Her Mistletoe Husband

A mocking brow rose, and Elissa was disappointed to see that her most intimidating glare didn’t have him shaking in his expensive wing tips. “Where’s the basement, Miss Crosby?”

She marched away from him into the staircase hall, heading toward the kitchen. “It’s on the way to hell,” she snapped back. “I feel sure you’ll find it.”

She was startled by the derisive chuckle at her back. How dare he find entertainment in the annihilation of her life!

Alex D’Amour didn’t know who he was trying to push around. Elissa Crosby was not a woman to easily give up her dreams. The instant she hit the kitchen, she slammed the folder onto the table, startling Bella, the plump cook. Stubby hands fluttered to a ruffly bodice. Elissa looked up and tried to smile. “Sorry. Could you get me a cup of coffee?”

The middle-aged woman nodded and hurried to the pot. The coffee in Elissa’s mug had gone cold before she looked up from the documents to take a sip. Making a face, she rubbed her eyes. It looked bad. Mr. D’Amour seemed to have every legal right to the property. But then, the documentation she had looked just as good—and it had passed muster with the probate court and the title company. Even so, the face staring up at her from the police rap sheet looked a little like the man she’d known as the caretaker who’d sold her the old Victorian house. Not exactly like him, but...

And he had been in a hurry to sell, offering her a fantastic deal for cash. At least she’d thought it had been fantastic at the time. Unsettled by the thought, she bolted from the table and ran down the stairs toward her office, barely missing her unwanted guest as he was coming up. “Pardon me,” he said, sidestepping out of her way. She took no notice of him and barreled on, slamming into her tiny office.

The windowless room was hardly bigger than a closet, bare cement walls and floor, without windows or adornment. When the three sisters first moved into the inn, a small cot had been crammed between the desk and the entry wall, giving Elissa a makeshift bedroom. Now she slept in the room that Helen had first used, then Lucy. The cot was thankfully long gone. In its place stood two gray metal filing cabinets.

Her secretary’s chair was secondhand and worn, as was her metal desk and fax. But by heaven they were hers—just like her inn—and she loved every scratched, dented inch of each piece.

With fingers that would hardly function, she dialed her old professor and mentor at the University of Missouri law school. Though she prided herself on her independence, not leaning on anyone, she was no fool. She knew she needed professional guidance in this. And there was no one who knew the law like Dr. Grayson. When he came on the line, she worked to keep her voice even, placid, explaining what had happened.

By the time she sat down in her creaky chair, she was no longer trembling. Dr. Grayson had always been a calming influence and 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.