Dear Santa

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Books by Alice Orr

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Copyright

  Katherine’s lips were soft and warm…

  Vic ached to take possession of first her mouth then all of her. When she parted her lips and tightened her arms around him, he groaned deep in his throat. He covered her mouth with his and marveled when she responded with an eagerness as primal as his own.

  He tore at the tangle of blankets between them and allowed himself the fantasy of her silken skin beneath his fingers.

  He was amazed at how strongly he felt about this woman. And how determined he was to keep anything bad from happening to her.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This is Alice Orr’s ninth Intrigue novel. It is set in Albany, New York, where Alice spent many memorable years and had many wonderful experiences, including the birth of her son. She brings that sense of place, along with her love of the Christmas season, her fascination with suspense and a flair for romantic passion to this very special story.

  You can write to Alice at Alice Orr Agency, Inc., 305 Madison Ave., Suite 1166, New York, NY 10165. She’d love to hear from you.

  Books by Alice Orr

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  56—SABOTAGE

  169—PAST SINS

  216—COLD SUMMER

  266—CAMP FEAR

  324—KEY WEST HEAT

  369—MANHATTAN HEAT

  398—PROTECT ME, LOVE

  464—HEAT OF PASSION

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Dear Santa

  Alice Orr

  To Jonathan—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.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Katherine Fairchild—With a bruised heart that is ready to be filled.

  Vic Maltese—Tough as black leather on the outside, full of dark secrets on the inside. But is he ready for the love of a good woman?

  Coyote Bellaway—The man of his family at ten years old.

  Sprite Bellaway—A darling little girl in need of a Christmas miracle.

  Megan Moron—As sharp of wit as she is of tongue.

  Tooley Pennebaker—The only real family the Bellaway children have right now.

  Mariette Dugan—A reporter with a nose for a holiday tale—especially if there could be a murder involved.

  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 pass 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 Pennebaker was a very nice lady, but even working every overtime shift 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 her—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 together—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 shifts 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 Christmastime miracle super bad about now. He still believed in such things, though he’d never tell anybody he did, so the newspaper 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 Christmastime 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 ‘portant 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 people—teachers and even Tooley—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 worried that Sprite acting bad and refusing to give answers in class 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 shipped 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-shirt 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 grown-ups, 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 might 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. Nobody understood better than Coyote how his luck could run out any time. Which made it even more ‘portant, 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 unserious 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 passenger 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 lightbulb. 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 knifepoint 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 crashing 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 letter—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.