Dear Santa Part 1

Dear Santa.

by ALICE ORR.

Dear Reader, Merry Christmas! This month we have three special seasonal mysteries for you and one very, very special two-in-one with a dark and shadowy feel. Let's start with that unique book, Brides of the Night, by Maggie Shayne and Marilyn Tracy. These are two very special love stories with very dark and dangerous heroes . heroes who are more than men. t Next, in The Best-Kept Secret, there's a twin who has to a.s.sume his brother's ident.i.ty to find out who's trying to kill him, but he needs the help of his brother's fianceea"the woman he loves. Dear Santa and All I Want for Christmas both entwine Christmas, kids, terrible trouble and strong, protective heroes. Wonderful booksa"you'll love them.

Have a thrilling Christmas and, don't forget, we'll have more new novels in January!

Best, The Editors Dear Santa ALICE ORR.

ZSILIIOLIFTTF.

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER? ].

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported ] unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor the publisher [ has received any payment for this book. I All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises H B. V. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an A information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including we this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademarks of Pa Harlequin Books S. A. " used under licence. 1. The Mailbox 2. Tooley's Plac First published in Great Britain 1999 3. The Centre Silhouette Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, 4. The School Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR 5. Vic's Place 6.

Katherine's Place The Hotel 8. The Capitol ][ 9. The Cathedra ISBN 0 373 22494 X Printed and bound in Spain by Litografia Rosds S.A." Barcelona ,lbany . f State Plaza *lace To Jonathana"who will be my romantic hero forever. And to my friend Gayle, who helped make Albany accurate in this book and meaningful in my life.

Chapter One For Christmas this year, Coyote Bellaway wished he would come awake one of these mornings all grown up. Maybe then he'd be able to figure out what to do for his little sister, Sprite, and for himself, too.

He was only ten, but he could pa.s.s for eleven or sometimes twelve.

That made him already more adult than kid most of the time. At least, he had to act like he was. Otherwise, somebody might come nosing around and get wind of the truth, that he and Sprite had a roof over their heads but not much more. He wasn't sure how long they'd have the roof, either. Tooley Penne-baker was a very nice lady, but even working every overtime s.h.i.+ft she could pull, she was just barely supporting herself. Besides that, she was trying to feed and take care of two kids who were no blood relation to hera"though, as far as the school authorities and everybody else knew, she was their aunt. When the real story came out, Coyote had to have a backup plan ready to go or he and Sprite could be out in the cold, and that wouldn't be smart this time of year in Albany, New York.

Worse yet than the threat of freezing their tails off on North Pearl Street, at least from the way Coyote saw things, was the possibility of foster care. He and Sprite would be sure to get split up if that happened, sent off to separate homes, maybe even different towns. That was exactly what their mom made him promise about last time he saw her in the hospital, before they sent her off upstate to that place that was supposed to be good for her lungs. She'd been sick so long, Coyote could hardly remember what she'd been like before or what it was like to be all togethera"his mom, Sprite and himself. They'd had last Christmas with each other. He felt his eyes sting from just thinking about the little tree on the table with a star on top and how he'd wished on that star but his wish didn't come true. A week later, right at New Year's, his mom was worse instead of better and they'd come for her in the ambulance to take her away again for this last, longest time.

When they finally let him see her, there in the big hospital on New Scotland Avenue, she'd grabbed his hand. "You and your sister stick together," their mom had whispered because she didn't have enough breath left to talk out loud.

"We'll stick together, Ma," he said.

"I promise."

His eyes were stinging then, too, mostly because he could feel she wasn't strong enough to hang on to his hand very tight anymore. He promised also to do what Tooley Pennebaker said and not to give her a hard time. Coyote didn't tell his mom Tooley was so busy working double s.h.i.+fts at the sewing factory just to pay the rent that she wasn't around to tell them much of anything. Coyote was the one in charge. He had to be mother and father to Sprite, especially since they had no idea where their real dad might have gone to when he ran out on them after their mom came down so sick. Coyote wasn't afraid to admit, if only to himself, that all of this was getting to be more than a kid could handle. He and Sprite needed a Christmas time miracle super bad about now. He still believed in such things, though he'd never tell anybody he did, so the news paper sticking out of a trash can on the corner of State and Lodge Streets seemed to Coyote like it could be the answer to his prayers.

"Most Needy Cases Fund Works Miracles," the front page headline of the Capitol District Chronicle said.

Coyote fished the newspaper out of the trash can and hurried into a nearby doorway so he'd be out of the straight line of the fierce cold wind howling up State Street hill from the Hudson River. The frozen snow cover from last night's storm crunched under his feet. The sidewalks hadn't been taken care of yet this morning, and he was careful not to slip and fall down on one of the icy patches. Mostly though, he concentrated on the word he'd seen in the headline.

"Miracles." He'd just been thinking about exactly that. He told himself this had to be a sign, a good omen like Tooley talked about sometimes. Maybe there could be some Christmas time magic for him and Sprite after all.

"You GOTTA LET me do this, Sprite," Coyote said for about the millionth time that night while he tried to work on his letter to the Most Needy Cases Fund.

"This is real important."

"I'm port ant too."

She knew how to say the word right. She was almost eight and very smart. Still, Coyote didn't correct her like he might have done another time. She did this more often lately, talked baby talk to get him to pay attention to her. Coyote didn't need to be a grown-up to understand there was something not quite right about her doing that.

Luckily for them, with other peoplea"teachers and even Tooleya"Sprite never talked baby-cute. Unlucky for them, sometimes she was anything but cute. She'd pout and refuse to do what she was told. Sometimes she'd refuse to talk at all. She did that more and more often lately, too. Coyote figured he should be glad to have her shut up for a while after the way she used to babble her head off all the time before their mom went away. Instead, he wasn't glad at all. He worded that Sprite acting bad and refusing to give answers in cla.s.s could bring on a home visit by somebody from the school. Then the truth would come out about how the two Bellaway kids were really living, and they'd be s.h.i.+pped off to foster homes for sure.

"I have to write this letter, Sprite," he said even more strongly than before.

"It could mean everything to us."

"Is it a letter to Santa Claus?" she asked.

Coyote was half-surprised to think she still believed in that part of Christmas. Part of him wished he did too, though maybe believing in miracles like the one the newspaper article talked about could be enough.

"It's something like a letter to Santa Claus," he said. "Can you ask him to bring me a bicycle?" she asked. She was so pretty even her brother could see it. She had light brownish curls all around her small, pale face that was probably a little too small and a little too pale to be really healthy. She had on a T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans like always. She'd grown out of all her dresses since their mom got sick but he couldn't take Sprite shopping. Now, there wasn't enough money for new dresses. There wasn't enough money for new anything.

"Will you write down that I want a bicycle for Christmas?" Sprite repeated in that whiny voice that meant he'd better answer or she'd ask the same question over and over till he did.

"Yeah. I can write that down," Coyote said.

But, he knew he wouldn't do that. He'd read the article in the newspaper lots of times to figure out just what kind of letter he should send to the Most Needy Cases Fund. They were handing out money, what the article called grants, for the holiday season. Coyote had to get one of those grants for Sprite and him, and Tooley too if he could. They'd be able to make a new start that way, maybe even pay for a nurse. Then their mom could come back from that hospital upstate they called a sanitarium and stay at home again.

So Coyote had read most closely about the woman they were talking to in the newspaper article. The one asking the questions was called Mariette Dugan. The one answering the questions was named Katherine Fairchild. She headed up the committee that did the deciding about who got one of those Christmas money grants and who didn't. She was the one he had to write just the right things for. He read what she'd said all the way through from beginning to end. Then, he read it through again, and again, till he knew it just about by heart.

Coyote'd had to make himself good at figuring out adults, especially this last year. He'd learned that in order to get what you needed out of grownups you had to tell them what they wanted to hear. So far, he'd been real lucky at doing that with Arbor Hill School, where he and his sister both went. Otherwise, the school people rriight have checked more closely and found out it wasn't Coyote and Sprite's mom signing the report cards and permission slips, no matter how good he'd learned to write her name just like she used to. n.o.body understood better than Coyote how his luck could run out any time.

Which made it even more port ant as Sprite would say, to write the words in his letter that this Katherine Fairchild would like to hear.

No matter what he'd said to Sprite just now, the crumpled and stained newspaper page he'd spread out on Tooley's kitchen table told Coyote he'd better not write this letter about anything as un serious as a bicycle.

COYOTE HAD HIS HAND on the mailbox, ready to open the hinged door.

He'd waited till Sprite was asleep before he slipped out of the house to hurry the couple of blocks to this post office on Broadway near the corner of Livingston Avenue. He'd been rereading his letter in his mind all the way. He hesitated now with his hand on the box. Was the letter good enough?

Everything depended on what he had written.

He pulled the envelope from his pocket and bent forward over it to protect the inexpensive paper from the wet snow that was turning the shoulders of his thin jacket more soggy by the minute. He was crouched that way when the long, black car came down Broadway toward him and pulled over to the curb just up the street. Coyote peeked around the blue-painted metal mailbox to watch. Big, fancy cars like this one didn't drive through this neighborhood very often. He had never seen one stop before, except maybe down by the theater at North Pearl Street and Clinton Avenue when rock stars or some other big shots came to perform there. The car's engine purred silently, but he could tell it was still running by the cloud of vapor that lifted from the hood in the dull, gray light.

The front door opened on the pa.s.senger side of the car, and a very large man stepped onto the wet street. Coyote was thinking he should stay out of sight, though he wasn't sure why. Something in his head told him that was true. He'd learned to listen to that voice, which had saved him more than once from the bad things that can happen to a kid in the street. He kept himself behind the mailbox where he couldn't be seen from the car, but he didn't stop watching as the large man walked to the trunk of the car and opened it. The gloomy night hid the man's face. All Coyote could tell was that he had on a long, dark coat and some kind of hat. He leaned over the open car trunk and looked like he was wrestling with something that must be pretty bulky in there.

The driver's side of the car opened. The large man must have seen it, too, because he shouted out loud enough for Coyote to hear, "Get back in there. I'll take care of this."

Just then, the man pulled something long and a couple of feet around out of the trunk. He hoisted the long bundle to his shoulder with a grunt. The large man stooped a little under the weight. That meant the bundle had to be pretty heavy. The big man started walking up the old driveway next to the deserted building where the car had stopped.

He continued into the alley between the deserted house and a metal fence. He disappeared into the shadows for a minute when he got near the end of the driveway. Then he moved into a small pool of light from a bulb above a doorway almost at the back of the deserted building. He bent down when he got to the back of the building and let his bundle slip to the ground. Coyote was having bad feelings about what might be in that package.

The large man straightened up and shook himself, maybe to get the snow off his coat, maybe to loosen his shoulders after carrying the heavy load. Coyote saw him glance up at the lit bulb above the alleyway door. The man put his hand in his pocket and pulled something out. He reached up in a swinging movement in the direction of the light-bulb. He was going to break it. That thought came to Coyote in just about the same minute he recognized what the man had in his hand. The light from the bulb was glinting on the barrel of a gun.

Coyote crouched lower behind the mailbox when he saw that. He'd been watching the alleyway so hard he didn't really know how tight he had hold of the handle of the hinged door of the mailbox. He didn't even know he had dragged that door partway open. Before he could think what he was doing, his fingers let go of the handle so he could clap them over his mouth to cover up the scared sound that was about to jump out of his throat. He did keep that sound from getting out, but the mailbox door slammed shut with a clang.

Coyote understood how big a mistake he'd made even before the large man's head snapped around to turn his face full into the pool of light from the bulb he'd been just about to break. What Coyote saw there froze him colder than the snow soaking through his jacket could have ever done. The large man had an ugly face, maybe the ugliest Coyote had ever seen, but not from a deformity or anything like that.

The only way Coyote could describe it, then or later on, was that the man's face had been pulled out of shape by just plain meanness. A flash of fear shot like a really sharp knife point straight to Coyote's stomach. He was in bad trouble, and he knew it.

He took Off then, running as fast as his sneakers could carry him, back toward the corner of Livingston Avenue and around the side of the post office, across the parking lot where they kept the mail delivery trucks at night and between two of those trucks to the back of the post office. He skirted backyards, climbed over fences and streaked down alleys, through this neighborhood he knew by heart. He was glad that, since moving in with Tooley Pennebaker, he'd done so much poking around. He knew just where to duck in and when to climb over.

He could hear the large man in the long coat cras.h.i.+ng along hot on his trail. Coyote told himself he was too street~ smart to let the man catch up. Coyote kept himself crouched low as he ran. His heart pounded as he waited to hear the crack of a bullet from the gun he'd seen in the light from that bulb in the alleyway. He was almost back to Tooley's place when he realized what he'd done that was not street-smart at all.

He'd dropped the lettera"the letter with his address written in extra big print on the envelope so Katherine Fairchild couldn't possibly miss knowing exactly where he lived. He'd dropped the letter by the mailbox, directly in the path where the large man had been headed the last time Coyote glanced over his shoulder to see just how hard he was being chased and just how hard he'd better run to make sure he didn't get caught.

Chapter Two "You didn't plan on any of this happening, did you, Katherine?"

Katherine Fairchild smiled, despite the fact that smiling didn't come very naturally to her these past several months. Megan Moran, on the other hand, could make almost anybody smile. For one thing, she was about as direct as a person could be, and Katherine loved her for it.

Still, she wasn't comfortable with being so closely questioned. Too many areas remained too sensitive to bear the light of inquiry even after a little more than a year from the day sorrow had been planted in her heart. Her escape halfway across the country from Chicago, Illinois to Albany, New York hadn't changed that as much as she'd hoped it would. "I know you don't want to talk about it," Megan went on.

"But I should," Katherine was surprised to hear herself say.

Megan nodded her cap of sleek, red curls so unlike the thicket of unruly dark-blond waves Katherine had spent what felt like several lifetimes trying to tame.

"That's what we've been led to believe," Megan said as she poured milk into the bottom of her empty teacup in the English-Irish manner, before adding the tea she'd insisted on having triple-brewed.

"Confession is good for the soul.

Otherwise, all those daytime talk-show hosts would have to take themselves out into the world and try to find honest work for a change. "

Katherine laughed.

"Yes, and what would they possibly be qualified to do?"

"My job, probably."

"I doubt that."

Megan was one of the best child psychologists around. Her accomplishments were legendary at Arbor Hill Children's Center where she and Katherine had worked together for eight months now.

"We digress," Megan said with a twinkle in her brown eyes.

"In case you might think I didn't notice."

"When can you ever recall there being anything you didn't notice?"

Megan feigned intense concentration for a moment.

"I know," she said.

"I didn't notice that there were three billion calories on this silver what sis here before I polished its cute little shelves clean."

She was talking about the three-tiered silver spindle laden with scones, Devons.h.i.+re cream and tiny cakes that had accompanied tea. As usual, Katherine hadn't touched a thing. Appet.i.te had been a problem for her ever since she left Chicago and even before.

"So talk to me, girlfriend."

Megan wasn't to be denied.

Katherine sighed.

"I thought I was working my way out from under, and instead I find myself burrowing in."

"Out from under what and into what?" Megan licked the last bit of cream from her lacquered fingernails.

"I'd say life, but you'd laugh me out of here for being melodramatic."

"I'd be sorely tempted to do exactly that."

"Me too." Katherine toyed with her teacup.

"It's just that I wanted to keep myself at a distance for a while."

"At a distance from what?" the relentless Megan chimed in when Katherine hesitated a moment too long after that last statement.

"Hurtful things. I wanted to keep myself at a distance from getting attached in the way that can lead to feeling hurtful things."

There. She'd said it, and she was only moderately tempted to dissolve into a puddle of tears.

"How successful have you been at that distance-keeping?"

Somebody else might cut Katherine some slack or commiserate With her, but not Megan.

"Apparently, not very successful at all. I seem to have taken on the hurtful-things department as my personal, professional territory these days. I'm getting attached to it, too."

"You could have said no."

Not a centimeter of slack, yet again.

"That would have been a violation of the pledge I made to myself when I came here, to start saying yes to things instead of worrying them to death first."

"Saying yes to life and hiding from it at the same time. You've got your work cut out for you."

Katherine laughed.

"I was talking about saying yes to professional possibilities, whatever they might be. That's how I turned out to be an administrator of a public agency when everything I ever worked at up till then had been strictly about making money. But the first job that came up for a budget administrator after I came to town nine months ago happened to be at the Arbor Hill Center. The rest, as they say, is history."

"I wondered about that. We don't get too many job applications from MBAs."

"If you did wonder, I can't understand your not asking."