“You think this little boy is mine?”
Cole stared at the profile of the child asleep on his aunt’s shoulder. “That’s a pretty serious charge. Do you have some kind of proof?”
Tessa let out a sigh, “None. But I have a DNA kit in my purse. And just to be clear, I’m not accusing you of anything.”
He shook his head. “If your sister didn’t tell you about me, how did you get my name?”
“Her diary. I brought it along and I’d be happy to show you the passage that put you at the top of my list. Later. After I get Joey in bed, maybe?”
Before he could answer, she said, “If I’ve made a mistake, we’ll leave in the morning. No hassle, I promise. I’m not trying to pin Joey’s paternity on anybody. I only want to do the right thing for my nephew. I know what it’s like to grow up without a father.”
Grow up without a father. Something he wouldn’t wish on anybody – especially not a sweet kid like Joey who grabbed your heart with both fists and didn’t let go.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As a child, Debra wanted to be an artist. She saved her allowance to send away for a “Learn To Draw” kit, but when her mother mistook Deb’s artful rendition of a horse for a cow, Deb turned to her second love – writing.
Debra’s first published romance novel was released in 2000. Since her first sale, she has tackled many challenging, provocative subjects in her stories: blended families, ageing parents, the death of a spouse, catastrophic illness and divorce, child abduction, fertility issues and adoption. She was recently honoured as Romantic Times BOOKreviews’ 2006 Series Storyteller of the Year.
Dear Reader,
I was born into a family of gamblers. My mother used to say that her father would have bet on whether or not the sun would come up the next day…if he could get the right odds.
When I was invited to participate in a series about a group of friends who get together for weekly poker games, I didn’t hesitate to dust off my pack of cards and jump in. But I knew I needed a refresher course, so I turned to friends Dave and Sandra Meek – and the other players who make up their own kind of “Wild Bunch.” Thanks for letting me leave a few dollars ahead. I also have many fond memories of my parents and their friends gathered around the kitchen table with stacks of red, white and blue plastic chips, the sound of cards being shuffled and the friendly razzing as fortunes rose and fell. I felt exactly the same when the “Wild Bunch” started to come to life. I love these guys, and, win or lose, they’re there for each other.
The decision to set this series in a small town near San Antonio turned out to be most fortuitous for me, since that meant I could call upon friends Karen and Jim Hale for the inside scoop. Karen not only devoted several days to playing tour guide, but she made sure we ate authentic Tex-Mex and barbecue, Boracho beans and Shiner Bock – I can’t wait to return. Karen also proved instrumental in helping me understand what went wrong in Cole’s real estate deal. Thanks again for the grand, Texas-size hospitality.
Debra
Romantic Times BOOKreviews’ 2006 Series Storyteller of the Year
Betting on Santa
DEBRA SALONEN
MILLS & BOON
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To my fellow TEXAS HOLD ’EM authors – I knew from the start this wasn’t a gamble, because you’re all the best!
And to Victoria –
for just the right hints at just the right time.
CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, November 29, 2007
“SMILE, SANTA.”
Cole tried. It wasn’t easy with Sally Knutson on his knee and her three cats wreaking havoc on his costume. The gray one was tangled in the glossy white beard, batting at the lush strands. The calico perched on his shoulder had every needle-tipped claw hooked solidly through the red velvet, his undershirt and his flesh. The slightest movement on Cole’s part meant instant pain. The third—the “shy” one—was wedged between its owner’s ample bosom and Cole’s two-pillow padding.
His mother hadn’t said anything about hazard pay when she volunteered him to fill in for Ray Hardy, the man who truly was Santa to most of the citizens of River Bluff, Texas. A fixture at the Congressional Church’s annual holiday bazaar and toy drive, Ray hadn’t missed a night—until he slipped in the shower that morning. Now the man was facing hip surgery.
“Look at the camera, Sugar Baby,” Sally cooed.
Cole assumed she was talking to the feline on his shoulder since Sally was his mother’s age—and about forty pounds overweight, if his aching leg was any indication.
“Any time, Melody,” Cole urged, a bead of sweat threatening to turn into a rivulet down the side of his cheek. Their Hill Country weather had become oppressively muggy thanks to the tropical moisture out in the Gulf. It was almost December, and Cole was ready for some cooling. Especially if he was going to be stuck in a Santa suit for who knew how long.
“Sorry,” the high school senior said, looking up so quickly her green felt hat nearly fell off. “The battery is struggling to keep up. I should have had Dad bring the other rechargeables.”
He wondered if Ray had these kinds of problems, and if so how the man had managed to survive all these years. Not only was Cole’s patience exhausted, his butt was sore. The ornate chair that usually sat behind the pulpit wasn’t made for comfort, he’d decided after the first half hour. But it looked impressive on the raised “snow-covered” dais situated in one corner of the church parking lot, which, with the help of hundreds of strands of twinkle lights, had been transformed into River Bluff’s version of the North Pole.
“It’s green,” Melody said, moving into position. “Look at me, Sal. Say, ‘catnip.’”
The only way to simulate a smile when you were wearing a one-piece beard and mustache was to flex your cheek muscles in an exaggerated grin. Unfortunately,
