Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) Read Free Page A

reality and had a pretty good head on her shoulders, even if she was uncertain about her cutting edge haircut.
    And the reality was they needed to find shelter. “The inn is just over there. Maybe they’ve just gone to bed early.” Before four o’clock?
    Lord Archer gave her an un-lordlike snort which the comment deserved and the car crept forward.
    “Watch out—” Too late. They bumped over the snow-buried curb and there was an unpleasant scraping sound. Carrie thought he whispered the f-bomb, but was too polite to ask him to repeat himself.
    They made it safely across the road and up the driveway, their tires marking virgin territory.
    “There’s no one here,” Lord Archer ground out. “The place must be closed. I’ll just back out—”
    “No! Let me check. I won’t be a moment.”
    Before he could object, Carrie sprang out of the car and ran up the wide front porch. Her phone might not have bars, but the light on it was good enough to read the neatly-typed sign on the glass and mahogany front door.
    Merry Christmas! We’ve gone to Portland to spend the holiday with our children and grandchildren. We’ll reopen December 30 for the annual New Year’s retreat. See you then!
    Carrie dropped the f-bomb quite loudly. She’d jiggle the front door handle, but there was one of those alarm company shields beneath the doorbell. Not that anyone would come right away.
    A jail cell would be warm, right? Three hots and a cot. Somehow she couldn’t picture Lord Archer behind bars.
    “What does it say?”
    Carrie jumped a mile. The man had snuck up the steps behind her, and she never heard a thing with the roar of the wind and that odd clicking sound that heavy snow made when it fell.
    “They’re closed.”
    “I told you so. We’ll go back to Camden.” Lord Archer sounded smug and very Darcy-ish.
    “Oh, no! Really, I’ve had enough—I just came from there and so have you. It was a harrowing drive, wasn’t it? It will be worse now that the snow is falling harder.”
    “Belfast, then.”
    “The road that way is even more awful. What about the carriage house?”
    He blinked.
    She pointed to a building over to the left. In the summer on sunny days, a jaunty red Jaguar convertible was parked in front of it, attracting the tourists’ attention. “The barn, the garage, whatever it is. Maybe it’s not locked. Grab my boat bag from your car, please.”
    Carrie knew she was not being logical. If the carriage house held a valuable vintage car, then it was probably wired and locked too.
    It was locked, but there wasn’t any sign of an alarm system panel through the door’s window as she shone her phone light in. Careless. Carrie had some experience jimmying doors—that pop singer she used to work for was forever locking himself out of his house before Carrie organized an intervention and got him into rehab—so she took out her special tools from her handbag that she’d tucked inside the canvas tote.
    “Here. Hold my phone. I’ll need some light.”
    “Tell me those aren’t what I think they are.”
    “I won’t tell you then. If it makes you feel any better, reach up around the doorframe for a spare key—I don’t think there’s a doormat.”
    She stood patiently while Lord Archer made his futile effort, raining clumps of snow down on his own bare head and shoulders. Satisfied that there was no easy way in, she crouched over the lock for a few minutes, turned the doorknob easy as pie, and switched on the light.
    The car sat in isolated splendor, its canvas top still down, not going anywhere today. The concrete floor was swept clean enough to eat from, the workbench immaculate, the shelves lining the walls looking alphabetically neat with all the paraphernalia you’d need to keep an old inn going.
    And it was warm! For the delicate car, presumably. Carrie felt like kissing its shiny fender.
    “I’ll lose my work visa and be deported,” Lord Archer said with a certain sad grimness.
    “Nonsense. The