His By Christmas. Teresa Southwick

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      “You’ll wither and die if you don’t get any.” Sam’s remark was a clue that he was thinking along the same lines.

      “Seriously,” Katherine said, “there are studies that prove married men live longer. I want you around for a very long time, not working yourself into an early grave.”

      “Come on, Mom. You’re exaggerating.” When her eyes flashed with maternal intensity, he knew that was the wrong thing to say.

      “When was the last time you took a vacation?” she demanded.

      He thought for a moment and drew a blank. “I’d have to check my calendar. Can I get back to you on that?”

      “I already checked with Shanna and she told me you haven’t taken time off since she’s been with the company, so that’s at least four years.”

      “You went over my head to my assistant about this?”

      “You have a problem with that?” There was a warning expression in his mother’s eyes.

      “No. Just wondering.” He couldn’t believe she’d done research on him. “She’s probably right. Excellent at her job.”

      “She’s so good you never give her time off, either. She’s tired.”

      “I have an idea,” Sam said. “Give her a vacation and you take one, too.”

      “I don’t need a break—”

      “Recharging your batteries would be good for you,” his mother interrupted. “Your father and I recently took a trip to an all-inclusive island. There were so many activities available, or you could just veg out on the beach, sit in a lounge chair by the pool.”

      “Doing nothing would drive me nuts.” Cal could feel his stubborn streak kicking in. That was never good.

      “You can do as much or as little as you want,” she insisted.

      “I’ll check it out.” Again, when pigs took flight. Hopefully that response would get her off his back.

      But Katherine’s eyes narrowed as if she was onto him. “You think I don’t know you just threw me a bone and have no intention of doing any research on a vacation?”

      “Mom, can we talk about this later? Sam just got married and I’m sure he has stuff to do at this shindig.”

      “He’s right. Faith just threw her bouquet, so it’s almost time for me to do the garter thing.” Sam’s eyes took on a calculating look. “But I think I know how to resolve Cal’s vacation issue right now.”

      “I bet you don’t,” Cal said.

      “It’s like you’re channeling me.” His brother looked way too self-satisfied. “I think you should take a week off for every year of avoided vacation. So, I’ll bet you that you can’t go to that island and stay for a month.”

      “Of course I can. If I wanted to.”

      “Ah,” Sam said. “Wiggle room. I knew you couldn’t do it.”

      The tone and the words hit a nerve and started Cal’s competitive juices flowing. “Why would I want to?”

      “For the Duchess.” There was a dare in his brother’s voice.

      “But you love that car,” Cal protested.

      “I do. But you’re not going to stay on the island for a month, so there’s no chance I’ll lose the car.”

      It was like they were kids again, and Cal felt that honor challenge clear to his core. A double dog dare if he’d ever heard one. Plus, he really did love that car. It was a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow and something that belonged to his grandfather, which made it priceless.

      He stuck out his hand. “You’re on.”

      “Excellent,” Sam said, shaking on the terms of the wager. “Mom, you’re a witness.”

      “I am.” She pointed to the activity on the other side of the room. “Look, all the single men are gathering. Sam, I think you’re being paged. And, Cal, go catch the garter.”

      “No way.”

      “I’ve been looking forward to this.” Sam rubbed his hands together. “I’ll throw it right to you.”

      “Don’t do me any favors.”

      A few minutes later Sam removed the garter from his bride’s leg and threw it over his shoulder into the crowd of single guys. Unfortunately, Cal caught the blasted thing. The satin-and-lace symbol of the next guy to walk down ball-and-chain lane sailed just close enough that he couldn’t resist the challenge of snagging it. Damn his competitive streak. And he was pretty sure Sam had done it on purpose, to prove relaxing was too big a challenge for Cal, that he was going to lose the bet.

      His brother was wrong, Cal thought.

      The problem was going to be finding ways to fill his time for a month on an island. Or die trying. Really, what could go wrong?

      * * *

      Calhoun Hart broke his leg on the first day of vacation, so now he was going to work on the island. Justine Walker believed she’d drawn the short straw in agreeing to fill in for his vacationing secretary. But that was before she stepped off the plane and saw sun, sand, sea. And palm trees swaying in the gentle trade winds. That’s when it hit her. Working in a tropical paradise wasn’t like being the one who had to stay behind to manually blow a nuclear device and prevent an asteroid from wiping out Earth.

      Technically she hadn’t drawn the short straw anyway. No one else in the clerical pool at Hart Energy wanted to work with Cal Hart. In desperation, Human Resources made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Putting up with the infamous workaholic who signed her paycheck meant she was that much closer to being her own boss.

      Pulling a carry-on bag behind her, she limped up the flower-and shrub-lined path to Mr. Hart’s private villa at the resort. Her leg was as good as it would ever be, but long stretches of sitting still made it ache. In spite of the discomfort, she was grateful the doctors had saved it after the accident. She’d come a long way from wishing she’d died, too.

      In front of the impressive double-door entry, she stopped and took several deep, cleansing breaths, counting each one to slow down her racing pulse and heart rate. It took more effort than usual, but she didn’t usually go to work in a villa with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the ocean. The crystal clear varying shades of turquoise water defied words. It was one of those sights one simply had to see. The stunning beauty almost made her forget about the discomfort in her leg.

      She inhaled one last deep breath, counted, slowly released it, then knocked on the door. While there was no expectation of a speedy response since her boss was an invalid, the wait dragged on long enough that she debated going for help. But finally it opened and the man standing there, propped up on crutches, looked the picture of masculinity, in spite of the white, no-nonsense cast on his lower left leg. For the second time since his private plane had landed, she found herself without words. He was very sexy and that was more than a little distracting.

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