Upon a Midnight Clear

by Catherine Mulvany

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

He’d vowed to guard her body, but did he want to keep her safe—or keep her?

Dixon Yano studied the woman who’d entered his office in a wig and dark glasses, and knew the obituary was fake. Alexandra Roundtree wasn’t dead, no matter what the paper said, but finding her “murderer” before he finally succeeded wouldn’t be an easy job. Intrigued by Dixon’s rugged power, aroused by his swashbuckling style, Alex pleaded for his help, but once the handsome ex-cop became her shadow, would their kisses start a fire in the dark?
 
Close quarters and chemistry are a delectable combination when it comes to romance, and Catherine Mulvany stirs up an explosively sensual cocktail that touches and tantalizes! She was paying him to play hero and he wanted the truth, but would crossing the line between business and pleasure mean risking his lady’s life?

Release date: February 9, 2011

Publisher: Loveswept

Print pages: 224

Sample

ONE
 
The dead woman walked into Dixon Yano’s office a little after three on Wednesday afternoon. She wore dark glasses and a wig, but Dixon recognized her right away from her obituary photograph in the Gazette: Alexandra Roundtree, daughter of mystery novelist Regina Roundtree.
 
“You don’t look Japanese,” she said by way of greeting.
 
“You don’t look dead.”
 
“Touché.” She smiled, disclosing perfect white teeth.
 
Glancing down at the newspaper on his desk, then back up at the woman, he realized the grainy picture didn’t do her justice. With classic features and flawless skin, Alexandra Roundtree was a “10.” Maybe even an “11.”
 
Dixon jumped to his feet, suddenly conscious of the fact that he needed a haircut. A shave wouldn’t have come amiss, either. He rubbed absently at his stubbly jaw. His mother kept telling him he needed to dress more professionally. She’d bought him a tie every Christmas for the last five years. Not that a tie would have looked anything short of ludicrous with the sweatshirt and jeans he was wearing now. “Have a seat.”
 
His prospective client settled gracefully on the ugly gray chair across the desk from him and removed her sunglasses.
 
Dixon sat, schooling his features to remain impassive, no easy task since her eyes, though distinctly unusual—the left one a clear hazel, the right a bright blue—were as startlingly beautiful as the rest of her. If only she would take off that ugly black wig. According to the picture, her own hair was a blonde-streaked brown that fell past her shoulders in thick waves. Cindy Crawford hair, the kind that practically invited a man to run his fingers through it.
 
Oblivious to his reactions, the young woman reached out, picked up the newspaper, and studied it a minute in silence. “ ‘Local Writer Loses Daughter,’ ” she read, “ ‘Alexandra Roundtree, twenty-seven-year-old daughter of best-selling mystery novelist Regina Roundtree, died at home, December seventeenth, of natural causes. Services pending.’ ” She made a face. “Pathetic, isn’t it? I can’t even get top billing in the headline of my own obituary.”
 
Dixon noted the self-deprecating smile and the hint of some darker emotion shadowing her eyes. Unusual eyes, unusual woman, unusual situation. “What can I do for you, Ms. Roundtree?”
 
“You’re a private detective, right?”
 
“Private investigator,” he corrected automatically.
 
“Private investigator. Sorry.” She rummaged in her purse and drew out a wad of money. “I want to hire you, Mr. Yano. Here’s a thousand dollars as a retainer.” She tossed a stack of hundreds on the desk between them. “Help me find my killer.”
 
Just his luck. The first paying customer all week and she was looney tunes. “What killer? You’re not dead.”
 
She frowned. “Not yet, but it’ll be a miracle if I make it to Christmas. Someone is trying to murder me.”
 
“The obituary said ‘natural causes.’ ”
 
She gave him a look. “The obituary’s a fake, the theory being that if the person threatening me thought I was dead, it might buy me a little time.”
 
“Good strategy. How’d you get the Gazette to play along?”
 
“My uncle’s the publisher.” She fell silent, staring in apparent fascination at the black leather purse she clenched in her hands. The muffled noise of holiday traffic on the street below sounded loud in the silence.
 
Dixon watched her closely. Body language betrayed even the best liars.
 
Alexandra Roundtree squared her jaw and lifted her gaze to meet his. “Over the past couple of weeks, Mr. Yano, I’ve started having accidents. Only I’m not convinced they are accidents.”
 
Dixon relaxed. Confusion, yes. Fear, definitely. But above all, what he read in her face was integrity. “Tell me about it.” He paused with his finger above the record button on his tape recorder. “You don’t mind if I tape this, do you?”
 
“Go ahead.” She frowned as if she were trying to organize her thoughts. “The first hint of trouble was the exploding reindeer.”
 
Alert for potential clients, Dixon always read the local paper thoroughly and he sure as hell would have noticed any mention of an exploding reindeer. Must have heard her wrong. He shoved his hair behind his ears. “I’m sorry. I thought you said ‘exploding reindeer.’ ”
 
“I did say ‘exploding reindeer.’ Eight of them. Nine if you count Rudolph.”
 
“Rudolph.” Dixon leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest. Okay, so she was telling the truth, or at least what she believed to be the truth. Damn. Not a liar, just delusional.
 
“They were part of a window display at Gemini Gifts. That’s the shop my sister and I own. The reindeer were trimmed with strings of Christmas lights that all went off like fireworks. Poor Rudolph’s nose exploded into a million fragments of red glass. The jolt knocked me flat and blew every light on our block. At the time I wasn’t suspicious. We found a couple of frayed wires, so I dismissed the whole thing as an accident.”
 
“Quite honestly, it does sound like an accident.”
 
“Wait. There’s more. The very next day, Saturday before last, I came within millimeters of being squashed by a giant gingerbread house.”
 
Dixon tried hard to keep his expression void of skepticism.
 
“Part of a float in the Christmas parade,” she continued. “My sister, Amanda, and I were on the committee responsible for getting everybody lined up in the right order. Just as the parade was about to begin the whole float suddenly collapsed. If Mandy hadn’t pulled me out of harm’s way, I’d have been buried under an eight-foot slab of fake gingerbread, nine bazillion gumdrops, and sixteen Girl Scouts dressed as elves.”
 
Dixon blinked. Not to mention two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Again, it could have been—probably was—an accident.”
 
“And I suppose it was just an accident when Santa Claus stole my purse and shoved me down the escalator at the mall?” Alexandra Roundtree tilted her chin at a pugnacious angle.
 
God, she was a looker. Too damn bad she was so paranoid. “A mugger?” he suggested.
 
“That’s what the police said.”
 
“You don’t sound convinced.”
 
“I never carry much money in my purse—”
 
He raised an eyebrow and flicked the pile of cash with his forefinger.
 
“All right, hardly ever. The point is I’m not a prime target for a pickpocket, yet of all the people in the mall, that thieving Saint Nick chose to victimize me.”
 
“A crime was committed all right, but I’m with the police here.” Dixon shrugged. “I see no evidence of attempted murder.”
 
“What would you consider evidence of attempted murder? A bullet hole between my eyes? A knife in my back?” Tight-lipped, she dug through the contents of her bag once again. “How about this? It came in the mail yesterday.” She shoved a sheet of cheap, lined notebook paper into his hands. Someone had pasted together letters cut from the newspaper to form a crude message.
 
“ ‘Beware the mistletoe or Christmas may be hazardous to your health,’ ” he read aloud, and nodded. “Okay, I suppose that could be construed as a threat, but I still don’t feel there’s a case here. Sorry, Ms. Roundtree.” He scooped up the money and held it out to her.
 
Benjamin Franklin seemed to stare at him accusingly. Christmas was just around the corner, and an extra thousand dollars was nothing to turn his nose up at.
 
Ignoring the money, Alexandra stood, then paced restlessly for a few seconds before pausing at the window.
 
He watched, fascinated, as she chewed at her full lower lip. He wouldn’t mind nibbling at that lip himself. She was standing directly under the mistletoe, practically begging to be kissed. The situation was tempting. The woman was tempting. If only …
 
She stared down at the ice-covered street, though he was pretty sure it wasn’t the inadequacy of the city maintenance crew that was wrinkling her brow. When she finally spoke, her voice was pitched so low that he had trouble hearing her. “This was a stupid idea. The danger’s all in my head anyway, according to Mark.”
 
“Mark?”
 
“Mark Jordan, my fiancé.”
 
“Ah.” Dixon felt as if she’d punched him in the gut.
 
She glanced toward him. “You know Mark?”
 
“Only by sight.” Two years before, Colleen Jordan, the then Mrs. Mark Jordan, had hired Dixon to follow her cheating husband. In the one week Dixon had shadowed the man, Jordan managed to have assignations with six different women in four different motels, which Dixon figured was some kind of record, at least for a small town like Brunswick. Delusional or not, Alexandra Roundtree deserved better than a jerkwad like Mark Jordan.
 
She turned, so she stood in profile to him. A wistful smile tilted the corner of her mouth. “It was a whirlwind courtship. We met last year at a ski lodge in Sun Valley, got engaged a week later. Mark was so charming, so supportive, though lately …”
 
She straightened and swiveled to face him again, as if suddenly realizing she’d strayed off the subject. “Nobody takes the threat seriously—nobody except my mother. She’s the one who suggested I contact you.”
 
“Yes, I’ve met your mother,” Dixon said dryly. Talk about your certifiable nutcases. Regina Roundtree, a woman with a penchant for eccentric hats, was well-known in Brunswick and beyond. Rumor had it she’d once attended a garden party at the White House in a floppy-brimmed confection of aluminum cans crocheted together with fishing line.
 
From his chair behind the desk, all Dixon could see out the second-story window of Yano Investigations was a slice of bright blue eastern Oregon sky and the damaged top floor of the historic Stockton Building directly across the street. The view was nothing to brag about, but it did provide a nice backdrop for Alexandra, its angles contrasting nicely with her curves.
 
“Much as I’d like to take your money, Ms. Roundtree, I have to say—”
 
Suddenly the window shattered, spraying shards of glass.
 
Alexandra Roundtree fell to the floor.