloved salute barely visible through the thickening snow. And then he was gone. Free. She listened to the disappearing whine of the copter with a sinking heart. Whoever Steve was, wherever he was going, she suddenly would have given a month’s pay to trade places with him.

      The fire was huge, dancing orange and red inside a stone hearth that must have been twelve feet across, and deliciously hot. Lindsay sat quite close to it, wriggling her tingling fingers and toes nervously, and surveyed the room into which Daniel McKinley had just escorted her.

      It was really three rooms, she saw—a living room, with the cushioned couch in front of the fire, where she now sat thawing; an office, with the intricately carved desk on which Daniel had perched to reach Robert’s paperwork; and a dining room, with a table big enough to seat twelve comfortably.

      It was intensely masculine, yet somehow beautiful. Though the room was at least fifty by sixty, she estimated, soft throw rugs with colorful Indian designs spanned the distances easily. On either side of the hearth, huge windows made a picture postcard of the snowy mountainside, and over in the corner a scented Jacuzzi hummed and bubbled.

      The fire dominated all of it, casting its warm, amber glow over deep brown wood floors, beamed ceilings, paneled walls, carved banisters. Even the rich mahogany furniture seemed to be alive with the hint of moving light, creating a surprising sense of intimacy.

      Surprising, she thought, and unwelcome.

      Intimacy, however brief, with Daniel McKinley was not on her Christmas wish list. And it undoubtedly wasn’t on his, either…if men like him ever indulged in such nonsense. He had been courteous but remote as he walked her in, sat her by the fire, poured her a cup of coffee, inquired about her comfort. He had never mentioned the awkward fact that she had once worked for him. But of course he remembered. The fury she’d seen in his eyes the day he had fired her wasn’t likely to die in three short years.

      No, she didn’t wish for intimacy—just for a clean conclusion to the negotiations that had brought her here. And, of course, she wished that he would get off the telephone.

      It was driving her crazy to see him sitting on the edge of the desk, the telephone hooked between his ear and shoulder, leafing idly, distractedly, through the loan securitization documents, which she knew were the most important papers she had delivered. It was in those documents that he would find his answer: would he buy Hamilton Homes, thereby saving poor Robert’s neck…or would he decide to let his option expire?

      But the blasted telephone wouldn’t stop ringing. She had to fight the urge to walk over and unplug the cord from the wall jack. She’d been here thirty minutes, her nerves on edge, mentally rehearsing the lines that would surely persuade Daniel that, in spite of the iffy deals Robert had cut, he could, should, must, buy Hamilton Homes. All in vain. Of those thirty minutes, Daniel had probably spent twenty-eight on the phone.

      “Sorry,” he said as, finally concluding the call, he dropped the handset back into its cradle. He had said that five times