Her Mistletoe Husband by Renee Roszel Page A

into the room, and she grasped his upper arm. “Don’t go in there, he might have a gun.”
    The lights flashed on. A scream of tenor rose to Elissa’s lips, but died there, as she realized it had been Alex’s doing, not a night-blind gunman.
    When Alex stepped inside the room, she did, too, preferring his nearness to the basement parlor teeming with shadows. She was ashamed of herself for acting like a child. This was completely unlike her. Apparently the threatening letters had spooked her more than she realized.
    She’d taken the second letter to the police yesterday, and was assured they would do their best to find the culprit. But she knew that Christmas time in Branson was a busy one for everybody, including the police. She doubted that two crank letters would get top priority. She’d also taken in a list of past legal clients who might have a grudge against her. Once again, she was assured they would do everything possible to get to the bottom of it.
    Alex stepped up on her bed and examined the window. “It hasn’t been opened. This window’s painted shut.”
    â€œI-I did that last summer.”
    He turned to look down at her as she huddled near the foot of the bed. Towering there, all California tan and muscle, he seemed like a Greek god, come to earth. She wondered what the name of the Greek god of mattresses might be, because if there wasn’t one, she certainly had a candidate standing in front of her. Hopping off the bed, he scanned her, his expression concerned. “You’re pale. Are you going to faint?”
    She felt a twinge of shame at the question and straightened her shoulders. “No, I’m not going to faint” Gulping in a breath to fight her light-headedness, she manufactured a calm facade. “I was startled, that’s all.” She backpedaled, trying to sound unruffled. “Being awakened out of a sound sleep can be frightening.”
    â€œAre you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Alex asked, concern etching his features.
    She felt stupid and shook her head. “No—no, I’m not sure.” Suddenly she felt very silly. “I guess I’m just goosey about the—” She bit off her statement, wincing at what she’d almost let slip. “I mean-sometimes dreams can seem very real. That’s all.”
    His features didn’t exhibit much faith in her story about a dream, and he turned to confront her. “Do you have dreams of people breaking into your room often?”
    His sarcasm irritated her. “My dreams are none of your business.”
    â€œExcept when you come screaming into my arms. That makes them my business.”
    She looked away, embarrassed, and counted to ten. She didn’t want to fight and she was sure the more fuss she made, the more suspicious Alex would get. After all, she probably had been dreaming. What she heard—or thought she heard—was very likely a fabrication of her overstressed mind. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin Christmas for her family.
    When she looked at Alex again, she shrugged, working to appear nonchalant. “I’m sorry about overreacting, Mr. D’Amour. Let’s just forget the whole thing, okay? At worst, a possum was trying to get in out of the cold.”
    His steady interrogator’s gaze was too intent for her peace of mind and she had to force herself not to fidget. She toyed with the idea of giving the police a quick call later. But because she’d brandished a letter opener, accusing Alex of attacking her—in front of three shocked policemen—she would probably need concrete proof that something was amiss this time, or they might decide to label her as a kook and stop taking her case seriously. She didn’t want to chance that.
    Cocking his head in a gesture that said he didn’t buy her story, Alex prodded, “What are you hiding? First that letter that frightened the wits out of you the other day