It was with a weird sense of déjà vu that Mart pulled off the main highway onto the steep winding mountain road that made its way up Mead’s Mountain. Snow fell in large clumps all around him; it had already blanketed the surrounding countryside and made it extremely difficult to see.

He’d visited the lodge last winter—an impromptu ski trip with Brian, Jim and Dan. That had been fun. No girls. No drama.

This trip, however, sent him back a good ten years to when Miss Trask had maneuvered the old station wagon up the side of the mountain, dumping them squarely into one of Trixie’s mysteries. He’d started that trip with a snowstorm, too.

"Damn it," he muttered as snow splayed across the windshield, barely being held in check by the Ford Explorer’s rapidly swishing wiper blades. At this rate, he’d be stuck here for Christmas.

We may not even have power. Mart glanced over at his computer bag. His friend and editor, Richard, had sent him on a wild goose chase to write a fluff piece—a fluff piece about Christmas.

"You need some Christmas spirit! Don’t come back until you have some!"

So he’d been a little off his game. Mart snorted then, shaking his head as he maneuvered a sharp turn around a pine that dangled out into the small road. Okay, a lot off his game.

He wasn’t the type to deal with break-ups well. So sue me.

It hadn’t helped, either, that she’d been wealthy—one of Honey’s connections and one of her many attempts to set him up—and that the entire fiasco, when it had ended, had made the society page in the New York Times.

"I don’t know what he expects me to find up here in the middle of nowhere." Mart squinted, trying to locate the lodge, which he knew nestled somewhere at the top of the path. Finally, the old wooden sign appeared in his headlights—Mead’s Mountain Lodge—and he pulled into the parking lot with a sigh of relief.

Within a few minutes, he’d grabbed his bags and headed through the swirling snow toward the large double doors that led into the lodge.

Again, he was transported back in time. A towering Christmas tree sparkled with an array of white lights, reaching almost to the top of the cathedral ceiling. The stone fireplace crackled with a merry fire, and the couches and chairs that surrounded the hearth were filled with a group of laughing people.

Mart shook the snow off of his coat and hat and strode over to the large reception desk where a pretty young thing, not more than eighteen or nineteen, stood consulting a computer screen that had since replaced the old-fashioned register he’d signed in on so many years ago.

"Welcome to Mead’s Mountain!" she said, giving him a perky smile. "How can I help you?"

Mart set his suitcase and computer bag down and pulled off his gloves as he gave her a flash of a smile in return. "Mart Belden. I have a reservation." He glanced behind her toward the closed office door. "Are Pat and Katie around?"

The girl looked at him in surprise. "You know Pat and Katie?"

"Long time friends," he replied.

"Pat went to get Rosie at the airport. She’s coming home from school today." The girl gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "Katie’s around here somewhere."

"I’ll have to say hello later," he responded.

The girl checked the computer and pulled up Mart’s reservation. The next couple of minutes were taken up with the back and forth of information. Mart took the plastic key card she handed him and then, with a smile, refused her offer of help with his baggage and headed up the large staircase to the upper level.

The room he’d been afforded was a nice one—a huge king-sized bed, one of the old circular fireplaces he remembered, surrounded with a couple of chocolate brown over-stuffed chairs, and a matching desk and chair with what looked to be an Internet hook-up.  A large flat-screen TV on a low-lying stand and a large maple armoire filled out the room.

With a methodological precision more characteristic of his brother, Mart carefully unpacked his suitcase, put his clothes away, set his computer up on the desk and pulled out his folder full of notes. Then, he sat down in front of the computer, his word processing program’s cursor mocking him as it blinked on the empty page.

With a measure of defiance, he typed "Christmas" and then stopped and stared at the screen for a full five minutes.

Nothing was coming.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. His brain had already concocted three publicly humiliating scenarios involving his ex-girlfriend, shaving cream and ritual burnings of the New York Times, but that didn’t seem to fit with the Santa Claus-jolly, home-spun Christmasy fluff piece his editor had demanded.

To top it off, his stomach growled loudly in protest.

"Maybe if I eat something, my brain will kick in." Mart pushed away from the desk and stood, grabbing his wallet and key card from where he’d tossed them, and headed out into the hallway.

Meanwhile…

Diana tossed another tear-stained tissue on the floor, joining the others that littered the carpet near the bed in which she’d been lying.

She was supposed to be reading the pile of scripts her agent had sent her as possibilities for her newest project. Her family was also expecting her in Sleepyside for Christmas. She herself had wanted a small weekend away with her latest guy, showing him one of the most special places in her life. Instead, she was alone, five days before Christmas, with a broken heart.

"Okay, okay," she said to herself with a sniff. "Not really a broken heart. More like bruised pride."

Zed was cute, a wordsmith extraordinaire, and someone who knew of her good relationship with a certain director. He'd wanted his script seen by said director and so…

Di blew her nose noisily, wadded the tissue up and then tossed it on the floor. She’d been working in the movie business for four years—discovered at her college in California by that certain director—and had found jobs easy to come by as a result. She enjoyed the parties and the people she met—both in front of the camera and behind it—but she missed being around people who were who they said they were. People who weren’t always searching for and posing for a camera.

Di ran a hand wearily over her face, wiping away a few extraneous tears. "Stop it," she muttered to herself. "He’s not worth it."

She sat for a few moments more, allowing herself the luxury of full-blown hurting for just a bit, before she put her perfectly manicured hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself up out of it. Then, Di stalked over to the bathroom, splashed water on her face and tied her long, dark hair up into a ponytail. "A nice supper by the Christmas tree will do you good. No more moping!" With a nod, she then grabbed her purse and key and walked out into the hallway.

A moment later, Di found herself on the floor, stunned by the full-body slam she’d just experienced.

"God, I am so sorry." The voice was masculine and strangely familiar, even though she was too stunned to register why. All she understood was that she had about three seconds before the man recognized her, asked for an autograph and God knows what else.

"Really. No big deal. My fault. I wasn’t watching…" The rapid words, tumbling over each other in an effort to get out and to put distance between herself and her run-in, came to a screeching halt as she finally and reluctantly met the gaze of the person she’d run into.

"Di?" Mart’s voice was incredulous. With their mish-mash, hectic schedules, it was rare for both of them to be in the same place at the same time. The last time she’d seen him had been…almost a year ago at the no-excuses, never-to-be-missed New Year’s Eve Bob-White Bash.

And suddenly, running away was the very last thing she wanted to do. With a squeal of delight, Di vaulted forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly. "What are you doing here?"

"I’m on assignment. Sort of." Mart hugged her back, squeezing her a bit more tightly before letting her go. His grin was as it ever was—frank, open and easy. Di noticed, however, shadows in the blue eyes she knew so well.

"Assignment, huh? Mead’s Mountain?" Di gave him a searching look. "You writing stories on ski resorts? Seems kind of odd for my favorite investigative reporter."

"No," he replied as he sat back a little, distancing himself somewhat from her physically, and she thought, emotionally. "A fluff piece about Christmas." He shrugged. "My editor thinks I’m off the Christmas wagon this year, I guess."

Diana had read the article about Mart’s rather public break-up with Samantha Wyatt. She’d also been the recipient of at least a half-dozen phone calls from Trixie, who was furious, Honey, who’d felt guilty, and Dan, who’d made her laugh with suggestions of ways they could publicly humiliate Samantha to get her back for what she’d done to Mart. Mart, however, had not mentioned the break-up at all.

She searched his face, considering the set of his strong, masculine jaw, and the blue eyes that looked determinedly at anything but her. All right, Belden. I’ll let it drop. For now.

Di patted his arm with a light tap and turned on her 1000-watt smile. "Well, you’re in good company. I’m off the Christmas wagon myself this year." With those words, she got to her feet, brushing off imaginary particles from her brand-new jeans, and waited for Mart to scramble to his own feet.

"Oh?" he asked.

Mart straightened his blue sweater, which had bunched up around his waist. Di had a glimpse of a set of nicely chiseled abs before the sweater was pulled firmly down over the dark jeans he wore. Niiice!

Her gaze rose rather reluctantly, and her cheeks pinked as she realized she’d have to meet his knowing look. Mart always caught everything.

But when her gaze reached his face, Di noticed that Mart was, again, not looking at her. She realized then that Mart caught something she hadn’t intended him to catch.

Her knowledge of his public humiliation.

Damn it. Di grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. "Samantha Wyatt is a hypocritical bitch who is too stupid to realize that she didn’t win any friends or favors by how she treated you. Not to mention that she ticked off a New York cop, two private detectives, a movie actress, and two of the richest families in New York."

Mart just looked at her, a muscle working in his jaw.

Di huffed out an exasperated breath and shook the arm she held more firmly. "I didn’t bring up falling off the Christmas wagon because I felt sorry for you. I brought it up because I felt sorry for me."

One of Mart’s eyebrows rose at that, a trick she’d never quite mastered, which annoyed her. "And what do you have to feel sorry about?"

"Oh, just that I made these plans for a before-Christmas weekend away with Zed, and I found out the only reason he started dating me was so that I could show Harry Brennan the script he was working on."

She said the words in an airy, devil-may-care tone, but Mart, again, was too perceptive. His face softened before he said, "Zed is an ass and a fool."

"He most definitely is." Di gave his arm a squeeze before she let her hand drop. "Thank you for affirming that."

Mart chuckled. "You’re welcome."

"It’s really his loss," she said with a toss of her ponytail. "I had a special surprise for him—involving sleepwear—Santa sleepwear."

Mart’s eyebrow rose again. "Sounds interesting."

"It would have been. Most definitely." Di scratched the end of her nose, suddenly, inexplicably uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. "So, uh, where were you headed off to? Looking for the spirit of Christmas outside in the snowstorm?"

"More like from a hot toddy at the bar," Mart said dryly.

"A hot toddy," Di mused. "I haven’t had one of those in years."

"It’s good for what ails you," Mart responded promptly. "Or, at least, that’s what my doctor brother claims."

"Do you want company for this hot toddy?" Di asked, looking up at him through her dark, sooty lashes. Something impish was provoking her. Maybe it was an assertion of her beauty and femininity—proving to herself that she was still attractive to the opposite sex. Or maybe it was the fact that Mart had always appealed to her—a secret crush as a teenager and now, as an adult…?

Mart, of course, wasn’t privy to the internal workings of her mind, but, she found, he wasn’t any less vulnerable to veiled looks through her lashes than any other guy she’d known. He held out a hand to her—one of those work-roughened hands that had held hers more times than she could count. "Your company is always welcome," he said in a low voice.

She closed her hand around his and somehow was not surprised that the old spark of electricity she always felt when she was holding Mart Belden’s hand was still there. "Then, let’s go get one," she replied.

An hour or two later…

Di’s laugh echoed in his ears for the umpteenth time that evening. It sounded just as sweet as it had the first time he’d heard it as a six-year-old. The hot toddies they’d shared made the lights a bit more hazy—golden, he thought. The twinkle lights gave Di a kind of other-worldly glow—one that made her even more like the Irish pixie he already knew her to be.

"Dan’s idea about handcuffs, no make-up and really bad bed head sound good to me," she mused as she tapped a manicured finger against her lips. "Perhaps we can use the New York Times in a decorative sort of fashion…"

"A good old-fashioned bonfire suits me just fine." Mart swirled the remnants of his latest drink in the glass before he set it down on the bar’s glossy finish. He looked up at her in inquiry. "Have you eaten? I mean, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast—and this alcohol is going to make me drunk very soon if I don’t eat something."

"I was going to go eat," Di said as she pushed away her glass, "when I ran into you." She tilted her head. "And I must admit that the world looks a lot more interesting than it did when I first left my room." She gave him a teasing smile, and Mart couldn’t help but give her a smile of his own in return.

"Why don’t we do that, then?" he asked in a husky voice. "Eat something?"

Diana stared at him for a moment, and he found himself utterly fascinated by the widening of the violet eyes she was so famous for. She moistened her lips with a dart of a pink tongue, and Mart found that he couldn’t drag his gaze away.

Someone cleared her throat, and the moment was broken. They both turned to see a teenaged girl, beet-red, holding a pen and what appeared to be a slightly damp cocktail napkin.

"Ummm…hi. Oh, my gosh. I…" The girl’s stammering was almost painful to watch. Her round, spectacled eyes were focused on Diana. Finally, she blurted out, "You’re Diana Lynch!"

Reality slammed in, then, and irritation made him bristle. He was about to turn on the girl, when he felt the pressure of a delicate hand against his. Diana, ever the dove of peace, gave the blushing teenager a gentle smile.

"Yes, I am."

"You’re my favorite actress!" the girl gushed. "I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you!"

"Well, we haven’t officially met yet," Diana said, tilting her head as she looked at the girl with what appeared to be genuine interest. "What’s your name?"

"A—Amy Adkins."

"Amy Adkins. I’m pleased to meet you." Diana’s smile remained on her face, soft, gentle and welcoming. She turned to Mart. "This is one of my oldest friends, Mart Belden."

"H-hi," the girl stuttered, finally noticing Mart. Her blush grew even more pronounced.

"Hi, Amy," Mart said, because he honestly couldn’t do anything other than what Diana had subtly asked him to do. "It’s nice to meet you."

"I see you have a napkin there," Diana said, gesturing toward the crumpled one in the girl’s hand. "Napkins don’t hold up too well, though, especially when they’re wet." She glanced up at the bartender, who had reappeared to try to refill their drinks. "Do you have a piece of paper I could have?"

The bartender gave her a drink order sheet, and Diana held out her hand for the girl’s pen. "You know," Diana said, as she scrawled out a note on the paper, "I was always a big fan of Carole Lombard’s. All that 1930s elegance. She’s my favorite actress. I would have killed to have her autograph." She handed the piece of paper and the pen to the girl. "I’m really flattered that I’m your favorite actress. I hope my autograph means as much to you as hers would have to me."

The girl’s eyes were like stars. She clutched the piece of paper to her chest. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You’re welcome," Diana said, again with the soft smile.

The girl stared a moment more and then, suddenly, as if she were a five-year-old who’d remembered her manners, glanced from Di to Mart and murmured, "It’s really nice to meet you." And then, she hurried off.

Mart looked after the girl for a moment before turning back to Di with thoughtful eyes. "You made her Christmas."

Di laughed a little and gestured dismissively with her hand. "I know what it’s like to be in her shoes. Girls like that, I don’t mind signing autographs for."

The low murmurs of conversation in the room had increased in volume, as the other inhabitants of the bar had either recognized Di herself or the fact that she was someone famous. Interested stares seemed to assail them from all sides of the room.

"How do you stand it?" Mart said in a low voice.

"A price you have to pay, I guess," Di said with a shrug. She didn’t meet the gazes of anyone else in the bar, but twirled her drink around with the cinnamon stick that had been provided with it. "Although, I’m thinking now that maybe dinner in the restaurant might not be such a good idea."

Mart didn’t let the sudden crush of disappointment even take a toehold in him. He reached across and covered her hand with his and whispered, "How about room service instead?"

Di looked first at his hand, but didn’t make an attempt to remove it, and then she looked up to meet his gaze. The smile started in her eyes—that age-old twinkle that said she knew and understood exactly what he was thinking—and then spread to her mouth, which curved up in a smile so knowing and so sensual that Mart’s initial thought of a nice, private dinner together had morphed completely into something very, very different by the time the smile had blossomed fully on her face.

"Your room or mine?" she asked in a husky voice.

Mart swallowed hard. "Either," he finally got out. "Whatever you want."

Di considered it a moment and then nodded decisively. "Yours." She watched as he scribbled his room number on the napkin under his drink. She took the napkin, drained the last of her drink and set the glass down on the bar. "I’ll meet you there in a few minutes," she said, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. Then, she smiled, slid off the bar stool and headed out of the bar area.

Mart didn’t watch her go. Instead, he stared down at the last few drops of his drink. His heart thrummed heavy and strong, his stomach a mess of fluttering butterflies. This is Di. Diana Lynch. God.

He was old enough and experienced enough to know what she meant by her words—and yet, somehow he felt suddenly afraid. Afraid of what it all meant. Afraid that the alcohol had lowered his defenses and would let her see things he didn’t know if he wanted her to see.

Inexplicably, his mind played back to the very first time he’d met Diana Lynch.

His job had been to walk his sister to her kindergarten class. He’d been the oh-so-proud older brother—happy to be six and not five, to already know the ins-and-outs of kindergarten. Diana had been standing with her mother, looking scared, all long dark hair and big, big eyes. He’d offered her his free hand, the one that didn’t clutch his sister’s, and had explained all about kindergarten and how it worked. In glorious detail, he was certain.

She never answered him. Never said a word. All she’d done was take his hand.

She’d taken his hand and looked at him as if he could fly.

Mart grabbed his glass and swallowed the remainder before pulling out his wallet and leaving money for the drinks and a tip. Then, he got up and strode with long, rapid strides out of the bar and up the stairs toward his room.

Meanwhile…

Hanging up the phone seemed to make everything so final, so real.

Diana stared at the old-fashioned style phone. It was one of those 1930s telephones, updated with modern push-buttons, of course, but still fashioned in the old black rotary style. One of the many small touches that she loved about Mead’s Mountain and its lodge. A connection to the past.

She shivered as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Was that all this was? An attempt to connect to the past?

Diana rubbed her arms, trying to warm herself, and got up to walk over to the large glass sliding door that overlooked the steaming pool outside. Even now, she could see Mart gleefully throwing snowballs at her with the other boys—a memory that hadn’t dimmed over time. Her lips curved up into a smile.

Every memory she had of Mart Belden was vivacious—full of energetic life. His encyclopedic knowledge, his facility with words, tone and language, his deep love for nature and the outdoors…all of that stemming from a rich, living well inside—a compassionate, overflowing heart.

Whether it was one night or the beginning of a thousand such nights, Di knew that his stubborn, steady, loving heart would only want her for herself. Not for her looks, not for her money, not for her fame, but herself.

And that, she decided, made all the difference.

Di ran a finger over the soft fluff that was the festive Santa negligee—complete with matching candy cane high-heeled slippers and a Santa hat—that she’d lain out on the foot of the bed. The merry outfit was designed for play, and suddenly, she didn’t feel playful.

With Mart, there was no dress-up necessary. There never had been.

Letting out a deep breath, she let the negligee fall back on the bed, turned and walked out of the room.

Diana let the door close behind her and carefully looked up and down the hallway. The low-lit lamps on the walls gave the hallway a cozy feel—welcoming, almost. The few doors at her end of the hallway were closed and no one seemed to be about. She glanced down at the cocktail napkin in her hand and ran her thumb over the masculine scrawled numbers. Then, she lifted her eyes, sought and found the corresponding door, and hurried over to it.

She knocked, and the door opened almost immediately, as if Mart had been waiting near it. She smiled at him a little shyly, and he stepped back to let her into the room.

"I ordered us some food," she said as she walked further into the room. All of the sudden, Di didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. She rubbed them together and then let them trail along the different pieces of furniture in the room. The overstuffed chairs were soft and comfortable-looking; the desk and the armoire were all hard, curved lines.

"Food is good," Mart replied. He had his hands in his pockets and his eyes followed her as she walked restlessly around the room.

"Nothing fancy. Just a couple of sandwiches. Katie makes a really good hero sandwich. I keep telling her she ought to name it after you."

"After me?" Mart had leaned up against the wall on the far side of the room, still studying her in that unnerving way.

"You always did like sandwiches with everything piled on them," Di replied.

"Still do."

Both of them were saved the trouble of further conversation by a knock on the door. Mart straightened away from the wall and walked over to the door to open it.

A few brief words and dollars passed between Mart and the young man who’d brought the tray. Mart then closed the door and carried the tray inside, setting it down on the desk next to his computer. He squared his shoulders, then, as if he were girding himself, and turned.

"Come here." His voice was quiet but determined.

Di set down the throw pillow she’d been toying with and walked over to where Mart was standing. "What?"

"We’re not going to be comfortable—either of us—until we get this out of the way."

"Get what out of the way?" was her immediate reply, even though she knew the answer to her own stupid question.

"This," he said gently. Without another word, Mart took her hand in his and pulled her into his arms.

She couldn’t help a little gasp, and Mart took advantage of her slightly opened mouth to affix his lips to hers.

The kiss was sweet—much as she’d always imagined a teenaged kiss from him would have been like. Her mind flittered through times in her past that she’d wished he’d kissed her. The little leap of the heart, the happy, almost wistful feeling when the kiss ended.

But the kiss didn’t end there.

His hands slid up to her face, cupping it, and he deepened the kiss, taking it from sweet and wistful to hot, carnal and absolutely delicious. Completely and totally adult in every way a kiss could be.

He finally broke off the kiss to breathe, but didn’t move away from her. Instead, Mart rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged and heavy.

"Wow," she murmured.

His blue eyes had an almost dazed look in them. "I find myself speechless."

She began to smile, and the smile grew into a grin. "That, I find hard to believe. You’re never speechless."

"Consider it a once-in-a-lifetime thing." He smiled back at her before reluctantly allowing his hands to fall to his sides. Again, Mart slid them back into his pockets—almost as if he were trying to prevent himself from kissing her again. He tilted his head toward the tray. "How about dinner?"

Di ran a finger over her lower lip as she stared unseeingly at the dinner tray for a moment. Finally, she nodded, and Mart took the tray over to the seating area near the fire. Within a few moments of work on his part, they were seated, munching on sandwiches and watching the fire crackle in the fireplace.

Di had a strange sense of well-being, comfort and security as she sat, curled up in the chocolate brown chair. Mart was true to his statement—mostly speechless—and yet, the silence was like a soft, warm blanket. Inviting her in to relax, letting her be herself. No pressure to talk, to charm or to have her beauty taken advantage of.

She found that she liked it. Tremendously.

The sandwiches finally disappeared, and Di was sipping cocoa from a "Merry Christmas" mug. Mart had long since drained his coffee. He’d kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the large bed to drink it with little ceremony. He hadn’t asked her to join him, merely propped up the fluffy pillows behind him, and rested his head against them.

Her lips curved around the edge of her mug as she watched his lashes fall over his blue eyes. She was surprised he’d lasted so long.

Diana set down her mug and uncurled herself from the chair in which she’d been sitting. Her mind flicked back to a time in high school. He’d been helping her with her homework; she’d been fighting to stay awake. She had given up the ghost and fallen asleep at some point…waking up a good half hour later with her head on his chest and his arms wrapped loosely around her. Never before or since had she felt so genuinely loved.

Sturdy. Solid. Security.

He always had her best interests in mind.

Diana watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, feeling her heart soften and melt. She wanted that feeling again—for always.

Her gaze lingered on Mart for a few more, precious seconds before she walked around the room, banking the fire, cleaning up the dishes and straightening the room. None of these activities made the least bit of difference to Mart, who had merely sunk more deeply into the pillow, turning over on his side with a sigh.

Finally, she pulled the band out of her hair, letting her hair fall back around her shoulders, kicked off her shoes and grabbed a blanket from the closet. She then turned off the lights, crawled onto the bed, next to Mart, and pulled the blanket over the both of them. With a happy, contented murmur, she wrapped her arms around him and snuggled into him before she promptly fell asleep.

Sometime later…

Quiet. Too quiet. Did she…? Mart’s eyes popped open and then narrowed as he squinted into the darkness. Moonlight helped the formless objects in the room take shape as it glided in through the large floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite side of the room. Snow fell gently on the mountain, gilding the trees with an array of sparkles as it fell. Mart, still half-asleep, was struck dumb by the beauty outside.

Then, he felt weight shift next to him, and his heart stopped.

Somewhere, sometime, Di had put them both to bed. Even now, she lay next to him, her hand primly under one pinkened cheek. Her dark hair fell forward, shrouding what he knew to be a breathtakingly beautiful face.

For a long time, Mart just stared, drinking in the sight of Diana Lynch sleeping. His quick-witted mind could easily have come up with a list of superlatives—beautiful, awe-inspiring, incredible—but mostly, his heart just happily sighed, "Home."

And it was. Home.

Gently, he stroked her cheek, tucking back the long dark strands behind one perfectly shaped ear. The touch wasn’t soft enough, however, or perhaps she hadn’t been completely asleep. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused for a moment, until she saw him, and then she smiled sleepily at him. "Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," he responded. He couldn’t help continuing to look, but he felt awkward and somewhat shy. "I must have fallen asleep."

"Mmm…" she murmured, reaching a hand out to stroke his face. "You did."

"I’m sorry. I’m a pretty lousy date, I guess." He attempted a smile, but the smile wouldn’t stay on his face.

"Best night of my life," she said, her voice still soft . "Like coming home."

He stilled at her words and stared dumbly at her. Instead of saying anything else, however, she reached for him and pulled him to her, capturing his lips with hers.

Long, slow sweetness that licked at the banked fires inside him. Pleasure washed over him as he returned her kiss. Nibbles, bites and a fusion of his mouth and hers, tongues wrapping around each other. All he could think about was more. More of her. All of her. Desperately, he broke off, now completely and utterly awake, his breathing ragged, and said in a rough voice, "Di, I can’t keep kissing you like this. Not without…"

She put a single finger to his lips to quiet him before she let the finger slide with the rest of her hand up through his short crisp blond curls. "I want it all," she whispered against his mouth. "All of you. Always."

His eyes widened at that, but she didn’t allow him time to think. Di rolled over, pushing him down into the pillow, and didn’t let go. When she broke off to kiss along his jaw line, he tried one last time to give her an out. "Di, are you certain?"

She stopped then and stared down at him. Moonlight sifted through her blue-black hair. Her face was flushed and her violet eyes hazy with desire. "Yes, Mart," she said in a quiet but firm voice. "I am certain about you."

Her words settled into him, healing and bathing his wounded pride and battered heart. He felt, once again, that good old Kris Kringle had found a way to make Christmas happen for him. His smile, when it came, was full of joy. He wrapped his hand around the back of Di’s neck to bring her down to him and captured her lips with his. Merry, merry Christmas to me—to us.

It was the last coherent thought either of them had for a very, very long while.

…and what is best about Christmas is that it comes in where it is least expected and most needed. A flicker of hope to a weary world full of Scrooges about to give up on it all. Whether it comes in the form of a kiss under the mistletoe, a magical, wrapped present from Santa under your tree, cheery good will from a stranger, or God masquerading as a baby in a manger, it’s a little signal that peace is a possibility, joy is available for everyone, and that home is just around the corner—a place you’ll always be welcome and loved.

That is Christmas.

The older man finished reading the article he’d just received. As usual, Mart Belden was on-time and dead-on accurate. He wondered idly if he enjoyed the early Christmas present he’d sent him.

With a twitch of his lips, the man put a black-booted foot on his desk, picked up the steaming cup of hot cocoa he’d been given, leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

A merry little chuckle that sounded suspiciously like, "Ho, Ho, Ho."

Author's Notes

Merriest of Christmases, Mary!  I hope you enjoyed your Secret Santa story!  :)

And a huge, huge thank you for Dana for giving me a super-amazingly-fast edit at the very last minute.  Have I mentioned lately how truly lucky I am to have you as my friend?

The graphics are from iStockphoto.com and made by me.  They are awfully festive, aren't they?

Lots of kudos and love to The Mystery at Mead's Mountain by Kathryn Kenny.  One of my favoritest of the Trixie books.  A true Mart book, I think.  Pat and Katie O'Brien are the caretakers, and their daughter is Rosie.  All grown-up in this version.  :)  They, and all of the Trixie characters, are borrowed without permission, but with love.

The New York Times is that famous newspaper.  No money being made off its use here.  Ford Explorer is a trademark of the Ford Motor Company.  Again, no money being made off its use here.  :)

This was a good story for me to write, as I've felt especially Scrooge-ish this year.  May the Christmas spirit infect you all with that true sense of love and wonder.  Merry Christmas!

Note: Trixie Belden® is a registered trademark of Random House Books. These pages are not affiliated with Random House Books in any way. These pages are not for profit.  Images of Trixie Belden and the Bob-Whites of the Glen are © Random House Books and are used respectfully, albeit without permission.

This page last checked and updated on December 15, 2011.