His Christmas Fantasy. JENNIFER LABRECQUE

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Girl: my daughter, my friend, my heart.

       1

      “WHEN ARE Helene and Mr. Wonderful getting here?” a muffled feminine voice asked as the kitchen door clicked closed behind Sam McKendrick, enveloping him in holiday scents of roasting turkey, pumpkin pie and fresh evergreen.

      His sweeping glance, the practiced eye of a professional photographer, took in a green bean casserole in a glass dish waiting its turn in the oven, a mixing bowl surrounded by an opened bag of flour, measuring spoons and other baking paraphernalia on the yellow Formica countertop.

      The crash and clang of falling pots and pans immediately followed from the lower corner cabinet where a very rounded rear was poking in the air, the speaker’s top half swallowed by the cabinet. “Got it,” the voice declared.

      His new sister-in-law wiggled backward, freeing herself from the cabinet, an oversized cookie sheet in tow.

      She straightened, stood, saw him and promptly dropped the cookie sheet. “Oh, hell.” Within seconds, however, laughter offset the momentary consternation in her hazel eyes. “Mr. Wonderful, I presume.”

      Sam grinned. “Actually, it’s McKendrick. Sam McKendrick. And you must be Giselle.”

      “Right.” She glanced at the teakettle-shaped clock on the wall. “You’re early.”

      Giselle Randolph was a hot mess.

      Her long brown hair, caught up in a clip, stuck out at an odd angle on one side, and flour dusted the end of her freckled nose. She wore a white T-shirt with I Brake For Elves in green lettering across the front, a bright red, very sexy bra visible beneath the thin T-shirt and snug gray sweats. He noted her bare feet and red toenails, a green-and-white holly berry design detailed on each of her big toes.

      Enchanting with an earthy sensuality, she was the sexiest woman he’d ever met, flour or no flour on her nose.

      She quickly recovered her aplomb. She smiled, wiped her hand on her thigh and extended her hand in greeting. “Welcome to the family.”

      “Thanks.” He shook her sticky hand and the oddest sensation zapped him, as if he’d just found something he hadn’t known he was missing. Feeling slightly stunned, he shook his head to clear it and realized he was still engulfing her hand in his. He released her.

      She grimaced an apology and wiped her hand ineffectually along the bottom of her T-shirt, which only tugged it tighter and threw her red plunging bra into further relief. “Sorry, didn’t realize it was sticky.” She waved her right hand, “Anyway…so, I guess I should thank you for eloping with my sister and saving me from some god-awful pink taffeta bridesmaid dress…or worse.” She pretended to shudder.

      “Glad I could help.” He’d met Helene, a tall, cool blonde who turned heads everywhere she went, when she was on vacation at a resort in the Caymans and he was there shooting a brochure ad—not his typical assignment but he’d done it as a favor for his friend, who managed the resort. What followed was atypical, as well. Six whirlwind weeks and one Vegas elopement and honeymoon later and here he was, meeting the parents…and sister…on Christmas Day in suburban Atlanta.

      “And my blushing-bride sister is where?”

      “Your parents were out front working on the light display—”

      She interrupted him, laughing. “More like fighting over the light display. You might as well get used to it. It’s a ritual.”

      He laughed along with her, “Got it.”

      “Helene?” she prompted, as if she hadn’t interrupted and he was the one who’d veered off topic. She retrieved the cookie sheet from the kitchen floor and put it on the counter.

      “Talking to the next-door neighbors at the fence,” he said before she cut him off again. “She sent me in with the luggage.”

      “Oh, right,” she said, her expressive eyes widening as if she’d just noticed the rolling suitcase handle in his left hand and the travel bag slung over his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll show you to Helene’s old room.”

      He followed her down the hall of the rambling Victorian, which held a charming mix of antiques, clutter and Christmas decorations. They passed the front room, where a heavily decorated tree filled one corner and a cheery fire crackled in the fireplace. The setting could’ve been lifted from a made-for-TV Christmas special, a far cry from the public housing he’d grown up in. Buying his mother her own small house, complete with the white picket fence she’d longed for, had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life.

      He started up the staircase, following Giselle, the stairs creaking loudly. Four steps up, he realized he was the only one setting them off. Giselle knew precisely where to place her foot to avoid the loud creak that seemed to come with every riser. He followed her lead, and there was no more creaking. She stopped and turned. Given the difference in their heights, it put them eye to eye.

      “I see you’ve got it.” She shook her head, smiling. “Once she started dating, Helene spent half her life grounded ‘cause she’d get caught sneaking in late.”

      It was an amusing tidbit about his wife, but he found himself wondering about Giselle. “What about you?”

      “I never snuck out.” She was so close he didn’t miss the flicker of wistfulness in her eyes. Her smile lit up her face, and he caught himself just in time from reaching out to wipe away the dusting of flour on her nose. “No one wanted to keep me out late the way they did Helene. You won’t be surprised to know your wife always had the boys lined up.”

      “Not surprised at all. She’s beautiful.” Helene was beautiful. Sam realized he had a need, as a bastard kid who’d grown up in public housing, to prove himself by having the best. He might wear jeans, but his shirt was always pressed and his jacket was Armani. His condo downtown offered a great view of Atlanta’s skyline. At thirty, he was ready to settle down. Beautiful Helene was a head-turner. He’d married her and committed to a lifetime together, and Sam neither made