Page 2 of Colorado Christmas Carol

Essa stopped kneading, up to her elbows in flour, and glanced at the child. “When you’re bad?” she asked absently. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“How bad can you be, at your age?” Essa exclaimed.

Mellie beamed. “Well, I don’t think it’s bad at all, telling a teacher that she shouldn’t pick on kids because they’re a little slow.

” She grimaced. “I got sent to the principal’s office.

But our principal’s nice, and he didn’t even suspend me.

It made the teacher really mad. So now I have to toe the line, so she doesn’t get me expelled.

” She pushed out her lower lip. “But I’m right, and she’s not.

Nobody should pick on people who are different. ”

“Mellie, you’re a nice person,” Essa said, and meant it.

The child’s eyes lit up. “You really think so? Thank you. Most people just say I’m irritating,” she added on a sigh.

“It’s that you’re intelligent,” Essa explained as she went back to kneading. “It intimidates grown-ups.”

“I don’t intimidate you, and you’re a grown-up,” Mellie pointed out.

“No, I’m not,” Essa assured her with a grin. “I’m only twelve. I never grew up. It’s boring, being an adult, so I’m not going to be one. Not ever.”

Mellie almost gurgled with glee. Her dad was so busy that he never noticed her, and she had no other family. Kids at school didn’t try to befriend her because they were afraid of the teacher who persecuted her. So she was mostly unappreciated. How nice to find a friend in such an unlikely place!

“Could you teach me how to cook?” Mellie asked.

Essa grinned. “Not right now.”

“I mean when you have time. It looks like fun.”

“It is. It’s about my only talent. Well, I have a way with words, if my English teachers weren’t lying.” Her eyes were dreamy. “Someday, somehow, I’m going to sell a book. It’s the dream of my life.”

“I’m spelling-challenged.” Mellie sighed. “And math challenged. And I hate having to read stories about people I don’t even like!”

“You’ll graduate one day. Then you can read what you like. But spelling is very important. If you ever want to learn a foreign language, it’s a lot harder if you don’t have spelling skills.”

Mellie’s eyes widened. “Do you speak languages besides English?”

“Oh, yes. Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, German, and enough Italian to get me arrested in Rome.”

“Wow!”

“I love languages.” Essa sighed.

“So does my dad. He speaks Spanish and German.”

“Well!”

“Not much, though,” Mellie said. “He likes archaeology. He says most of the antique papers and books on archaeology are written in German. He learned it because he wanted to research. He got his degree in anthropology, though.”

“And he’s a detective?”

“He didn’t want to teach. And spending his life in a big hole with a toothbrush didn’t appeal to him, he said. But crime-fighting did! So here we are.”

Essa just shook her head. What a fascinating man , she thought.

And sadly that thought went into eclipse when a deep, furious voice called, “Where the hell is my daughter!” Essa grimaced, glancing at a worried Mellie.

“Oh, dear,” Mellie said in a small voice. “I forgot to mention that he said I couldn’t leave the room.”

“Bad time to forget that,” Essa said under her breath as six foot one of solid muscle and wondrous man walked into the room in tan slacks and a green designer short-sleeved shirt. He ignored Essa’s small staff, working in the back of the kitchen.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he muttered at his daughter. He glared at Essa. “Hiding out with the future Nobel prize-winning authoress,” he added in a savage drawl.

Essa just glared right back at him. “Said the man who can’t speak without resorting to foul language as a substitute for good grammar,” she countered. She even smiled.

The glare got worse. “Well, my English skills are probably still superior to your writing skills. Or have you sold something in the past few hours?” he added in a sarcastic tone.

Essa turned, her hands caked with flour, and replied, “When I win the Nobel Prize for literature, I’ll remind you that you said that,” she said with a sweetly snarky smile.

“That’s the very day that I’ll be elected president, too,” he shot back.

They glared at each other while Mellie cleared her throat.

“Uh, Dad, didn’t you have a phone call to make?” she asked.

He blinked and glanced at her, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Phone call? Oh. Yes.” He glared at Essa. “Let’s go. And stay out of the kitchen. I don’t want the staff’s bad attitude rubbing off on you,” he told his daughter.

“It’s not rubbing off, it’s rubbing out,” Essa told him with furious eyes. “And you are so lucky that I don’t have a hit man who owes me a favor as a friend!”

“Good luck affording one on what you probably make working here,” he said insolently.

“Hit men come cheap if you look in the right places!”

“I wasn’t talking about hit men. I meant friends.” He smiled as he said it, and Essa could have thrown something at that smug expression. It was almost as if he knew she didn’t have friends.

She just glared. “Do be careful when you drink coffee at meals,” she said with poisonous sweetness.

“Poisoning guests will get you fired.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” she returned.

He ignored her. “Let’s go, Melinda.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She glanced back at her fuming new friend and made an apologetic face. The kitchen staff was doing its best to smother laughter. Their cool as a cucumber boss was flaming up.

* * *

Essa almost ruined the boeuf Bourbonnais. She was burning with fury; she’d never been so angry in her life. She hated Mellie’s dad. She absolutely hated him!

She finished her preparations for the next day with the help of the kitchen staff.

They got everything ready for the next morning.

She wished them a happy night, took off her apron, and moved warily out of the kitchen, searching to make sure she could avoid the big, blond barracuda who was ruining her life.

But all she saw was a slight, blond man in khaki slacks and a button-up shirt. He stared at her curiously.

She managed a smile and started to walk away.

“Excuse me,” he said in a soft tone, “but I seem to be lost.” He smiled apologetically. “It’s such a big hotel and I’m supposed to be in a meeting room . . .” He looked at a piece of paper in his hand. “The Martinique room . . . ?”

The manager had a wild sense of humor. He had three meeting rooms in the hotel for convention goers, and each one was named for one of his favorite islands. Talk about eccentric! The owner of the hotel was equally so, though, she recalled.

Essa laughed and her whole face lit up. “Our manager names rooms after islands,” she explained. “They aren’t numbered. That one is up that staircase”—she indicated it—“and immediately to the right. There’s a palm tree on the door.”

“Oh!” He laughed. “Thank you. You’re very helpful.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not used to women being polite,” he said, and then flushed, as if he thought he’d offended her.

She laughed, too. “I know what you mean! Common courtesy seems to have gone right out the door in our society. I’m frequently shocked at the way people will talk to total strangers. And online . . . !” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe the comment sections!”

“Me, too,” he said, warming to his subject. “Perfectly nice people turn into keyboard monsters online!”

“Exactly!”

He smiled warmly. “I’m Dean Sutter.”

“I’m Essa,” she replied, and shook the hand he held out.

He had an odd handshake, not limp but not assertive, and his palms were sweaty. He was only a little taller than she was, and of a slight built. But he seemed nice. She noticed the pin he was wearing on his collar, which had a karate symbol on it.

“Are you into martial arts? Sorry, if that sounds nosy,” she said.

He touched the pin. “Yes,” he said. “I do tae kwon do. Do you study martial arts?”

“Not anymore. I don’t have time,” she said sadly. “I did tai chi,” she added.

He beamed. “My father made me take it up. He said it would teach me not to be afraid of people.” He laughed apologetically. “I guess it sort of worked.” The smile faded. “That’s where he met my stepmother,” he added, “at a dojo.” And his face closed up.

His stepmother must be awful , she thought, judging from his expression . But she didn’t say it. “What sort of workshop are you here for?” she wondered, because there were three this coming weekend.

“The forensic one,” he said excitedly. “It’s being taught by a forensic expert from the crime lab in Denver. I can’t wait! I love forensics.”

She smiled. “I do, too,” she said. “I never miss those crime dramas.”

“Some of them are pretty good, but there’s no substitute for the real thing,” he said with enthusiasm. “You can learn so much from even a few hours in a class. And this one has a reconstruction expert.”

“You mean those people who use skulls and clay to reconstruct a face for identification?” she asked. “That’s an amazing skill!”

“It really is.” He hesitated. “Are you coming? To the workshop, I mean?”

She grimaced. “I really would like to, but I just don’t have time,” she said sadly. “I’m the head chef here. And it’s the holidays, so I stay pretty busy.”

“Oh, you cook! Wow! I wish I could!”

She smiled. “Anybody can cook, honest. It’s just learning the steps. Forensics, that’s hard! Do you work in law enforcement?” she added.

He smiled oddly. “Well, yes, in an affiliated way. It helps with my work.”

“Lucky you.”

“No, lucky you! I love food. I just can’t make it!”

She laughed. “It was nice to meet you . . . ?” She couldn’t remember his name.

“Dean,” he supplied.

“Dean,” she said.

“And you’re Essa.”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ll see you around the hotel, I expect?”

“Yes, you will,” he said, and smiled from ear to ear.

She smiled back and waved as she went down the corridor. She didn’t realize that he watched her every step of the way.

* * *