Just for Christmas Night

by Lisa Marie Perry

  “Too bad. Guests get first dibs.” Charlotte sighed. “Hey. How do you know?”

  “Protecting the business is the utmost priority. Making a dirty deal to buy it would mean that they’d jeopardized it from day one.”

  “God, that was a lucid defense.” Charlotte seemed impressed—no, stunned.

  “I have experience beyond men and mixed drinks.”

  “You’re a purveyor of sarcastic one-liners.”

  Martha tipped an imaginary hat.

  “Anyway, I didn’t want to doubt or misunderstand our parents. But Nate’s father also demanded loyalty, and what’d he do? Betray. He’s a corrupt man.”

  “To put it mildly.” A man who’d not only gamble on his team but would pay a player to injure his son wasn’t deserving of an adjective as pleasant as corrupt.

  “Nate didn’t think that side of his father existed. Danica didn’t think our parents could manipulate her as they had when she was GM. That’s all I’m pointing out.”

  “What’s her take on the situation?”

  “I’ll tell you when I find out. Called her and Dex, left messages. Guess they’re busy.”

  “Busy getting their holiday delight on?” Martha wisecracked. “On that note, would y’all please stop ambushing me? I’m going to start confiscating keys.”

  “Who did it first?”

  “Ma. She thought my friend Gideon and I were having sexy times, because my pants were off and—” She stopped at her sister’s wide-eyed look. “Anyway, she was wrong, I told her so and we fought about Christmas decorations.”

  “Oh. I thought the mantel-only decor was a trend I’d missed.”

  “The mantel would be bare, too, if Joaquin hadn’t helped.” Martha got up and touched the H stocking holder.

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  Their time together had been nice. But short-lived. Now he was in Reno and she was in Las Vegas mooning over a man who wasn’t good for her. “And I don’t even have doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts?” Charlotte asked.

  Oops. “Just thinking about breakfast.”

  “You brought doughnuts to the gym but didn’t eat any?”

  “Jules swiped all twelve of them. Joaquin wasn’t there, anyway. Okay, what are you laughing at?”

  “Don’t know why,” her sister said between giggles, “but this reminds me of something you did when you were…seven? No, eight, because it was my graduation party.”

  What would Christmas be without an embarrassing remember-when story?

  “It was a scorcher. You piled five scoops of ice cream on one freaking cone and searched the entire estate for Joaquin because you wanted to give it to him yourself.”

  The ice cream had dripped everywhere and she’d been sentenced to the indoors for the rest of the day. It’d been mortifying and not funny in any shape or fashion.

  “It was adorable, the crush you had on…” Charlotte’s laughter died. “Oh, Martha. Not him.”

  “Isn’t that what people told you? ‘Oh, Charlotte. Not Nate Franco.’ Or what about ‘Oh, Danica. Not Dex Harper.’”

  “Are y’all hooking up?”

  “Wow, because bringing a man doughnuts is a certain sign of sex delirium?”

  “Are you having sex with him?”

  “No.” Not at this very moment. “If I were, what difference would it make? You and Nate can joke about scandalized reputations, but critics don’t say about you what they say about me. So what’s one more man?”

  But Joaquin Ryder wasn’t just one more. He was someone she’d known most of her life. He was someone she’d hurt, who’d hurt her in return. He was a man who made her feel safe and beautiful.

  As her mother had said, if something could make her feel beautiful, Martha should make it hers.

  Problem was, they’d both chosen to back away.

  “Get over the crush, before he notices,” Charlotte said gently. “Don’t complicate things. Don’t be the girl trying to catch his attention with sweets.”

  “Okay,” she said, because that was easier than the truth. “Want to get something to eat?”

  “I was about to attack the wax fruit.” Charlotte pointed at the bowl on the coffee table. “I’d love to get something.”

  “Waffles, please. And if you’re going to cook eggs, I take ’em scrambled.”

  “Your house, your food, your creations.”

  “I could cook, but that means you’ll have to eat it. Or the wax fruit.”

  No hesitation. “Where do you keep the skillets?”

  Martha skipped ahead of her to the kitchen. “Thought so!”

  “Brat.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  *

  Tonight was the night to bring out the new toy. Putting his Hennessey Venom GT on the road would be Joaquin’s way of celebrating Christmas. No clubs, no strippers, no repeat of how he’d spent last night in Reno.

  Othello’s idea to turn the city out had been his attempt at apologizing for hooking up with Ciera Byron. But liquor, luxury and ladies hadn’t made up for a damn thing when Othello had been too preoccupied getting VIP’d by strippers to actually say sorry.

  Tor had left his wife at home, but had returned to Vegas with her name in permanent calligraphy on his biceps. Joaquin imagined it’d be New Year’s before she let him back in her bed.

  As for Joaquin, he had no apologies, but had last night been a match of Ryder versus Reno, he’d have taken a loss. That it had been a hundred-thousand-dollar night didn’t nick him. He’d eaten, gotten massaged, been entertained on a superficial level. There’d been fans on the street and hecklers in his path, cameras in his face and women’s whispers in his ears.

  There had been pressure. He thrived under pressure. But this morning he’d craved Vegas and left Reno hours ahead of his hungover cousins.

  He’d wanted a break from the lifestyle of Joaquin Sinner Ryder, Las Vegas’s prince.

  Who decided to call him that anyway?

  No one rode in the Venom with him, only one security vehicle followed and he felt all right. At least, better than he had trapped in a flashy-ass motorcade in downtown Reno.

  Dressed in a Burberry tux, with a bottle of Perrier Jouet and a two-foot-tall peppermint candy cane—an impulse gift he’d bought for Martha—beside him, he drove.

  A formal Christmas dinner was something he’d never experienced as an adult. Depending on his calendar, he could be found training or nightclubbing. Childhood memories showed him images of the Ryders gathered around a table passing trays of turkey slices and biscuits and bowls of potatoes.

  Knowing that anything the Blues hosted was drenched in class and extravagance, he’d anticipated a decent turnout.

  Not a solid hundred automobiles—and more coming—angled with precision along both sides of the private street. The massive estate, beaded with lights, looked as though the sky had opened up and rained glimmering white gold. The brightness blazed over the street and touched the swaying waves in the lake.

  Because the Venom was his 1.2-million-dollar new toy, Joaquin didn’t want to share. He waited for his personal valet to emerge from the security car and take the Venom’s keys, then he joined the flow of guests entering the house.

  Rarely did tangibles do more than mildly amuse him anymore, but from the harp—paired with a diamond-gowned harpist—set up in the foyer, to the gold place cards in the dining room, to the ballet dancers performing in the ballroom, to the decked-out Christmas tree that looked like something Paul Bunyan could’ve felled, even Joaquin couldn’t deny being impressed.

  In the span of twenty-four hours he’d experience a hundred-thousand-dollar night in Reno and a million-dollar Christmas dinner…and all he cared about right now was giving Martha a candy cane.

  “Shall I take those?” an usher offered.

  Joaquin handed him the champagne bottle only and carefully perused the rooms. Political figures, athletes, TV celebrities, musicians, corporate somebodies. They knew his n
ame, shook his hand, commented on his upcoming fight. But none of the faces he scanned belonged to the woman he searched for.

  The peppermint was almost overpoweringly fragrant even through the cellophane. Or had anticipation heightened his senses?

  Casting a glance at the wide spiral staircase that speared the center of the floor, he didn’t see Martha among the people loitering on the stairs.

  They’d drawn the boundary, and erasing it would make them liars. Yet he wanted a teasing look, a smart-mouthed remark. A reaction.

  “Glad you could show, Ryder.” Marshall Blue’s large frame carved through a knot of guests. “I saw Jules and his boys come through ’bout a half hour ago. They’re being taken care of.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Act like family, you get treated like family.” Some referred to Marshall as a titan, but tonight vulnerability could be detected in the set of his deep, angry frown. “A word?”

  Dread leaped through him for a second before he dismissed it. Marshall wouldn’t have found out about Joaquin’s familiarity with Martha’s body and waited until Christmas night to off him. But then again, the Blues did everything in extreme style.

  “A word about?”

  “BC Group. My lawyers are in the study. What are you drinking?”

  “Shots.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yeah, surprise me. It’s a holiday.” As they walked, Joaquin tried to focus. What kind of conversation could he hold if he was preoccupied with getting another greedy look at the man’s daughter?

  A server waiting outside the study took the drink order and returned quickly with a vodka shot, which Joaquin knocked back before even settling into a leather chair in the mahogany-and-indigo room.

  Marshall sat behind his desk. “Ryder, you enjoy a good story, right?” He addressed his lawyers. “Tell him the story.”

  As the men talked, Marshall retrieved antacids from a drawer and washed down a couple on a violent gulp of water.

  Interpreting their legalese, Joaquin registered, “The Slayers’ previous owner is after lighter consequences, thinks he can get them if he delivers Blue.” He pointed his empty shot glass at Marshall. “You know investigators are going to call bullshit on Franco’s talk, but that doesn’t eliminate doubt.”

  “And doubt poisoning my army is the last thing I need,” Marshall added, punctuating the statement with a savage swear. “Outside the NFL, there’s a situation with BioCures.”

  Joaquin listened to him explain that the energy company’s execs and some shareholders had expressed reservations months ago in light of Alessandro Franco’s initial allegations that Marshall had threatened bodily harm if not allowed to purchase the Las Vegas Slayers. Joaquin, who liked to stick to the shadows and keep an eye on his most lucrative corporate investment from comfortably afar, hadn’t known the severity of the reservations.

  Essentially, they would flex some corporate muscles to urge him to sell enough of his claim on publicly traded BioCures to relinquish his status as the majority shareholder. Diminishing his presence in the company would strengthen their guard against his family’s scandals.

  “We suspect someone wants in—or wants more—and sees a potential opening should Marshall’s investment be trimmed,” one of the attorneys said.

  “That ain’t gonna happen.” Marshall stood, rested his fists on the desk. “If or when Franco’s statement leaks, BC Group is going to apply the pressure. I need your support—”

  “Of course.”

  “—and I need you to be vocal. Involved. Out of the shadows. Consider it?”

  Could he be relied on when it counted? Could he be more than the fighting machine, the bastard, he was born to be?

  “I’ll consider it.”

  The tall wooden door pushed open, and Marshall’s already mean expression turned unrepentantly ugly. “Damn it, knock.”

  “Sorry, Pop.”

  Joaquin’s heart staggered, bearing the impact when he saw Martha waltz into the study a few steps ahead of her mother.

  Some women had butts, others had asses. Martha had an ass, and it shone under the metallic gold-green fabric that fondled her slender body as she moved.

  She was all bronze and shimmer and curves and long limbs, scarcely contained in a gown held together by strands of jewels.

  A meaningful, appreciative glance passed between the attorneys, and Joaquin eyed them coldly.

  Martha arrived at the desk, set down a shopping bag. “Merry Christmas, Pop.” She wiggled a sprig of something woven into her shiny, slicked hair.

  Mistletoe. She’d tied mistletoe in her hair.

  “Careful of my makeup,” she warned, offering her cheek for a kiss. To the rest of them, she said, “Excuse me, fellas, but my father insists that I knock, so—” She rapped on his desk obnoxiously.

  “All right. All right.” Marshall’s smile appeared painful, but it was genuine. “Go, men. Enjoy the party.”

  As the attorneys left, accepting drinks from the server waiting at his post, Joaquin approached Martha. She stood between her parents now, a treasure dangling out of his reach, a beauty out of his realm.

  “Merry Christmas,” Joaquin said to her, presenting the oversize candy cane.

  At the exact moment she ventured forward, suddenly near enough to taste.

  Grab her face, lick into her mouth. Pull her close, drink her moans.

  Rather than do it and have Tem threaten castration or Marshall call him out for a street fight, he laid the cane in her hand and murmured against her hair, “So you won’t steal mine the next time you’re in my ride.”

  A snort of wry laughter or a smartass remark was expected. Not crystalline tears.

  “I need to speak with my parents.” Taking the candy, she added in the silkiest whisper, “Tonight, if you want me, Joaquin, find me.”

  It was the sexiest proposition he’d ever heard, or the most baffling. Either way, he left the office dazed, hard and confused.

  Chapter 9

  Martha stared at the door as it closed, cutting off her view of Joaquin. Tonight he was temptation personified, and if her thoughts alone could determine which list Santa Claus put her on, then she’d just booked a standing reservation on Naughty.

  As for the comic-prop-size candy cane he had for her, he should’ve given it to her with a kiss, as was customary should a woman go to the trouble of pinning mistletoe in her hair, and, ideally, when she wasn’t flanked by her parents.

  And after what Charlotte had said about Martha trying to catch his attention with sweets, she was burning to know if he’d search for her tonight.

  Had whatever he’d done in Reno last night taken the edge off, as his uncle implied it would? Was the connection she felt really about nothing more than a man and a woman wound too tight and needing a lay?

  “Martha,” Tem said, stepping in front of her in glorious red-carpet worthy perfection, “are you all right? You seem upset.”

  Blinking, prying her stare off the closed door, Martha said, “Absolutely jolly. I’m at the most fabulous party in Vegas.”

  Approvingly, her mother smiled, then said to Marshall, “Our youngest says she has business advice, regarding the team.”

  And here we go with the patronization. “When we spoke on the phone earlier, you said you’d keep this need-to-know and issue an internal statement if the guys start asking questions. I don’t think that would be most effective.”

  “This decision doesn’t affect your department, Martha,” her father said, dismissing her. Taking Tem’s hand, he started to walk toward the door.

  “Marshall Blue, I’m a member of the Slayers unit, I have a voice and I want you to listen, damn it.”

  Goodbye, salary. Hello, severance pay. Now that she could foresee termination of employment, she instantly missed the stadium, her colleagues and even her fun-size office in S-Dubs.

  “You, Martha, are a replaceable accessory to the Slayers unit,” he said gravely. “Function in the role we gave you.”


  “So stay in my place?”

  “Precisely.” A swell of music, some familiar classic Christmas song that the band was playing in a rich R & B flavor, infiltrated the room, announcing that the ballroom was now open for dancing.

  “I can’t do that, sir, when you’re too unfocused to see what’s best for business.”

  Tem’s gaze snapped to Martha. “You will not disrespect your father—”

  “Sometimes, Tem, there has to be separation of business and family, even when the family’s part of the business.”

  “Oh, there can be a separation. Starting with a note of gratitude for your contribution to the publicity department and termination of your employment based on your insubordination and flagrant disregard for our franchise’s image.” Tem yanked her hand from Marshall’s grasp. “Then I can list the sacrifices we made to raise you—”

  “No need,” Martha said. “Your unadulterated disdain toward the daughter y’all didn’t plan for isn’t exactly a best-kept secret.”

  “It’s not disdain. It could never be. What it is, Martha, is worry.” Tem reached out as if to pat her cheek, but instead touched the mistletoe in her hair. “Wearing this, collecting kisses, makes you feel beautiful?”

  “Unique. Playful. Funny. I could go on, but at some point it’s just going to turn into boasting…”

  “Antics like this—”

  “Aren’t crimes against propriety. So, if I’m not fired, I’d like to offer a business suggestion.”

  “One-woman mutiny,” her father muttered, rolling his massive shoulders.

  “Persistent, not mutinous,” she countered. “I suggest that the team be made aware once we receive confirmation of what Nate claims his father is stating.”

  “And distract our men, send them into a damn panic going into divisionals?”

  “No. It’s to prepare them for media speculation and to get higher performance from each player.”

  Intrigued, Marshall crossed his arms. “Higher performance?”

  “Yes, because this presents a test. It’s motivation. How well each man responds to the noise in his ears will help us gauge his delivery and adaptability, as well as how much respect he has for our leadership and fidelity to our franchise.” Martha hooked the candy cane on her wrist. “Ultimately, Al Franco’s desperation will create a useful evaluation that can be to your advantage—if you choose to see it that way.