Free The Sheikh's First Christmas - A Warm and Cozy Christmas Romance by Holly Rayner

They'd put a wooden stick in the tracks of the door, too. I'd have to find another way in.
     
    I circled the house slowly, taking stock of my options, until I arrived at a cellar door, set on an angle low to the ground. I crouched in the grass and examined the lock, a padlock fastened into a metal loop that held a hinged plate in place. I could try to pick the lock, but I failed at picking locks as often as I succeeded. And, anyway, there was a much simpler way. I pulled the pouch of burglary tools from my back pocket and took out a small, flathead screwdriver. I fitted it into one of the screws that attached the hinged plate to the wood of the doorframe and unscrewed it. I repeated the act with the other two screws, and the plate fell free. I heaved the door open, and it fell back with a bang that echoed through the clearing, making me wince.
     
    It was unlikely that anyone had heard it, but still, I decided I'd better hurry. I flicked on my flashlight and made my way down the uneven wooden stairs into the cool, damp darkness of the cellar. I shone my flashlight over the cement floor and painted cinderblock walls, searching for the interior stairs. I found them in a far corner beside a tower of cardboard boxes. I hurried up the stairs, praying the door to the inside of the house would be unlocked. The handle turned easily in my hand.
     
    The cellar door opened into a tiled mudroom leading onto the kitchen. I paused here, trying to remember where I'd found the music box. It had been upstairs... A library? No, a music room. I strode through the living room, down a short hallway and up a flight of stairs. It took me a few moments, but I found it. The room was just as I'd remembered it. A baby grand piano stood in the center of the room, its chocolate-colored wooden surface gleaming in the sunlight that cut through the treetops in bright ribbons. There was a harp with a stool beside it, the woven fabric covering the seat cushion worn with use. I looked to my right and found the cabinet. Its glass doors were closed over shelves full of sheet music, metronomes, and tuning instruments. I approached the cabinet and opened it. I pushed a stack of piano primers aside to clear a space on a high shelf. I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and took out the music box, still safely wrapped. The little weight of it in my hands was solemn and significant. I needed this fragmented penance; my conscience wept for it.
     
    I turned the bundle in my hands, unwrapping the towel to reveal the shiny, inlaid surface of the box. I felt a muted pang of longing. It wasn't mine, but it was still as lovely as the day I'd first seen it. On impulse, I opened it, wanting to hear its song one last time. The pale ballerina turned in her steady dance, and "Clair de Lune" played softly, slowing down as the box wound down.
     
    As the last note of the song rang out, a pounding from downstairs jolted me out of my reverie. Time seemed to slow down as I watched the music box tumble from my hands. I reached out for it, but it was too late. The box hit the wooden floor with a discordant clang, striking first on one of its silver corners, then directly against the tiny figure of the dancer, causing the tiny ballerina to snap in half. The box bounced once more, its mechanism sounding a final chord of protest, before finally coming to rest on its side.
     
    The pounding sound came again. Someone was banging on the front door, and it didn't sound like a visitor's knock. I flattened myself against a wall and peered around the edge of the window frame. My heart stopped when I saw what I’d prayed not to—a police cruiser in the driveway, its lights flashing.
     
    There was a cop standing at the front door. I couldn't get a clear view of him, but I imagined his gun was in his hand. Another officer was on the front lawn, circling slowly around the house. I didn't have to guess about whether his gun was out. He held it in both hands, pointing the weapon down at the