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Mistletoe and MayhemChapter One
Christmas came a day early, but he wasn't complaining. The timing couldn't be better, as a matter of fact. Thanks to the latest terrorism orange alert, every cop and every fed in the county was ass-deep in work -- car inspections at the border crossings, shoe checks at the airport, passenger list searches at the cruise ship terminal. While the authorities were busy counting bottles of tequila from Tijuana, sifting through the underwear of a grandpa en route to Grand Forks, or holding up one of the Princess Line from floating off toward Puerto Vallarta, he'd be busy setting up his future.
He hadn't lived in San Diego long, but the situation he'd inherited was perfect for a scheme -- a dream, really -- that had been brewing in his mind for years. Nothing was going to get in hisway.
No one.
Baring his teeth in a smile for his contact, Jaime, he hefted a battered backpack, testing its weight.
"Ten grand is lighter than I thought."
Jaime frowned. "It's all there, yes?"
"Didn't I say so?" He unzipped the nylon anyway, eyed the rubber-banded stacks of twenty dollar bills, and then let Jaime check them out too. The money looked grubby, but who the hell cared? Clean or dirty, money procured whatever a man could want. He transferred his gaze to Jaime, noting the oily sheen of sweat on the man's dark upper lip. His eyes narrowed. "You'll do as we've planned."
"Sí. Yes." Jaime swiped at his mouth, and then reseated the ball cap covering his thick shock of hair. "As you said, señor. As we planned." More beads of sweat popped, despite the pleasant midsixties temperature.
With his gaze locked on Jaime's, he shoved his hand beneath his wind jacket, his fingertips sliding over the Vuitton leather belt he'd bought himself as an early Christmas present. It wasn't the Rolex or Phillipe watch that he'd really wanted, but an accessory like that would only draw suspicion. Who would notice a belt? True flashiness would have to wait a few years.
His grip found the Beretta tucked in his waistband, and he pulled it out then tossed the handgun to Jaime. "Feliz Navidad."
"This has got to be worse than wrapping an in- flatable sex doll," Stacy Banks muttered to herself, winding out another length of Christmas paper. Holding her bottom lip between her teeth, she folded, tucked, and taped. Then she took her veed scissors in hand to create a curly-ribbon confection in red and green. With a delicate touch, she placed it on top. Finally, inhaling a cautious breath, she spun toward the mirror to get a new perspective on the package.
"Well," she said to her reflection. "I suppose I look ... festive."
And not like a kindergarten teacher, which was much more to the point. Miss Banks of Room 2 at Lemoncrest Elementary wore flat-soled shoes and long denim dresses or soft corduroy pants perfect for the chasing, corralling, and educating of thirtyfour five-year-olds. Today's get-up -- a Betty-and- Wilma-like sarong of heavy-duty Christmas wrap complete with knee-length paper skirt pleated for ease of movement -- was designed for interesting, enticing, and well ... enslaving just one thirtyfour- year-old man.
Stacy plucked the cascade of ribbon out of her own blond curls and picked up a bobby pin to anchor it more securely. Ryan Beausoleil -- transplanted from El Paso, Texas, to the condo above hers just a few months before -- wouldn't know what hit him. He was toast. He was hers.
If she found the guts to ask him to the party, that is.
But a swift glance at the slip of paper lying on her kitchen table was all the swift-kick-in-the-derriere she needed. Formatted with a cutesy figure in one corner and the words your holiday elf beneath it, the paycheck showed a sizable number on the "Amount Of" line and her own name on the "Payable To" line, representing the last three weeks of wrapping, ribboning, and tagging. Extra money was good, and would be a pleasure to spend at the local mall. But it was the name scrawled on the signature line that was getting Stacy out of the house.
Her younger sister's name. Her younger, frecklefaced, former Barbie-stealing sister who had, six months before, come up with a business idea, a business plan, a business success.
She'd gone out on a limb.
As had Stacy's friend Delia, who'd traveled to China two months ago and adopted a baby girl. As had Stacy's yoga-class colleague, who'd bought a five-hundred-dollar raffle ticket from the fire department in August and was now on a year-long cruise around the world.
In those same months, Stacy had burped the baby, dutifully filled out lesson plans, worked as her sister's temporary employee, and never missed a scheduled session at the local Yoga for You center.
But she'd never gone out on a limb.
To the rustle of her wrapping-paper dress, Stacy gathered up a lacy shawl and a tiny evening purse, leaving behind her day planner, her bulky wallet, and her cell phone. Anything else she needed would be at Your Holiday Elf's endof- the-season party. Everything but her date.
Stacy knew she'd find him at the JMR Sport- fishing Landing on San Diego Bay. Even in the deepening twilight, the driving directions she'd printed off the Internet were simple to follow and a parking space just as easy to find. The lot was nearly empty, but that didn't surprise her. Ryan had inherited a sportfishing boat from his uncle and he'd told her that December was the offseason. He and the other boat operators who used this landing wouldn't have regular trips running again until spring.
The place wasn't entirely deserted, though. Just as she approached, a pair of men was coming through a locked gate leading to the docks. They held it open for her without question ...
Mistletoe and Mayhem. Copyright © by Christie Ridgway. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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