A Cavanaugh Christmas
She heard Cavelli, or whatever his name was, loudly proclaiming a single word: “Gun!”
Then, just like that, before she could home in on the weapon’s location and which of the thugs was pointing it, Kait was pushed down to the ground. Not just pushed down to the ground, but, at the same time, instantly having her body covered, as well.
Covered by a rock-solid, warm body that all but obliterated everything else that existed around her.
Had the air not already been knocked out of her, the pressure, both physical and otherwise, of the detective’s really firm body against hers would have stolen it away.
Wasn’t this guy made out of flesh and bone like the rest of them? So why didn’t he feel that way?
The thought telegraphed itself through her startled brain as Kait found herself pinned to the cracked asphalt, unable to draw in a decent breath or proclaim her indignation at being shoved down like this.
And then came an almost deafening noise right above her head. Three shots fired in rapid succession, sounding so loud, her ears started ringing.
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to the Cavanaughs! I don’t know about you, but I’ve missed them. This book marks the start of a whole new branch—eight people who, up until a few short months ago, didn’t have a clue they were related to the venerable clan. This was because fifty years ago there was a mix-up in the hospital. The patriarch of this branch grew up believing himself to be Sean Cavelli and ignored the fact that he didn’t resemble either one of his parents or any of his siblings.
This particular book is about Sean’s oldest son, Thomas, a Missing Persons Detective who has to deal with this odd identity crisis and also with being assigned a temporary partner who has come to Aurora searching for a missing little girl. The detective from New Mexico, Kaitlyn Two Feathers, is coping with her own personal demons. As the hunt for the child progresses, these two are surprised to discover that the answers to their own internal questions and dilemmas are found within each other.
As ever, I thank you all for reading my books, and from the bottom of my heart, I wish you someone to love who loves you back.
Fondly,
Marie Ferrarella
MARIE FERRARELLA
A Cavanaugh Christmas
Books by Marie Ferrarella
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Private Justice #1664
**The Doctor’s Guardian #1675
*A Cavanaugh Christmas #1683
Silhouette Romantic Suspense
**A Doctor’s Secret #1503
**Secret Agent Affair #1511
*Protecting His Witness #1515
Colton’s Secret Service #1528
The Heiress’s 2-Week Affair #1556
* Cavanaugh Pride #1571
* Becoming a Cavanaugh #1575
The Agent’s Secret Baby #1580
* The Cavanaugh Code #1587
* In Bed with the Badge #1596
* Cavanaugh Judgment ##1612
Colton by Marriage #1616
* Cavanaugh Reunion #1623
**In His Protective Custody #1644
Silhouette Special Edition
†Diamond in the Rough #1910
†The Bride with No Name #1917
†Mistletoe and Miracles #1941
†Plain Jane and the Playboy #1946
†Travis’s Appeal #1958
Loving the Right Brother #1977
The 39-Year-Old Virgin #1983
†A Lawman for Christmas #2006
††Prescription for Romance #2017
‡Doctoring the Single Dad #2031
‡Fixed Up with Mr. Right? #2041
‡Finding Happily-Ever-After #2060
‡Unwrapping the Playboy #2084
Harlequin Special Edition
††Fortune’s Just Desserts #2107
‡A Match for the Doctor #2117
‡What the Single Dad Wants… #2122
††The Baby Wore a Badge #2131
Harlequin American Romance
Pocketful of Rainbows #145
‡‡The Sheriff’s Christmas Surprise #1329
‡‡Ramona and the Renegade #1338
‡‡The Doctor’s Forever Family #1346
Montana Sheriff #1369
Holiday in a Stetson #1378
“The Sheriff Who Found Christmas”
MARIE FERRARELLA
This USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author has written more than two hundred books for Harlequin Books and Silhouette Books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.
To
Patience Bloom,
with undying gratitude
for allowing me
to be me
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Chapter 1
“Boy, some guys sure get all the luck.”
The comment, half complaint, half good-natured envy, came from thirty-five-year-old Detective Angelo LaGuardia and was directed at the man he’d called a partner for the past two and a half years, ever since the latter had been assigned to the Missing Persons Division of the Aurora Police Department. LaGuardia, married for sixteen years to the woman he’d met his first day in high school, viewed his partner’s life much the way a man on a restricted diet viewed an ice-cream sundae—with strong, unfulfilled longing.
“First you go from being an annoying Italian,” Angelo continued, getting more specific when his partner glanced up from his computer screen, puzzled, “to an annoying crown prince—”
Detective First Class Thomas Cavelli’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. “I’m not a crown prince.” There was a steely emphasis just beneath his ordinarily easygoing, laid-back drawl, as well as a warning look in his eyes. “And, as far as I know, I’ve never been accused of being annoying.”
His sister, Kendra, another recently relocated member of the Aurora Police Department, chose that moment to walk by the detectives’ desks on her way out on a case. Younger than Tom by three years, Kendra chimed in her two cents’ worth even as she kept on walking.
“That is definitely up for a vote, big brother.”
“See?” Angelo declared with a measure of triumph, rocking back in his chair, a wide grin on his equally wide face.
“No one asked you, Kenny,” Tom pointed out, raising his voice so that it followed his sister out. And then he turned back to his partner. LaGuardia was built as short and squat as he himself was tall and lean. “You said ‘first.’”
Tom braced himself for what came next, knowing he’d hear it eventually. Might as well get it over with sooner than later.
LaGuardia’s head bobbed up and down in affirmation. “That I did.”
When no more words followed, Tom prompted him. “Which means there’s a ‘second.’”
LaGuardia laughed shortly as he nodded more to himself than to his partner. “Easy to see why you made detective—even without your blue-blood connections.”
Though he didn’t show it, the flippant term rankled Tom.
Unlike some of his brothers and sisters, when the bombshell hit that the seven of them and their father were actually Cavanaughs rather than Cavellis, the way they had all grown up believing, Tom had more or less taken the news in stride. It was part of his basic p
hilosophy of life: to deal with what was before him and then move on. So far, that philosophy had stood him in good stead.
It would be interesting to see if that would continue.
Tom reasoned that, Italian or Scottish, he was still the same person he’d been, still followed baseball games, particularly those of the Anaheim Angels, was still indifferent to the Lakers and the whole basketball scene in general. He still wrote with his left hand and operated power tools—when he actually had the time—with his right.
And he still intended to work his way up through the department on his own merits and not by riding on the coattails of his siblings or his father. That went double for the coattails of the family he and the others suddenly and completely without warning found themselves a part of.
It was barely two months ago that the news had surfaced, traveling through every nook and cranny in the Aurora Police Department with the speed of a lightning bolt. It was hard to say who in the family had been the most surprised. They all had been shell-shocked by the news for a little while. Some more so than others.
It all boiled down to this: because of a mix-up in the hospital, his father, Sean, a newborn, was accidentally switched with another newborn male of the same size and weight bearing the same first name and a very similar last name.
And that, in a nutshell, was how Sean Cavanaugh became Sean Cavelli and vice versa.
The Sean who had actually been a Cavelli, their father was informed, had died before he reached the age of one. He was a victim of SIDS, an innocuous collection of letters that stood for sudden infant death syndrome, the insidious, mysterious disease that claimed so many infant lives and had snuffed out the real Sean Cavelli’s life.
Blissfully ignorant of all this, Tom’s father had gone on to grow up the youngest in a family of two brothers and two sisters, married Theresa O’Brien, had seven children with her and had lived a good, full life. By an odd twist of fate, he’d gone on to join the forensic lab in a nearby city.
With that in the background, Tom had been rather surprised to hear—right after the bombshell hit—his father confess that he’d always felt as if he was standing outside the family circle. That, try as he might, he just didn’t feel part of the family in the true, one hundred percent way that he longed to, despite the fact that everyone had always been nothing but kind to him.
Unable to pinpoint why, he’d always felt, for lack of a better word, “different.” Once he found out that he was actually a Cavanaugh and not a Cavelli, he understood why. It all began to make sense to him.
Something within him had been calling out to the parents who had actually given him life. Calling out to the people through whose veins ran the same blood as his. Once the mystery was unraveled, Sean no longer felt like a duck out of water.
Still, to say that the news ushered in an emotional upheaval within his tight-knit family was putting it mildly. Be that as it may, Tom had prided himself on being able to roll with the punches, no matter which direction they came from.
But he did have trouble with, though he did his best to keep his reaction under wraps, being viewed differently by the people who worked alongside of him. Some of them just assumed he would change because of the very nature of his connection to the family that some viewed as police department royalty.
That really bothered him.
Tom knew that, for the most part, LaGuardia was kidding. But even so, he also suspected that there was just the tiniest kernel of truth in what the older man had just said. Angelo, as well as several others in the department, did perceive him to be a “crown prince” of sorts because not only was the chief of detectives a Cavanaugh—Brian—but the former chief of police—Andrew—was a Cavanaugh, as well.
And that didn’t even begin to take into account the rest of the clan which was so prominently present on the police force. It was a standing joke that the Cavanaughs needed only a few more members in order to form their own country.
Now he was part of that, part of them—whether he chose to be or not.
Oh, there was no pressure—neither Brian nor Andrew were known for being the sort to apply undue pressure to get their own way. But pressure or not, that didn’t change the reality of things. He’d thought of himself as a Cavelli from the first moment he realized that people had last names—and now he was a Cavanaugh, whether he acknowledged the fact by embracing the new last name or not.
Blood was blood.
A German shepherd was still a German shepherd even though his owner might proclaim him to be an Irish wolfhound. Like it or not, the Cavanaughs were perceived differently. And Tom didn’t want to be treated differently. He’d worked too hard for that.
“So what’s the second thing you’re bemoaning?” Tom asked again since LaGuardia had deliberately left him hanging—and waiting impatiently. The man might be bursting with information, but he still liked to be coaxed to reveal it. Tom knew he’d have no peace until he obliged and played along with the game.
“And now that walks into your life,” Angelo said, clearly envious as he gestured toward the tall, leggy redhead who had just crossed the threshold and entered the squad room.
It was all Tom could do to keep his mouth from dropping open. Looking at the woman was like seeing the sunrise for the very first time. Hard to put into words, but definitely affecting.
Tom silently reminded himself to breathe.
The woman moved with precision, as if each step had been measured out and allowed only so much distance to be used before the next step began.
Poetry embodied in a physical form, Tom caught himself thinking as he struggled to maintain a poker face.
Tom shifted his chair a little to get a better view. No doubt about it, the woman was exceedingly beautiful. She was also as serious looking as a judge rendering the date of a convicted killer’s execution.
“From where I’m sitting,” he observed, his voice deceptively mild, “she’s walking into the squad room, not my life.”
LaGuardia ignored the protest. “But she is heading for you.”
Tom shifted his chair back to look at his partner, sitting at the desk next to his. “And you know this how?” he challenged.
Wide, sloping shoulders rose and fell in a careless fashion. “I keep my ear to the ground.”
“That explains why you’re so hunched over all the time,” Tom quipped. But LaGuardia appeared to be adamant, so he asked, “Seriously, why would you think—”
“Overheard her talking to the old man,” Angelo confessed, lowering his voice as if to keep this source between the two of them. “This one doesn’t beat around the bush.” There was admiration in his voice as he watched the woman make her way across the wide room littered with desks and personnel. “She went straight to the top to get her information.”
Tom wondered exactly what information his partner was referring to. First things first, though. LaGuardia had a tendency to be vague at times. “She talked to Lt. Chambers?” he asked, referring to their direct superior in the division.
“Nope, to your new guardian angel—the chief of Ds himself,” LaGuardia added when Tom focused his intense blue eyes on him, silently telling his partner to get to the point.
“And she asked for me?” There was a hint of mocking in Tom’s question. He didn’t know who the woman was and he sincerely doubted if she knew him, so there was no way she would be asking for him. This had to be LaGuardia’s lame idea of a joke.
No doubt irritated by the mocking note in his partner’s voice, LaGuardia said peevishly, “When she talked to your new uncle, she asked for the person with the best track record for finding missing children.”
“Best” in this case was still not good enough in Tom’s opinion. “Best” to him would have meant that he located the children every time one was reported missing or kidnapped instead of only seventy percent, which was where his record stood at the moment.
According to the law of averages, that was something to be proud of, his father had told him. But he had no pa
tience—or the time—for pride. There’d be time enough for pride when every child’s file that came across his desk was marked “closed” and it had been resolved with a happy ending.
And a happy ending occurred only when the child was found.
Alive.
Tom’s doubts as to the veracity of LaGuardia’s claim began to dissipate as the tall, willowy redhead drew closer. Apparently the woman was heading straight for his desk.
It crossed his mind that this could still be either LaGuardia’s idea of a joke, or someone else’s. Someone who wanted to pull his leg. If so, whoever was orchestrating this had to have a black sense of humor. There was nothing remotely amusing about the set of circumstances that would bring a woman to him, seeking his professional help. Had he not been as content and well adjusted as he was, Tom was fairly certain that his job, particularly the failures that went hand in hand with the caseload, would have haunted him beyond the point of human tolerance.
He wasn’t sure how others survived within this particular environment, but as for him, for the most part, he focused on the successes. Focused on them to almost the exclusion of all else because he knew he had to keep a good, optimistic frame of mind in order to keep on doing what he was doing. And he had to keep going because there were children who needed someone to find them, to bring them home and to punish the person or persons who were responsible for having taken them away in the first place.
For a moment, his thought froze in place as he watched the woman coming closer, a lyrical song in heels that were far from sensible. It struck him that, despite her austere expression, this woman cared about appearances. At least her own.
She was a long way from home.
The thought came out of nowhere, in response to nothing in particular. But it was true. And it was for the first time.
In this day and age of facilitated travel, Detective Kaitlyn Two Feathers, of the Taos, New Mexico, Police Department, had never been outside of New Mexico, scarcely out of Taos, actually.
At least, not to her knowledge.
She’d been in her maternal grandmother’s care the first four years of her life until the state, alerted by an anonymous “good citizen,” had become aware of what was happening and had ultimately taken her away. Grandmothers weren’t supposed to try to sell their unmarried daughter’s child, even if that daughter was serving twenty to life for second-degree murder of said child’s father.