Christmas Magic Read online

  “You are one beautiful woman,”

  Mike admitted grumpily. “But I am not so desperate for naked female companionship that I have to kick down bathroom doors.”

  The macho cop’s words should have relieved Casey. But they left traces of irritation instead. He didn’t have to be quite so positive about it. “Can I have your promise on that?” she demanded pertly.>“You’ve got my sacred vow,” he snapped.

  “Until hell freezes over?”

  “That happens almost every winter here in Michigan. So let’s say you’re safe from me until your cats explain the mystery of life.”

  “My cats don’t explain anything.”

  “So you’re really, really safe then, aren’t you?” Mike said smugly.

  But, somehow, Casey wasn’t too sure…

  Dear Reader,

  The holiday season has arrived—and we have some dazzling titles for the month of December!

  This month, the always-delightful Joan Elliott Pickart brings you our THAT’S MY BABY! title. Texas Baby is the final book in her FAMILY MEN cross-line series with Desire, and spins the heartwarming tale of a fortysomething heroine who rediscovers the joy of motherhood when she adopts a precious baby girl. Except the dashing man of her dreams has no intention of playing daddy again…

  And baby fever doesn’t stop there. Don’t miss The Littlest Angel by Sherryl Woods, an emotional reunion romance—and the first of her AND BABY MAKES THREE: THE NEXT GENERATION miniseries. Passion flares between a disgruntled cowboy and a tough lady cop in The Cop and the Cradle by Suzannah Davis—book two in the SWITCHED AT BIRTH miniseries.

  For those of you who revel in holiday miracles, be sure to check out Christmas Magic by Andrea Edwards. This humorous romance features a cat-toting heroine who transforms a former Mr. Scrooge into a true believer—and captures his heart in the process.

  Also this month, The Millionaire’s Baby by Phyllis Halldorson is an absorbing amnesia story that’s filled with love, turmoil and a possible second chance at happiness. Finally, long-buried feelings resurface when a heroine returns to unite her former lover with the son he’d never known in Second Chance Dad by Angela Benson.

  All of us here at Silhouette wish you a joyous holiday season!

  Sincerely,

  Tara Gavin,

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Christmas Magic

  Andrea Edwards

  In memory of Isabel Anderson and all the others who

  lost their lives on ValuJet 592.

  May the white cat’s story touch others as

  Isa touched us.

  Books by Andrea Edwards

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Rose in Bloom #363

  Say It With Flowers #428

  Ghost of a Chance #490

  Violets Are Blue #550

  Places in the Heart #591

  Make Room for Daddy #618

  Home Court Advantage #706

  Sweet Knight Times #740

  Father: Unknown #770

  Man of the Family #809

  The Magic of Christmas #856

  Just Hold On Tight! #883

  †A Ring and a Promise #932

  †A Rose and a Wedding Vow #944

  †A Secret and a Bridal Pledge #956

  Kisses and Kids #981

  *On Mother’s Day #1029

  *A Father’s Gift #1046

  *One Big Happy Family #1064

  Christmas Magic #1144

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Above Suspicion #291

  Silhouette Desire

  Starting Over #645

  †This Time, Forever

  *Great Expectations

  ANDREA EDWARDS

  is the pseudonym of Anne and Ed Kolaczyk, a husbandand-wife writing team who have been telling their stories for more than fifteen years. Anne is a former elementary school teacher, while Ed is a refugee from corporate America. After many years in the Chicago area, they now live in a small town in northern Indiana where they are avid students of local history, family legends and ethnic myths. Recently they have both been bitten by the gardening bug, but only time will tell how serious the affliction is. Their four children are grown; the youngest attends college while the eldest is a college professor. Remaining at home with Anne and Ed are two dogs, four cats and one bird—not the same ones that first walked through their stories, but carrying on the same tradition of chaotic rule of the household nonetheless.

  The Christmas Pickle

  A century ago, in certain German areas of the United States, a glass-blown Christmas pickle ornament was considered a special Christmastree decoration. It was the last ornament to be hung on the tree on Christmas Eve. When the children were allowed to see the tree on Christmas morning, they would search for the pickle ornament, for whoever found the glass pickle would receive something special.

  Chapter One

  Something was wrong.

  Mike Burnette turned off the ignition of his Michigan State Police cruiser and stared through the rain-snow mixture that pelted his windshield. A light was on in his kitchen, but the only one who should be in the house was Gus. And while his dog was big enough and smart enough to reach a switch, he’d never bothered with lights before.

  An uneasiness settled in the pit of Mike’s stomach as he glanced around the neighborhood. The only lights in the Randalls’ house next door were from their Christmas tree; most likely no one was home yet. That would mean that Dubber hadn’t been over to feed Gus this evening, and so the eleven-year-old couldn’t have accidentally left the lights on. But then who had? Gus would have to be dead before he’d let a stranger in.

  It had to be burglars. Burglars who’d done something to his dog.

  Mike reached for his radio and called for backup, then slipped out of his car. It could be five minutes before one of the Berrien Springs cars got here, more if something was going down in another part of town. He took a deep breath, letting the chilly evening air push back the grogginess that kept trying to swallow him up. He’d take a look around while he waited. Putting on his uniform cap, he crept up the steps to his back porch.

  Damn, he was tired. What with that extradition trip to New York, he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for days, and the cold tablets were winning over the coffee. He glanced through the dining-room window—dark inside with only a patch of light spilling in from the kitchen. Looked okay. He crept farther along the wall. Maybe he should go back to his car and cancel his earlier call. It probably was nothing. But as he turned, he glanced into his kitchen.

  His blood froze; his heart stopped.

  Gus—his dog, his best friend and ninety pounds of pure fearlessness—was pinned on the blue linoleum floor by something dark. But Gus must have seen Mike at the window, for the dog’s eyes, filled with pleading, looked his way.

  This wasn’t a time for caution and waiting. This was a time for action. His best friend was in trouble! Drawing his service weapon, Mike kicked in his back door and burst into the kitchen.

  “Everybody freeze,” he shouted, vaguely aware that although Gus hadn’t gotten up, he was wagging his tail. There was a sound to Mike’s right and he spun.

  A young woman stood in the living-room doorway. “What are you doing?” she squealed, half raising her hands.

  In her mid-twenties, with red hair, green eyes and a dash of freckles sprinkled across her nose, she wasn’t like any burglar he’d ever seen. She wasn’t wearing any shoes, just thick socks that hid her feet—something her tattered jeans and University of Michigan
sweatshirt couldn’t do to her shape. Mike felt the temperature in the room go up a few degrees. Luckily, he was immune to beautiful women who broke into houses.

  “Just move on over by the stove there,” he said, and waved her across the old kitchen with his gun.

  “This is crazy,” she protested, but did as he said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Keeping her in sight, he moved carefully around the kitchen table to where Gus lay. And stopped in shock. Gus was pinned down by two cats! Mike just stared at them as Gus wagged his tail some more. Cats?

  “Mrs. Jamison sent me,” the woman said loudly.

  Mike turned back to her at that. “Myrna Jamison?” He let his weapon drop slightly as the adrenaline surge left his body. What was going on? “Aunt Myrna?”

  “Yes, your aunt Myrna.” The woman lowered her arms enough to wrap them across her chest. “The one who owns this house and whose door you’ll have to get repaired.”

  Actually, Myrna was his great-aunt, but Mike just shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. This woman had the most disconcerting eyes—wide, bright green and reflecting a certain gentleness. They were the kind that could hypnotize a guy, if he let them. But there was no way he was going to let her and her gang of cats pull anything on him.

  “We should really shut the door,” the woman continued. “The snow’s blowing in.”

  “Forget about that and tell me why Myrna sent you.”

  “Have you always been so bossy or is that part of your police training?” She walked past him and tried to shut the door, but finally gave up and let it stay slightly ajar.

  “I’m the one asking the questions here,” he said a bit louder. “Now—”

  A growl from the floor stopped Mike in midsentence, and he looked down. His dog, the big stupid mutt he’d rushed in to rescue, had his teeth bared and was growling at him. And the two cats—one white and the other black—lying against the dog’s side were giving Mike looks that were as near to an assault as one could get without touching a person. Didn’t any of them realize he was the good guy here?

  “Hush, sweetie.” The woman bent down and patted Gus’s large fuzzy head. “Everything’s fine. Your daddy’s not mad. He’s just tired.”

  Mike stared at his dog, whose demeanor had reverted to happy and stupid, and seriously considered turning around and leaving. He had to have stumbled into the wrong house.

  “His name is Gus,” Mike said. “And I’m not his ‘daddy.’“

  “Sure, you are.” The woman gave Gus one last pat before straightening up. “You’re Mike Burnette, aren’t you? Mrs. Jamison described you perfectly.” She held her hand out to him. “I’m Casey Crawford.”

  Mike swallowed hard and transferred his weapon to his other hand. He shook her hand as briefly as possible, but it wasn’t brief enough. He felt as if he’d touched a live wire; a charge raced through him, leaving him feeling weak and weary.

  What was this woman really doing here? This was just too weird for words. Myrna rarely ventured out of her house except to…

  Mike frowned at Casey. “You’re not her psychic, are you?”

  “Her psychic?”

  Casey looked startled, but not startled enough, Mike thought. Great. “Just how well do you know my aunt?” he asked. “How’d you meet her?”

  “Through some mutual friends,” she said. “I teach at the University of Michigan.”

  “And burgle houses on the side?”

  “I didn’t break in,” Casey protested. “The cutest little boy unlocked the door for me. He said he lives next door.”

  Mike’s suspicions came flooding back, along with an irrational irritation. Dubber was a gangly kid with giant feet, a buzz cut and crooked teeth that only an orthodontist could love. Even his own mother wouldn’t call him cute.

  “He had no right to let you in.”

  “Mrs. Jamison told them to. She said if you weren’t home, I should go see your neighbors, the Randalls. That she’d notify both of you that I was coming.”

  This was getting more and more bizarre by the minute. Yeah, he was taking care of the house for his great-aunt, fixing up the place a bit in lieu of rent, but she’d never interfered in things before. She’d always treated the place as if it was his, even though he kept insisting it wasn’t. She wouldn’t just send someone over without discussing it with him first.

  He looked at Casey in her stocking feet and the sweatshirt that fell ever so gently over her curves and the jeans that clung as close as a caress. Breath was hard to come by.

  “You never answered my question,” he stated. “How did you meet Myrna?”

  “What’s to tell?” the intruder said with a shrug of her shoulders. “She came to the university for a lecture. Some friends introduced her to me when they found out she wanted to have a family history written. I’ve written several for people in the Ann Arbor area.”

  “Myrna wants you to write a family history?” This made no sense. “Myrna prides herself on ignoring the whole family. She routinely sends us all notices that we’re out of her will.”

  “Well, maybe she only likes dead family members.”

  “Or maybe this is all a hoax,” Mike said. “She wouldn’t have sent you here without telling me.”

  “So check your mail or your answering machine,” the woman said.

  She probably thought that would make him go into the other room, and she could escape. And maybe that was what he should let her do. But he just waved her back to the stove with his gun while he went over to the kitchen phone—the one that had the answering machine. He glanced at it. Lights were flashing. He pressed the Rewind button, then Play.

  “Mike. Dave, here.” The voice seemed to shout into the silence of the kitchen. “You back from that trip yet? Give me a call.” There was a click and a whir.

  “You’ve been away?” Casey said. “No wonder your aunt couldn’t get in touch with you.”

  Mike glared at her briefly. “I wasn’t totally unreachable.”

  The next message started. “Hey, Mr. March, it’s Joe. The calendars are in. I sent a couple to the station for you.” Click, whir.

  “Mr. March?” Casey asked.

  “It’s a fund-raising thing,” Mike snapped. These messages were personal. Hadn’t she ever heard of privacy? Or at least the pretense of privacy? “It’s the Kops for Kids Kalendar.”

  “I’ve never met a Mr. March before,” she said. “This is so thrilling.”

  He gave her a glare, the one that made even the toughest perp zip his lips in less than three nanoseconds. It had no apparent effect.

  “I’ve met a Mr. January, but January’s not a very exciting month. Not like March, with those winds roaring in.”

  Gritting his teeth, Mike turned back to the machine. Come on, Aunt Myrna. Where are you? “Mike? It’s Tammy. Hon, I sure don’t want you to find out the wrong way. Darcy and her doctor are back in town.” Click, whir.

  Damn. Tammy’d always been a busybody.

  “Who’s Darcy?” Casey asked.

  “Nobody.”

  “Mike, it’s Mrs. Kinder from down the street. I thought you should know that Darcy and her husband bought a house in that new subdivision on the east side. Just so you won’t be surprised if you see them in town.” Click, whir.

  Great. Like he cared. Darcy was the past. Finished. Been there, done that.

  “Your ex?” Casey asked, her voice softer.

  “No,” Mike snapped. Right. The old pity machine. Mr. March had no effect on her, but thinking that he’d been dumped made her all sweet and sympathetic.

  “Mike, it’s Ben. Susie said I should tell you something. Give me a call—”

  Mike hit the Stop button. Damn, listening to this thing in public was like standing out in the street in your long johns, back flap down.

  “There’s a faster way to solve this mystery,” he said, and grabbed up the phone. He dialed his great-aunt’s number and heard her answer in a moment. “Aunt Myrn
a?”

  “Michael,” she snapped. “Where have you been?”

  His heart sank into his shoes. She’d sent this woman, no doubt about it. He slipped his gun into the holster with a sigh. And what a royal fool he’d made of himself.

  “Is Casey there?” his great-aunt asked. “Now, you be nice to her. She’s just the sweetest thing around.”

  “Yes, she’s here, Aunt Myrna.” Mike paused, letting the rest of her conversation drift by him. “She said you want her to write a family history.”

  “Oh, don’t sound so forbidding, Michael,” his great-aunt scolded. “I had to come up with something to get her there.”

  “You had to—”

  “Hush, I don’t want her to know I’ve told you,” she said quickly.

  “You haven’t told me anything.”

  “I had to get her away,” his great-aunt told him. “And what’s safer than living two hours away with a big, strong cop?”

  “You mean…” She was in danger? He stopped and looked over at Casey. She’d stooped to pet Gus, while the cats milled around them both. There was something so gentle, so fragile about them all it almost scared him.

  “Michael?” his great-aunt said.

  “Yeah, fine, Aunt Myrna,” he said wearily. “I’ll take care of things.”

  “You’ll watch out for Casey?”

  “As long as she’s in my jurisdiction. That’s my job.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem.” She hung up the phone.