Man With A Miracle. Muriel Jensen

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      “What are you doing?”

      He grabbed her under the arms and tried to haul her up. She struggled against him and they both went down. This time her head collided with his arm as she fell, dislodging her watch cap. What he saw in the glow of the headlights made him stare in shock and anger.

      Her luxurious red hair had been cut off so that it was barely longer than his, and it was…purple.

      “I’m leaving!” she said, swinging at him with her plastic bag.

      “Beazie!” Her name escaped him in a kind of gasp. He couldn’t believe she’d done it, though he realized it was probably her most recognizable feature.

      He forced his attention away from the atrocity perpetrated against her hair, handed her the hat so she could put it back on and made himself focus on the more important issue.

      “To go where?”

      “Anywhere a cab will take me!” she replied. “I got the tape to you, so my job is done.”

      “Beazie, your life is in danger.”

      “Not anymore. Now you have the tape….”

      Dear Reader,

      Happy Holidays from Astoria, Oregon, where it rains at Christmas rather than snows. Still, the Christmas spirit is alive in our hearts and visible everywhere. Though Astoria does not have a town square, it resembles my description of Maple Hill, with Christmas lights, garlands stretched across the main street from sidewalk to sidewalk and wreaths circling the old-fashioned globe streetlights. One Christmas bonus Astoria has that’s missing in Maple Hill is a parade of boats strung with lights from stem to stern.

      In the light of day, Astoria is a very different setting from Maple Hill. We’re positioned at the mouth of the Columbia River, on a fairly steep slope that runs down to the water. Many artists and writers live here, claiming the river to be a creative source.

      I love it here. Rain never drowns out our enthusiasm. In fact, we have umbrella parades to honor it. For the most part, people are warm and loving, and because we’re a small town, we’re a community of friends. That warmth supports and sustains me every day, and makes it easy to sit in my second-floor office in the middle of a monsooning February and create a Christmas atmosphere.

      I wish you all the blessings of the season, and your own personal Astoria.

      Muriel

      Man with a Miracle

      Muriel Jensen

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      PROLOGUE

      June 10, 2001

      EVAN BRAGA WIPED HIS FACE with a towel as he hurried into the locker room of the Hatfield Gym, remembering belatedly that he’d promised to trade shifts with Halloran tonight. Someone else would have to host the Sunday-night poker game of the Boston PD’s Cambridge Division. He went to the bench where he’d left his gym bag and stopped in confusion when he found nothing there. Then he spotted the bag under the bench and yanked it out. Ripping open the zipper, he pushed his sweatshirt aside and reached in for his cell phone.

      His hand stopped. His heart stopped. His brain stopped. He was paralyzed.

      Only his eyes seemed to be working, and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Cash. Lots of it, neatly bundled in banded packets. One-hundred dollar bundles. Five-hundred dollar bundles.

      He felt his mouth open, but no sound came out.

      He was alone in the quiet room. He could hear the ticking clock, the sound of someone in the showers on the other side of the wall, shouts and laughter from the gym floor.

      He had zipped the bag closed and was trying to figure out what in the hell was going on, when he saw the plastic tag looped around the handle of the bag. New England Insurance, it read. This was Blaine’s bag. Their parents had given them identical gym bags and matching sweatshirts last Christmas, but his younger brother was the one usually mixing them up—not Evan.

      His heart lurched uncomfortably. He knew Blaine and Sheila had been having financial problems, but what was his brother doing with banded bills in large denominations, in his insurance business?

      He felt a sort of fraternal panic, and the only thought in his head that made sense told him to get the bag and Blaine out of there as fast as he could.

      Jerking open his locker, he threw on a pair of blue sweats, grasped the handle of the bag firmly and headed for the gym.

      Blaine was chasing across the court in a pickup basketball game, then leaped to block a shot. In an instant of detachment, Evan noticed that Blaine was leaner than he was, his body more artfully graceful than simply strong. Even as a kid, he’d had the looks, the charm, the charisma that drew people to him. He’d always been the golden child, but unfortunately had never realized it and had taken the easy way out of everything.

      Watching out for Blaine had been Evan’s job since he was six years old, and it had taken a lot of his time. But he’d done it well. Apparently the fact that his brother had a wife, two little sons and an insurance franchise didn’t mean Evan could stop watching Blaine. Not if that bag of money was any indication.

      While another player shot from the free-throw line, Blaine caught Evan’s eye and tossed him a grin. Then he noticed the bag in Evan’s hand and went deathly pale.

      Evan started for the door. Blaine ran in his wake, his friends calling after him to come back.

      “Sorry, guys,” Blaine shouted over his shoulder. “Uh…family dinner. See you Wednesday.” He chased Evan out of the building and across the parking lot to Evan’s old Austin-Healy convertible.

      “You have to put the bag back!” Blaine said urgently, standing by the passenger side door as Evan leaped over his door and into the car.

      “Get in!” Evan commanded, stuffing the bag into the narrow area behind the seat.

      “Listen to me.”

      “Get in!”

      “Evan, that money—”

      “That money’s going to be returned,” Evan said, starting the engine, prepared to leave whether Blaine climbed in or not. “I don’t even want to know what you’re doing with it—I’m just sure it can’t be good. Now, get in or I’m turning it in to the closest police station. You’ll go away for a long time.”

      Blaine swung his legs over the door and slid down into the seat. “You’re always so sure you know everything.”

      Evan eased out of the parking lot, then roared away down the long country road. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “I’d be happy to hear that.”

      “You’re wrong. It isn’t stolen, as I’m sure you suspect. It’s…it’s borrowed.”

      Evan