A Very Merry Christmas: WITH "Do You Hear What I Hear" AND "Bah Humbug, Ba by Lori Foster, Janice Maynard, Gemma Bruce

brows down, he put the truck in PARK, again ordered Marci to lock the doors after him, and got out to stalk toward the van.
    Marci sighed. Releasing her seatbelt so she could climb to Osbourne’s side of the truck for an unhindered view, she watched him.
    The van sat idling, the driver confused. But with Osbourne’s stomping, hostile approach, clear alarm showed on his face. The driver looked to be in his early thirties, average in build and appearance with straight brown hair and shifty eyes.
    To hear their verbal exchange, Marci quickly rolled down the window.
    With one hand braced on the roof of the van, Osbourne leaned down to the driver’s door and ordered, “Open up.”
    The man pressed back in his seat and shook his head. “What do you want?”
    Rolling his eyes, Osbourne reached inside his coat and produced a badge that he held against the window. “Open it now.”
    The man gulped. His window lowered a mere five inches. “What’s going on here? Why are you harassing me?”
    “You’re following me. I want to know why.”
    “But…I’m not!”
    Osbourne leaned closer, and the man screeched. “Don’t you dare touch me! I’m warning you, I’ll call the cops!”
    “I am a cop, you ass.” Straightening again, Osbourne put away the badge and bundled up his coat against the whistling wind and sleet. “Stop that noise and tell me why you were following me, or we can talk at the station after I have you arrested.”
    The man didn’t ask on what charge, which Marci thought would have been a good question, especially since Osbourne was an Ohio police officer, and they were currently in Kentucky.
    The man glared toward the truck— toward her— and said, “I’m not following you. I’m following her.”
    Rather than appeasing Osbourne, that seemed to annoy him more. “Why?”
    Gaining confidence, the man lowered his window more and offered his hand. “Vaughn Wayland.”
    Osbourne ignored the conciliatory gesture.
    “Right.” Mr. Wayland retreated. “I’m working on a story, actually. I’m a freelance reporter and she’s hot news.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “You don’t know?” Wayland stared toward her with anticipation. “She’s a psychic.”
    Huffing, Osbourne said, “Don’t be an idiot.”
    Well, Marci thought, so much for him believing her.
    “But it’s true!” Wayland insisted. “I’d heard about her for a few years, but I didn’t believe it any more than you do. Then my neighbor’s cat went missing for months. Everyone sort of figured the mangy thing had gotten run over or eaten by a dog when, out of the blue, Ms. Churchill brought it back to her.”
    “So she found a lost cat. Big deal.”
    “I located another woman who claims Miss Churchill helped cure her dog of nightmares.”
    This time, Osbourne turned to glare at her in clear accusation.
    Marci glared right back. She remembered that poor dog. A neighborhood kid would torment it while hiding in bushes so that the dog’s owner didn’t know. The dog was a frazzled mess because of that rotten kid. But Marci had ratted out the boy, and not only had the dog owner given him hell but his parents also.
    “I have a file folder full of pet owners she’s helped. They’ve all been more than willing to sing her praises. All I need to finish my piece is an interview with her.”
    “I don’t believe this.”
    “She’s the kind of human interest story that appeals to readers, especially this time of year.”
    “You’re fucking with me, right?”
    Wayland sniffed. “No, I am not. And you have no right to interfere with my research.”
    “Stalking her is not research.”
    Affronted, he squared his shoulders. “I’m not stalking her. I just need her to share some of her background and history.”
    “Have you asked her?”
    “Yes. Twice.”
    Marci didn’t recognize the fellow at all. She yelled out the window, “He could be telling the truth, Osbourne, although I don’t remember meeting him.”
    “I