Christmas Spirit (Harlequin Intrigue #1089) by Rebecca York | Paperback | Barnes & Noble
Christmas Spirit (Harlequin Intrigue #1089)

Christmas Spirit (Harlequin Intrigue #1089)

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by Rebecca York

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Dead bodies. Mysterious gunmen. Eerie voices rising from the mist. When Chelsea Caldwell returned to run her aunt's B & B in Jenkins Cove, she hadn't counted on being swept into a strange and frightening mystery. Something was wrong in the old Victorian house--and it started with the arrival of one guest: Michael Bryant.

Michael shadowed her,


Dead bodies. Mysterious gunmen. Eerie voices rising from the mist. When Chelsea Caldwell returned to run her aunt's B & B in Jenkins Cove, she hadn't counted on being swept into a strange and frightening mystery. Something was wrong in the old Victorian house--and it started with the arrival of one guest: Michael Bryant.

Michael shadowed her, probed her past and turned up at the deadliest moments. But Chelsea couldn't resist his sexy swagger and dark good looks. Though Michael promised to protect her, she sensed that he had secrets...dark secrets that could get her killed.

Product Details

Publication date:
Harlequin Intrigue Series, #1089
Product dimensions:
4.10(w) x 6.60(h) x 0.60(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chelsea Caldwell drove through the fog-shrouded darkness, her hands gripping the steering wheel of her Honda as she leaned forward and struggled to focus on the road.

"Relax," she whispered to herself. "Tensing up isn't going to help."

She should have put her foot down. This wasn't an emergency trip. Aunt Sophie didn't need Christmas decorations tonight. Tomorrow morning would have been a better time to drive over to the craft shop on Tilghman Island.

But her aunt had been anxious to get a head start on the season. And Chelsea had forgotten how fogs could roll in from the Chesapeake Bay—or from the creeks and rivers that crisscrossed this part of Maryland's Eastern Shore.

That was proof of how much her life had changed in the past few months. She'd been living in Baltimore, well on her way to establishing herself as a sought-after local artist whose paintings were described as "haunting."

Now she was back in Jenkins Cove, the town where she'd spent her summers at the House of the Seven Gables, Aunt Sophie's sprawling Victorian bed-and-breakfast right on the town harbor.

Her aunt was getting on in years and could no longer run the B & B by herself. Chelsea knew that if her aunt was forced to sell the business she'd run for the past forty years, her reason for living would be gone.

Chelsea simply couldn't let that happen to her only living relative. So she'd done what she'd sworn she'd never do. She'd moved to Jenkins Cove.

Once, she'd loved the town and the House of the Seven Gables. Now it felt like foreign territory. She was struggling to settle into the rhythm of life in the quaint little community whose main business was tourism.

Every year the merchantssponsored a contest for the best and most tasteful holiday display. Aunt Sophie wanted to win— which was why she'd sought out a woman known for the specialty garlands she created and why the trunk of the car was full of holiday greenery.

Chelsea felt her shoulders begin to tense again. It was spooky along this stretch of four-lane highway. She could imagine ghosts weaving their way through the trees.

"Stop it!" she ordered herself, firming her lips as she kept driving. "Don't think about that now. Just get home, and you can have a cup of hot chocolate in the parlor."

A car honked and passed. A fool going too fast for the foggy conditions.

When a noise in the trees to her left made her jump, she took her eyes from the road for a moment.

"It's only an owl," she muttered, then flicked her gaze to the blacktop again—just as her headlights illuminated a shape on the pavement. Gasping, she slammed on the brakes.

In the swirling mist, she saw what looked like a person huddled on her side, lying on the pavement. A woman with long dark hair fanned out behind her head.

Easing the car to the gravel shoulder, Chelsea sat with her heart pounding for several seconds.

Though she wanted to stay in the car where it was safe, she knew she had to get out and help the woman. With an unsteady hand she cut the engine, then reached toward the glove compartment and got out a flashlight.

Gripping the barrel like a club, she stepped out, shivering in a sudden gust of wind that rattled the bare branches of the trees. During the day, the weather had been warm for the last days of November, but after dark the temperature had sharply dropped.

After glancing up and down the highway, she walked back toward the place where she'd seen the woman. But when she shone the light on the ribbon of macadam, she saw nothing.

"Hello? Where are you? Are you okay? Can I help you?" she called out.

When no one answered, her fingers tightened on the flashlight and her throat clogged. Maybe she'd been mistaken, she thought as she swung the beam along the road, then onto the far shoulder, the mist distorting the light.

As luck would have it, no other cars passed. With a quick glance back at her car, she walked along the shoulder, shining the light into the underbrush.

Again, nothing.

Finally, she returned to the vehicle and fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. But when she opened the cover, it made a beeping sound and went black.

She muttered something very un-Christmas-like under her breath and put the phone back. Who was she going to call, anyway? Police Chief Hammer? And tell him what? That she thought she'd seen a body on the road to Tilghman Island and now it was gone—vanished like a ghost?

The lazy old bulldog would really thank her for that.

Charles Hammer must have had some kind of pull to get voted into office. Too bad the town couldn't get rid of him for another couple of years.

Or maybe most of the people in Jenkins Cove thought he was doing a fine job.

After casting one last anxious glance at the spot where she thought she'd seen the woman, Chelsea started the engine again. The mist was thicker now, and she drove more slowly, afraid to hit a deer leaping across the highway.

Maybe that's what she'd seen earlier. A deer, hit and momentarily stunned. There hadn't been anybody lying on the blacktop, after all. It was just her imagination working overtime.

She'd started to relax a little when a flash of movement made her brake again.

This time she didn't see a body lying across the blacktop. This time, in the moonlight, she saw a woman running through the woods at the side of the road. And a man chasing her.

Her long black hair was streaming out behind her, and she looked as though she was wearing a dark coat that hung loosely on her body.

The woman screamed, then screamed again as the man caught up with her, catching her by the hair.

Chelsea pulled to the shoulder once more. Grabbing the flashlight again, she leaped from the car.

"Get away from her," she shouted as she charged into the underbrush.

She heard the woman whimper and thought she saw the man raise a knife. Then they both disappeared into a thicker patch of woods. When Chelsea tried to follow, she splashed into cold water that slopped over the tops of her shoes. As she pressed onward into sucking mud, she floundered into a water-filled hole and almost fell on her face. She was in one of the swampy areas so common around Jenkins Cove, and if she kept going, she was liable to end up waist-deep in freezing water.

Heart pounding, she stared into the bog. The woman and the man had vanished into the darkness as though they had never been there.

As Chelsea replayed the scene in her mind, she realized she'd never heard anything besides the woman's scream. Shouldn't they have been splashing through the water? And how had they gotten through the swamp, anyway, when she had ended up knee-deep in frigid water almost immediately?

She backed up, feeling her way carefully, trying not to step into another hole. She'd only been out of the car for a few minutes, but her pant legs were soaked, and her legs and feet already felt like blocks of ice.

As she retraced her steps, she wondered what she had seen. Had her overactive imagination combined with some trick of the moonlight to make her think that a woman was running for her life?

Chelsea made it back to her car and stamped her feet to shake off some of the mud. Climbing inside, she closed the door and sat behind the wheel, shivering.

She started the car and turned up the heater, thinking that she had to report this to the police. Even if it turned out to be nothing. Even if the last thing she wanted to do was tell her tale to the cops.

She raised her head, looking around for a landmark. A few yards away was a sign advertising a restaurant in Jenkins Cove. Now she knew how to find this spot again.

While she stared at the sign and the blackness beyond, she thought about something that had happened when she was ten. Something she could block out of her mind most of the time. But not now.

She'd been at a friend's house out at Mead's Point, on a farm that bordered the bay. She and Amanda had been playing outside down near the water. When it got dark, neither one of them wanted to come in, so they went over to the old icehouse to look for fireflies.

That was where it had happened. Amanda was looking out toward the bay, while Chelsea was staring at the icehouse, trying to figure out why the shadows seemed so strange around the little building and why the air felt so cold.

Then a young woman stepped out of the doorway and stood facing Chelsea. She held out her hand, her face pleading as though she wanted something urgent.

Her lips moved, but Chelsea couldn't hear what she was saying. She only felt a terrible pressure inside her own chest and horrible waves of anguish coming off the woman.

She moaned or screamed something, because Amanda came running. But her friend didn't see anything.

When Chelsea looked up, the woman had vanished.

"She was here. I saw her," Chelsea insisted.

"You're making it up."

"No, I'm not. I saw her."

Maybe it was fear that made Amanda start teasing her.

"Liar, liar. Pants on fire."

The next thing Chelsea knew, she was in tears. She'd been looking forward to spending the night at Amanda's, but she was too upset for that. She ended up going back to the House of the Seven Gables, where Aunt Sophie did her best to find out what had happened and then to comfort her.

But Chelsea was beyond comfort. She knew with a strange certainty that the woman she'd seen was a ghost. A ghost who was depending on her to set things right—whatever that meant. But Chelsea simply hadn' t been able to understand her. And she felt like a failure.

It was a lot to put on a ten-year-old girl. So much that the experience changed her whole feeling about Jenkins Cove. Until then, she'd loved spending the summer down on the Eastern Shore. It had been a child's dream vacation.

After that incident, though, she'd only come back for short

visits with her parents—until they'd been killed in a car accident right after her senior year of college. Then she'd come back from time to time to visit Aunt Sophie, her father's older sister.

Now she was back in town again—for the time being.

At first she'd felt a vague sense of foreboding. When nothing upsetting had happened, she'd started hoping that living with Aunt Sophie would work out for her. She'd taken over a third-floor room in the House of the Seven Gables for her art studio, where she worked most days. She was still sending some paintings to galleries in Baltimore. She was also selling at some of the galleries on Main Street right here in town.

And now this.

But what was this, exactly?

She took her bottom lip between her teeth. Had she seen another ghost?

She didn't want to talk to anyone about it, least of all Chief Hammer. But she knew she had to—in case this was something real, and she could save the woman's life. Or help the police find her body. That last thought made her shudder.

With shoulders hunched, she drove into Jenkins Cove, past the town square and all the shops and restaurants to the side street where the police station was located. Once it had been housed in an ugly redbrick building on Main Street. Now it was on a parallel street and it looked like a two-story beige clapboard house with a gable in the center of the front, a wide front porch and a red front door.

Pulling up in the parking area beside the building, she sat for a moment, steeling herself, picturing the chief in his rumpled navy-blue uniform.

He'd been here fifteen years ago when she'd seen the ghost out at Mead's Point. He hadn't been in charge then, just one of the deputies. But, like everyone else in town, he heard about her ghost sighting. Back then, everyone was talking about her.

Which was one of the reasons she'd wanted to get away from Jenkins Cove.

She tried to shove all that out of her mind as she climbed the three steps to the porch and pushed open the door.

Since it was after hours, the receptionist's desk was empty, but a light was on in the back, and Chief Hammer called out, "Who's there?"

"Chelsea Caldwell."

She must have sounded pretty shaky, because he came barreling out of his office, faster than she'd thought the squat bulldog of a man could run.

He took one look at her and helped her into one of the wooden chairs against the wall, his gaze taking in the water that sopped her shoes and slacks.

"What happened? Did you drive into a ditch?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. It wasn't that. I…saw something when I was driving back from Tilghman Island. I got out, but… then I stepped into a hole full of freezing water."

He looked at her through small blue eyes. "Take your time, and tell me what happened."

She gulped in air, then blurted, "First I thought I saw a body in the middle of the road."

The sharp look on the chief's face made her cringe.

"Thought you saw?" he asked.

"Well, I stopped, but there was nothing there. It was foggy, so I guess it was just a trick of the light. But then a little ways up the road, I saw a man chasing a woman through the bog."

"Where was this, exactly?"

"Near the sign advertising the Crab Pot. Do you know where I mean?"


"I got out and chased them."

"Bad idea," he muttered.

"But I…" She stopped and pointed down toward her wet feet. "But I stumbled into a hole full of water. Sorry. I tracked mud all over your floor."

"Don't worry about that." He stood there staring at her and tapping his finger against his lips.

Holding herself very still, she waited for him to make a smart remark about the ghost she'd seen all those years ago.

When he finally spoke, he said, "It would help if you could come out there and show us the exact place where you saw the woman and the man."

She nodded. She'd hoped she could go home, now that she'd done her duty. But she knew he was right. "Okay."

He looked down at her wet shoes and pants. "We keep clothing at the station in case an officer needs to change. I hope you don't mind wearing uniform pants and rubber boots."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

"While you change, I'll contact a couple of my deputies."

She waited while he produced a pair of navy-blue uniform pants and a pair of rubber boots. The boots were much too big, but three pairs of heavy wool socks helped hold them on her feet.


Meet the Author

An award-winning, bestselling novelist, Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York is the author of close to 80 books. Ever since she can remember, Ruth has loved making stories full of adventure, romance, and suspense. As a child she corralled her friends into adventure games or acted out stories with a cast of dolls.

But she never assumed she could be an author, because she couldn't spell. Her life changed, however, with the invention of the word processor and spell checker—and the help of her husband who spots spelling errors from 50 paces.

In addition to her fiction career, Ruth is also an award-winning author of 12 cookbooks, although she admits that her first culinary adventure was a spectacular failure.

At the age of three, she made a cake out of modelling clay and asked a friend to share it with her. They were both sick for a week. The early misadventure failed to dampen her culinary enthusiasm. By the age of eight she had mastered the skill of doctoring canned soup with herbs and spices.

When she married during the summer between her junior and senior years in college, she dazzled her new husband by making 40 different main dishes before repeating herself. The only failure was devilled crab. Because she had no cayenne pepper, she tried to compensate by using double the amount of black pepper. Her husband, who likes his food hot, ate the fiery dish anyway.

Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for spinning out her fantasies, she also gets paid for playing with food in the kitchen. Her creativity is further evident in the fabulous European-style garden she has designed and in the eclectic furnishingsthroughouther home.

Ruth's many awards include the 1998 Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award for Best Harlequin Intrigue of the Year for Nowhere Man, and the 1998 Affaire de Coeur Choices des Critiques (Critics' Choice) Award for Best Contemporary Romance Novel, also for Nowhere Man. She has also won two Career Achievement awards from Romantic Times. Michael Dirda, of Washington Post Book World, calls her "a real luminary of contemporary series romance."

If left to her own devices, Ruth would stay home working on her novels. But every few months her husband pries her away from her word processor for a trip.

They have travelled across the U.S. and Canada and frequently visit foreign locals. Their wanderings have taken them to the British Isles, Central and South America, France, Italy, Greece, and Tunisia.

Ruth makes a point of trying a wide range of foreign dishes, which often inspire recipes in her cookbooks. Many of her unique experiences find their way into her novels—like the time she encountered a coral snake in the Guatemalan jungle, taking a helicopter over a burning lava field, or a hot-air balloon flight. And the dry creek in her front garden is filled with the rocks her husband has kindly lugged home for her from around the world.

Ruth holds a B.A. in American Thought and Civilization from the George Washington University and an M.A. in American Studies from the University of Maryland. She heads the Columbia Writer's Workshop, a group of writers who have been meeting every two weeks to critique each other's work for the past 25 years.

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