Out on a Limb

By Christie Ridgway

A sexy contemporary novella!

Shy Stacy Banks finally gets up her nerve to ask her hunky neighbor to a party on Christmas Eve. But her Yuletide yearning goes wrong when her errand to snag Ryan Beausoleil for the night means she’s at risk of losing her life! On the night meant for Santa and his elves, she runs full-tilt into danger and gun-toting drug runners. Yes, Ryan is at her side, but is he potential romance or just pure trouble?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christie Ridgway
• Release date: Oct 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301008025

Christie Ridgway

Christie Ridgway has never lived east of the Pacific Ocean, north of San Francisco, or south of San Diego. To put it simply, she's a California native who loves to travel but is happy to make the Golden State her home. She began her writing career in fifth grade when she penned a volume of love stories featuring herself and a teen idol who will probably be thrilled to remain nameless. Later, though, after marrying her college sweetheart, Christie again took up writing romances, this time with imaginary heroes and heroines. In a house full of males—one terrific husband, two school-age sons, a yellow dog, and tankfuls of fish, reptiles, and amphibians—Christie makes her own place (and peace) writing the kinds of stories she loves best.

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Out on a Limb

By

Christie Ridgway

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published by Christie Ridgway

© Christie Ridgway 2011

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

One

Christmas came a day early, but he wasn’t complaining. As a matter of fact, the timing couldn’t be better. Thanks to the latest terrorism alert—Elevated Threat—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 his way.

No one.

Baring his teeth in a smile for his contact, Jaime Ortiz, 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 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 inflatable 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 thirty-four 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 thirty-four-year-old man.

Stacey 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, freckle-faced, 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 end-of-the-season party. Everything but her date.

Stacy knew she’d find him at the JMR Sportfishing 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 off-season. 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, giving her a friendly check-over in the glow from the string of Christmas lights wound through the cyclone fencing. Too excited and nervous to feel the cold, she’d left her shawl behind.

Nice package, one of the guys murmured with an easy grin. Is my name on the gift tag?

Uneasiness fluttered in Stacy’s belly. Not that the men appeared threatening, but she always clammed up at come-ons, even benign ones like this. Each year during the first week of school she read her students Ms. Shy Makes a Friend, but the same advice she said aloud every September, Go the mile, give a smile, never seemed to stick with her.

I’m, um, here to visit Ryan Beausoleil. Saying it aloud set her stomach to fluttering again. His name was how they’d met, in the condo mailroom where the box marked BEAUSOLEIL was snuggled beside the one marked BANKS.

Bo-so-lay. It sounded exotic, evocative.

Second, third, fourth thoughts flitted through her brain. His very syllables were out of a kindergarten teacher’s league. How could she be thinking of going out on a limb with him?

He’s one lucky dude, the grinner said. He didn’t seem to think that she and Ryan were an obvious mismatch, and Stacy took heart from that. "His boat, The Bait, is the last one on the left."

With a quick breath, Stacy stepped through the doorway. The gate locked behind her as the two men continued toward the parking lot. She made her way down the deck, its rubberized surface muffling the tap-tap-tap of her mid-heeled, strappy shoes. The only other sound was a gentle slosh of the water. Small security lights illuminated the silent boats and the walkway itself, yet Stacy had the distinct feeling she was alone.

But Ryan was here! He had to be. He’d told her in the mailroom the day before that he planned to spend Christmas Eve on his boat, catching up on the never-ending upkeep. But God, it was spooky with only that eerie slosh-slosh-slosh of the water and the rabbity noise of her heartbeat in her ears. A breeze washed over her bare arms and shoulders, stirring both her real and ribbon curls. Chills pricked her skin.

This is stupid, she suddenly thought, her feet stuttering to a halt.

Not her fear, but the fact that she’d considered coming out here in the first place. What had she been thinking? Hunky, sexy Ryan Beausoleil was bodelicious, but face it, she wasn’t bodacious enough to walk onto his boat and invite him to a party. Especially when she was dressed like a Christmas present. What had seemed fun and flirty at the time, something a man named Beausoleil would appreciate—since everyone at Your Holiday Elf was going in costume—now seemed embarrassing. Goofy even.

She was going to turn around and get out of this creepy place and go back—

To her safe, boring, never-go-the-mile-and-smile life.

No way.

Swallowing hard, she set her sights on The Bait and forced herself to march onward. Ryan had seemed interested, remember? He lingered in the mailroom when they happened to meet there. He’d helped her brother carry in the new loveseat she’d bought last weekend. After that, when she’d mumbled something about now owing him a favor, he’d wiggled his eyebrows and then laughed when she’d blushed.

She knew he was interested, just as she knew when five-year-old Tyler Brown was up to no good. There was that devilish, and devilishly cute little gleam in his eye. The quirk in his smile that promised naughtiness to come.

Well, this Christmas Stacy wanted to be naughty too.

She paused at the steps that led aboard The Bait. The boat was more well-lit than the others nearby, but she didn’t see or hear Ryan.

Hello? she called out, sliding her palms down her paper skirt. Ahoy there?

No one replied. Still on the dock, she paced the length of the boat—it was a sixty-five-footer he’d told her brother. Equipment bristled from its sides and decks, but the only thing she could identify for sure was the little speedboat winched up at the back—or was that the bow? Ahoy? Ryan?

Nobody’s home. Disappointment flooded through her. But it was the relief that followed that got her moving again. Ignoring the weasely little nervousness in her belly, she walked back to the stairs, grasped the cold handrails, and mounted the metal laddered steps that led onto the boat. No backing out now, Banks. Only kindergarten teacher-cowards would be run off so quickly.

Checking her watch, she