Rescued by his Christmas Angel by Cara Colter Page B

sexy than his startling good looks.
    Mrs. Wellhaven, a pinch-faced woman of an indeterminate age well above sixty, called the children up onto the stage, and the workers had to stop to let the kids file onto the triple-decker stand that had been built for them.
    â€œHi, Daddy!” Ace called.
    â€œYes,” Mrs. Wellhaven said, lips pursed, “let’s deal with that first off, shall we? Please do not call out the names of people you know as you come on the stage. Not during rehearsal, and God knows, not during the live production.”
    Ace scowled. Morgan glanced at Nate. Father’s and child’s expressions were identically mutinous.
    Morgan shivered. In the final analysis could there beanything more sexy than a man who would protect his own, no matter what?
    Still, the choir director had her job to do, and since Nate looked as if maybe he was going to go have a word with her, Morgan intercepted him.
    â€œHi. How are you?”
    Though maybe it was just an excuse.
    In all likelihood Nate was not going to berate the choir director.
    â€œWho does she think she is telling my kid she can’t say hi to me?” he muttered, mutiny still written all over his handsome face.
    Or maybe he had been.
    â€œYou have to admit it might be a little chaotic if all the kids started calling greetings to their parents, grandparents and younger siblings on national live television,” Morgan pointed out diplomatically.
    He looked at her as if he had just noticed her. When Nate gave a woman his full attention, she didn’t have a chance. That probably included the crotchety choir director.
    â€œAh, Miss McGuire, don’t you ever get tired of being right all the time?” he asked her, folding his arms over the massiveness of his chest.
    She had rather hoped they were past the Miss McGuire stage. “Morgan,” she corrected him.
    Mrs. Wellhaven cleared her throat, tipped her glasses and leveled a look at them. “Excuse me. We are trying to concentrate here.” She turned back to the children. “I am Mrs. Wellhaven.” Then she muttered, tapping her baton sternly, “The brains of the outfit.”
    Nate guffawed. Morgan giggled, at least in partbecause she had enjoyed his genuine snort of laughter so much.
    Mrs. Wellhaven sent them a look, raised her baton and swung it down. The children watched her in silent awe. “That means begin!”
    â€œShe’s a dragon,” Nate whispered.
    The children launched, a little unsteadily, into the opening number, “Angel Lost.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Morgan whispered to Nate. “I thought you made it clear you weren’t in favor of The Christmas Angel .”
    â€œOr shopping,” he reminded her sourly. “I keep finding myself in these situations that I really don’t want to be in.”
    â€œDon’t say that like it’s my fault!”
    â€œIsn’t it?”
    She felt ruffled by the accusation, until she looked at him more closely and realized he was teasing her.
    Something warm unfolded in her.
    â€œI didn’t know you were a carpenter, too,” she said, trying to fight the desire to know everything about him. And losing.
    He snorted. “I’m no carpenter, but I know my way around tools. I was raised with self-sufficiency. We never bought anything we could make ourselves when I was a kid. And we never hired anybody to do anything, either. What we needed we figured out how to make or we did without.”
    Though Morgan thought he had been talking very quietly, and she loved how much he had revealed about himself, Mrs. Wellhaven turned and gave them a quelling look.
    Ace’s voice rose, more croaky than usual, loudlyenthusiastic, above her peers. “Lost annngelll, who will find you? Where arrrrrre you—”
    Mrs. Wellhaven’s head swung back around. “You! Little redheaded girl! Could you sing just a little more quietly?”
    â€œIs she