Merry certainly wouldn’t be here on the outskirts of Charlotte at King’s Mall if the assignment editor at WZLM-13 news hadn’t sent her out on a story.

Merry was an on-camera correspondent whose reports from the mall were scheduled to air live on the noon and six o’clock broadcasts. A taped version would appear at eleven.

She checked her watch. It was a quarter past nine in the morning, a little more than an hour since the mall had opened and fifteen minutes past the time she was supposed to have met her cameraman.

The technician operating the ENG truck wouldn’t appear for another few hours to start setting up for the noon broadcast, but she’d arrived early to get a jump on the story. Her plan was to weave some taped interviews in with the live report.

So where was Danny Thompson?

She didn’t suppose he was any happier about hanging out at the mall than she was, but a television reporter without a cameraman was like December without Christmas.

She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her fingers against her upper arms, then turned her mental energy toward her approach to the story.

Betsy Anderson, the assignment editor, had told her to think light and upbeat. To try to capture that “air of excitement and anticipation that only comes around once a year.”

As though that feature hadn’t aired a thousand times by a thousand different television stations.

She gazed around at the cornucopia of stores with their attractive window displays, all competing to bleed dollars from passing shoppers. From the look of things, they were succeeding. Take the slim brunette in lambskin nearly toppling over from the weight of her purchases

The labels on the smartly dressed shopper's bags — Harrington & Vine’s, Crystal’s, Sak’s — revealed that she’d managed to hit all of the mall’s anchor stores in seventy-five amazing minutes.

It also marked her as the poster girl for Christmas excess.

A story very different from the one Betsy had suggested formed. Why not give the news reports a fresh feel by focusing on the buy, buy, buy mentality retail America fed to a vulnerable public? Especially when her headliner was . . . disappearing into the madding crowd.

Merry scrambled to her feet and gave chase, thankful that her chosen method of keeping in shape was jogging around her neighborhood. The overburdened shopper didn’t stand a chance of avoiding her.

Merry fell into step beside her. “Excuse me, can I have a minute of your time? I'm — .”

“Merry Deluca of WZLM news,” the woman finished for her. She stopped walking and beamed as brightly as a Christmas tree light. “I watch you all the time. I particularly loved your story about that new store in downtown Charlotte with the live models. What could be better than being treated to a fashion show while you shop?”

“Thank you,” Merry said while her nose for news went on high alert. The woman, who was middle-aged, darkly beautiful and sporting a ring the size of Gibraltar on her left hand, smelled as expensive as she looked.

“I'm going to report on the last shopping day before Christmas and wondered if I could interview you.”

“Well, sure. What do you want to know?” The shopper’s well-endowed chest, covered by an exquisite lambskin jacket in a tasteful shade of rust, heaved slightly from exertion. No wonder. She must have been hot-footing it to buy as much as she had in so short of time.

Why, the woman was as bad as Patrick, not that Merry would let herself think about him. But if she did, she'd make a parallel between Patrick's tendency toward extravagance and the shopper’s.

Merry shoved Patrick to the back of her mind, where he wouldn’t leave. She looked over her shoulder but still couldn’t spot her cameraman.

Where was he?

“I couldn’t help noticing how much you’ve bought,” Merry said, plowing ahead. Her piece would be harder-hitting with video of the woman, but she could still use the vignette. “Can you tell me why you waited until Christmas Eve to do your shopping?”

“Waited? I didn't wait. I started my Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving, and I’m still going strong.” She laughed, a jolly, little tingle. She seemed so willing to share that Merry felt guilty for reveling in her cluelessness.

But, really. Did the woman honestly believe that showering friends and family with a wealth of hastily chosen gifts would bring her love?

“Are you done for the day?” Merry asked.

“Probably not. Once I drop this stuff at the women's shelter, I may pick up one or two more things.”

Merry's brows lifted. Her gut tightened. “The women’s shelter?”

The shopper wrinkled her nose. “It probably sounds silly when the women at the shelter need so much, but I thought they’d appreciate getting some presents that aren't second-hand.”

Merry pressed her lips together, wondering how she’d misread the situation. “No,” she conceded, “it doesn’t sound silly at all. It sounds thoughtful. And sweet. Really, really sweet.”

Relief as easy to read as the names of the neighboring stores filled her face. “Bless you for saying that.”

Trying to disguise her disappointment that she’d had the bad luck to stop a good Samaritan, Merry asked a few more questions and got the woman’s name.

“Have a wonderful holiday,” the woman called over her shoulder as she retreated, balancing the jam-packed bags as though she were the female version of Santa Claus.

“You, too,” Merry responded, barely able to maintain her smile long enough for the woman to walk away.

She folded her arms over her chest and tried to look on the bright side. One big-hearted shopper did not make a trend. It was early yet. As the day wore on, tempers would flare, shoppers would grow desperate to complete their Christmas lists and she’d rack up all the material she needed for her story.

But where was her cameraman?

“Top o’ the morning to you, love.”

She froze at the sound of the charming Irish brogue. There was nothing particularly suggestive about the saying — except that the sayer had a habit of snuggling up next to her in bed and whispering those words in her ear after he’d stayed the night.

The voice had come from behind her. Bracing herself, she turned, but her breath still caught.

Patrick MacFarland in the flesh stood a few paces away, pinning her with the vivid blue eyes that were such a striking contrast to his black hair.

He looked outrageously masculine in a beige cable-knit sweater and chocolate-colored chinos. Tall and wiry, he had chiseled cheekbones, a long nose and a sinfully beautiful mouth.

His looks, combined with the accent he’d brought over from Ireland at age twelve when his family immigrated, turned a lot of female heads. It had been his passion that turned Merry’s. Not only his passion for life, but his passion for his family . . . and for her.

She drew air into her lungs, fueling her resolve to not let him know how much his mere presence affected her.

“What are you doing here, Patrick?”