Christmas at Timberwoods by Fern Michaels

Author:Fern Michaels
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781420125887
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 2011-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

Amy Summers watched her husband pick at the food on his plate. She had taken extra pains to make his dinner attractive: roast beef, sliced extra thin the way he liked it, and bright orange carrots next to the emerald peas and the mashed potatoes. At the last minute she had placed a small sprig of parsley on the square of bright yellow butter nestling in the mound of mashed potatoes.

“What is it, Eric? Is the roast too well-done?” she asked, her soft brown eyes reflecting her concern.

“No, it’s perfect. I guess I’m just beat. Hell of a day. By the way, I made myself a stiff drink while you were putting the finishing touches on dinner. I think it took the edge off my appetite. I’m sorry, honey.” Eric had no sooner finished speaking than the doorbell chimed.

Suddenly he was off his chair and running to the front door. His gorge rose. He fully expected it to be someone coming to tell him that Timberwoods Mall had just blown. He realized that unconsciously he had been listening for a thunderous boom in the distance. But if anything had happened, he would have been notified by phone. Still, he couldn’t help it—the nightmare scenario lingered in his mind. It wasn’t over yet.

Amy stared at her dinner, then attacked it with gusto. After all, she was eating for two. Eric was back in a few minutes, his face blank. “Stay in the kitchen, Amy.”

“Stay in the kitchen? What are you talking about? Hey—” she said, getting up from the chair, her dinner forgotten, “haven’t you heard of the Emancipation Proclamation? What’s in the living room you don’t want me to see?”

“Amy, this is mall business. Now, stay out here in the kitchen. I mean it,” he said firmly.

“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, Eric. I’ve never interfered in your business before, but this time it’s different. There’s something strange going on, and I want to see for myself. This is my house, too, you know.”

“Amy, honey . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Amy honey’ me,” she said, going through the swinging door.

“What—who is she?” she snapped at her husband before she made eye contact with the frightened girl and the officer who had her by one thin, handcuffed wrist. Her tone softened. “You two better tell me right this minute what’s going on. And take off those cuffs,” she demanded. “Right now.”

Amy waddled over to Angela. “Be gentle with her. It’s okay, honey,” she soothed as eight long years of suppressed motherhood rose to the surface. “No one in this house is going to hurt you, and certainly not this big ox I’m married to. I’m Amy Summers. You’d better work faster than that, Mr. Policeman,” she said sharply. “What if you cut off her circulation?”

“She’s fine, Mrs. Summers. I had to do it this way,” the cop said defensively. “She almost escaped.”

The handcuffs removed, Angela massaged her wrists then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. What was she doing here, she wondered as she looked around warily.

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