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Christmas In Whitehorn
Susan Mallery
Detective Mark Kincaid was worn to the bone after his years on New York's tough city streets. Upon his return to Whitehorn, all he wanted was peace and quiet–not some sweet, adorable do-gooder messing up the sanctity of his brooding existence. His neighbor Darcy Montague was all sugar and spice, endearing herself with loaves of pumpkin bread and intimate dinners for two.Mark kept up his guard, knowing from experience that he could be hurt beyond repair. Was Darcy Montague too good to be true, or just the woman to make his heart come alive?
This holiday season, Whitehorn has more than its share of troubles: Who’s laundering money through the Hip Hop Café? Why does new Hip Hop waitress Darcy Montague stash thousands of dollars in her music box? And what’s eating Homer Gilmore? Join some new as well as familiar faces for Yuletide excitement and, as always, true love!
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Mark Kincaid: A cop who has worked the beat on New York City’s streets and comes home for some peace and quiet. He’ll never be anyone’s fool again. But is he too tough to fall for his adorable neighbor, Darcy Montague?
Darcy Montague: A baker and waitress, Darcy can’t keep a thought in her head while ogling drop-dead-gorgeous customer Mark Kincaid. When he starts to show interest, can she protect her secret responsibility—or her vulnerable heart?
Homer Gilmore: The man wanders around town in his bathrobe and slippers, lost in his own world—but carries a burden that no one can see. Does he know the person who’s been causing trouble around Whitehorn this holiday season?
Josh Anderson: What is this sexy bachelor doing sniffing around Whitehorn’s cutest new waitress? Nothing, as far as Mark’s concerned!
Melissa North: Can the owner of the Hip Hop Café possibly be involved in the mysterious laundering scheme Mark Kincaid is reluctantly investigating?
Nurse Connie Adams: As Homer’s caregiver, what is she doing letting Homer run loose around town? And why is she making eyes at Melissa’s husband?
Christmas in Whitehorn
Susan Mallery
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Susan Mallery for her contribution to the MONTANA MAVERICKS series.
SUSAN MALLERY
is the bestselling author of over forty-five books for Harlequin Books and Silhouette Books. She makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her handsome prince of a husband and her two adorable-but-not-bright cats.
Mark Kincaid had no business being there.
“Look, Darcy—”
Mark paused, not sure how to tell her he wouldn’t make it for dinner. He wasn’t very social these days.
Her blue eyes stared at him, while the corners of her full mouth turned up slightly. She had perfect skin. Clear, pale and nearly luminous. But the worst of it was the complete trust in her eyes. He had a bad feeling that she’d never told a white lie, let alone a really soul-threatening one. He felt like he was about to kick a puppy.
His shoulders slumped. “Do you want me to bring anything? Like wine?”
“Wine would be nice,” she said.
He nodded and left without looking at her. He didn’t want to see her smiling at him like he’d just done something amazing. However much he found Darcy attractive, he wasn’t about to go there. As he’d already learned the hard way, getting involved with a woman could be fatal.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
“Western omelette, side of bacon, coffee,” Mark Kincaid said without looking up from his morning paper. He hadn’t slept the night before and he felt like roadkill. Of course he hadn’t been sleeping since the shooting, so he should stop being surprised by the fact. Maybe one day he would get used to staring up at the ceiling for hours on end, trying not to relive the events that had nearly killed him.
“I don’t think so.”
At first he thought he’d imagined the soft voice, that the words were an editorial on his belief he might get used to not sleeping. Then he realized they’d come from the petite blonde standing next to his table.
He looked up at the waitress smiling at him. He didn’t smile in return. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. You can’t order that for breakfast. You get the same thing every day and it’s not healthy. Four eggs, ham, cheese and bacon? It’s enough cholesterol to choke a horse.”
“Fortunately, I’m not a horse.”
Her smile widened. Humor danced in her eyes. “Good point, Detective. Okay, it’s enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of a living human. How about some oatmeal? Studies have proven that regular consumption of oatmeal can actually lower cholesterol levels, sometimes significantly.”
Mark folded his paper and gave the waitress his full attention. She wore a white apron over a pale pink dress. Two butterfly clips held her short blond hair away from her face. She was pretty enough, he supposed, assuming a man was interested in that sort of thing. He was not.
He pushed his coffee cup closer to the edge of the table. She took the hint and filled it. He sipped the black liquid, nearly sighing when he felt it burn its way down his throat. Coffee improved his world view.
“Western omelette,” he said firmly. “Side of bacon.”
Her full lips pressed together. “How about a side of fruit, instead? It’s fresh.”
He stared at her, giving her the same look he’d used on the scum of the earth he’d encountered while he’d been a detective in New York. The waitress—Darcy her name tag read—should have run for cover. Instead she muttered something about some people being too stubborn for their own good and wrote on her pad.
“I have to tell you, I’m giving in against my better judgment,” she told him.
“What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”
“Being right won’t help you if you’re dead.”
She sounded too damn cheerful by half.
“It’s a little early for such a philosophical discussion,” he said. “Why don’t you save it for the lunch crowd?”
She smiled. “Let me guess—you won’t be in for lunch today, right?”
He shrugged. He did have plans elsewhere.
“I’ll put this right in,” she said, waving her pad, then turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen.
Mark returned his attention to his paper, but the words didn’t make sense. Instead he found himself trying to remember what, if anything, he knew about Darcy the waitress. She was new in town. She’d shown up in the eight years he’d been gone. She was young, early twenties, attractive—not that he cared about that—and a born fusser. She bullied all her customers equally, touting the benefits of orange juice with its vitamin C, warning kids about cavities from sticky desserts and pushing salads instead of burgers. Everyone seemed to love the attention. Everyone but him.
Mark shook his head to clear it, then studied the paper in front of him. Gradually the room faded as he reviewed the scores from the previous day’s football games. Maybe this year the Dallas Cowboys were going to go all the way. Maybe—
A small plate appeared in front of him. Three slices of something strange lay nestled against each other.
He glanced at Darcy.
“Don’t bite my head off. It’s compliments of the house,” she said casually. “We’re considering switching suppliers for our baked goods. This is a sample of one of the new products. What do you think?”
The slices had come from a loaf of some kind. But the color was faintly…orange? “What is it?”
“Pumpkin bread.”
He pushed the plate away. “I don’t eat vegetables before noon.”
Darcy glared at him as if he’d just won first prize in a stupid contest. “There are green peppers in your omelette. Besides, pumpkins aren’t vegetables.”
“Want to bet?”
“Okay, technically they are because of the seeds and everything, but we eat them in pie. That makes them an honorary fruit. Try it. It’s really good.”
He had his doubts. “Why pumpkin bread?”
“Because of Thanksgiving. It’s this Thursday. Remember?”
He didn’t remember, mostly because he didn’t do holidays. Not anymore. When it had been only him and Maddie, he’d worked hard to make the holidays special. His sister had just been a kid when they’d lost their folks. But lately…what was the point?
“So the restaurant will be closed,” he said, not asking a question. He’d have to fix his own breakfast. Actually, he’d probably not bother with food. Cooking was too much trouble.
Darcy’s gaze narrowed. “Tell me, Detective, what exactly are your plans for the holiday?”
“Is my order ready yet?”
She nodded her head. “I knew it. You’re the solitary type, aren’t you? You’ll spend the day by yourself, moping.”
He glared at her. “I don’t mope.”
“But you will be alone.”
He waved at the half-full Hip Hop Café. “Don’t you have other customers?”
She glanced around. “Not really, but thanks for asking. My point is, no one should spend the holidays alone. You need to get out.”
He was saved by the bell—literally. The sharp ring cut through the diner and sent Darcy back toward the kitchen. Less than a minute later she appeared with his breakfast.
“I mean it,” she said. “Solitude makes the holidays more difficult than they have to be. Don’t you have any family in town?”
He thought about his sister, who would spend the long weekend traveling. “No.”
“Then come to my place. I’m fixing a turkey with all the trimmings. Everything is homemade. There will be lots of people there. You’ll love it. You won’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Although it wouldn’t hurt you to be a tad more chatty, if you ask me.”
He groaned. The last thing he needed was to fall into the clutches of some health-nut do-gooder. She’d probably use tofu in her stuffing and want to talk about the importance of giving back to the community.
He opened his mouth to refuse her invitation, but she was gone. Seconds later, she reappeared with coffee, pouring quickly, then leaving.
For the next ten minutes, she took care of her other customers, argued about what they were ordering and avoided Mark’s table. He had plenty of time to think up fifteen reasons he would refuse her invitation. Yet when she brought him his bill, he found himself unable to say anything to bring sadness to her bright, expectant smile.
“What time?” he asked, trying to sound gracious and failing miserably.
Her expression turned startled. “You’re accepting?”
“Change your mind already?”
“No. Not at all. Say four? We’ll eat at five.” She hesitated. “Do you know where I live?” Instantly she blushed. “Dumb question.”
For the first time that day, possibly for the first time in several days, Mark smiled. “Yeah, Darcy. I know where you live.”
Darcy Montague leaned her head against the front of her locker and groaned. The good news was she could now nominate herself for idiot of the month. What on earth had she been thinking?
“Please don’t tell me that you’re banging your head against the wall,” Janie Carson Austin, who managed the Hip Hop, said as she stepped into the small storeroom. “You’re one of my most dependable staff members and if I think you’re going off the deep end, it’s going to put a crimp in my holiday spirit.”
Darcy straightened and forced herself to smile at her boss. “No head banging. I promise. Just a reflection on the state of my life.”
“Which is?” Janie asked.
“Great.”
Darcy ignored the voice in her head—even though it was telling her she was incredibly dumb for inviting Mark Kincaid to her house. Mark Kincaid—Whitehorn’s answer to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise all rolled into one. Argh! Had she actually told him he didn’t have to talk to anyone while he was at her house, only to turn around and complain that he wasn’t chatty enough? She’d babbled. It had been humiliating.
