Her Mistletoe Husband by Renee Roszel

nothing,” she muttered. Angered that Alex had been watching from the window, butting in to something that wasn’t his business, she spun away, fumbling along the ground for the wind-tossed mail. “Are you going to help or just stand there cross-examining me?”
    She heard his guttural curse, then watched out of the comer of her eye as he moved off to chase envelopes along the side of the house. By the time he was back with the mail, she had her story worked out.
    â€œSick friend,” she mumbled, stuffing the offending envelope into her suit jacket pocket. “It’s sad to be in hospital during Christmas.”
    He handed her the rest of her mail, his expression skeptical. “You’re a lousy liar, Miss Crosby.”
    That did it! She thrust out her chin, hoping her quarrelsome bravado would be enough to get him to back off. “And you’re a nosy trespasser who needs to learn to mind his own business.”
    â€œIs it from your lawyer friend? Is it the proof of my ownership?”
    She glared at him for another second, then stomped by. “Right. The whole world revolves around you and your business!” As an afterthought, she shrugged out of his coat and turned back to toss it at him. He snagged it as it sailed toward his face, his frown more concerned than angry. “Egotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel, you know!” she shouted.
    â€œWhatever the hell that means,” he grumbled.
    Quivery with rage, and the nagging torment of the sinister letters, she sprinted away.
    Did Alex D’Amour own her inn? Was she going to lose everything? And if there really was a nutcase out there bent on some crazy revenge, did that mean she might lose her life, too?
    She swallowed hard around the lump of dread blocking her throat.

CHAPTER FIVE
    I N THE dead of night, during the wee hours of Christmas day, Elissa was awakened by a sound. She lay motionless in her bed, listening. What was it? Scratching? No. It sounded more like something scraping against wood. She heard it again and bolted upright, her adrenaline pumping blood through her veins as if it were a freight train running through a tunnel. Her ears roared with the unfamiliar noise and her heart nearly leapt from her chest. Someone was trying to break into the narrow basement window above her bed.
    With a cry, she sprang from the covers and vaulted toward her door, dragging blankets and sheets as she fled. Banging the door shut behind her, she sprinted toward the stairs in the total darkness, only to smash into a solid object that shouldn’t have been there. She shrieked, positive a gang of thugs had invaded the place, bent on heaven only knew what horrible crimes.
    She reflexively shot up a knee, but her target deftly moved, and her hands were clutched in a tight grasp. “Whoa,” came a sleepy, but familiar, male voice. “What’s this? Surprise attacks at night, now?”
    When she realized the man who held her wasn’t a murderer or rapist, but another lowlife she had on her hands, she fell against him in an effort to push him toward the exit. “Somebody’s breaking into my room,” she wheezed. “We have to get out of here!”
    â€œSomebody’s breaking into your room?” he asked, this time in a concerned whisper. She had a feeling he was frowning, but it was too dark to be sure. “Hell.” Releasing her, he headed for her bedroom.
    â€œNo!” She yanked on the back of his shorts. “Are you crazy?”
    Brushing away her hand he opened the door slightly. “Any self-respecting robber would be long gone by now, once he heard that door bang shut.”
    She scurried up behind him, needing the security of a strong human being nearby. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders and held on. Through her fingertips she could feel taut muscle, and knew he was tensed for a fight. She peered around him. “See anything?”
    â€œNo.” He started to step