Val Daniels - Santa's Special Delivery

“I doubt I’ll get married.” “I doubt I’ll get married.” “You have something against the state of holy matrimony?” Andy asked. “Let’s just say it’s never been in my plans,” Lori replied. “Why wouldn’t marriage be in your plans eventually? I can’t believe you don’t expect anyone to ask.” “Sure, beat men off with a stick daily.” “Why does that not surprise me?” Andy said too seriously, despite his smile. Lori sighed and reminded herself that her growing admiration for Andy had nothing to do with him personally. Falling for him would be a hopeless disaster... About the Author Val Daniels wrote her first romance in the sixth grade when her teacher told the class to transform a short story they’d read into a play. Val changed the bear attack story into a romance, and should have seen the writing on the wall. She didn’t. An assortment of jobs, hobbies and businesses later, Val stumbled across a Writer’s Market in the public library and finally knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. She suspects it will take eighty or ninety years to become bored with this career. Val lives in Kansas with her husband, two children and a Murphy dog. She welcomes correspondence—with an SASE—from readers, at P.O. Box 113, Gardner KS 66030, U.S.A. Title Page Santa’s Special Delivery Val Daniels www.millsandboon.co.uk Dedication For Judy Christenberry, whose name should be the definition of “friend” in the dictionary. Thanks for everything, Judy—including the title. PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

“I doubt I’ll get married.”

“You have something against the state of holy matrimony?” Andy asked.

“Let’s just say it’s never been in my plans,” Lori replied.

“Why wouldn’t marriage be in your plans eventually? I can’t believe you don’t expect anyone to ask.”

“Sure, beat men off with a stick daily.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Andy said too seriously, despite his smile.

Lori sighed and reminded herself that her growing admiration for Andy had nothing to do with him personally. Falling for him would be a hopeless disaster...

Val Daniels wrote her first romance in the sixth grade when her teacher told the class to transform a short story they’d read into a play. Val changed the bear attack story into a romance, and should have seen the writing on the wall. She didn’t. An assortment of jobs, hobbies and businesses later, Val stumbled across a Writer’s Market in the public library and finally knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. She suspects it will take eighty or ninety years to become bored with this career.

Val lives in Kansas with her husband, two children and a Murphy dog. She welcomes correspondence—with an SASE—from readers, at P.O. Box 113,

Gardner KS 66030, U.S.A.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Judy Christenberry, whose name should be the

definition of “friend” in the dictionary. Thanks for

everything, Judy—including the title.

PROLOGUE

LORI Warren hummed along with the song playing on the bedroom radio. Her voice startled her as she actually sang a couple of the words aloud. Joyful and triumphant ? Who, she wondered distastefully, had associated those particular words with the Silly Season? She frowned as she flipped off the radio.

She made her own concessions to Christmas, she admitted to herself, eyeing her reflection in the mirror and rubbing her lips together to blend the subtle glimmer of holiday gold into the rich burgundy color.

At least she looked good in one of the concessions: holiday colors. The bright, enameled holly earrings made her eyes sparkle even greener. The berries on the matching lapel pin were toned perfectly to the bright suit, and her short, stylishly cut brown hair picked up its reddish tint. She tipped her head this way and that to catch the light. She liked it. Maybe she ought to color it?

She gave herself an encouraging thumbs-up in the mirror. “And you’re getting almost good at playing the game,” she congratulated herself.

One last day. She could fake the cheer one last day, she comforted herself, then life would get back to normal. Well, almost normal, she modified. There were actually four more days until Christmas, but for the next three, she would hide. She wouldn’t have to go to work and put on a happy face to fool anyone.

She’d hole up here, in her cozy apartment, and watch from a distance as all the world went crazy around her. Avoiding the mass chaos, she’d read the stack of books she’d been accumulating since before Thanksgiving—back when you could still buy a book that didn’t feature some Christmas theme. Then people would become sane again.

Then in five days, she’d hop a plane to Denver and join the group of friends who had made a New Year’s ski trip an annual tradition since their last year in college. Looking forward to that always got her through this manic season.

“Bah humbug!” she said with grim satisfaction, then grinned at her reflection.

If she didn’t get a move on, she was going to be late. Her position in the city’s convention and visitors’ bureau was already on shaky ground. Her newly appointed boss was a bit intimidated by her knowledge and experience.

Turning off the lights, she grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter and her heavy coat from the small closet in the foyer of the apartment.

She stepped backward into the hall, automatically double-checking the door lock, and stumbled over something. She almost fell into whatever crowded her feet. Her hands flailed as she did a little dance in the two-inch heels and managed to regain her balance.

Great! She frowned at the knee-high cardboard box that had attacked her. One of her neighbors had evidently bought a nineteen-inch color television for Christmas... and left the box for me to dispose of!

She nudged it. The box seemed light, weighted on the bottom. They definitely hadn’t left her the TV. Probably a pan of cinnamon rolls or some variety of homemade Christmas goodies, and whoever had left it had used all their reasonable-size boxes for wrapping presents, she thought sarcastically.

“I really don’t have time for this,” Lori muttered under her breath. Pulling back one top flap, she glimpsed a brightly colored patchwork fabric. Of course. Poor misguided Mrs. Jeffers down the hall had made her something.

Last fall, Mrs. Jeffers had invited Lori in to see the huge floor pillows she’d been making for all her nieces and nephews. She made all of her Christmas presents, the woman had explained proudly when Lori had oohed and aahed over the woman’s skill. The compliments had probably earned Lori a patchwork floor pillow of her very own.

She’d check it out later, she decided. She and the boss were doing a presentation for a fairly important client at a breakfast meeting scheduled for nine o’clock. She couldn’t afford to be late.

She groped in her purse for her keys and scooted the box into her apartment, far enough away from the door that she wouldn’t stumble over it when she returned.

Something shifted inside. Moving the box had just rearranged the contents. No damage done. Lori shrugged and almost had the door closed behind her again when she heard a sound.

She widened the gap, flipped the foyer light switch and stared at the box in dismay. Kittens? Surely none of her neighbors would bring her kittens. Pets weren’t allowed in this complex.

The weak, snuffley mewing came again. With a sinking feeling and an irritated curse for whoever had put her in this predicament, Lori approached the box again.