by Jule McBride
The Baby & the Bodyguard
Jule McBride
For Debra Matteucci, Alice Orr, and Corrine Meyer—
three very special women who’ve made
my every day a Christmas
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Prologue
“So, how are my three busiest elves this morning?” Analise Sweet smoothed the skirt of her green wool Chanel suit, tapped a perfectly manicured red nail on top of a file folder, then ensconced herself at the head of her laquered boardroom table.
Evan Morrissey merely grunted. The numbers cruncher for Too Sweet Toys’ retail division was already seated. His eyes remained riveted on rows of figures that indicated holiday sales trends. Judging from his expression, they weren’t good.
“My, my, I do believe Evan is the Grinch himself,” Analise teased. Standard protocol dictated that her meetings begin with friendly joking, but the Wall Street transplant had never really adjusted.
Bob Bingley had. The thirty-something man chuckled, ran a hand over his shock of white-blond hair, then sprawled in the leather swivel chair nearest Analise. “It’s three weeks till the day, and this particular elf is tired of working ‘round the clock.” He tweaked his mustache. “I’m ready for the parties, if you want the truth.”
“Did I ask for the truth, darling?” Analise smiled at her favorite office prankster. When their eyes met, Analise decided he was almost perfect for her daughter. Unfortunately Bob was a womanizer, and Cynthia had already been played for a fool. The last man had left her a single mother—and worse. “Clayton?”
As usual, elderly Clayton Woods, devoted family friend and head buyer, was positioned in front of the boardroom’s wall-to-wall window. He didn’t respond, but leaned on his cane and glared across the Rockefeller Center complex through a pair of binoculars. Poor Clayton. He’s taken my separation from Paxton nearly as hard as I have.
Outside, couples skated on the Rockefeller ice rink. Analise could see their foggy breaths and catch bright snatches of their bobbing hats and blowing scarves. The twinkling bulbs on the center’s huge blue spruce lit up the cloudy winter day, making her feel wistful for Christmases past.
After all, she’d been married thirty-five years ago, on Christmas day, 1959. Then four Christmases past, she’d discovered her daughter Cynthia had fallen in love with a man named Jake Jackson. On Christmas Eve, when Analise and Paxton had been away, Cynthia had caught the jewel thief and his two cohorts stealing the Sweet family heirlooms, including Analise’s lucky Christmas necklace. Although two men had gone to prison, one had absconded with the jewelry.
The necklace had been of ruby and emerald links, and Analise’s husband had added a new link every Christmas since their marriage. Now the necklace was gone. Not that Analise would have received her thirty-fifth link this year. Last December twenty-fifth she’d walked out on Paxton.
“There’s Paxton!” Clayton clutched the binoculars. “Eileen’s bringing him coffee.”
At the mention of her husband’s assistant, Analise tried not to bristle. “Of course Paxton’s in his office. He works there.”
In response to her censuring tone, Clayton placed the binoculars aside and hobbled toward the table. “Ever since he left, this company’s been a mess,” Clayton said defensively. “I’m worried, if for no other reason than I own such a large share of the stocks. We’re in a ridiculous situation, with him and Cynthia handling marketing, while we—who are right across the ice rink—handle the toy store.”
“And never the twain do meet.” Bob sighed, eyeing the building opposite. “Unless Cynthia and I—” he glanced at Analise “—running the gauntlet between you and Paxton counts as communication.”
“Now, now, Too Sweet is fine,” Analise said soothingly.
“Why doesn’t he just come back?” Clayton groused. “This split has caused rumors of takeover, you know.”
Analise forced herself to smile. Paxton hadn’t returned because she’d walked out on him, not the other way around. But that was too personal to divulge to her executives. “May we please get into the holiday spirit?”
“Oh, but we are, Analise.” Bob’s blue eyes twinkled naughtily. “I have the perfect plan. We’ll punish Paxton for leaving, by hitting him where it will hurt him most.”
“And just where might that be, Bob?” Analise noted that even Grinchlike Evan was now perking up.
“Well—” Bob leaned forward conspiratorially “—we’ll steal the central, key element in the biggest marketing campaign he’s ever launched.”
Evan chuckled. “You are thoroughly incorrigible.”
“Ah—” Clayton leaned back and steepled his fingers. “So we cutthroats would steal the star baby? The three-year-old spokesperson, mascot and figurehead of our own beloved toy company, Little Amanda? That would ruin Paxton’s special promotion!”
“If it hit the tabloids,” Bob added reasonably, “it would increase our holiday sales.”
“Why, you know how people are drawn to a good tragedy,” Evan said, picking up the thread.
“And once Little Amanda was returned,” Clayton continued, “sales would absolutely skyrocket.”
Bob sighed with satisfaction. “Why, it would look more like the Fourth of July than Christmas.”
Analise’s lipsticked mouth dropped open in feigned terror. She playfully scrutinized Bob, Evan and Clayton, in turn. “Now, gentlemen.” Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. “Do you honestly think I should kidnap my very own granddaughter?”
The members of the group maintained a long, wicked silence, while contemplating the ludicrous suggestion. Then, suddenly, everyone burst into merry laughter. Or almost everyone...
Chapter One
Tuesday, December 13, 1994
“Little Amanda needs a bodyguard.” Paxton Sweet sounded furious. He shook Anton Santa’s hand, then draped the bodyguard’s garment bag over a chair. “I’m sorry about interrupting your Caribbean vacation, and I want to thank you for stopping by in the evening.” Paxton gestured wildly around his office. “During the Christmas season we work nonstop.”
Santa grunted and glanced around. Dolls tumbled from an overful box beside the door, inflatable Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bobbed on cabinet tops. Windup beetles, yo-yos, and gum banks littered Paxton’s desk. And on the windowsill, next to a Barney doll with a torn ear, was a framed picture of Cynthia Sweet. Just looking at it made Santa feel vaguely murderous.
He had no intention of taking this job, although he almost wished it was Cynthia who needed protection. Then he’d take it...and kill her, himself. No, his reasons for entering the office, once he’d realized the address led to Too Sweet Toys, had nothing to do with Little Amanda, whoever she was. “Well, Mr. Sweet,” Santa finally returned tersely, with a hint of a drawl from his long-lost Southern roots, “sunning myself in the Caribbean is less of a vacation, and more my everyday life-style. At least, when I’m between jobs.”
“Call me Paxton.”
“Paxton,” Santa repeated, feeling his chest constrict. Was he really in the office of the man he’d once hoped would become his father-in-law? “You can call me Santa.”
Paxton scrutinized him, clearly liking what he saw. “You look like a bodyguard,” he said, sounding pleased with himself.
Feeling edgy, Santa rubbed the razor-thin scar on his jaw. “I am a
bodyguard.”
“I’ve been looking all over the place for you! Everybody says you’re the absolute best in the business. Top of the line.”
“The most expensive, too,” Santa added dryly, making Paxton smile. Santa blew out a sigh as Cyn Sweet’s father dug a file folder from a locked cabinet, then began to remove the toys from his desk, so he could better display whatever it was he meant to display.
While he did so, Santa studied him. Paxton had never seen him. Nor had he seen Paxton. But Santa recognized him from an oil painting above the piano in the Sweet family’s living room. The last time he’d seen the sixtyish man with the thick silver hair, Anton Santa—along with Matthew Lewis and an unidentified man who remained at large—had been stealing the Sweet family blind.
If the man only knew. Santa stared into the wintry darkness, through the window, which was decorated with paper snowflakes, thinking that he hated Christmas. Christmas in Manhattan was worse. And Christmas anywhere near the Sweet family would be like slow death.
“Will there be anything else this evening, Paxton?”
Santa glanced in the direction of the voice. A fiftyish brunette in a blue flannel suit hovered in the doorway.
“Yes, Eileen.” Paxton smiled. “Go paint the town red and green.”
The woman chuckled lustily. “I’ll get right on it, boss.”
As soon as she left, Paxton finished cleaning his desk and arranging the materials. “What you’ve got to understand,” he said, “is that our three-year-old Amanda is no ordinary child.”
Santa fought not to roll his eyes. Kids were kids, weren’t they? “How’s that, Mr.—er—Paxton?”
“Well, this year we’re running a special promotion, all surrounding a ghostwritten book, called Little Amanda’s Perfect Christmas.”
“Well now, that sounds real special.” Santa hadn’t meant to sound so cynical, but the past four years had left him bitter.
“Yes!” Paxton clearly hadn’t caught Santa’s irony. “The story’s about a little girl who’s been so bad all year that she only has the twelve days until Christmas to atone for it. She needs to be extra nice, so that Santa will bring her toys.”
Santa forced himself to look interested.
“She helps her friends decorate a tree, then takes them to The Nutcracker ballet. She goes caroling at a shelter for homeless children, too. So, Little Amanda—the real Amanda—will be involved in such activities over the next twelve days, just like in the story!” Paxton’s rising excitement suddenly fell flat. “And now we get these.”
Curiosity got the better of him. Santa rose lithely from his chair, crossed to the desk, then stared down. There were three notes, composed of sharply cut red and green letters, probably taken from magazine pages with an X-Acto blade. All three said, “Take Amanda off the Promotion or She Will be Kidnapped!”
“So these are the notes,” Santa drawled noncommittally. “They’re a bit juvenile.” He hadn’t seen anything so nonthreatening since the notes left by The Grinch Gang, the jewel thief ring of which he’d been a part. The college boys had seduced security information from young heiresses at New York University, like Cynthia Sweet. Then, they’d stolen family valuables during the Christmas holidays, pawned them during spring break and used the cash to tide them over in high style, during the longer summer vacations. At every theft, they’d left a bottle of good champagne and a note to the victims, wishing them a happier new year. Four years ago the Sweet family had received no champagne, of course, since The Grinch Gang had been interrupted in the act, thanks to Cynthia.
“I knew you’d be as worried as I am when you saw them,” Paxton finally said.
Something in the man’s voice actually made Santa want to take the job. But he couldn’t. Not that he’d see Cyn. Last he’d heard she was married to a man named Harry Stevens and living in Alabama. Even if she saw him, she wouldn’t recognize him. He was a master of disguises. As the chameleon par excellence, he bore no resemblance to the young man she’d once said she loved.
“Look—” Santa suddenly decided to soften the blow. “I protect senators, stalked movie stars, star witnesses with mob contracts on their heads—”
“That’s exactly why I requested you!”
I’m a bodyguard, not a babyguard. “Usually, there’s a lot of danger involved—”
Paxton’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he gulped. “Have you ever taken a bullet for anyone?”
Your damn daughter, who left me for dead. “On occasion.”
Paxton paced the length of his window, which overlooked the Rockefeller tree, making the paper snowflakes flap in his wake. He pivoted and stared at Santa. “You have to take the job! I—I’ll pay double.”
Santa chuckled. “You already were, because of the holidays.”
“I mean double the double!”
“Sorry, Mr. Sweet. I can’t—”
“Granddaddy!” a little girl squealed.
When Santa turned, his whole body tensed. The child who flew past him was nothing more than a blur. Because Cynthia Sweet herself was standing in the doorway. A thick, luxurious faux fur coat was wrapped around her fabulous figure, and her lush blond hair hung free, just past her shoulders. Shopping bags dangled from both her wrists until she gracefully set them down.
When her coat fell open, he caught a glimpse of her suit. The skirt was short and her long, perfect legs went on for miles, all the way down to her trademark spiked heels. She was exactly as he’d remember: Rectangular face. Wide, full lips. A body to die for. One I very nearly did die for, he mentally corrected. Now she seemed even more beautiful than the last night he’d spent with her, the one and only night they’d ever made love.
For an instant, he was sure—maybe even hoped—she’d recognize him, but she didn’t. In her eyes, which were still as bright, shiny and green as Christmas lights, he read nothing more than surprise at seeing a stranger. Of course, she’d never expect to find him in her father’s office, and when it came to identifying people, context played a larger part than most people assumed.
“I picked up the elf outfits from the seamstress, Daddy,” Cyn finally said. “Then Amanda and I went out for dinner.”
She’s still a daddy’s girl. Santa realized he’d been holding his breath and slowly exhaled.
“Mr. Santa,” Paxton said, “I’d like you to meet Amanda.”
Only years of masking his personal responses and reactions gave him the power to turn away from Cyn. He did so just as Amanda leapt on top of Paxton’s desk. From the back, the little girl’s head was a mass of blond waves. When she whirled around, her eyes were the same bewitching green as Cyn’s.
Then he noticed the tiny cute mole beside her pouty upper lip. His grandfather had had it. His father had had it. He’d had it, too, until a doctor had insisted on removing it.
For the first time in his life, Anton Santa couldn’t move. The plush red carpet seemed to take flight beneath his feet, like a reindeer-driven sleigh. He felt downright woozy. Was he really being hired to protect a baby he and Cyn Sweet had made four long years ago...a daughter he’d never known he had?
* * *
TIME STOOD STILL. Cyn Sweet held her breath and clutched her shopping bags as if she were drowning in rough seas and they were her only lifeline. How had she been able to speak? A thousand unwanted impressions were still flashing through her mind.
First, it was crazy, but she could swear Jake Jackson was in her father’s office. He wasn’t, though. The strange sensations sweeping over her could have nothing to do with the man who was there, either.
She summed him up in a heartbeat. An aura of self-containment clung to him like a second skin. He was clean shaven and tanned a deep bronze, even though it was winter. The medium-brown eyes weren’t special, and his too-short, slicked-back hair was also an unremarkable dark brown. Given his tailored brown wool suit, he was possibly rich. Still, the jacket hung so loosely that she’d barely recognized it as a Valentino Uomo original.
The expression was aloof, distanced and unreadable, something she’d learned to hate in a man. Very definitely, she was falling in distrust at first sight, but that may have had nothing to do with the stranger, specifically. Cyn knew better than to trust men, categorically.
In the next heartbeat, images of Jake Jackson flew through her head. Fury had shaded her memories of Jackson, the thief who’d loved her then betrayed her. Where once she’d thought him the most handsome man alive, she now remembered his long blond hair as scraggly and obviously dyed. He’d had a scruffy, unbecoming beard and a mustache that had almost covered a mole beside his lip. Four years ago, the mole had seemed sexy, of course. Now she mentally added a hair that grew from the center of it, just to remind herself that she hated him. He’d been overly pale, reed thin, and had usually worn sunglasses with his leather jackets.
No, the man in her father’s office in no way resembled Jake Jackson. In fact, the two were as different as night and day. This man was all business. The other had been a hellion and a rebel, just the sort an overly protected, well-to-do college girl might use for her one brief fling with danger. Was the stranger wearing Jake’s brand of cologne? Eau de Bad boy.
She realized Paxton was staring from face to face with a perplexed expression, as if sensing strange energy in the room. “Amanda, Cyn,” he finally repeated, “this is Anton Santa.”
Amanda’s giggles cut through the tension. “You’re Mr. Santa, so is Santa Claus your daddy?”
The man’s brown eyes narrowed, as if he’d heard enough Santa jokes to last him a lifetime.
“Now, Amanda,” Cyn said quickly, “please don’t tease Mr. Santa.”
As soon as she’d spoken, she was sorry. The man shot her a look that made her feel as hot as fire, then as cold as ice. He turned to Amanda, with a grimace that Cyn supposed was his best attempt at a smile. “Maybe I am related, sweetheart,” he said gruffly.
The faint Southern accent gave Cyn pause, but she bit back a smile, nonetheless. The man—probably a manufacturing VP, she decided—clearly didn’t have much experience with kids. In spite of that, Amanda was charming the Uomo trousers off him.
