Julie Miller - Kansas City Christmas

“Let me see—you don’t like to say ‘Merry Christmas’…”

He pulled his chin away, but she cupped his strong jaw and kept him facing her. The late-night shadow of his beard was scraggly and dark and added an air of menace to him.

“You don’t like anyone hinting that you’re a good cop who KCPD could still use and you don’t like admitting when you have feelings for someone.” Holly stroked her thumb across his lips. This guy made her toes curl inside her socks and brace for trouble.

The elevator hit a gentle bump and slowed its descent. “Am I pretty clear as to what your words are telling me?”

He opened his mouth, about to deny the truth.

Instead, he reawakened his dragon’s heart with another kiss…

Julie Millerattributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

BY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For the Class of 1978. Fulton High School,

Fulton, Missouri.

Happy Anniversary to us. Anytime a place can take

a shy girl and give her a place to shine, a place to be

inspired by talented, dedicated teachers, and a place

to make dear, lifelong friends and memories—you

know it’s a good place.

Thank you.

April

“…And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.”

“I hope you find peace, Dad.” Edward Kincaid turned away from the funeral service in the distance and limped back up the sloping hill of Mt. Washington Cemetery to his own hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been to a ceremony to bury a fellow cop. But it was the first time he’d shown up for one without wearing his own uniform or badge. And it was the first time he’d shown up to bury his own father. “I don’t know how. But I hope you do.”

Edward couldn’t feel the cold rain seeping through his hair and running down his scalp. But he felt the chill of the April day down in his knitted bones. He could barely make out the lyrics of the song his youngest brother, Holden, was singing. But he felt the mournful melody deep in his soul.

His mother and brothers, colleagues from the KCPD and more family friends than he could count were gathered on the opposite side of the copse of evergreens and ash trees to his back. But here were the only two people he wanted to be with right now. With his cane sinking into the mud, he awkwardly knelt down in front of the pink marble gravestone and wiped the rain away from the words carved there.

Beloved Wife. Beloved Daughter.

Cara and Melinda Kincaid. He should be in the ground beside them. Instead of them.

Tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t shed them. He was all cried out months ago.

He heard the minister talking. He’d gotten this far. If he was going to do this thing, if he was going to face those mourners, he’d better get moving.

“I can’t stay today, girls,” he whispered. The thick, moist air swallowed up the gravelly rasp of his voice. “But I wanted…I wanted you to know that I’m sober today. I’m doing it for Dad. I wish I’d been strong enough to get my act together for you. I’m going to do right by him—by you, too. I threw out the bottles the night I got the call about…his murder. That’s five days sober. I’m going to make it one more.” One day at a time was what his AA sponsor kept telling him. One day was about all he had in him anymore. “I promise.”

Melinda would have jumped up and thrown herself into his arms to congratulate him. Despite her young age and her disability, his daughter had always been intuitive about moods. She knew when her daddy needed a hug, when he needed to be left alone, and when he needed someone to cheer him on and make him smile.

Five days without a drink wasn’t much for a man who’d been trying to numb his brain and heart since Christmas Eve, the first anniversary of their deaths. But Melinda’s pure love would have made him feel as though five days was the entire world. Cara would have been a little more low-key about the whole thing, saying something that would keep him from getting a big head about his accomplishment. And later, she’d find a way to congratulate him privately, personally—and very thoroughly. His two girls would have inspired him to live better than he had been, try harder than he knew how, feel more than he’d ever thought possible.

If only his wife and daughter were still with him. He didn’t want to be at the cemetery. He didn’t want to accept another death—especially not this one. He didn’t want to feel a damn thing.

But he owed his father a hell of a lot more than drinking himself stupid and not showing up for his funeral.

“I want you to look for Grandpa, angel.” Leaning heavily on his cane, Edward pushed himself up to his feet. “Grandpa’s coming to see you, he missed you so much. Give him a hug.”

His canvas jacket was soaked and clinging to his shoulders before he could finally tear himself away from the memories and guilt. But once his mind was back in the present, Edward turned his ear toward the ceremony continuing just thirty yards or so behind him. Holden had finished his song, and KCPD’s lady commissioner was speaking now, eulogizing his father. “Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid was the finest example of what being a Kansas City police officer is all about.”

Edward nodded in silent agreement and cut through the trees to study the sea of umbrellas and listen to the remainder of the service. The world itself was weeping at the injustice of the day. John Kincaid had inspired him to join KCPD. He’d taught Edward how to be a cop, a man, and a father—teaching by example. Edward had already lost more than he could stand when his wife and daughter were murdered. How was he supposed to deal with his father being beaten and shot to death as well?

The world made no sense. What was the point of following the rules and fighting for justice and giving a damn when the bad guys still won?

Back when he’d been an active-duty investigator and undercover cop for KCPD, he’d dealt with violence and death nearly every day, but he’d been able to remain detached and focused enough to get his job done. But then he’d lost Cara and Melinda, and death had become an inescapable, personal, destructive demon. Now his father, a good man—the man he’d once aspired to be—had been murdered as well.