Cross Country Christmas: Marriage & Mayhem!, #3

By Diana Duncan

The best gifts in life are surprises…

Surprise! Thanks to a blizzard named Blitzen, Christie McQuade can’t make it home for Christmas. Stranded in an airport, things look bleak…until she runs into delicious Deputy Damian Reade, who along with his four-year-old son, Eli, is likewise wondering how to salvage his holidays.

A ’57 Chevy Bel Air christened “Vixen” is their last hope. Christie’s not always the trusting type…but after a background check through her investigative brother clears Damian – and after all, how can a man who’s so patient and loving with his son be dangerous? – she joins them on a Cross Country Christmas adventure filled with fun and surprises…not the least of which is the powerful chemistry between Damian and Christie.

Chemistry is one thing. Heart-tugging is another. And damned if both father and son aren’t soon tugging on Christie’s previously-broken heart-strings.

A child’s unshakeable faith in Santa, his seemingly impossible Christmas wishes of the Jolly Old Man, and a whole lot of holiday magic may lead Damian and Christie to the biggest surprise of all…love.

Although the first two books in this series are Romantic Suspense, this special Christmas novel does not contain suspense. You do not need to read the first two books in order to fully enjoy this story, as it stands alone. However readers of "Laws of Attraction" and "Big Bad Wolfe" will love revisiting their favorite characters and celebrating with them during the holidays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Duncan
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386917946

Diana Duncan

When her dreams of becoming a ballerina were quashed by early-onset klutziness, Diana Duncan took up the safer vocation of writing. Her first thrilling masterpiece--written in orange crayon--was titled "Perky the Kitten," and became an instant bestseller with her grandparents.  Her childhood growing up as a military brat gave her the ability to leap into a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime...and she always discovers a new friend in the process. This gift of gab perfectly equipped her for a career that involves making stuff up. Di is famous for using seven words when one will do. She wields smart-assery like a samurai sword, and will be the first to volunteer in a catastrophe. Of course, she was probably the one who caused the catastrophe. She's fiercely loyal to her friends and family...but in the event of the upcoming zombie apocalypse, she won't hesitate to use them as human shields. She loves her job as an author, and claims writing is the most fun she's ever had while wearing her sock monkey pajamas. She also enjoys gardening, cooking, and adopting abandoned curbside furniture to refurbish into treasures. Diana published 6 award-winning books with a traditional NY publishing house before going rogue with Indie publishing. 10% of the proceeds of every book she sells is donated to different organizations that serve those who are in need, both people and animals. Di loves to hear from her readers. Write to her at [e-mail] Join her on Facebook on her official author page, and feel free to stop by and ogle her kilted hunks on her website www.dianaduncan.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

"Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals."

The infamous line from Home Alone perfectly described Denver International Airport on December 19th. The place looked, smelled, and sounded as chaotic as a natural disaster refugee camp. Christie McQuade slammed the handle of her wheeled carry-on bag into its slot and planted her feet against the tsunami of cranky would-be travelers. One more freakin’ replay of Feliz Freakin’ Navidad—the most annoying Christmas carol ever—and she’d end up on the No Fly list for trashing the PA system.

Grinding her teeth, she scanned the interminable list of flight delays. The only Christmas spirit she possessed this year was the bottle of ChocoVine, the bottle of chocolate wine she’d consumed last night while not sleeping on the airport floor.

Smelling less than fresh herself, tired, hungry, and more than slightly hung-over was not how she’d planned on greeting her family. Not that she’d planned on greeting them at all. She’d let despair drag her down, thrown herself a big ole pity party and bah humbugged out on Christmas this year.

She swore beneath her breath and shoved an errant chestnut curl beneath the crocheted reindeer hat, complete with horns and bulbous red nose, that her brother had sent as a cheer-up gift. She wanted to see his expression when she deplaned in Portland and he saw she was wearing it...and then had to walk through the entire airport beside her.

Face it, this fiasco is your own fault. If you hadn’t waited until the last minute to get off the pity pot, you’d be lounging on Big Brother’s comfy leather couch right now quaffing his 150 proof eggnog and munching Mama’s to-die-for gingerbread cookies.

Mama baked her special cookies only at Christmas and always left everyone craving more. Christie’s stomach growled furiously enough to be heard over the loudspeaker droning out another delayed flight number, followed by the frustrated throng’s groans and complaints.

A glance at the bank of windows revealed a maelstrom of whirling white. The blizzard, which the Weather Channel had nauseatingly christened Blizten, continued to ramp up in intensity. Although she’d paid the price of a new kidney for a last-minute ticket, making the family gathering on time was looking iffy. Another curse escaped. Might as well pawn the second kidney and grab breakfast at one of the teeming airport restaurants.

As Christie started to turn, strong arms wrapped around her from behind and a large, hard male form pressed against her back. Hey there. The deep, resonant timbre vibrated in her ear, shivering all the way down her spine. Imagine meeting you here, of all places.

The fragrance of cinnamon and cloves and warm, clean man enveloped her, and her body—which had been deprived of affection a whole lot longer than it had gingerbread—leapt instantly awake.

I see you’ve been doing those righteous squats. A firm squeeze of her butt jolted Christie. Sweet cheeks, woman.

She jabbed her elbow backward at the same time she stomped her boot on the man’s instep, satisfied at the pained male "oof as her assailant lost his breath. Get off me, creeper."

Oh, shit! that velvet voice groaned as he abruptly let go.

She pivoted. The man straightened, and she looked up...way, way up...to meet stunned midnight eyes. And lost her own breath. Well over six feet of prime male, honed to buff perfection. Flawless skin the color of her favorite caramel latte, and a long thicket of lashes showcased those incredible eyes. His thick raven hair was buzz-cut and although his horrified expression was somber, glossy dark brows arched in a natural, playfully wicked slant. A strong, straight nose led to a deliciously sensual mouth with full, beautifully shaped lips.

A mouth made for a hundred different ways to get on Santa’s naughty list.

His black leather jacket strained against impossibly wide shoulders and powerful arms that ended in long-fingered hands. No wedding ring on his left hand, and no telltale mark where a wedding ring might’ve recently resided.

At his right, stood a miniature replica of himself, down to the leather jacket, green Henley shirt, jeans and black boots...except adorable Mini-Me possessed a mop of inky curls. Mini-Me, who looked to be around four-ish, clutched a small, somewhat tattered package wrapped in red paper decorated with penguins wearing Santa hats, and adorned with creased red, white, and black ribbons.

"You said the S-word!" Mini-Me admonished.

Sure did, the man rumbled. Mr. Yummy’s contrite gaze held Christie’s. Sincere apologies. I’m not a perv, honest. I mistook you for a friend of mine.

Obviously. Suppressing a grin, she arched a brow. Friend with benefits?

Gold highlights glinted in those espresso eyes. "Just a friend. She’s also traveling right now, and believe it or not, she has the same crazy hat. I gave it to her for Christmas."

Her grin broke free. You and my brother share a distinctive fashion sense.

You owe ten for the swear, Daddy, Mini-Me stated. Drop and gimme ten.

Right. Delectable lips twitched. Rules are rules. He dropped to the floor. Curious onlookers parted to make way, surging around him and tossing out commentary while he pumped out ten effortless push-ups. The sight of his smoothly pistoning body—along with an inspiring view of a very fine ass—sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

Yowza. If Mr. Yummy wanted to stuff her stocking...

He gained his feet in a sinuous movement, wiped a hand on his jeans and offered it to her. Damian Reade, attempting to get home to Seattle by Christmas.

As Damian’s big, warm fingers enfolded hers, the butterflies morphed into 747’s and a full-body tingle glittered through her. She swallowed. Christie McQuade. Hopin’ to reach Portland, at this rate, before New Year’s.

His white, wicked smile knocked her for a loop faster than the bottle of ChocoVine. But you’re not originally from the Pacific Northwest. I hear... he cocked his head. Texas?

Nailed it in one. My brother lives in Portland and the whole clan is congregating at his house this year.

Sounds like fun. He released her, the warm fuzzies departing with his touch. This is my son, Eli.

Eli stuck out a tiny hand, clinging to the package with the other as tightly as if it were a life preserver. Nice ta meetcha.

Very nice to meet you, too, Eli. That looks like a special present you have there.

The child nodded solemnly. Santa gived it to me. For my mommy.

Ah. Ah, damn. Her spirits sank. No wedding ring didn’t always mean no wife. Not that she should care, because hey, this was a casual encounter, over in moments. But she had been ogling...and she didn’t poach.

Damian’s broad shoulders lifted in a puzzled shrug. Eli brought that gift home after Santa visited his preschool. But his mom died four years ago, shortly after he was born.

I’m sorry. And she was. Truly. But she was also relieved. How...bewildering.

"I asked Santa for a new mommy," Eli said.

Damian frowned. We’ve discussed this, little dude. Santa can’t give those sorts of presents.

"Santa said he would! He talked funny, though. He called me a wise boyo, and a fine wee lad. He had sparkly green eyes...and he said ‘aye’ a whole lot, which means yes!"

Damian shook his head. Apparently, the overreaching Santa was Irish.

Christie smiled at Eli to disguise her relief. Okay, experiencing such strong feelings about a man she’d met mere minutes ago was super weird. She knelt down to the child’s level. Santa speaks all languages fluently. But your dad is right, she said gently. Santa shouldn’t have promised something he can’t deliver.

Eli shot her a fierce scowl. "He can too! Santa said to believe in magic, and I do! He gived me this present with penguins on it. Penguins are my favorite!"

Sighing, Damian glanced at the depressing list of delays. Since it doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere anytime soon, how about if I buy you a coffee? To make up for...uh...

She rose. Feelin’ me up? she said sotto voice.

Red streaked his cheeks and he cleared his throat. "Yeah. That friend is actually a colleague, and we razz each other to keep fit. We are just friends."

Her stomach growled again, even louder, and Damian flashed her a mischievous grin. "Maybe coffee and breakfast?"

Eli bounced up and down. Can I have pancakes, Daddy? Huh, can I?

If you eat some eggs, too.

Eli’s short nose scrunched. Do I gotta?

Yep. Damian ruffled the child’s hair. Need to balance out those carbs with protein. You don’t want to be the wimpy bro with flabby muscles, do you?

Noooo. But eggs is slimy.

Only over-easy. We’ll ask for scrambled.

"Only if I gotta."

Damian glanced around, quickly assessing their surroundings with the same alert wariness she’d seen in her brother and his best friend. He dodged a portly gray-haired woman in a purple jogging suit before she could mow him down. Man, this crowd is insane. Damian reached down and swung Eli up onto his shoulders, making the child giggle. You be my point man, little dude.

Ten-four, Daddy.

Christie extended the handle of her carry-on and wheeled it behind her as she hurried to keep up with Damian’s graceful stride. Push-ups, point man, and ten-four. And first-rate situational awareness. Are you military or law enforcement?

Both. Enlisted in the Marines the day I graduated high school and did a six-year hitch. I’m a cop now...sheriff’s deputy in King County, Washington, drug enforcement division. I’ve applied for a K-9 partner and just waiting for the paperwork to go through. That friend I mistook you for trains ‘em.

My older brother Dallas was DEA. He went the private security route after he got married.

Damian whistled. DEA is some intense sh—uh—stuff.

Hence the transition to private security.

Damian’s stride hitched. Wait...Dallas McQuade from Portland...as in married to Mia McQuade?

You know Mia?

His mouth slanted. No, but her rep precedes her.

"Clear to Seattle?"

She and Dallas busted the infamous Montoya cartel. Mia McQuade has serious law enforcement groupies all over the country.

"Daddy’s getting a giant police dog, and he’s gonna live with us, Eli piped up. But I like kitties, too. I asked Santa for a kitty. He said I could have one."

A grimace creased Damian’s gorgeous face. That’s a newsflash to me.

Whoopsie. Eli clapped his hand over his mouth. Santa said ‘sometimes the best gifts in life are surprises.’

I have a surprise for Santa, Damian leaned in to mutter to Christie. She again inhaled a tantalizing whiff of his scrumptiously spicy scent, making her mouth water...and not for cookies. When we get home, I’m finding out where the preschool rented that gas bag and I’m calling his employer.

She pulled herself out of the fog of lust and back to the conversation. I agree. He shouldn’t be falsely raising kids’ expectations. They’re in for a terrible letdown Christmas mornin’.

Damian bypassed three crammed-to-the-hilt restaurants before he paused in front of a coffee kiosk with a fairly short line. I had coffee here earlier this morning and it was real smooth. There’s a couple at a table in front who look like they’re about ready to bug out, and this place offers a few breakfast choices. At least we won’t have to wait three hours to eat. This work for you?

As long as I get a prescription strength dose of caffeine, I’m in.

You grab the table and Santa’s little elf and I will order. What are you hungry for?

A super-sized helping of you.

Damien’s eyes crinkled at the corners as if he’d read her mind, and she yanked her attention to the menu board. Er...a ham and cheddar breakfast sandwich on multigrain bread and a triple-shot, extra-large, extra-hot caramel latte, please.

His impish grin gleamed in her peripheral vision. Like ‘em big, strong, and packing heat, do you?

She’d stuck with lean, scholarly, and packin’ a briefcase, but was hijacked by a sudden hankering to try something new. Especially since playing it safe had failed miserably.

She caught his glance, held it. Fired a bold grin back at him. Ten-four.

His nostrils flared and golden flames leapt in his irises. High-voltage awareness arced between them, hot enough to steam the windows and melt the snowdrifts piling up outside. The pulse in his throat throbbed and his wide chest rose and fell, matching the jerky cadence of her own rapid breaths.

The world faded away, the crowd noise dwindling to a buzz, while they stood locked on each other like heat-seeking missiles...until Eli patted Damian on the head. Pancakes, Daddy?

Right, Damian replied huskily. He cleared his throat. I don’t know if they have pancakes here, son. We’ll have to ask.

Christie stumbled toward the table. Hells bells. She’d never had such a wild reaction to a man. Not even when she’d been with her ex-husband. In fact, she’d never experienced anything even remotely close to the searing connection that whammied her whenever she looked at Damian.

Anywhere.

Ever.

Sure, she’d felt lust before. But her reaction to the big cop went far beyond mere lust.

Her body, heart, and soul recognized him on a primitive, instinctive level, and instantly responded.

Which was...nuts.

Christie claimed the table the moment the previous occupants rose. She hung her cobalt peacoat over her chair. Her jeans and red-and-white snowflake sweater were plenty warm. Removing the reindeer hat as well, she shook out her long fall of chestnut curls.

Erotic awareness again crackled over her, and she turned to see Damian drinking her in as thirstily as if he’d been stranded in the Sahara and she was a long, slow swallow of cool water.

She crammed the hat into her coat pocket. Whew. Yeah, she was beyond warm and rocketing toward scorched.

By the time Damian returned carrying a tray bearing drinks in paper cups and wrapped bundles of food, and still toting Eli on his shoulders, Christie had her libido mostly under control. But she was careful to avoid the powerful intensity of his gaze for very long. Instead, she watched Eli as his dad swung him down, deftly removed the child’s coat, and seated Eli beside him, across the table from her.

Damian shrugged out of his black leather jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Hello. Deck my halls, baby! Her determination not to stare faltered at the sight of the emerald green Henley lovingly hugging granite pecs, a ridged eight-pack, and biceps big enough to bench-press Santa’s sleigh—loaded with presents.

His long legs wouldn’t fit beneath the dinky table, so he shoved his chair out. A crumpled photograph tumbled from his jacket pocket onto the floor.

Both Damian and Eli dove for it, but Eli snatched it up first. He spread it open on the tabletop, and Christie saw a picture of Damian with his arm around a diminutive, curvaceous blonde.

Eli made a disgusted face. That’s Daffy, he informed Christie.

Daphne, Damian corrected.

"Daffy is Daddy’s not-girlfriend-anymore. That’s okay, ‘cause I didn’t like her much anyhow. She always talked to me in a squeaky baby voice. I’m not a baby! The child snorted. We flied on a plane to visit Daffy’s mommy and daddy in Minny-sota and were ‘sposed to stay for Christmas, but her mommy and daddy were mean and didn’t like my daddy, so we had ta leave early. My daddy said it’s ‘cause he’s too tall, dark, and handsome.’"

Damian’s jaw hardened and Christie’s fingers tightened on her cup. She knew exactly which adjective in that list had mattered.

Damian’s smile was tight as he confiscated the photo, re-crumpled it, then two-pointed it into a nearby garbage can. Turns out Daphne neglected to give her parents vital intel. Some people think tall and short should never mix.

Anger blazed up her neck to her face. Some people are ignorant ass-wipes.

Eli pointed at her. "You said the A-word! Ten push-ups for you, Miss Christie!"

Eli. Damian shook his head. Miss Christie doesn’t have to—

Rules are rules, she said. She managed to shoehorn into a narrow empty space on the floor to do her ten. Albeit not as quickly or smoothly as Damian.

Ignoring bemused stares and snarky comments from other diners, she scrambled to her feet, and collided with Damian’s hot, admiring glance. And oops, yeah, she’d just given him a panoramic view of her ass. She lifted a shoulder. Not as awesome as yours, I’m afraid. 

Matter of opinion. From where I’m sitting, everything looks mighty tasty. His sensual grin made her belly rollercoaster. Sweet cheeks.

Blitzed by a full-on body flush, Christie not-so-deftly veered off the innuendo highway by digging in her purse for antiseptic wipes. She cleaned her hands. Airport floors...nasty. And it is the cold and flu season.

Damian nodded. Got an extra?

Of course. She passed him another one, and he wiped Eli’s hands before wiping his own.

She glanced at the mystery bundles on the tray, then at Eli. Did you get your pancakes?

Nope. But I gots sausage pigs in biscuit blankets. They’re almost as good, huh?

Close enough.

"‘Specially dunked in catchup. Do you like catchup?"

I love ketchup.

Me too!

Knock-knock, she said.

Eli giggled. Who’s there?

Hurry and ketchup to me and I’ll tell you.

As Eli erupted in a fit of merriment, Damian gave her an amused thumbs-up. Eli sobered and fixed her with an earnest look. You sure gots pretty blue eyes, Miss Christie. They’re nice and smiley.

Damian’s smoky eyes snared hers, and she couldn’t look away. And as deep, and clear, and compelling as the Pacific Ocean, he murmured.

She inhaled sharply and returned her attention to Eli. Thank you, kind sir. Your eyes are quite handsome yourself, as is your smile.

I look ‘zactly like my daddy. Ever-body says so.

Yes, you do. Christie didn’t dare risk another peek at Damian. She concentrated on unwrapping her breakfast sandwich. You’re both extraordinarily attractive gentlemen.

Ladies always like him. They go like this... Eli batted his lashes at her, stuck out his chest, and gave her a goofy, besotted smirk.

Damian choked on a drink of coffee—pumpkin spice by the scent wafting from the rim—which explained why he smelled so delicious. Probably.

She smothered a smile. I bet they do.

You didn’t go like that when you saw him.