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Christmas Wishes, Christmas Gifts
By Tara Taylor Quinn Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Copyright © 2002 Harlequin Enterprises Limited
All right reserved. ISBN: 0373217366
Chapter One
The first thing she noticed that morning was the Christmas decorations.
Walking the picturesque, sleepy block from the bagel place to her shop, Abby wondered how many little Oxnard elves it had taken to bring about the festive transformation since she'd left work the evening before. Someone in this small coastal town just north and a little west of Los Angeles had been way too busy. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. It wasn't even Thanksgiving yet, and smiling plastic Santas were flapping in the breeze.
Perhaps they were fitting, those reminders of the upcoming holidays. They'd appeared like magic - but, then, people who believed in Santa Claus believed in magic, and usually in dreams, too.
Abby's dream was about to come true. It just wasn't her dream anymore. It never had been hers. It had always been their dream. She and her sisters. All three of them. Together. From the moment of their conception they'd been together. Shared everything. The dream had been no different.
But the other two were gone now. One dead. And one so unreachable she almost felt dead to Abby. Two-thirds of the dream was dead. Two-thirds of Abby was dead.
She walked. She looked. She thought. She just didn't feel.
She'd lost her faith.
So far removed was she from the world around her that she didn't even hear anyone approach. Didn't know she was in danger. Had no warning until suddenly the shoulder strap of her briefcase was pressing into her back, her bagels were rolling on the ground at her feet and a steely arm was around her neck, forcing her off the sidewalk and into the vacant alley used for deliveries by the surrounding businesses. Stumbling from the force of the body hurled against her, she tried to scream, but no sound came out. She tried again, panicked, clutching desperately at the arm choking the air from her throat.
Hot breath panted against the back of her neck as Abby dug her fingers into the arm, knowing instinctively that she wasn't going to be able to save herself. The arm was too strong, the hold too determined. With a sense of horror, she felt her assailant's other hand grope for her face. She was choking on terror and trying frantically to breathe. To keep her nose and mouth free. To stay conscious.
She was going to die. "Hey!" a man called from the sidewalk. And then, just as suddenly as she'd been accosted, she was free. Her assailant's arm was wrenched away, bruising her throat with the force of its release. Stunned, Abby fell to the ground, gravel digging into her thigh through the dress slacks she wore. She was free. Miraculously, unbelievably, free. She tried to draw breath into her tortured lungs - and couldn't.
She was vaguely aware of the short scuffle behind her, the grunts. But it was only when she heard two sets of footsteps running down the alley that she started to shake. And to breathe again. Harsh, gasping, painful breaths that burned her throat, her chest. Lying there, dazed, she dragged air in greedily.
Until footsteps returned.
Oh, God. No! Scrambling desperately to her feet, Abby prayed she could make it out to the street in time. Surely once there she could attract attention, in spite of the early-morning hour. If only she could make it out to the street ...
"Hey!" That male voice came a second time, but it sounded different - more concerned than threatening. And slightly winded.
Abby faltered, her whole body shivering with fright, just as an arm reached for her again, a different arm, one that caught her around the waist - gently.
"Steady, there," the man said. "Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"
Abby shook her head, but which of his questions she was answering she didn't know. She knew only that she was afraid to move. She wanted to be left alone, to hide, to run.
Her body continued to tremble. She stood frozen in the stranger's grasp.
"It's all right. You're okay now. It's over...." His words penetrated slowly, although the deep, even timbre of his voice was soothing. Abby turned into him instinctively, burying her face in the warm, solid haven of his chest, listening to his heart beating a hurried tattoo. It was over. She was safe.
"It's all right," he said again, softly, smoothing an easy hand over her hair as he held her securely within his arms.
Her chest shuddered with sobs, shocking her, drawing her attention to the front of her savior's crisp white shirt - wet with her tears. Abby never cried. She was the strong one.
Embarrassed, she pulled out of his hold. "I'm sorry." Tucking her straight blond hair self-consciously behind her ears, she took another step back from him, trying to calm herself. To wipe her eyes without making him more aware of her tears. "I don't usually fall apart like that."
"I don't guess you get attacked on a regular basis, either."
Abby looked up at him then, this stranger who'd saved her. His face was lined, not so much with age as with having lived. His dark hair, thick and a little long, as though he didn't bother with it much, didn't have even a hint of gray. But it was the depth of concern she saw in his gorgeous brown eyes that took her breath away again.
"No. No, I don't," she finally answered, still staring up at him. He was easily a good six inches taller than her own five and a half feet.
"I tried to catch him, but he had the advantage of knowing the neighborhood."
"If you hadn't come along ..." Abby's voice trailed off as she was suddenly beset by a fresh surge of panic. She'd have been badly hurt by now. Maybe even dead.
"But I did come along," he said softly. "I was in the right place at the right time. It was obviously meant to be."
The words were so strong. So sure. So full of baloney. Maybe once she'd believed in things she couldn't see, things beyond human understanding. In "powers that be" looking out for them. Maybe once she'd secretly believed Audrey's tales of Prince Charmings and happily ever afters, too. She knew better now.
"I suppose I should call the police," she said.
Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit, the man pulled out a small cellular phone and unfolded it. "Use this," he said, dialing 911 before he handed the little phone to her.
Abby was strangely glad of his presence beside her as she reported the attack. She listened to the unemotional female voice on the other end of the line, answering questions about her whereabouts and condition, declining an ambulance. She felt like some kind of freak.
"They're sending someone," she said, still holding his phone, as though there were someone else she needed to call.
He led her to a pretty white bench out by the street. "We can wait here."
"You don't have to stay." She no longer needed a savior, wasn't looking for a prince. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
"Of course I do." He sat down. "I can give a much better description of the guy."
Abby sat down, too. He had a point. A valid point that had nothing to do with her not wanting to be there alone. He was staying because the police would need to talk to him, not because Abby was scared out of her wits.
"You're sure?" she asked, looking over at him. "You don't have someplace else to be?"
"I finished a breakfast meeting earlier than I expected and I have another appointment just down the street at eight." He glanced at his watch. "I've got a few minutes."
There were those eyes again. So compassionate. So warm. And she'd been cold for so long....
"Thanks," she said, finally handing back the telephone. She'd been thinking about getting a cellular phone herself - except that there was no one who needed her to be that accessible.
"I'm Nick McIntyre, by the way," her rescuer said. He slid the phone back into his pocket.
"Why do I know that name?" He shrugged. If he knew why, he wasn't saying.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Christmas Wishes, Christmas Gifts by Tara Taylor Quinn
Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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