"Out on a Limb," from the anthology, MISTLETOE AND MAYHEM A Christmas Eve date turns into a deadly adventure.

Excerpt From "Mistletoe And Mayhem"

“This has got to be worse than wrapping an inflatable sex doll,” Stacy Banks muttered to herself, winding out another length of Christmas paper. Holding her bottom lip between her teeth, she folded, tucked, and taped. Then she took her veed scissors in hand to create a curly-ribbon confection in red and green. With a delicate touch, she placed it on top. Finally, inhaling a cautious breath, she spun toward the mirror to get a new perspective on the package.

“Well,” she said to her reflection. “I suppose I look…festive.”

And not like a kindergarten teacher, which was much more to the point. Miss Banks of Room 2 at Lemoncrest Elementary wore flat-soled shoes and long denim dresses or soft corduroy pants perfect for the chasing, corralling, and educating of thirty-four five-year-olds. Today’s get-up—a Betty-and-Wilma-like sarong of heavy-duty Christmas wrap complete with knee-length paper skirt pleated for ease of movement—was designed for interesting, enticing, and well…enslaving just one thirty-four-year-old man.

Stacey plucked the cascade of ribbon out of her own blond curls and picked up a bobby pin to anchor it more securely. Ryan Beausoleil—transplanted from El Paso, Texas, to the condo above hers just a few months before—wouldn’t know what hit him. He was toast. He was hers.

If she found the guts to ask him to the party, that is.

But a swift glance at the slip of paper lying on her kitchen table was all the swift-kick-in-the-derriere she needed. Formatted with a cutesy figure in one corner and the words Your Holiday Elf beneath it, the paycheck showed a sizeable number on the “Amount Of” line and her own name on the “Payable To” line, representing the last three weeks of wrapping, ribboning, and tagging. Extra money was good, and would be a pleasure to spend at the local mall. But it was the name scrawled on the signature line that was getting Stacy out of the house.

Her younger sister’s name. Her younger, freckle-faced, former Barbie-stealing sister who had, six months before, come up with a business idea, a business plan, a business success.

She’d gone out on a limb.

As had Stacy’s friend Delia, who’d traveled to China two months ago and adopted a baby girl. As had Stacy’s yoga-class colleague, who’d bought a $500 raffle ticket from the fire department in August and was now on a year-long cruise around the world.

In those same months, Stacy had burped the baby, dutifully filled out lesson plans, worked as her sister’s temporary employee, and never missed a scheduled session at the local Yoga for You center.

But she’d never gone out on a limb.

To the rustle of her wrapping-paper dress, Stacy gathered up a lacy shawl and a tiny evening purse, leaving behind her day planner, her bulky wallet, and her cell phone. Anything else she needed would be at Your Holiday Elf’s end-of-the-season party. Everything but her date.

Stacy knew she’d find him at the JMR Sportfishing Landing on San Diego Bay. Even in the deepening twilight, the driving directions she’d printed off the internet were simple to follow and a parking space just as easy to find. The lot was nearly empty, but that didn’t surprise her. Ryan had inherited a sportfishing boat from his uncle and he’d told her that December was the off-season. He and the other boat operators who used this landing wouldn’t have regular trips running again until spring.

The place wasn’t entirely deserted, though. Just as she approached, a pair of men was coming through a locked gate leading to the docks. They held it open for her without question, giving her a friendly check-over in the glow from the string of Christmas lights wound through the cyclone fencing. Too excited and nervous to feel the cold, she’d left her shawl behind.

“Nice package,” one of the guys murmured with an easy grin. “Is my name on the gift tag?”

Uneasiness fluttered in Stacy’s belly. Not that the men appeared threatening, but she always clammed up at come-ons, even benign ones like this. Each year during the first week of school she read her students Ms. Shy Makes a Friend, but the same advice she said aloud every September, “Go the mile, give a smile,” never seemed to stick with her.

“I’m, um, here to visit Ryan Beausoleil.” Saying it aloud set her stomach to fluttering again. His name was how they’d met, in the condo mailroom where the box marked Beausoleil was snuggled beside the one marked Banks.

Bo-so-lay. It sounded exotic, evocative.

Second, third, fourth thoughts flitted through her brain. His very syllables were out of a kindergarten teacher’s league. How could she be thinking of going out on a limb with him?