Red Hot Santa

by Cherry Adair

  “So what are you suggesting, Mr. Palmer?” Her mind was working in hyperdrive. “Wait! Did you talk to the detective or go see him? I’m confused. How long have you been involved in this little investigation?”

  “I spoke to him by telephone after the first Santa incident. I went to his office on my way here.”

  “And Barrett found you how?”

  “We worked together on another project,” he said.

  Meghan wasn’t too keen on his evasive answer, but something told her that was probably the best she was going to get. Still, persistence was one of her strong suits. “Mr. Palmer, I’m going to need a little more than that.”

  “First, try calling me Jack. ‘Mr. Palmer’ seems a little formal given that we’ll be glued together for the foreseeable future.”

  “I know Barrett is worried about my safety and the safety of everyone who works in this store. So are the Palm Beach police. We’re all being careful. I’ve posted additional guards at the entry and exit doors and—”

  “All good baby steps, Meghan,” he concluded. “But you’re forgetting the really important thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Someone already tried to kill you once.”

  Chapter Three

  “NOT YOU, TOO,” SHE SNAPPED. “BARRETT IS WRONG. IT was an accident. A senseless, unfortunate accident. I know. I was in the car. I can assure you, there was nothing malicious about it. Nobody was out to get us.”

  “Your brother is dead.”

  “Yes,” she returned crisply, her eyes filled with deep sorrow. “And his passing isn’t something I discuss.”

  “Maybe he was the target and you were just collateral damage. An acceptable loss. After all, he was the heir to the Beckham empire.”

  “Something he never wanted,” she assured him quickly. “How do you know all this?”

  “Barrett,” he supplied, keeping Roz and the Agency out of it for now. He was dumping a lot of information on her at once. “He also told me what would have happened had both you and your brother died in that car crash.”

  “Did he tell you that his fears stem from his loving devotion to his daughter?” Meghan challenged. “If his theory was correct—and that’s a huge if—and if I had died as well, then Casey, as Michael’s widow, would have inherited, making her the next target. Barrett worships Casey and I think his completely understandable adoration has clouded his judgment in this instance.”

  “Or not,” he said with a shrug. “You’re the one with the iron-clad family trust documents. So answer me this one, if you die now, who gets all this?”

  She sighed heavily. “Technically . . . Casey. I don’t have any other family. Apparently my father had planned on Michael or me producing the next generation of Beckhams a little faster than we managed. Or didn’t manage, as the case may be.”

  “So Barrett’s concern for his daughter isn’t without merit.”

  “Yes, it is,” she insisted, tenting her fingers on her desktop as she leaned forward. “The accident was an accident. You’re a self-proclaimed expert on murder, so you tell me. If someone had been trying to kill us both that night, why wait six months to try again?”

  “Opportunity,” he suggested. “Maybe the killer had to regroup after the first attempt failed.”

  “Maybe it’s more likely that there’s someone out there with a real hatred for Santa.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Palmer. I just have a hard time believing any of this is a possibility. You didn’t know Michael. I did. He didn’t have enemies either.”

  “None?”

  “None,” she answered quickly. “He was a very laid-back guy. Much to the disappointment of our father, Michael didn’t have a competitive bone in his body. That’s why he hated all this. He was more than willing to delegate anything and everything to Sam or me.”

  “Sam?”

  She nodded and he noted that her expression softened. “Sam Shelton came to work at Beckham’s as a clerk. Worked his way up the ranks and is the executive vice president. He was hand-picked by my father. Over Casey’s minor objection, Sam served as best man at Michael’s wedding.

  “After Dad died, Michael felt so guilty that he made an honest attempt at running the store. Sam spent hours in here trying to teach Michael all the things he needed to know to step in as CEO. He was making headway, then the accident happened and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “You survive the accident, end up as CEO, and Sam gets what?”

  Her eyes narrowed to angry gray slits. “I don’t appreciate your implication, Mr. Palmer. Sam Shelton has been an important and trusted member of the Beckham’s family for twenty years, knowing full well that this was, is, and will be a family-owned and -operated business. Sam’s never asked for or expected anything more than the generous salary and bonuses he receives.”

  “Then he’s either a saint or as dumb as a stick,” Jack mumbled.

  “No, you’re a cynic,” she tossed back at him. “Are you so jaded that you can’t appreciate or even recognize loyalty and commitment?”

  “Normal people tend to be loyal to themselves first.”

  “Oh, for—Sam was Michael’s best friend. There’s no way he would have hurt him.”

  “And you?”

  “Not a possibility,” she insisted. “He’s like a brother to me.”

  “But Casey doesn’t like him?”

  She shrugged. “Casey and Sam vied for Michael’s attentions. Don’t get that look,” she warned. “Not like that. Michael didn’t bat for both teams. I’m just saying that until Casey and Michael got together, it was always Sam and Michael. I’m sure deep down Casey and Sam don’t really hate each other or anything.”

  “You’re telling me that Sam didn’t want control of the store. And Casey didn’t want control of the store. So who did?”

  “Me.”

  “Are you going to stop calling me Mr. Palmer anytime soon?” He asked a few hours later as he watched her bundle spreadsheets into her briefcase.

  Realizing nothing shy of a nuclear explosion would get him off his assignment, she relented. “So, Jack, how exactly does this work? I mean, how close do you have to be?”

  He shrugged and flashed her that melting smile. “I don’t have to see you naked. Not that that would be a problem, if it comes up.”

  “Nothing is going to come up.” Meghan felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Man, can this guy diffuse tension, or what? “I think I can safely promise you that you may cross seeing me naked off your list of duties.”

  “You never know. I like to be prepared. Seriously, Meghan, we do need to revamp your life. Every aspect of it, from the time you wake up until the minute your head hits the pillow.”

  While logic and common sense promised her he was absolutely right, she also knew the ramifications of what he was suggesting. It wasn’t just her fiscal duties. She had a responsibility to the employees and told him as much. He didn’t take it well.

  Temper flashed in his eyes and his mouth pulled into a taut, unyielding line. “The name Beckham is going to mean squat when the only place people will see it is on your toe tag in the morgue. How exactly do you plan to carry on the fine Beckham’s tradition when you’re dead?”

  “Apparently, you’re here to prevent that improbable possibility. You do your job so I can do mine.” He rolled his eyes at her, something that didn’t sit too well. “Look, Jack. I understand that this is a horrible situation that has already cost two innocent, nice old guys their lives. I don’t buy that it’s about me, but right now isn’t a really good time for me to go hide under a rock until this loon is caught. Cozy up to that idea and come up with some sort of plan that works within the parameters of my responsibilities here at the store.”

  He stood, ramming his fists into his pockets in the process. “Shouldn’t your first priority be to stay alive?”

  “It is,” she assured him, trying not to give in to the intimidation of his raised voice. “If you’re as good as you say you are
, you should be able to work around my schedule.”

  “I’m at my best when my client doesn’t have a serious case of the stupids.” He marched over to the framed collection of diplomas above the credenza. Jack opened and closed his fists inside his pockets. He didn’t care about her academic history—hell, he already knew most of it. He ground his teeth, reining in his anger.

  The last time he’d been faced with a stubborn female depending on his protection, it had ended badly. The memory of it still caused a knot in his gut. Pushing those thoughts aside, he scanned her achievements—honors graduate of Wellesley and the Wharton School of Business. Impressive, but not as interesting to him as the photographs he spotted.

  He knew from the dossier Roz had sent along with the rest of the information on the assignment—and those great oatmeal cookies—that Meghan wasn’t anyone’s first choice to assume the helm of the store when Beckham Sr. passed. He guessed the identity of the vibrant face of the young man smiling in the picture. So this was Michael Beckham. This was the favorite son and heir apparent.

  This was the dead brother. And the only one with a scintilla of a reason to want him out of the picture was Meghan. She was a smart woman. Too smart to have rigged an accident that could very easily have killed her as well and not leave a single fleck of forensic evidence behind. Nor did she impress him as the suicidal type, so who was killing the part-time employees. And why?

  She did, however, impress him as annoying as hell as their day progressed. They’d argued about the elevator—he made her use the stairs. About the car—he insisted on using his SUV. And the route to her home—he’d taken a scenic route and driven past the trendy address twice just to be sure.

  “Nice digs,” Jack remarked almost two hours later when she showed him inside her massive seaside home and he waited while she disabled the alarm.

  “It was a lot nicer before the evil stepmother got hold of it,” she supplied. “Her redecorating—and that’s being kind—has taken a lot of time, effort, and energy to undo.”

  Jack reached out and took hold of her upper arm. He didn’t expect the jolt he felt as his fingertips closed on her smooth, warm skin. “Turn it back on,” he insisted, gently turning her back toward the alarm’s keypad.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t normally have it on when I’m home.”

  She punched a series of numbers on the keypad but he was distracted by the fact that her hair smelled like fresh flowers. “You do now.”

  “Right.”

  Her perfume was subtle and expensive. “You’ve got to change the code. Using your birth date in reverse order is too easy.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll call the alarm company in the morning.”

  “Evil stepmother?” he asked, realizing he was still holding on to her arm. “Audrey, right?”

  She turned and peered up at him, her mouth curved into a distinct frown. “You’re pretty well versed on my life, Jack, and I gotta tell you, it kind of creeps me out since I know just about nothing about you.”

  “Part of my job,” he insisted as he followed her through the arched foyer into an expansive living room that looked more like a gallery than a private home. What he knew about art could fit inside a thimble, but he’d bet his last dollar that the paintings and sculptures represented big bucks.

  “So what’s the deal with Audrey?” They passed through a good six thousand square feet of house before ending up in a state-of-the-art kitchen.

  Meghan tossed her purse and briefcase on a tiled countertop before she grabbed two glasses from an overhead rack. “Wine?”

  He shook his head. “Not for me, thanks. We were discussing Audrey?”

  “Anything involving Audrey means I need alcohol.” Meghan slipped off her shoes as she went to a glass-fronted refrigerated cabinet and retrieved a bottle of chardonnay.

  A fancy opener was mounted on the counter above the cabinet. Jack’s brain catalogued all this stuff not because he was awed by the obvious wealth. Money was almost always a viable motive and Meghan seemed to have a fair amount of it. He filed that away as a possible road leading to whoever was so hell-bent on killing her.

  Straddling a stool adjacent to the center island, Jack watched as she poured herself a generous amount of wine. He liked the way she moved. She was an intriguing blend of polished breeding and complete lack of pretense. He could easily see her holding her own as a society hostess as well as kicking back on the beach. Secretly, he liked the beach image better. There was something really appealing about the vision of her in a revealing bikini, slathered with glistening sunscreen, an ocean breeze in her hair.

  “Hot?”

  Jack felt his eyes grow wide at her question. “What?”

  “You’re flushed—too warm, I’m guessing. I can turn up the air-conditioning. Sorry, I tend to keep the house warm, especially to nonnatives.”

  “It is a little warm in here,” he admitted. He didn’t share that the heat surging through him wasn’t completely related to the early-December heat wave. Though it was nearly midnight, the temperature still hovered just shy of eighty.

  She smiled. A smile he felt in every cell of his body. “I love the breeze off the ocean at night. Let’s go out on the lanai.”

  “That’s not safe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It is unless our Santa Slasher has his own navy. The Coast Guard is very attentive and there’s a private security company that patrols the streets as well as the shoreline. Lighten up, Jack. This place is a fortress.”

  “It’s fine if you stay close to the house. If not, I might have to resort to tying you to a chair,” he suggested, only half-joking. This woman seemed hell-bent on making his job difficult.

  She didn’t bite at the bondage suggestion. Which was a good thing, Jack reminded himself. “Just for a few minutes,” Meghan negotiated. “Then we’ll come back inside and darken the shades. Promise.”

  Watching her flip switches as she went, he felt as if he was watching stage lights come up. Lanai didn’t seem an important enough word for the place she took him to. It was a large area, complete with a lighted, multilevel pool, at least a dozen thickly cushioned lounge chairs, and what he guessed was a pool house—even though it probably had more square footage than his apartment—before a low retaining wall separating them from the ocean beyond.

  A warm, fresh breeze came up from the sand, tousling the strands of her silky hair as he watched her gather the strands into a messy knot. He wondered if she had any idea how incredibly sexy she was when she lounged on the chaise, bared feet tucked off to one side, wineglass in her hand, moonlight reflected in her eyes. Judging by her relaxed features, he guessed the beach was her element.

  Waves crashed in the darkness as he sat on the edge of the chair next to hers. “Audrey?” he prompted again.

  “You have to understand,” she began on a breath. “My father was a fairly great dad but a really lousy husband. Audrey was a lousy wife. They divorced two years before my dad died, but Audrey didn’t go quickly or quietly.”

  “Is she capable of murder?”

  Meghan thought about that for all of two seconds. “Hardly. She would never risk breaking a nail.” She saw Jack smile out of the corner of her eye and hated that she noticed. Hated more that it mattered. This wasn’t a date. This man wasn’t interested in her. She should probably write that on her palm in permanent marker because she seemed to have trouble remembering that fact. Meghan’s brain seemed more focused on his body, on the way he moved, on him in general.

  “Would she pay someone to hurt you?”

  “I’m guessing not. Barrett drew up an iron-clad prenup that sent Audrey back over the bridge, as her catty friends would say.”

  “Over the bridge?”

  “An expression,” she explained, sipping her wine. “They were only married for five years, so Audrey’s divorce settlement wasn’t enough to allow her to live on Palm Beach. ‘Over the bridge’ is snobbish code for insufficient funds to live on the island. Not terribly nic
e, but Audrey’s friends aren’t noted for their compassion. West Palm is a lovely area with—”

  “Stop worrying I’ll think you’re a snob. I don’t.”

  Meghan snapped her mouth shut. She was worried about that and relieved to hear he didn’t think she was some sort of dilettante. Not that it should matter. How had this gotten so complicated in a matter of hours? Maybe having some lunatic running around had addled her brain.

  “So who is Jenna Lewis?”

  Meghan was impressed by his thoroughness. “She was my father’s ‘special friend,’ ” she said with a grin as she made air quotes around the words. “Jenna and my dad had an on-again-off-again thing for about ten years.”

  “During his marriage to Audrey?”

  She nodded. “Told you he was a lousy husband.”

  “But that sort of thing is accepted in these social circles, right?”

  “For some, but not me,” she assured him. “The size of a person’s portfolio doesn’t make cheating acceptable.”

  “What about your brother?”

  She took a long sip of wine, trying to drown the tightness in her chest. “Michael was devoted to Casey.”

  “Even when he was atoning for his lack of interest in the store?”

  “He worked long hours, but she understood.”

  “If he wasn’t into the store, then why’d he work there all those years?”

  “It’s a family thing,” she explained. “We all worked at the store. Michael and I started in shipping as teenagers. My father was real big on learning by doing. I loved it, Michael hated it.”

  “Then how come he was the chosen one?”

  “Sexism, favoritism, who knows. My father would never accept that Michael didn’t have a passion for the store. Everyone knew that Michael delegated almost everything to his assistant, Sam Shelton. I’m sure my dad knew, too, but he just wanted to follow the family tradition of passing the torch from father to son.”