A Family for the Holidays. Victoria Pade

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      “I really am blown away by you, do you know that?”

      And then Dax leaned over and kissed her.

      After an instant of shock, Shandie discovered she was kissing him back. But too soon he ended the kiss altogether.

      She must have looked as stunned as she felt, because Dax said, “I’ll let myself out. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven-thirty.”

      With the memory of his lips on hers, the image of him walking away with that confident swagger, she thought that it was no wonder he’d been one of Thunder Canyon’s hottest properties. The man had a certain something, there was no denying it.

      She only wished she were immune to it…

       VICTORIA PADE

      is a native of Colorado, where she continues to live and work. Her passion – besides writing – is chocolate, which she indulges in frequently and in every form. She loves romance novels and romantic movies – the more lighthearted, the better – but she likes a good, juicy mystery now and then, too.

      Dear Reader,

      A Family for the Holidays touches on a whole lot of my favourite things – the time of year and the season, and Thanksgiving and the beginning of the Christmas preparations and celebrations. I like the snow, the food, the lights, the decorations, the movies, the whole shebang. I also like kids and writing them into my books – I just don’t think you can find funnier things than what kids say, and whenever I hear a good line, I like to use it (you’ll find a couple of those inside). Toss in a bad-boy hero who gets won over by a three-year-old and a heroine whose attitude and outlook I really admire, and you’ve got a great holiday story.

      I particularly enjoyed writing this book. I hope you enjoy it as much, and that your own holidays will be especially fun and joyous this year.

      Happy, happy holidays!

       Victoria Pade

      A Family for the Holidays

      VICTORIA PADE

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Chapter One

      Dax Traub’s motorcycle sales and repair shop in the heart of Thunder Canyon might as well not have been open on the Monday before Thanksgiving. It was after four o’clock in the afternoon, and not a single person had come through the glass door or so much as paused to peer into the showroom through the storefront windows. He’d spent the day doing exactly what he was doing at that moment—reading articles in motorcycle magazines that were depressing the hell out of him. Articles that—once upon a time—had been about him. Articles that could have been about him now, had things turned out differently.

      “Scooz me.”

      The radio was on in the background, and at first Dax thought the small, quiet voice had come from there. But then he realized that a song was playing and that didn’t seem likely.

      Maybe I’m hearing things…

      “Scooz me.”

      No, he was sure he was hearing something. But with the radio louder than the voice he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

      He was standing at the counter, facing the front of the store, and no one had come in. But even though it didn’t make any sense, he leaned far over the counter and peered down just in case he’d missed something.

      There was no one there.

      “Scooz me!” The small voice became more insistent and slightly louder. Loud enough for him to finally realize it was coming from behind him.

      Dax straightened and glanced over his shoulder.

      Sure enough, there stood a little girl to go with the small voice.

      He pivoted on his heel to face her, dropping his gaze to the height of a motorcycle tire on display just to the right of the doorway that led to the garage portion of the shop in the rear of the building. That’s where the child was standing without any sign of timidity, her head of tousled blond curls held high, her crystal-clear blue eyes waiting expectantly for his attention.

      “Hi,” he said with a note of question in his tone.

      “Hi,” the bit-of-nothing responded.

      “Can I help you?” he asked.

      “I wan’ one of these big shiny bikes,” the child announced, bypassing Dax and rounding the counter to go into his showroom, dragging a large shoulder-strapped purse along with her.

      Dax looked beyond the spot the child had abandoned, wondering if someone else—an adult—was going to appear, too.

      No one did, and his tiny customer wasn’t allowing him time to investigate because she was talking to him, apparently explaining her need for one of his big shiny bikes.

      “Jackass says I’m a baby and my bike is jus’ a baby bike and his is a big boy bike and I wan’ one tha’s bigger ’n his ’cuz I’m not a baby. And red.”

      Dax followed her onto his showroom floor.

      “Jackass?” he repeated, knowing he sounded thick but unsure exactly what this kid was doing here and talking about.

      “He’s in my school and he lives on my street, too.”

      “That’s somebody’s name? Jackass? Or is that just what you call him because he calls you a baby?” Which was an idea that secretly appealed to the ornery side of Dax.

      “Tha’s his name—Jackass,” the barely-bigger-than-a-minute child said as if it should have been obvious.

      Still, he persisted skeptically, asking, “That’s his name?”

      “Jackass. We haves a lot of Jacks at school—there’s Jack W. and Jack M. and Jack—”

      “S.,” Dax said as light finally dawned. “Jack S.”

      “Jackass,” she confirmed.

      Dax couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled, let alone laughed, but one snuck up on him then and he couldn’t help chuckling. “Of course. And you want a bike that’s bigger than his. And red.”

      “That one,” the little girl said decisively, pointing at a Harley-Davidson classic street bike.

      “Good choice,” he decreed. “And who might I be selling that one to?”

      “To me,” she said, once more, as if he were dim-witted.

      “And who would you be?”

      “I wou’ be me.” Again a statement of the obvious, only now his lack of understanding brought a frown to crinkle her cherubic face with its rosy cheeks, button nose and ruddy-pink lips.

      Dax had no experience or knowledge or contact with children, so he had nothing to gauge how old this one might be. But it was beginning to sink in that, despite her self-assurance, she was very young.

      “What’s your name?” he said more succinctly.

      “Kayla Jane Solomon. Wus yur name?”

      “My name? My name is Dax.”

      “Tha’s a funny name.”

      “Funny or not, that’s what it is.”

      “I haves a friend who gots a dog whose name is Max. Like Max, only Dax?”

      “Right,” he said, stifling a grin.

      “Dax,” she repeated, trying it out.

      “Kayla Jane Solomon,” Dax countered. “And how old are you, Kayla Jane Solomon?”

      “Free.”

      Had she not held up three short fingers, he would have thought she was