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Christmas Across Time
Christmas Across Time
Christmas Across Time
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Christmas Across Time

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LONGER THAN FOREVER

In snowbound Nashville, traveling lawyer Joan McGavock and architect Lincoln Banner will share accommodations but not a bed. Their double-booked hotel suite has a sleeper sofa, and after their irritating introduction... Well, for a pair who was instantly attracted to one another, these two have never been farther apart.

But not for long. A deceased husband and wife haunt the old hotel, nineteenth-century beloveds intent upon touching one another again, if only by the bodily possession of living vessels. Another ghost lurks as well, one with a deeper and darker need. So what began as a hateful compromise to find a warm place to sleep soon becomes something altogether hotter, and trickier, for Linc and Joan must decipher the riddle of the final spirit. They must also fight the love that is burning between them—as long as it remains a remnant of something lost long agoand not a taste of the future.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 5, 2016
ISBN9781944262495
Christmas Across Time

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    Christmas Across Time - Nancy Sartor

    CHAPTER ONE

    Go to Nashville for Christmas, they said. Hardly ever snows, they said. It’s an easy trip, they said.

    Joan McGavock was looking for easy when she made her reservations. She needed a place to shake off the tension of her fifty-hour workweek, down from the sixty hours a week she’d worked before she made partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in Miami. She was proud of her accomplishments, but the job carried a brutal workload.

    The firm closed for two weeks near Christmas each year to give its employees time to prepare for and enjoy the Big Day. She meant to see the sights, eat at fine restaurants and read. She might even ignore her usual workout routine for one of these two weeks. Couldn’t ignore it after she reached her parents’ Boston home because her father was an excellent cook.

    She wanted nothing exciting or difficult. She also wanted nobody to interfere, and as little office work as she could manage.

    A real vacation.

    She left Miami on Friday morning with an hour layover in Charlotte. There, the temps were in the sixties and the sky a brilliant blue, but the departure boards advised that her flight to Nashville was delayed. The Internet said there were five inches of snow on the ground in Nashville with more expected. The Nashville airport was still open, but travelers should expect long delays. Four hours later, she left Charlotte for Nashville.

    A native Bostonian, Joan was no stranger to snow, but the conversation on the airplane more than hinted that snow in Nashville would be a totally new experience.

    "Nashvillians cannot drive in the rain, one woman said, her rough voice carrying easily over the engine noise. Snow is a freakin’ apocalypse. Abandoned cars all over the roads. We’ll be lucky to get home tonight."

    Because of the weather, the pilot announced, they would circle Nashville and come in from the north. We’ve hit a clear pocket, he said. If you look out the port side windows, you’ll be able to see one of Nashville’s two lakes. Pretty sight with the snow falling to its south.

    The effect was lovely but also strange. Below them, water shimmered in bright sunshine pouring through the hole in the clouds. All around them, snow fell in a deep curtain that cut off all other visibility so the world seemed to end at the curtain.

    Despite the snow, the landing was smooth on a cleared runway, the walk to the baggage area reasonably short. With her bag, Joan emerged from the terminal onto ground level, sheltered from the snow beneath layers of concrete.

    She’d chosen to spend part of this holiday season in Nashville based on the television show Nashville. Her schedule left her scant hours for television, but she taped Nashville regularly and never missed an episode. She loved the characters and the story. More than that, she loved the city the show offered: beautiful, bright, full of artistic people fighting toward the top despite horrible odds. A little research said the show was actually filmed in Nashville. That was all Joan needed.

    She’d leave Nashville for her parents’ home a week from tomorrow, so she could be there for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning as always.

    The cab driver groused about the traffic and the inability of the average Nashvillian to drive in snow. He explained he would be forced to drive very slowly.

    Joan folded her arms, sure he was softening her up to gouge on the rate. Perhaps southern states weren’t as prepared as Boston for bad weather, but the idea that an entire city could be paralyzed by a snowfall was absurd. She glanced at the fare schedule listed and decided if he tried to gouge her she’d take it out of his tip.

    The trip was done at no more than ten miles an hour. At least twice, the driver was forced to back up a snow-covered road blocked by abandoned cars and pickup trucks. The snow looked like Boston snow, but apparently it was slicker because even with the four-wheel drive the driver said he had, they slid more than once perilously close to a deep ditch.

    By the time they turned from the snow-packed road onto the cleared roads within the hotel complex, Joan’s muscles were as tight as if she’d driven the cab herself. There was, she’d been told, only one place to stay in this city.

    The Opryland Hotel.

    Even tense and frustrated, she was amazed at what they’d done with the grounds. The trees twinkled with thousands of tiny white lights woven into sparkling nets that overlaid the branches and made the trees appear to be fully leafed with sparkling Christmas lights. The holy family filled the center of the roundabout, the characters at least eight feet tall and lighted so they glowed in an ethereal tableau of the first Christmas.

    Long streamers of tiny colored lights descended from a single pole at least a hundred and fifty feet tall. The streamers ended at bent-wire poinsettias as large as the car in which she rode. It must have taken an army of people months to produce this level of decoration, and, she reminded herself, she’d not seen the inside of the hotel yet.

    In the middle of all this glitter was the hotel itself, its bulk fronted by a long porch with rocking chairs waiting for warmer weather, a Southern mansion designed to make one feel he or she was entering a private home instead of one of the largest hotels in America.

    Pretty spectacular, ain’t it? the taxi driver asked as he pulled smoothly up to the front doors.

    Yes, Joan managed.

    The fare was higher than that posted, but considering the arduous path he’d been forced to take, she not only paid it but added an extra-generous tip. How did anyone get around this town in snow?

    A young man with a pompadour of dark hair opened the hotel door for her with, Welcome to the Opryland Hotel, ma’am. You may check in over there. He pointed to her right.

    Exhausted and grimy, Joan stepped into the lobby, intent on being in a hot shower in no more than fifteen minutes, but again, the magical spell of decoration caught her up short.

    To Joan’s left, a fireplace blazed happily, surrounded by people in comfortable chairs, all staring into the flames, mesmerized so they never noticed her entrance. Burning logs the size of small trees crackled merrily. Joan felt a stab of nostalgia for her parents’ place. Miami apartments hardly ever included fireplaces.

    Forcing her gaze away from the comfy tableau around the fire, she lifted it to a grand staircase that curved from the middle of the lobby, its width tailor-made for the descent of a blushing bride. A tiered Christmas tree towered twenty feet or more to the ceiling. Near life-size statues of fairies and elves peeked from the corners. It was an amazing display of wealth-driven creativity.

    She stood in an exhausted near-trance for a few seconds before she shook herself and headed for the long marble check-in desk.

    May I help you? The registration agent was a tall, blonde woman with brown eyes so dark they appeared black and a granite jaw. Joan figured this was a part-time job for her. During the day, she was probably a cop.

    Or a hired killer.

    Hiding a smile at that thought, Joan handed over her registration confirmation along with her credit card. She received a single key and instructions to a high floor where her executive suite was located. Despite the fact that her law firm was closed, she still had a bit of work to do. Spreading it out on the desk would be much more comfortable than trying to work sitting on the bed. Besides, she hadn’t battered her way into a partnership to stay in cheap hotel rooms. She saved three quarters of her salary on a regular basis and intended to splurge a bit this week.

    Spacious with plenty of light, a nice desk in the sitting area along with a couch and chairs, the room didn’t disappoint. The Conservatory just outside her window was a veritable toyshop of enormous Christmas figures hanging from a glass ceiling that rose at least a hundred feet or more above the floor. Thousands of exotic and not-so-exotic plants thrived beneath that ceiling. People craning to see it all and children in various stages of sensory overload packed the elevated walkways.

    She rolled her suitcase into the bedroom, got her makeup case and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower, dinner with at least one glass of wine and bed. She’d begin her adventure in Nashville tomorrow.

    The water was hot, and the soap French milled. For good measure, she washed her hair, using the small bottles of shampoo and cream rinse provided by the hotel.

    Halfway through her shower, she got an idea that would help her speed up a contested trust. Eager to get it down before she forgot it, she wrapped one thirsty towel around her head and another around her waist, leaving the girls to sway free and easy as she strode into the sitting room.

    The door handle clicked.

    Joan whirled.

    The door opened, then widened.

    A large suitcase rolled inside.

    She snatched the towel from her head, dropped it over her breasts and turned to face the door square on.

    He was tall, dark-haired and buff as hell, she managed to notice before his hazel gaze dropped to her breasts and then jerked back to her face. She ignored the crawly feeling between her shoulder blades, and let the look on her face tell him he’d better keep his gaze where it belonged.

    He seemed too stunned to speak for a second or two, then finally managed, What are you doing in this room?

    This is my room. You’ve obviously made a terrible mistake.

    I don’t think so, he said, holding up the plastic key. If I were mistaken, this wouldn’t fit the lock.

    So now we’re going to argue over whose room this is?

    Fuck that.

    "Clearly, there is a mistake. I’m sure the front desk will be happy to help you work it out, but for now, sir, you need to back out of here. When he continued to stand there, she added, Now, please."

    That seemed to get through. A line of pink flowed up his neck. His gaze dropped to the floor. Sorry, he mumbled. You’re right. They musta made a mistake downstairs.

    Joan swallowed, Ya think? and waited until the door closed to release the breath she’d been holding.

    A real son of a bitch and rude to boot. She pulled the towel off her breasts with a hand that shook.

    Damn it. Joan McGavock didn’t end confrontations shaking.

    How hard would it have been for him to simply say, Oops. I must be in the wrong room and back the hell out?

    Not this guy. He’s got to cop a look before he goes. How’d he think she got in here? With a crowbar? She dragged one of the chairs to the door and propped it beneath the door handle just in case he came back for another look.

    For good measure, she dug her can of mace from her purse and set it on the table beside the door.

    He had a key.

    Yeah, yeah, yeah, Joan spat at her inner editor. Hotel keys can be obtained from many places. For all I know, he saw me check in and decided to see if he could worm his way into my room.

    For what purpose?

    To cop a look at my tits, apparently.

    But chatting with her inner editor calmed Joan enough to admit that he’d looked like a businessman on holiday. Jeans, nice turquoise shirt that made his eyes pop, big shoulders that moved beneath that shirt like otters stuffed into a burlap sack. They’d made a mistake at the front desk. He’d get it all straightened out and be in his own shower in fifteen minutes.

    Just a mistake, she said out loud. A stupid mistake by a stupid man I’ll never see again.

    Which was a good thing. After Brad, she wasn’t fond of men in general and good-looking ones in particular.

    She jotted her idea down on the hotel stationery and then congratulated herself for the thousandth time for breaking up with Brad before he managed to milk her of quite everything she owned.

    She was off men for a while, maybe forever.

    No matter how incredible their shoulders were.

    CHAPTER TWO

    Lincoln Banner shook his head at himself as he stepped into the elevator.

    "Couldn’t keep your eyes off her tits? What is wrong with you?" He hit the button for the lobby, set his bag down and leaned against the back wall. She caught him by surprise, that was true, but still, any man who made it past eighteen had learned to control where his gaze went and when it went there.

    Icy woman, that one. He shivered a little at the thought of having to take her on, glad he’d given in and backed out before things got any tenser. She’d be a tigress. That much had been clear in the stiffness of her body, that cold, hard look in her eyes.

    A redhead, though, with her hair wet and tousled all over her head. Dark auburn, he guessed, unless it lightened as it dried.

    Terrific body, too. Legs much longer than a short woman should have, nice ass and those tits… Linc took a deep breath. You need a cold shower, old son, before you get us in more trouble than we can handle.

    He was sorry he’d barged in on her, but desk clerks in a place as expensive as this should take extra care not to assign two people to the same room. Kind of basic, like Hotel Reservation 101, Linc would imagine.

    Besides, this place surely had a state-of-the-art computer system designed to prevent exactly this kind of embarrassing moment.

    You’re embarrassed because you acted like a fucking teenager.

    That much was true, but he shouldn’t have been put in that position. ’Course, it was nearly Christmas, which meant this place was slammed all day and half the night. People coming in from snow-covered roads were not in the best of moods, either. A busy hotel clerk could easily make a mistake under these conditions, he guessed.

    For the past twelve years, Linc had spent the Christmas holidays in Nashville. Before he had enough money for this hotel, he’d stayed in one of the cheaper ones down the road, but he’d always stayed in this area. During the five years he’d stayed here, he’d never had a minute’s problem. It was a good hotel with an excellent staff.

    Linc took a deep breath.

    Calm down, old son. Everybody makes mistakes.

    Including you.

    Linc shrugged his irritation away. He’d get another room and be in the shower before eight o’clock. Had nothing on the books for tonight anyway. Dinner somewhere in the hotel, a nice glass of wine, maybe catch Game of Thrones.

    The clerk at the front desk shook her blonde head. That is actually impossible, sir. Are you sure you weren’t in the wrong room?

    If so, Linc said, trying to hold his once again fraying temper, this key fit that lock.

    Do you remember the room number?

    Without a word, Linc opened the folder with the key and showed her what she, herself, had written less than ten minutes ago. She managed to nod, but he noticed the muscle in her jaw jump as she peered into her computer.

    He gritted his teeth against his urge to be a smart-ass or, worse, to unleash that temper he sometimes had and waited for her to speak.

    After several minutes, she shook her head. I’m going to need to speak with my manager. Do you mind waiting here for just a second?

    A second, he said. "Just a second."

    Much longer than a second later, a tall, thin man in a brown suit came from the back room. Mr. Banner, I don’t know how this could have happened. Our reservation system is electronic and totally foolproof, or so we’ve been assured. I’ve put in a call for the company that designed and now maintains it, but they can’t be here until tomorrow. The fact is we did, indeed, book both you and a lady into the same room for the length of your stay with us.

    The thought of the shower he so terribly wanted shoved his temper toward eruption. He swallowed it down. No problem. I’ll be happy to take another room.

    The man’s gaze dropped to the countertop. That’s just it, Mr. Banner. We have no other rooms to give you. Even our presidential suite is occupied for the length of your stay. Someone may depart early, which would give us a chance to relocate you, but right now, we simply have nothing.

    So, you’ll find me a room in a nearby hotel? He’d stayed in most of them before he could afford this one. Not even close to this luxury but they were clean and comfortable.

    "We would, sir, and pick up your tab to help make up

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