Not Just For Christmas. Debbie Macomber

reluctantly agreed when Penleigh College approached her to revisit a study called Strangers in the Night that had made both her father and the college famous twenty-five years ago. No doubt, some would continue to accuse her of riding her father’s coattails.

      Sometimes she wondered if they were right.

      Claire lifted her long, thick hair off the back of her neck, hoping a cool breeze would find its way into the alley. It had never been this hot in Penleigh, Indiana, the small college town she’d called home her entire life. She had shared a cottage with her father on campus until nine months ago, when he’d passed away after a long battle with kidney disease. Then it seemed as if she’d just stepped into his life—taking over his classes and now, reprising his famous research project.

      Thinking of her father made Claire’s throat tighten. Marcus Dellafield had been in this same spot twenty-five years ago. Well, maybe not this exact spot. There had been no sexy pictures to accompany his study on human mating habits at The Jungle, once the most popular singles bar in New York City.

      But Professor Dellafield had done more than just collected research all those years ago. He’d adopted Claire as an infant and brought her back with him to Penleigh, raising her as a single father. That’s what had captured the media’s attention—the story of an ivory tower professor who gave a child born out of wedlock a fairy-tale life.

      And it had been like a fairy tale. Claire’s father had taken her with him on all his anthropological research trips, showing her the world in the process. She’d been to places like Borneo and Tasmania. Eaten with the Maori of New Zealand. Traveled by riverboat on the Amazon in South America.

      And she’d enjoyed every moment of it. So had her father. During the last months of his illness, he’d often told her that he had no regrets. Nothing had been left undone. He’d always lived his life to the very fullest.

      Claire planned to do the same. Only life didn’t always cooperate with her. Maybe once she completed this research project, she could begin to live her own dreams, make her own choices.

      “I’ve got an idea,” Evan said at last. “Let’s take advantage of your natural innocence. We’ll go for the Mary Richards look.”

      “Mary Richards?” Claire echoed in confusion.

      “You know,” Evan said, digging into his big, yellow satchel, “from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. A single girl in the city, ready to turn the world on with her smile.”

      “I know who she is,” Claire replied. Unlike most parents, her father had actively encouraged her to watch as many movies and television shows as possible. He believed they were a reflection of the changing mores of modern culture—especially the sitcom reruns—and worthy of study.

      “Here we go,” Evan exclaimed, pulling a raspberry pink beret out of the satchel. He brushed off the lint, then handed it to her. “Put it on.”

      She placed the beret on her head. “How’s that?”

      “Perfect! I can almost hear the theme song to the show.” He adjusted the brim, then stepped back and framed her between his fingers. “Now lose the blouse.”

      She looked down at her yellow cotton blouse, then shrugged and took it off, leaving only the white tank top underneath to go with her khaki shorts.

      “Much better,” Evan said, looping the camera strap over his neck. “Now stand up and lean against the door. Pretend it’s a man and make love to it.”

      Claire rose to her feet, frowning at the tattered screen door streaked with rust. “I don’t remember Mary making love to any doors.”

      He heaved a tortured sigh. “It’s all we have at the moment. Just work with me here.”

      The screen door suddenly opened, catching Claire in the shin. “Ow!”

      “Excuse me,” muttered a man backing out of the door. He was tall, dark and shirtless.

      He turned to face her, a crate of empty beer bottles in his arms. But it was the sight of his bare, broad chest that had Claire’s mouth watering. Along with the raven hair slicked back off his forehead, the shadow of whiskers on his square jaw, and his startling blue eyes. She swallowed hard to keep from drooling.

      The man raised his voice, laced now with impatience. “Excuse me.”

      She stumbled off the step to let him pass and he set the crate of beer bottles next to a recycling bin, then disappeared inside the nightclub once more.

      “Sir,” Evan shouted after him, bounding up the back step. The man appeared at the door a moment later carrying another crate of empty bottles.

      “Can you help us out here?” Evan asked.

      “What do you need?”

      “My name is Evan and this is Mary,” he said, motioning to her.

      “Claire,” she corrected.

      “Whatever,” Evan replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And you are?”

      The man hesitated a moment, taking stock of them both. “Mitch Malone.”

      “Well, Mitch, I’m trying to finish up a photo shoot and Mary here, I mean Claire, is having trouble making love to the door. I thought if she had a human prop it might work better.”

      Mitch didn’t even blink at the odd request. “Sorry, but I have twenty more crates to haul out here.”

      “Perfect. That’s just what we need.” Evan reached out and positioned Claire in front of him. “You find him attractive, don’t you?”

      She cleared her throat as Mitch’s gaze moved to her face. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “I’m…I mean…he seems very nice.”

      “Mitch is more than nice.” Evan told her, grabbing his camera once more. “He’s everything you’ve ever desired in a man. Now show me how much you want him. Try to seduce him with some great body language as he moves in and out of the building.”

      Claire turned to Evan as a hot flush crept into her cheeks. “Is this really necessary?”

      Evan held up both hands. “No questions, remember? I am the artist here.”

      “I’m going back to work now,” Mitch said, setting down the crate.

      “Yes, go right ahead.” Evan began snapping a rapid succession of pictures as Mitch walked back inside the building. “Okay, now wait for him, Claire…there he is…now remember, we want hot. We want sultry.”

      Claire sidled out of Mitch’s way as he deposited another crate on the ground, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. It didn’t help matters that he seemed totally oblivious to her. She tried sultry. She tried pouting. She even tried opening the door for him and striking a sexy pose against it, but she only succeeded in popping out the screen.

      “Keep going. We’re getting there,” Evan told her, snapping a few more pictures as she just stood there with her hands on her hips while Mitch strode past her once more.

      It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. Of course, the man was only half-dressed. A light sheen of perspiration glowed on his tanned skin, his powerful muscles flexing in his thick chest and broad shoulders.

      She’d seen scantily clad men before on her travels, but there was something mesmerizing about the way this man’s body moved. He had an easy grace that made most of the men at Penleigh, in their tweed jackets and loafers, seem stuffy by comparison. Mitch was definitely a product of his environment. Solid. Earthy. Primal.

      Somehow he made the alley seem even hotter than before.

      “Not bad,” Evan said at last, popping another roll of film into his camera. “Now let’s try some Mary poses. We’re going for the carefree look. Try tossing the beret into the air.”

      She stepped away from the back entrance of