Christmas Spirit

by Amy Garvey

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Deck the haunted halls for a romantic holiday starring one shy writer and a cynical journalist. . .and oh yes, a ghost. . .. Snow on the roofs and wreaths on the doors and chains on the tires. . .isn't Christmas in New England wonderful? But Charlotte Prescott is too busy taking in super-sexy reporter Sam Landry to notice the nip in the air. Make that the nip in the air alternating with the scorching heat that rises whenever she and Sam are alone together. Charlotte would be happy to forget the supernatural third wheel who seems to be staying for the season in the quaint old house she inherited. It is real. Someone's slurping down all the good eggnog. And something is drawing Charlie and Sam together under the mistletoe--not to mention everywhere else. Happy holidays! Directions for mixing Fabulous Christmas Cocktails included! "Fast-paced, cleverly humorous romance." -- Romantic Times on Hot Date, four and half star reviews "Amy Garvey delivers!" --Donna Kauffman

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

Interview me, baby. Now. It was all Charlotte could think when she saw him. For some reason, she’d expected a reporter out of a 1940s movie—rolled up shirtsleeves, wrinkled tie, a fedora, a notebook. What she got, she thought when she opened her front door and faced the man standing on the front porch, was something else entirely.

“Sam Landry,” the man said, sticking out his hand with something less than a friendly smile. Something closer to a scowl, in fact. “With Scoop.” He flashed a laminated ID badge at her, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining the distaste in his eyes.

Well, he definitely hadn’t stepped out of an old movie, Charlie thought as she put her hand in his. He was twenty-first century all the way, faded jeans slung low on his narrow hips, a dark blue, long-sleeved T-shirt untucked above it, a parka with a fur-trimmed hood, and at least a day’s worth of stubble above his lip and along his jaw. His wide-set blue eyes narrowed when she simply stared at him.

God, he was ... gorgeous.

“Charlotte Prescott?”

She swallowed hard and shook his hand absently as she found her voice. “Yes, that’s me. Charlie. I mean, you can call me Charlie. Short for Charlotte. Everyone does.”

He lifted an eyebrow, dark sandy brown like his hair, which spiked up in the front as if he’d run his fingers through it. It was sort of mesmerizing, really, how nice his hair was, even all ruffled that way.

“So ... can I come in?” he asked finally.

Heat flared in her cheeks. Snap out of it, Charlie. “Of course,” she said quickly, stepping back and waving an arm toward the gloom of the entrance hall. “I’m sorry, I’m just ...”

Well, there was no way to finish that sentence without embarrassing herself, was there? What was she going to say? I’m just surprised because I watch too many old movies and you are so not old? I’m just incredibly nervous that a guy who looks like you is going to interview me? I have no idea how to flirt but I want to? She was uncomfortably aware of the wire-framed glasses perched on her nose and the fact that she hadn’t done anything with her hair but leave it to hang against her shoulders, as usual.

She smiled weakly and closed the heavy door behind him when he stepped over the threshold, catching a faint whiff of something male and spicy, like a ghost of scent behind him.

A ghost. Right. That was why he was here, not to steam up the parlor she was going to have to redecorate as soon as humanly possible after Christmas had come and gone. Hooray for the holidays. She had a reason to hang lights and glittery things to distract visitors, not that she had many, from the not-very-successful mix of delicate antique chairs and a brutally modern sofa.

“Have a seat,” she said as brightly as she could manage, taking his parka when he shrugged it off and gesturing to the most comfortable chair in the room, which was soft and wide and covered with a grandmotherly chintz. He would make a nice contrast, what with all that rampant virility he radiated so effortlessly. “Would you like something to drink before we get started?”

Those deep blue eyes were blank and bored. “I’m good, thanks.”

She sat up straighter, smoothing her hands over her knees. Well. He wasn’t very nice, was he? He wasn’t even prepared, she noticed, as he flipped through—f inally—a small black notebook and took out a pen before he laid a mini tape recorder on the coffee table. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, in fact, and here it was noon. She’d been up since seven and writing since eight, curled up with her laptop in the room she’d turned into an office upstairs, with just her coffee and Butch for company.

Which was exactly what she’d dreamed about when she inherited this house, she reminded herself when an unexpected pang of wistfulness hit her. Just because this guy looked like his to-do list included dangerous undercover reporting about drug cartels or mobsters, or maybe jumping out of airplanes and going behind enemy lines, didn’t mean that holing up for a year to finish a novel wasn’t a perfectly valid goal.

She was trying to decide if she was irritated with him or with herself when he looked up with a smile that was trying for charm and not quite succeeding.

“I’m new to the magazine,” he said, sitting back, ridiculously huge and male against the flowered cushions of the chair. “I didn’t actually have much time to look at the information before I headed out, so I want to verify a few basics before we start.”

She suppressed a frown. Forty minutes on the ferry from Falmouth to Martha’s Vineyard should have given him plenty of time to review his assignment—even longer if he’d come from Hyannis—but she wasn’t going to be picky. She was still surprised that he had called in the first place.

“Sure,” she said simply, sitting back and pushing her glasses back up her nose while he wasn’t watching.

“So, you’re Charlotte—I’m sorry, Charlie—Prescott, and you just moved into the house?” He glanced up from a page of notes scrawled in a small, almost illegible hand.

“That’s me.”

“And the house was”—he consulted his notebook again, and she wondered if she’d imagined the contemptuous tilt of his eyebrow—“inherited?”

She couldn’t quite stop a frown this time. “Yes, it’s been in the Prescott family since it was built. My aunt died earlier this year and she left the place to me.” She paused when she caught the expression on his face, boredom now mixed with unmistakable contempt.

And she had no idea what that was about, but she felt herself bristling the way Butch did the first day they’d felt the ghost. Wasn’t a reporter supposed to be impartial, or at the very least interested? It would be nice if this one was polite.

But no.

“So you inherited this big old place and you’re planning to live here year round now.” The statement—it definitely wasn’t a question—caught her by surprise before she could come up with anything to say about his attitude, and if she’d doubted it even a little bit before, there was no mistaking his feelings about her now.

Misguided as they were, she thought darkly.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she said, hating the stiffness in her tone. “I mentioned the ghost to a friend here, the lady next door, and I really never imagined anyone would be interested but me. And you seem to be more interested in, well, I don’t know what, but if you’re implying I’m some kind of a spoiled heiress who’s planning to stroll around Martha’s Vineyard in gem-encrusted high heels and ... and go yachting or something—”

“Whoa!” He held up a hand, a sheepish grin on his face. “That’s not what I was implying. Or what I meant. Or maybe it was. I apologize. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I don’t know very much about ghosts or haunted houses or, well, you. And like I said, I’m—”

“New to the magazine,” she finished for him, and tried to look away from his mouth, which was wide and amused. He probably was a wonderful kisser, she realized, and felt her cheeks flame again.

Okay, stop that. This was business. Of course, since it was business, he had no right to flash that grin, which was hot enough to warm up this bone-chilling winter day. He shouldn’t be allowed anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of a convent, for sure. Goodness.

He sat back, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, all lanky, lean confidence, and she fought the impulse to take a good long look. Staring at a point just beyond his left ear was probably safer, she decided, and willed herself to stop blushing. It was completely unfair that he could turn on the charm just like flicking a switch, especially when he’d as much as admitted he was being rude earlier.

“So,” he said easily, his tone amiable. “You’ve inherited this house that you believe is ... haunted?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height—mentally, at least. The house was haunted, and she knew it as well as she knew her own face. There was no other explanation for the things she’d heard and seen and felt since moving into this rambling old place, which certainly dated back far enough to have a rich history.

He raised his eyebrows. “You want to tell me why?”

Yes, she did. She really, really did. And this guy with his doubtful grin and easy charm wasn’t going to talk her out of it. With a tight smile, she stood up and nodded at the kitchen. “Why don’t I make some coffee and explain it?”

Charlie Prescott had backbone, Sam had to give her that. He followed her down the wide front hall to the kitchen, squinting a little in the house’s gloom. She looked as if a challenging glare would knock her over, much less a feather, but there was a spine beneath that plain gray sweater and a definite stubborn glow in her eyes.

He swallowed down the faint taste of guilt. Served him right, didn’t it? He wasn’t exactly exuding enthusiasm, much less manners. It wasn’t her fault he was here, working a story he would have laughed at even way back in college, when writing anything and getting paid for it had seemed like a victory.

“Have a seat,” she said, waving at the mammoth oak table in the middle of the kitchen. He blinked as he looked around the room, moving over to scrape a chair away from the table slowly. The few things that had been renovated here had to date back a while, he decided. The lemon yellow refrigerator looked like it had come straight from the early sixties. Hard to believe it still worked and why do you care? he asked himself silently. He hadn’t come over for dinner or anything.

She hadn’t gotten around to her Christmas decorating, if she planned to do any. He’d noticed some holiday cards—Santa, elves, poinsettias—when he came in, left around to sparkle sadly as if she’d forgotten about them.

Most of the rest of the kitchen reminded him of stepping into another century entirely. The few cabinets were old wood, painted dozens of times. The floors were wide-plank, worn with age, maybe even original, and there was a tall hutch against one wall filled with floral china. If he blinked and blocked out the refrigerator he could imagine candles burning during an evening meal, a woodstove over in the corner beside the hearth.

“I have some modern conveniences,” Charlie said, and he glanced up to find her smiling nervously at him and pointing to a shiny black coffee maker. “Don’t worry.”

“Hey, it’s cool,” he said and sat down, the wooden chair smooth and warm. “Hell, it certainly looks like a haunted house.”

She arched an eyebrow at him and he threw up his hands in apology.

“It’s a great old place, Charlie, but it is sort of ... well, old.” Um. That didn’t come out the way he planned.

As if it mattered, he reminded himself. He wasn’t here to flatter her. He wouldn’t be here at all, reporting some bogus story about ghosts, for God’s sake, if he wasn’t working for Scoop, the journalistic equivalent of a goddamned Twinkie.

And he was only working for the magazine temporarily, he reminded himself with a silent growl. Before too many ridiculous stories about celebrity comebacks and rock band feuds and haunted goddamned houses ran with his byline right there in black and white.

“The house dates back to the mid eighteen-eighties,” she said simply, and pushed the button on the coffee maker before taking thick white mugs out of a cabinet. “But modern houses can just as easily be haunted, you know. It’s not the age of the place, it’s what happens in it.”

“So what happened here?” he asked, setting his notebook and recorder on the table.

She shrugged and shook her hair back. It was golden brown, the color of sweet, dark tea, sort of pretty, really. Behind her glasses, her brown eyes were intelligent, the kind of eyes that noticed everything.

“I have no idea.” She leaned against the counter and folded her arms over her chest. “But I do know what I hear and what I see.”

He tilted his head, watching her as she crossed the kitchen to get milk out of the fridge. Absently, she took out a quart of eggnog first, then put it back and got the milk.

The thing was he didn’t doubt her. She sounded perfectly serious, and perfectly sane, to boot. He wasn’t sure if that was crazy or frightening. Ghosts didn’t exist. Come on.

Of course, there was no way to judge until she actually gave him the details. “What do you see?” he prodded.

She blushed a little then, faint color on cheeks that were completely free of makeup as far as he could tell.

“I’ll admit I haven’t seen the ghost as much as I’ve heard it,” she told him, still pink. The coffee bubbled in the pot and she dragged the mugs closer to pour it, dark and rich even from where Sam sat. “And I’ve ... well, I’ve felt it.”

She shot a sidelong glance at him from under her lashes. Felt it, huh? He cleared his throat to disguise a bark of laughter and ran a hand over his face. This should be good.

He was definitely not making enough money to sit through this crap, even if Charlie was sort of infuriatingly adorable.

“I know it sounds crazy.” Her tone was equal parts embarrassment and determination. “But it’s true.” She handed him a steaming mug and nudged the milk and the sugar bowl across the table.

He frowned when she left hers black and scalding. The coffee was strong enough to put a few more hairs on his chest, and he’d added a generous splash of two percent and two teaspoons of sugar. “What do you mean you feel the ghost?” he asked, trying not to scowl when she blew on her coffee delicately. She had a soft pink mouth with bow lips, and for a moment he could see exactly what she would look like if she were to kiss him.

Jesus. What the hell was wrong with him? Charlotte Prescott was about as far from his type as Alaska was from Brazil.

It was the job, he thought as he caught himself admiring the smooth slope of her cheek. If he had a real story to sink his teeth into, something to investigate that mattered, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t be so distracted, so restless.

So very appreciative of the gentle swell of her breasts under her thin gray sweater.

She didn’t seem to notice him staring—she was focused on a point over his left shoulder, thoughtful, as a curl of steam swirled up from her mug.

“It’s ... heat,” she said. “An intense, almost suffocating heat that makes it hard to breathe.” When she finally looked at him, there wasn’t a trace of guile in her eyes. “It’s not quite something you can touch, more like a cloud or a haze, you know?”

He didn’t, not by a long shot, but he nodded anyway. With a flick of his head at the mini recorder, he asked, “Can I turn this on?”

“Sure.” Spine straight, eyes clear. She wasn’t backing down.

He pressed the button carefully, slid the thing closer to her across the table. “Go on.”

“I feel it most often in one of the bedrooms upstairs,” she continued. She was staring at the recorder a little suspiciously, but she went on. “Not the master bedroom, the smaller one in the northeast corner. The first time, I was in there exploring shortly after I moved in. It was late afternoon and I was simply poking around, taking the sheets off the furniture, admiring it all. Some of it is as old as the house.”

“Taking the sheets off?” he said with a frown. “I’m a guy. Explain.”

“You put sheets on furniture to protect things from dust. The room had been shut up for a while even before Aunt May died,” Charlie explained with a sad little smile. “A few of the rooms were shut up, too, even when she was healthy. It’s an enormous house for one person, and she was worried about the salt air and all that.”

“Ah.” He tried to look knowledgeable about the effects of salt air on fine old furniture and nodded. It was easy enough, if a little depressing, to imagine a woman living here alone, rattling around in the huge, gloomy rooms, only books and maybe TV for company in the off season and the long winter months.

Like Charlie would be, he realized. Despite the good fortune of inheriting a huge old house within spitting distance of the beach, right on Martha’s Vineyard, she certainly wasn’t flaunting it. She hadn’t changed one thing in the house since moving in, as far as he could tell, and the car in the driveway was a sturdy little Honda with more than a few years on it. For some reason, he’d expected an eccentric rich chick with nothing to do but get her name in the papers, and Charlie was about as far from that as you could get.

He was slipping, he thought, resisting the impulse to run a hand over his face wearily. You didn’t judge an interviewer going into it. You asked questions, you listened, you did the research, you told the story as objectively as you could. He’d learned that as early as college, when he wrote a piece about the evolution of gang warfare in Los Angeles.

Of course, facing weeks of research on the coastline’s haunted houses, when he didn’t for a minute believe in ghosts, was bound to make him a little cranky.

“Anyway,” she went on with a wistful smile, “I was in there poking around one minute and the next I had to sit down. The heat just e. . .