Mistletoe and Holly
It should have been a perfectly romantic evening. The lighting was soft, the music was seductive, the wine was cold. Even the weather had cooperated, in the form of a late-autumn Arizona rainstorm that thrummed on the roof with a hypnotic rhythm. It was the kind of night that invited snuggling up together and forgetting the rest of the world existed.

And it would have been that kind of night, had everything gone according to Holly Aldridge's plan. Instead, things had started going downhill from the moment her boyfriend Brad came home to the cozy Craftsman-style bungalow they shared, swearing and dripping rainwater on the foyer tile. He stripped off his wet suit jacket and, tugging at his tie, came toward her in the darkness.

“Power go out?”

“Nooo.”

“Then what's with all the candles, Holly? I can hardly see a thing in here,” he complained, finally whipping off his tie with a last irritable tug.

He's had a hard day, Holly told herself. Be nice to him.

She patted the sofa cushion. “Mood lighting. You'll get used to it in a minute. Come sit by me.”

He did, first catching hold of her feet and swinging her legs up on the coffee table to make more room. So much for her seductive pose. She leaned into him and lay her head on the rain-dampened curve of his shoulder. “Tough day?”

Brad dropped his head back and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Sorry,” she murmured, turning her head to glance up at him. Even wet and grouchy he looked good, like a glossy sort of Young Republican poster boy—not a single dark hair deviated from its prescribed course. Holly admitted to no one but herself Brad was more skilled with styling gel than she was.

She didn't want to ask about his day and be treated to an hour-long discourse on the impossibility of practicing medicine on a bunch of patients whom—as Brad put it—wouldn't recognize common sense if it fell on their heads. Once he got started on that, things would really go awry. So she slid a little closer and started undoing his top shirt button.

“Holly.”

Buttons two and three down. He was always telling her how he was tired of making the first move. Tonight would be different. She moved lower and tackled button number four.

“Holly.” This time Brad caught her wrists in his hands, as though she'd maul him if unrestrained. “Give me a little time to decompress, okay? It's been a long day.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He let go of her wrists and pulled the ends of his shirt together again. Paradise lost.

“How about a drink, then?” Holly asked brightly. She filled two wineglasses with rosé and handed him one.

He drained his glass, then set it on the glass-topped wrought-iron coffee table with a thunk that set the tabletop ringing, completely bypassing the coasters he usually insisted on using. Holly frowned. Either Brad was very, very thirsty or his mood was even worse than she'd thought.

She splashed more rosé in his glass, hoping it was the former. When Brad finally looked at her, fixing her with what she immediately recognized as his I'm-serious-as-Hell look, Holly knew it was the latter.

“I'm sorry, Holly,” he said, now looking everywhere but at her. “Really sorry. But I just can't do this anymore. You and me...it's not working. Things just aren't right for me.”

Cold trickled down her spine. Of course things were right. She'd planned everything, down to his favorite ratatouille simmering on the stove, down to the CDs she'd programmed on the stereo, down to the perfume the tastefully made-up woman at the Esteé Lauder counter had assured Holly was “irresistible, dear.”

She wouldn't have gone to such trouble for a doomed relationship, would she?

“What do you mean?” Her voice sounded faraway, broken. She finished off her wine for fortification and glanced at him. Any second now he'd come out with some clichéd line like, “I need some space, that's all,” and she'd nod wisely and tell him she'd been thinking exactly the same thing about herself, wasn't that funny, ha ha. And then she'd brain him with the wine bottle and boot him out into the rain.

“I—” He spread out his arms in a choreographed sort of helpless gesture, careful not to actually touch her. “I've got to get away for a while, do some thinking. I guess I just need some space, that's all.”

Oh, God. “Brad, I—” Her lower lip trembled and her chin wobbled. She would not cry, she wouldn't. Holly poured more rosé and gulped it down. “I...that's funny, ‘cause I was just thinking the same thing.”

Her croaked statement lacked a certain conviction, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

He pressed both hands to his thighs and pushed up from the sofa. “I knew you'd understand,” he said, ruffling her hair as he passed by.

So much for her carefully arranged, seductive hairstyle.

“Mmmm—what's that great smell?” he went on, looking brisk and assured. Whew, his expression said. Glad that's over with! Brad hated scenes. “Mind if I eat before I pack up? I'm starving.”

“It's ratatouille,” she replied numbly. “Help yourself.”

Especially alone.

Sucking in a deep breath, Stacey Ames paused beneath the neon-studded entrance of the Atmosphere Hotel. Like everything else on the Las Vegas Strip, the hotel's massive porte-cochere popped with thousands of flashing lights. Never mind that it was only four o'clock on an ordinary Friday afternoon in December. The illusion of glamour, she supposed, had to be maintained constantly.

Maybe all that va-va-voom lighting would perk up her sun-starved complexion and wilted hairstyle. Something sure had to. After more than five hours spent driving from her cousin Janie's wedding to the hotel, Stacey felt about as glamorous as a wrung-out washcloth.

Behind her, tires squealed on the pavement. She glanced backward long enough to glimpse her red rented Honda Accord skid around the corner toward the hotel's hundred-acre parking lot. The poor car all but spun on two wheels, thanks to the valet's energetic driving.

She'd have to check her rental car agreement's insurance provisions, just in case Mario Andretti, Jr. got too carried away. Making a mental note to do that when she got safely to the honeymoon suite, Stacey picked up her two hastily packed suitcases. She shrugged her purse higher on her shoulder and girded her courage.

Time to get on with the charade.

It'll be fun, she told herself as she pushed through the hotel's heavy glass doors. A three-day weekend of sun, fun, and fulfilling family obligations. Every girl's dream getaway.

Good thing they had free cocktails at these places.

The instant she stepped into the hotel's futuristic-themed lobby, a cacophony of jangling slot machines blasted her. So did the sound of murmured voices and a Muzak version of “Santa Baby.” She hoped a similarly orchestrated “One Hundred Greatest Romantic Hits For Lovers” wasn't featured in the honeymoon suite. That just might be the thing to make her end this sham, promise or no.

When she'd awakened in Phoenix this morning, she hadn't planned on being drafted into emergency faux-bride duty. Her wardrobe showed it, too. Dressed in her usual jeans, sweater, and a jacket, Stacey felt downright dowdy next to the vacationers in the check-in line. But, cheered by thoughts of soaking in a hot bubble bath until she turned pruney once she reached her room, she managed to tough it out.

When her turn came, Stacy approached the hotel desk.

The immaculately coiffured clerk glanced up. “May I help you?”

“I have a reservation. Under the name of, ummm, Parker. Robert and Janie Parker.”

The woman frowned in concentration as she typed the names. Then she beamed up at Stacey. “Oh! The honeymoon suite. How exciting for you. Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” Please just give me the key. Don't ask any questions, Stacey prayed. Please, please, please.

How like Janie it was to ask her, possibly the world's worst liar, to take her place at the hotel.

It would be a miracle if she weren't found out before sunset. The people at the hotel would tell Aunt Geraldine her niece had tried to pawn off her wedding gift on somebody else, and she would get mad at Janie. Janie, when she got back from the Bahamas with Richard, would get mad at Stacey for bungling the whole thing. Before long, none of the family would be speaking to each other.

For the sake of the promise she'd made to her cousin, Stacey had to get through the weekend with her real identity undiscovered. She'd just have to find a way to pull it off.

“Married.” The desk clerk sighed. Her eyes went dreamy, just like Janie's did when she spotted a shoe sale. “You must be thrilled,” she chirped, going back to the terminal in front of her. “I got married last June.”

Pushing buttons, she described her bridesmaid's dresses, the flowers, and the wedding toast the best man had made.

Stacey nodded and smiled, doing her best to gush right along with her—without revealing her own non-bride status. It was just her luck to be checked in by the hotel's talkiest, cheeriest employee. A woman like this was meant to work at Disneyland greeting little kids, not at one of Las Vegas's trendiest new resort hotels.

Still chattering, the woman rifled through a pile of room keycards. She selected one and started handing it to Stacey. With her hand midway there, she stopped.

“Oh, but you'll need two keys, won't you? Silly me.” She grabbed another card. “But where's the happy groom?”

She frowned toward the hotel's entrance, then at the conspicuously empty area surrounding the reservation desk.

“Oh, ahhh...” Think, dummy. Nothing came to mind. Why hadn't she planned for this question? Stacey gestured vaguely toward the bank of glass doors leading outside. “He's, ahhh—”

“Getting the rest of your luggage?” The clerk waved her hand, smiling conspiratorially. “I always pack too much, too. Mark—that's my husband—well, he says you shouldn't bring more than you can carry yourself, but that's ridiculous, don't you think so? How would I ever bring what I needed then?”

“Right,” Stacey agreed. Giving the woman what felt like a completely inane grin, she nodded at the keycards. “I'd better just go on up without him, I guess.”

“Oh!” The woman tittered. “Sorry. Here you go!” She held out the keycards, then paused. “Shall I keep one here for your husband to pick up?”

Since Stacey's “husband” was strictly imaginary and about as likely to turn up as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer....

“I'll take both.” Stacey grabbed them. “I'm trying to get a head start on my husband, since I'm planning a...surprise.”

“Ahhh. Say no more.” With a wide, woman-to-woman grin, the clerk relinquished the keys. “Good luck with that. Oh, and don't forget to visit our special holiday buffet. All the food is red and green! And the Holiday Extravaganza show is a must-see, too! The showgirls dress up in Santa suits, and—don't tell your hubby I told you this—the hunky holiday elves are a real showstopper!”

The idea was mind-boggling. “Wow. And they say Christmas doesn't come to Las Vegas.”

“Oh, it definitely does. Enjoy!”

Making her getaway, Stacy scurried across the crowded lobby. She passed a glittering display of Christmas ornaments, each at least six feet in diameter. Everything really was bigger and fancier here, she guessed. A Muzak rendition of “White Christmas” serenaded her in the elevator. And on the fourteenth floor, one of those “hunky holiday elves” got on and rode with her all the way to the top.

Yep, Christmas had come to Las Vegas, all right. So had Stacey Ames, fresh from Phoenix and sans fake husband. Now all she had to do was keep her head low and keep her real, non-bridal identity a secret until check-out time.

Piece of fruitcake, she assured herself. How tough could it possibly be?

Of course, she was naked too, but that wasn't the point. The important thing was, this wasn't just any old sunstruck, Arizona spring morning, and the man asleep beside her wasn't just any old golden-haired, buffed-up guy. This was the morning after the night she'd never forget, and the fella snoring with his legs tangled around hers and his arm slung around her waist was Nick.

Her best friend in the whole world.

Maybe now he'd realize how perfect they were for each other. She'd spent three years living next door to him—three companionable, let's-be-pals, excruciatingly platonic years. Last night everything had changed.

Oh, boy, how it had changed. Feeling giddy, Chloe snuggled closer to Nick's warmth and fought the urge to wake him up just to tell him how happy she was. That wouldn't be fair, not after the late night they'd spent together. He deserved at least another ten minutes' sleep.

Maybe five.

Nick snuffled and turned over. His arm whipped from her waist and sailed toward her head like a sleepy stealth missile. Chloe ducked just as it smacked into her pillow. Whew. She never knew sleeping with a guy could be so dangerous.

Too excited to sleep anymore, she used his movement for cover and slipped out of bed to go freshen up. Maybe she'd even put together a little breakfast à deux. After last night, they could both do with a recharge.

Her feet hit the floor. Behind her the covers rustled, and Nick gave a soft muffled moan before going back to sleep. Chloe's heart skipped a little higher. Nick was in her bed!

Nick was with her.

Oh, sure. She and Nick had never shared more than a hug before last night. And yeah, he did just happen to be slightly on the rebound from what'shername, the mean, commitment-hungry brunette he'd been dating until yesterday. But, Chloe told herself as she emerged from the bathroom and pattered down the hall, that was all in the past. From now on, things would be different. Way different. Last night he'd seen another side to her, and things could never go back to the way they were before.

Never go back. In the kitchen, the thought of losing all the closeness she and Nick had shared over the years made her pause. Could their friendship survive becoming lovers? What if they'd ruined everything? What if they broke up?

What if she was jumping to conclusions? We can do this, she told herself. We'll be a match made in heaven. So what if they were sort of an unlikely combination? So were her clothes most of the time, and they still managed to work okay.

Chloe glanced down at herself, taking in the purple polka-dotted boxer shorts she usually slept in, the bright orange bra she'd substituted for her T-shirt in the name of maximum sexiness, and the way her fingers were shaking, and tried to gather her courage. It was just Nick, for Pete's sake. Her Nick. There was nothing to worry about.

Right. Before she could angst any further, she got busy putting together breakfast—a pot of coffee, a box of chocolate donuts, and a bowl of dried banana chips. Okay, so it wasn't exactly health food, but it would have to do for now. Juggling the wicker basket she'd put everything in, Chloe stopped at the threshold of her bedroom and warily looked in.

Sunlight rushed between the slats of her bedroom's white window shutters and brightened the midnight blue walls, streaking glimmers of gold across plants and pictures and the man sprawled across her bed. Discarded clothes—his and hers—trailed across the carpet, making a path to the arched foot of her big wooden sleigh bed. Chloe tiptoed to it and set the breakfast basket on the bureau beside it, unable to wait any longer. It was time for Nick to wake up...and she was just the woman to make sure he did so in the nicest possible way.

A plaintive meow came from beside the bed. Moe, her fat orange tabby, arched against the footboard and meowed louder, the sound filled with feline reproach at not being first as usual on Chloe's morning agenda.

“Shhh,” she told the cat, giving him a fond rub between the ears. “Just give me this one morning, and it's Fancy Feast for a week. I swear.”

Praying for cooperation, Chloe lifted the bed covers and slid beneath them. Warmth surrounded her. Geez, Nick's body heat could power a whole city if they could find a way to harness it. She ought to ask him about that for his next invention. Smiling in the dark, Chloe took her own turn at inventiveness, sliding her palm over his hairy shin, his knee, his hard, muscular thigh...a game of blind man's bluff for grown ups. He stirred and moaned, encouraging her without words to roam higher. She did.

Nick's fingers wandered to the nape of her neck, stroking and teasing. The feel of his hand against her skin called forth a million memories from last night. With a sigh, Chloe crawled higher. Morning breath be damned. She wanted to kiss the man she loved.

She raised the covers and poked her head out. Nick's linebacker-size shoulders, tousled honey-streaked hair, and adorably rumpled face filled her vision. Groggily, he opened his eyes and blinked his baby blues in her direction.

Her heart softened. Some part of her was obviously a sucker for the little-boy-lost look. If possible, she felt even more in love with him than before. Nick blinked again, and Chloe realized it wasn't tenderness that made him look that way—it was poor eyesight. His natty wire rims still lay on the bedside table where he'd left them last night.

“Nick?” she whispered, smoothing her hand across his chest. “Good morning.”

His mouth opened. He blinked harder. “Chloe?”

The raspy, intimate sound of his voice thrilled her. “Mmmm hmmm, it's Chloe.” She twirled her fingertips in a heated whorl of his chest hair and smiled in a way she hoped looked worldly and sophisticated. “Good morning...darling.”

“Aaack!” Nick shot upward, his eyes widening. His head cracked into her sleigh bed.

“Oh!” She reached for him, crooning whatever comforting things came to mind as she tried to examine him for headboard-induced injuries. Yanking his head out of reach, grimacing at the movement, he scrambled higher on the pillows. Obviously, Nick wasn't an early riser.

Or at least his whole body wasn't.

“Are you all right?” How could she have known he'd wake up so grumpy? She'd never slept with him before.

Frowning, he pushed himself up on his elbows. Her gaze drifted to his bare chest and stomach. Grumpy or not, Nick did keep a surprisingly attention-getting body hidden beneath that stupid white lab coat he was always wearing. Who'd have guessed?

He saw her ogling and jerked the sheets higher. What was the matter with him? Why, a person would think he hadn't...that they hadn't....

Oh, God.

His expression matched her thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nick blinked harder. His mouth straightened, then gaped open again as Chloe crawled all the way out of the covers and sat up. His gaze went straight to her sheer orange bra. “You—you—you're not even dressed!” He glanced around, looking increasingly incredulous. “Is this your bedroom?”

Chloe handed him his eyeglasses.

“It is your bedroom!”

She wouldn't have thought things could get worse—until they did. Shock made her nipples perk tight against her wispy bra, drawing his attention in the only way she had absolutely no control over. Feeling her face heat, Chloe drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them.

Nick's gaze dropped to her snug purple-dotted silk boxers. Something akin to pain flashed across his face. “Aww, hell.”

This time she recognized that gruffness in his tone for what it was—the remnants of a massive hangover from the Kahlúa, coffee, and sympathy she'd served him last night.

“Tell me this isn't what it looks like, Chloe.”

Hurt stole her breath. His pleading glance finished her off. He didn't remember.

“Tell me I didn't take advantage of you last night.”

(end of excerpt)