Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) Read online

  Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas)

  by

  Maggie Robinson and Elyssa Patrick

  For Sarah Louise, who besides being a talented cover designer is a great friend.

  Two light, sexy contemporary romance Christmas novellas where the couples are snowbound for the holiday.

  All Through the Night

  by Maggie Robinson

  Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays personal assistant Carrie Moore from the swift completion of her appointed rounds. She is used to delivering for the rich and famous. Can she mend a hunky English lord’s heart and not get him deported?

  While It Was Snowing

  by Elyssa Patrick

  Felicity Evans and Harry Walsh have been best friends forever, but lately, Felicity has noticed the looks Harry has been giving her. And she’s going to do something about it. Sex solves everything, or so she hopes. But she never knew Harry was a virgin—until now. Being snowbound in a Vermont cabin is the perfect opportunity to take things to the next level . . . and perhaps dare to lay her heart out on the line.

  All Through the Night

  by Maggie Robinson

  To my Islesboro girl.

  Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays personal assistant Carrie Moore from the swift completion of her appointed rounds. She is used to delivering for the rich and famous. Can she mend a hunky English lord’s heart and not get him deported?

  As a personal assistant, Carrie Moore is used to fulfilling the whims of the rich and famous, even if it means driving through a blizzard to pick up a fresh Kosher turkey for Christmas dinner. No ordinary Butterball for her employer Rosemary Stephens, an eccentric English mystery writer who’s spending the winter on a remote Maine island. When the last ferry is cancelled, leaving Carrie with a turkey that’s bound to get frozen, all the roads closed and no room at the local inn, what’s a resourceful girl to do?

  Why, break in and enter, of course, along with Mrs. Stephens’s titled English nephew who is stranded too. Lord Griffin Archer is an actual viscount, but there will be no roast goose and figgy pudding for him, just the random contents of Carrie’s grocery bags. He’s come to America to improve the family fortune, but keeping company with Carrie might result in a prison sentence or deportation. And with a broken engagement behind him, the last thing he wants to do is lose his heart again.

  As they snuggle up in a vintage Jaguar inside the inn’s carriage house, bells ring. Alarm or Christmas? Only time will tell.

  Chapter 1

  “WAIT!” SHE SCREECHED. Not that anyone could hear her over the wind.

  Carrie Moore frantically stuffed the most critical items into her trusty canvas boat bag. To her dismay, she heard the unmistakable thrum of the ferry engine and the mournful blast of its horn. Carrie didn’t even take the time to lock the car or grab her Kindle. She dashed across the parking lot, hoping one of the ferrymen would spot her through the swirl of snow and hold back from casting off.

  Well, they might have if she hadn’t slipped on a patch of ice and landed on her ass. She lay still for a minute, the breath knocked out of her. Nothing was broken but her dignity. She stood up on the sheet of ice with difficulty, retrieved the fresh Kosher turkey from underneath a rusty truck and found the glasses that had flown off her nose. With one final blast, the ferry backed out of the pen and was gingerly maneuvering to face the island for the trip home.

  Finding her glasses in the snow was a bit of a Christmas miracle. Carrie could barely see the little gray terminal building with her glasses on—it had blended right in with the gray whitecaps beyond. Taking baby steps, she made it to the door. Through the glass, she could see ferry agent Edna Fernald coming out of her office and slinging a handbag over her Baxter State Parka. Those L.L. Bean folks were so damn clever in their homage to Maine. Carrie was wearing an Acadia herself.

  Relief. The waiting room was empty and deliciously warm.

  “Last boat’s just left, hon. Gotta lock up. You wanna use the rest room before you go?”

  “Last boat?” Carrie knew she was late to drive on the three o’clock, but had counted on walking on. Even though Carrie had raced through the blinding snow on Route 1, she had known she might not get her car on so close to departure time. But she could walk on with her grocery bags, right? Call someone to pick her up on the other side, or better yet, hop into an islander’s car and have a friendly chat across Penobscot Bay. “What do you mean, last boat?”

  “Power’s out over there. They’ll have to use the emergency generator to bring the boat in and lift the ramp,” Edna said with a certain amount of relish. There was a degree of friction between the rich islanders and those from “America.” Carrie tried to stay out of it, feeling she belonged in neither place. “Service is cancelled until tomorrow.” Edna waved a piece of paper at her.

  Carrie squinted through the spots on her lenses. Sorry no 5 o’clock ferry today. Next boat 12/25 8 AM weather permitting. For more info call 207 5555555.

  “Are you sure they won’t run another boat? It’s Christmas Eve!” Carrie knew she sounded like a spoiled brat. It wasn’t as if she expected any presents. She’d already opened the box from her parents in Connecticut, eaten the cookies—all of them—and was wearing the beige cable-stitch turtleneck sweater right now. She’d used the bonus check from her boss on her fancy new asymmetrical haircut, not entirely certain it was a success

  “Just look outside. We’re having a blizzard.” Swaddled like the Michelin Man, Edna taped the hand-printed sign on the glass door. “A winter weather warning has been issued. You can’t argue with that.”

  “Can I call my employer?”

  Edna frowned. It was against the Maine State Ferry Services rules to let civilians use the landline.

  “My cell phone has no bars—I already tried on the way here,” Carrie entreated.

  Edna huffed. No doubt she was looking forward to going home early and slug down some spiked eggnog.

  “All right. But make it quick.” She dragged out the phone from under the plastic office window slot and sat down on one of the waiting room benches like a giant vulture.

  Carrie knew a hopeless effort when she saw one. If the power was out on the island, Mrs. Stephens’s home phone wouldn’t work. The woman refused to get an iPhone, saying she didn’t want to be reached when she was in the bath or in the middle of writing a critical scene. But Carrie was just killing time. Where would she go? She had Christmas dinner in her canvas bag.

  The phone rang and rang and rang.

  She glanced down at the turkey. Mrs. Stephens’s housekeeper will pick up 12/24.

  Carrie tore off the wet tag from Fry’s Market that was taped onto the drumstick and crumpled it to the bottom of the bag. She wasn’t a housekeeper. Personal assistant—sometimes magician—was more like it. But at the moment Carrie Moore was assisting nothing but an unmagical turkey carcass from leaking on the tile floor of the ferry terminal under Edna’s gimlet eye.

  On days like this, Carrie wondered why her employer had decided to spend the winter on a remote Maine island. Summer she could see—this past one had been glorious. Blue skies, sparkling waves, starry nights. Carrie had eaten more seafood than they sold at Red Lobster, and her job was pretty easy, transcribing Mrs. Stephens’s spidery hand onto the computer screen in the morning, then running errands in the afternoon.

  She began working for Mrs. Stephens—a famous mystery author just like Jessica Fletcher minus the dead bodies!—in June, and had expected to go back to New York with her in the fall. But October had turned into November, then December, and here t
hey were at the mercy of the ferry schedule in the middle of a blizzard. Mrs. Stephens was suffering from writer’s block and had taken to drinking brandy with her morning coffee “to ward off the chill.” Coffee with her brandy was more like it.

  Then it was gin o’clock every night at five on the dot that ran well past hors d’oeuvres and right into dessert. Carrie was hoping her employer’s daughter Diana might have something to say about that while she visited for Christmas. Mrs. Stephens was almost seventy and needed not to break a hip on her way upstairs to bed. While Carrie had first-aid training, she wasn’t an orthopedic surgeon.

  Carrie hoped Mrs. Stephens would be okay. Her daughter was already out there, and the cottage—a misnomer if there ever was one, since it had twenty bedrooms—had a back-up wood furnace, ten working fireplaces and a thousand scented candles besides. Handyman Pete Smith would be plowing and shoveling the veranda steps. Rent-a-cook Dottie Angelo would arrive tomorrow morning to fix Christmas dinner.

  Except there would be no turkey. No fresh bakery rolls, which were rather squashed at the bottom of the bag at this point. Carrie hadn’t had time for lunch. Still holding the ever-ringing phone to her ear, she rooted around, opened up the plastic container and popped an olive from the fancy gourmet market in her mouth, just to see what made them so indispensable to Mrs. Stephens—her employer had underlined the word “olives” three times on the list. Maybe she was going to switch from gin and tonic to martinis? Gin and tonic was a summer drink, and it certainly wasn’t summer now.

  Edna gave her a look, and Carrie finally put the receiver down.

  “No answer. Want one?” Carrie asked. Not bad. A little garlicky, in her opinion.

  “No thank you.” Edna was as frosty as the window pane. “You really need to leave now.”

  Carrie was pretty sure the woman was not about to invite her to go home with her. No spiked eggnog for her.

  “What if anyone else shows up?” Mrs. Stephens’s nephew was supposed to be on the last boat. He was driving up from Boston in all this weather, poor guy.

  “They’re out of luck.” Apparently the use of her phone and offer of the restroom had been the extent of Edna’s Christmas spirit.

  Carrie decided she’d better dart into the bathroom to stall for even more time in the stall. She had absolutely no idea where she was going to spend the night. Most local hotels along Route 1 were closed for the season, or booked through the end of the year at astronomical prices for the “complimentary” mulled wine, toasty fires and down comforters. Coastal living ambiance didn’t come cheap.

  Thank goodness she had Mrs. Stephens’s credit card. Carrie wouldn’t have to sleep in her car if she could find room at an inn. The irony of the season was not lost on her, but at least she didn’t expect she’d have to share a stable with a donkey, just a turkey. Although it might be best if she left it in the car to freeze.

  So much for “fresh.”

  There was no mirror in the restroom. Carrie took a paper towel and swabbed her face dry. She’d have to make herself presentable in the car’s rear view mirror before she tried to find lodging. Her hood had fallen back when she fell, and her short brown hair was wet. She rumpled it with her fingers, and thought about sticking her head under the hand dryer. Edna certainly wouldn’t like any more delay.

  The thought of driving again struck terror in Carrie’s heart. She’d already plowed through whiteout conditions with the damn turkey and had pressed her luck far enough. But there was a Victorian bed and breakfast inn right across the road from the ferry parking lot, and there she would go to beg for shelter.

  She didn’t know what she’d do if they were full. Ask to sleep in the cellar? It was more than ten miles in either direction to find civilization. This stretch of Route 1 was pastoral, almost deserted, with very little in the way of commercial development, except for a lobster shack, a pottery outlet and two antique stores, all of which would reopen in the spring.

  When she came out of the bathroom, she discovered Edna was not alone. A tallish man was stomping the snow off his boots, oblivious to Edna’s disapproval. His horn-rimmed glasses had steamed up in the heat of the terminal and he couldn’t possibly see the puddle that was forming beneath him.

  “You tell him,” Edna said impatiently. “I don’t think he understands English.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam. I am English,” the man said, taking the glasses off his face and blowing on them. That wouldn’t help at all. Carrie reached into her pocket for a lens cleaner packet and handed it to him. He stared down at it. “A condom? I hardly know either of you.”

  “It’s f-for your glasses,” Carrie said quickly, dying inside only a little.

  There was no question who this man was. She’d seen his picture all over Mrs. Stephens’s house. Griffin in short pants and an unfortunate bowl haircut. Griffin playing rugby at Rugby. Griffin in those silly university robes riding a bicycle through Cambridge. Griffin with his gorgeous blonde fiancée, Lady Alice Something-or-other.

  Which was only fitting, since Griffin was Lord Griffin Archer. A frigging viscount. Like in a Regency romance, except that he worked for a commercial real estate development firm in Boston and did not, as far as Carrie knew, ride to the hounds or race curricles or compromise debutantes behind a potted palm during a masquerade ball.

  She had never been able to resist an English accent since she first back-packed through Europe after college. She didn’t even mind Mrs. Stephens bossing her around most of the time. Her employer still sounded and looked like Queen Elizabeth minus the tiara, even though she’d been in the states for fifty years and had had divorced three American husbands.

  She stuck out a hand. “You must be Lord Archer. I’m Carrie Moore, your aunt’s PA.”

  “Ah. Sorry about the mix-up. I am quite blind without my glasses.” To his credit, he looked chagrinned. “This day has been hell from beginning to end. Do you know they’ve closed Route 1? Accidents left and right. I believe I was the last car to be let through. I do wish the police had told me the ferry wasn’t running. Well, what’s to be done?” He settled his glasses back onto his patrician-if-slightly beaky nose and looked expectantly at Carrie. His eyes were the bluest blue, and Carrie felt her knees buckle. He couldn’t be wearing colored contact lenses plus his glasses, could he?

  “I’m going home,” Edna said. “You two will have to make your plans somewhere else.”

  Carrie shrugged at him apologetically. “Why don’t you come to my car?”

  “Why don’t you come to mine? The engine’s still running. I wasn’t sure where to park.”

  Despite entreaties from Mrs. Stephens, Lord Archer had not visited his aunt’s island home since he was a child. There was a picture of that, too—Griffin missing two front teeth with Mrs. Stephens’s second husband on a sailboat. His teeth had come in pretty straight for an Englishman, Carrie noted. She’d seen the Austin Powers movies and gotten the joke.

  “Christmas is a time for family, and Diana and I are all you’ve got until you do your duty to the family name. And none of us are getting any younger,” Mrs. Stephens had harangued her nephew on the telephone numerous times over the past month. Carrie couldn’t help but overhear, and had practiced her curtsey in the event the man gave in to his aunt’s emotional blackmail.

  Well, here he was, a peer of the realm, dripping in the ferry terminal. She’d completely forgotten to curtsey since Lord Archer didn’t look very lord-like at first sight. He wore an unsettling hunter-orange ski cap, Timberland boots and a heavy Barbour jacket. She recognized the latter as she’d ordered it for him herself as a “Welcome to New England” gift from his aunt. Rosemary Stephens was always sending people presents, although she couldn’t be bothered to shop for them herself.

  Americans didn’t have to curtsey. And he was just a viscount, not a duke. Certainly not Prince Harry, one of Carrie’s crushes. So adorable, and he was walking to one of the Poles for injured soldiers, too—she couldn’t remember which. North or south? One h
ad penguins, one didn’t. She’d have to Google it when she had Internet access again.

  “Don’t make a fuss over the boy when he comes,” Mrs. Stephens had warned, though Griffin was no boy. Carrie had looked him up in Mrs. Stephens’s well-thumbed Debrett’s. He was the same age she was, and nobody would call Carrie a girl and get away with it. “He doesn’t like it. He’s come to America to be just like everybody else.”

  Carrie couldn’t comprehend that. Mrs. Stephens’s had a coffee table book with her childhood home Archer Hall in it. She often sat turning the pages on rainy afternoons, obviously longing for the good old days. Who would want to live in a sublet condo on Beacon Street when you could live in practically a castle?

  “No central heating, and no money to put it in” Mrs. Stephens had said sadly, shivering and pulling her Hermes scarf closer to her throat. Evidently her brother, the previous Lord Archer, had been profligate with the ponies.

  Carrie needed her salary, too, so she smiled up at Griffin Archer, who was really just another working stiff, when all was said and done.

  “Lead the way.” She opened the door and the wind blew it back with a bang. Maybe they should be tethered together like mountain climbers. It was impossible to see a foot in front of her through the driving snow.

  Lord Archer must have sensed her reservations. He put a gloved hand on her elbow and guided her around the building to an illegal parking zone. No one was apt to come and give him a ticket today, though. The lights of the car cast a misty beacon through the snow, and like the English gentleman he was, Lord Archer opened the passenger door for her and took the boat bag from her grip, stowing it in the backseat.

  Yum. New car smell. And leather and some refined men’s cologne, something you’d find at Trumper’s on Curzon Street in London. Carrie had brought her dad a shaving brush there a few years ago when she was vacationing between jobs.