Harlequin Holiday Collection - Four Classic Seasonal Novellas

and Sophie emerged from the hospital into the cold December morning. He listened for a moment, gave a terse acknowledgment and flipped the phone shut.
    “That was Inspector Fitzgerald. They found the cane, but no trace of your attacker.”
    “Or the stone?”
    “Or the stone. The police are widening the search to include the airport, train station and traffic stops on the motorway. But our perp is either one step ahead of us or he’s gone to ground and is waiting for the heat to die down before he tries to get his prize out of the country.”
    With a careful grip on her arm, he steered her around a pile of slush toward his rental car.
    “I’ll spend tonight at your flat. We’ll swing by my hotel first so I can pick up a few things.”
    The pronouncement was enough to make Sophie forget her throbbing headache and send a tingle down her spine. But it was nothing like the sensation she felt after they’d left his hotel and he had another suggestion.
    “Look, I’ve got some use-or-lose vacation built up. I’m thinking I might stay over in Dublin for a few days. If you don’t have any other plans for the holidays, would you like to spend them with me?”
    Spend Christmas cuddled in front of a fire with this man? New Year’s Eve listening to the bells ring through the night? Sophie’s heart soared—until he added a kicker.
    “If the target has gone to ground, my guess is he’ll try to ferry his prize to Mendoza within the next week or so. I want to be on the scene when he does.”
    The grim reminder of why Clint had come to Dublin in the first place sobered her. “Getting to Mendoza is more than just a job to you, isn’t it?”
    He gave her a quick look. “Yeah, it is. The bastard doesn’t care how many people he destroys. My sister’s son came close to being one of them. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring Mendoza and others like him down.”

    Sophie tried to keep that fierce vow in mind during the hours that followed. She really did. But watching Clint putter about her tiny flat proved too great a distraction. That, and the way he cared for her despite her protests that she was feeling better by the moment. He insisted she curl up on the sofa and tucked a blanket around her. After searching the kitchen cupboards and putting the kettle on, he produced a fairly decent pot of tea. For lunch he slathered mustard on thick, crusty rye bread and slapped on slices of boiled ham. As the afternoon wore on and more snow drifted down outside, he entertained her with what she suspected were highly fictionalized accounts of some of his more spectacular screwups as an undercover agent.
    Sophie reciprocated by opening up a little more about her life in Dublin and about Gran. The ever-present loneliness and pain eased with the telling, although Clint must have heard a trace of both in her voice.
    “It must be hard on you,” he commented, “being alone this time of year.”
    “It is, a bit. I’ve got great friends, though, and plenty of work to keep me busy.”
    He nodded, his keen eyes searching her face, but didn’t probe deeper. “How’s the headache?” he asked instead.
    “It was gone hours ago.”
    “You sure?”
    “Positive.”
    She was half afraid he’d take that as a signal he didn’t need to keep watch over her after all. To her relief, he announced that he would go down to the Bull and Crown and bring back dinner.
    He returned with snow dusting his dark hair and the tantalizing scent of fish and chips emanating from a brown paper bag. They ate in front of the fire. Clint crunched down on his deep-fried haddock while Sophie sprinkled white vinegar on her chips and dug in happily. She was halfway through her portion when he smiled.
    “How can you eat fries without ketchup?”
    “They’re better with vinegar.”
    At his doubtful look, she fished out a potato.
    “Try one.”
    She expected him to take the chip, not dip his head. Or eat it from her hand. Or suck the salt and vinegar from her fingers. When he raised his head, Sophie had forgotten how to breathe.
    That’s all it took. One nibble. One look. One spark to ignite the fire. Their half-eaten meal got shoved aside as they fed an altogether different hunger.
    His mouth came down on hers. Her arms locked around his neck. She strained against him, reveling in his warmth and strength. It might have been hours—or merely moments—before she was stretched out under him. He swiftly but gently stripped off her outer clothing.
    Sophie did