The Baby & the Bodyguard

by Jule McBride

  In her twenty-eight years, no man had done more than play Cyn for a fool, but give Amanda ten seconds, and she’d wrap even the toughest cases right around her pinkie. Anton Santa, with his panther-about-to-kill posture and blank expression, was very clearly a tough case.

  Amanda reached up and squeezed the poor man’s biceps. “Are you my new bodyguard, Mr. Santa Claus?”

  “You didn’t!” As soon as Cyn imagined Anton Santa as a personal sidekick, he became a lot less “medium.” Had her initial, very strange reaction to him really been attraction? “You didn’t hire—”

  “Yes.” Paxton glared at her pointedly. “I intend to ensure that you and Amanda are safe.”

  Cyn gulped. Between the Christmas promotion, shopping and running the gauntlet between her parents, her next two weeks were going to be busy enough. She couldn’t have a tall, gruff bodyguard shadowing her, too! Especially not one who made her feel so oddly uncomfortable. “No offence, Mr. Santa—”

  “Just Santa.” His voice was both rough and unsettling.

  “Sorry—er—Santa, but we really don’t need a bodyguard.” Her eyes shot to Paxton’s. “I talked to Bob Bingley. He said kidnapping Amanda was a joke cooked up during one of Mother’s meetings. We simply can’t involve—” She glanced at the man. His eyes now seemed hazel, hard to define. Changeable and arresting. Were they dark or golden? “A third party in our family infighting,” she finished in a rush.

  “Some joke.” Paxton sniffed.

  Cyn stared him down. Her father didn’t take the warnings any more seriously than she did. He’d merely followed through with his own threat to hire the best, most expensive protection money could buy. His game plan was to make her mother feel like an idiot.

  “I think I need a bodyguard!” Amanda sounded more excited about Anton Santa than about the Santa who came down the chimney. “People are gonna kidnap me and lock me up and everything!”

  Was it her imagination, or could she feel the bodyguard scrutinizing her? Cyn glanced his way and caught his gaze roving over her face. He shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets, then leaned idly against a file cabinet. It was strange, but she could swear she saw coldhearted fury in his eyes, in spite of his relaxed body language. She turned away and almost glared at Paxton.

  “You know how they are about office pranks.” She felt Mr. Calm, Cool and Collected’s eyes drop from her face to her stocking-clad legs, and wished she’d worn a longer skirt. “Sometimes their jokes go too far. Bob probably sent the notes himself. He just won’t admit it now because of all the ruckus you’ve caused.”

  Her eyes narrowed when they landed on her father’s sleeves. He was missing both cuff links, as usual. When her mother left, it had become clear who’d been dressing him all those years.

  “Well—” Paxton smiled wanly. “Mr. Santa was just saying he won’t take the job.”

  Cyn sighed in relief. “Then things are—”

  “I do believe I’ve changed my mind,” Santa said.

  Paxton began wringing his hands. “You said the threats seemed juvenile!”

  Santa shook his head. “True, but I’ve been around a long time....”

  Santa’s voice had changed! Previously it was so gruff that Cyn was convinced he ate gravel for breakfast. Now it sounded silkily persuasive and as clear as a bell!

  “Long enough to know that even the most ridiculous threats can be very real.” His casual shrug suggested that even death couldn’t faze him. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Daddy, everything’s fine,” Cyn insisted, wishing Santa wouldn’t encourage her father. “It was a practical joke taken—”

  “Too far,” her father finished, not looking convinced.

  Cyn sighed. It wasn’t the first time her father had gone overboard. He’d told lies on her own behalf that had left her a pampered widow, when she wasn’t one, for instance. Paxton had a warm heart and good intentions, but his childish streak was a mile wide. It was why he’d started a toy company.

  “You’re a single mother!” Paxton exclaimed urgently. “I simply can’t leave you and Amanda unprotected. If this is a false alarm, fine. If it’s not, you’ll have someone to watch over you.”

  “You live alone, then?”

  Cyn’s gaze shot to Santa’s. The question was simple—just the sort a bodyguard might ask—but something in the man’s eyes seemed almost suggestive. Cyn was so taken aback that words failed her. She felt her knees go a little weak.

  “She was widowed over three years ago,” Paxton explained.

  “Her husband died?” Santa prodded.

  “Very unfortunate.” Paxton shook his head. “A car wreck.”

  “Please, Mommy!” Amanda piped in, seemingly unconcerned about her father’s death. “I really want him!” The way she said it, Santa could have been a Ken doll.

  Cyn shot her father a quelling glance. “I live alone,” she said. “I like it that way. And I can take care of myself.” She put her hands on her hips. “I can answer for myself, too.”

  “Such a talented woman,” Santa remarked, making her mouth drop open in astonishment. The man’s lips curled in what might have been a smile. He turned to Paxton. “Yes,” he said softly, “I can certainly see why you’d want to keep two such charming ladies safe.”

  It was obvious he didn’t find her at all charming. He was railroading her father and talking about her as if she weren’t there, too. “I said I don’t need—”

  “You’re gonna be bodyguarding me?” Amanda interrupted. She bounced on the desk, her dimpled cheeks bright with barely contained pleasure.

  “He is.” Paxton sounded decisive.

  “Yeah.” Santa nodded as Amanda jumped off the desk.

  If she really put her foot down, Cyn knew she could dissuade her father. Instead, she found herself wondering what being guarded entailed, and wishing she wasn’t so inclined to indulge Paxton since her mother had left him. Fortunately, her father’s whims always ended as quickly as they began. Santa wouldn’t be around long.

  “So, I’m your boss,” Amanda said precociously. “Right?”

  “Guess you could say that.”

  Santa’s voice sent a sudden shiver down Cyn’s spine. It had turned gravelly again. Like his brown hair and eyes and suit, it should have been unremarkable. It was an ordinary baritone, touched with the slightest hint of a drawl. And yet, it was as changeably sexy as his eyes. The man was hardly nondescript, but there was something fluid about him. It was as if she kept reaching for him but couldn’t quite grasp him.

  “I’m the boss and you gotta carry me.” Amanda’s arms shot into the air.

  An awkward moment passed. Santa’s face tightened, looking more unreadable than ever. Cyn felt sure he was going to deny the request.

  “Well, Amanda. I guess I do.”

  Cyn watched in surprise as the man lifted Amanda into his arms. “Wait a minute!” Maybe one last protest would put an end to this! “We’re not in danger. Between the doormen, elevator operators and lobby attendants, my building’s as secure as Fort Knox. I can’t have a strange man underfoot during the day. I’ve work to do, both here and at home.” She stared at her father, looking for support, and got none.

  “I’ll be there day and night.” Santa glanced over his shoulder but kept walking.

  Amanda yelled, “Stop at the door!”

  Santa halted and shifted Amanda on his hip. While she swooped down to lift a doll from the overflowing box, Santa’s eyes remained fixed on Cyn’s.

  “Okay, you can go again, Santa Claus,” Amanda said, cradling the doll against his chest.

  Santa chuckled. “Why, you little thief.” He glanced quickly at Amanda with seeming approval, then looked at Cyn again.

  “Day and night?” Cyn echoed.

  “I always move in with my clients.” His leisurely gaze dropped down the length of her body, then slowly traveled upward again. “Sometimes I consider it a perk of the job.”

  The way he’d just looked at her made Cyn w
ant to kill him. “And do you in this particular instance?” she asked tartly.

  “Probably not,” he said. Then he breezed over the threshold without a backward glance.

  * * *

  “WHAT HAS MY FATHER gotten me into?” Cyn fumed under her breath. The new bodyguard, still carrying Amanda, had the audacity to precede her through the outer door to her building. Worse, the doormen were nowhere to be seen and she’d somehow gotten stuck hauling Santa’s heavy garment bag and a camel coat that was every bit as tasteful as his suit. Just as the door swung shut in her face, she nearly yelled, “You’re a real gentleman, Mr. Santa.”

  He smirked, kicked the door partially open with his foot, then kept walking. She swung his garment bag, wedged it in the crack, then nudged through, using her shoulder. “Thank you so very much.”

  “You’re so very welcome,” he drawled. He glanced over his shoulder, then looked pointedly downward, at where his bag touched the floor. “Watch the bag. It’s a Louis Vuitton, and I’d sure hate to see it soiled.”

  Her eyes narrowed as he turned away and began walking down the corridor. Jennifer, the lobby attendant, flashed her a quick smile of sympathy. “If you didn’t want it soiled, then perhaps you should have carried it yourself.” Cyn sped her steps, hoping to keep pace with him. “What’s in it? Lead?”

  He was far ahead now, but she heard his infuriating chuckle. She also realized that her initial estimation of him as average had been dead wrong. Outside, temperatures were hovering somewhere around subzero and the man hadn’t even bothered with his coat. He hadn’t shivered, either.

  Now, still holding Amanda, he somehow managed to shrug out of his suit jacket. His shoulders were broad, accentuated by stylish thin suspenders. They tapered to a narrow waist, a perfect behind and long, lean-looking legs. Handcuffs were affixed to an unused belt loop. Beneath that loose-fitting suit, his body was very definitely not medium.

  And then she saw the holster. “I will not have a gun in my apartment!”

  “Maybe not,” he called, without turning around. “But you sure need something. Your place is wide open. Where are all those doormen you were talking about?”

  She forced herself to keep moving. Her high heels were skittering across the polished tile floor, and the exertion of dealing with him and carrying his luggage was making her short-winded. “I don’t know—” He was a good ten feet in front of her now, so she had to raise her huffy voice. “They’re usually right—”

  “Which floor, Amanda?” His voice was soft, but it carried. Every time he addressed Amanda, rather than her, his tone became as sweet as honey. Cyn had never felt so annoyed in her life.

  “Penthouse,” Amanda and the elevator operator said simultaneously.

  Apparently, the operator hadn’t seen Cyn. The mirrored elevator doors slid shut just as she reached them. She scrutinized her reflection. She was well coiffed. Her green suit was tasteful and flattering. When her gaze dropped to the man’s luggage, she jabbed the up button so hard she nearly broke a nail. “Once I get upstairs,” she muttered, “you’re history.”

  And then she smiled. Amanda was too young to carry keys, which meant the bodyguard was locked out.

  * * *

  WITHIN MERE MINUTES, Santa would feel prepared to see her again. It was enough time that he could wrap his invisible shield tightly around himself. He quickly cased the apartment, ignoring the wreath on the door, the lighted, ornamented tree in the living room, the red stockings hanging from the mantel, and the profusion of other homey Christmas decorations, all of which made him feel vaguely uncomfortable.

  The front door, he found, opened onto the overly Christmassy living room, which led to an unsecured terrace. The dining room, kitchen, den and study were on one side of a hallway. Four bedrooms were on the other. Cyn had bad locks, one fire escape, no window bars, and in this case, “penthouse” only meant one of two top-floor apartments in a brownstone that would be easy to scale. Santa could do it with his eyes shut.

  “Given her experience with thieves,” he muttered as he began to pace, “you’d think she’d buy a decent dead bolt.”

  “Where’s Amanda?”

  He was walking the perimeter of the living room, mentally listing the new items he’d need, since he intended to secure the place, whether Amanda was really in danger or not. He turned around easily and smiled in Cyn’s general direction.

  “Your daughter—” Santa let the phrase hang in the air, as if to point out that she might be his, too. “Said she had to go change, in order to model her favorite nightgown for me.”

  Cyn gasped. “Do you mind telling me how you got in here?”

  He shrugged. “I picked the locks.”

  “There were three of them!”

  He seated himself gracefully on her cream velvet sofa. “I did leave the door open for you.”

  She remained in the doorway, with his bag in one hand and his coat in the other, her chest heaving. Her skin was flushed, more from fury than exertion, he thought.

  “Why do you keep looking at me that way?” She sounded almost as curious as she did angry.

  Because we used to be lovers. “What way?”

  She sniffed, then kicked the front door shut with one of her high heels. “Like you hate my guts,” she returned haughtily, as if the fact that he might didn’t bother her in the least.

  “I don’t hate you,” he said, even though the thought had entered his mind at least a thousand times. Did he? he wondered. He sure wanted to rail at her...right after he tasted her sweet-smelling skin again. He even wanted to tell her the truth.

  But as near as he could tell, Cyn Sweet had kept a few secrets of her own. Namely, Amanda. “Nice spread,” he finally said. It was an understatement. Her uptown penthouse would appraise at over a million.

  She sighed. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve got against me?”

  Where do I begin? The list is as long as your legs. “Not a thing,” he said lightly. Looking at her, he realized that he’d have to attempt civility. Otherwise, she really would throw him out. He knew the dynamics between Paxton and Cyn well enough to know that she’d get her way if she really wanted it. So why hadn’t she done so earlier, in her father’s office?

  “Do I look like a doormat?” She stared pointedly at his belongings, which were in her hands.

  He couldn’t help it. He looked her up and down, then tilted his head as if considering. “Well, you sure don’t have welcome written on you.” So much for being civil.

  She dropped his bag with a thud, tossed his coat on top of it, then stared at him, looking thoroughly puzzled. Cyn Sweet—with her cheerleader good looks and helpful personality—was definitely not used to having people dislike her on sight.

  Why was he torturing himself this way? When he’d seen Amanda, he’d been sure she was his. Now he was beginning to wonder. In the elevator he’d gotten Amanda’s birthday, and the timing was right. Still, she could belong to Harry Stevens, Cyn’s husband. Santa had to know, but staying here might actually jeopardize his secret investigation.

  Maybe he wanted to stay, since the situation was so strangely coincidental. But then, Santa didn’t believe in fate. He still wanted Cyn, of course, but his fantasies were so ravenously vengeful that how he wanted her could hardly be called lovemaking. Finally, being in Cyn’s apartment when she didn’t recognize him made him feel as if he had power over her. Wielding it, he felt he was delivering the punishment she deserved. She hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt. She’d married someone else, and possibly to give Santa’s own child a name.

  “Are you going to apologize or not?” she asked impatiently.

  He told himself he was staying merely because Paxton Sweet was paying him a bundle. “I’m sorry.” There was nothing he hated more than groveling, but he had no choice. “Guess you just rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “I didn’t rub you at all,” she said levelly, making it clear she wasn’t going to, either.

  He nodded, as if agree
ing to a hands-off policy.

  “I love my father,” she continued. “And if he thinks you should be here, I’m willing to let you stay. I figure this whim will pass. Until then—” she pointed “—your room is the first on the right, nearest the front door.” Her lips suddenly twitched into a near smile. “That way, if any kidnappers come, maybe they’ll take you first.”

  He almost smiled back. “Do you really think they’d mistake me for Amanda?”

  “If I’m lucky.”

  Cyn was as high-handed and imperious as she’d ever been. And yet there was something in her eyes...a sadness that hadn’t been there before. He sure hoped he’d caused it. “I’ll stay wherever you like.”

  He only half listened as she ran down a list of house rules, which included him wearing a robe. She told him to help himself to anything in the kitchen, and that she worked at the office part-time but didn’t keep regular hours. The prepackaged speech reminded him that Cyn had grown up with maids, housekeepers and chauffeurs.

  “First thing tomorrow, I’ll install a new security system,” he said, when she’d finished.

  “My security is fine.”

  At that, he almost chuckled. “Well, Ms. Sweet—”

  “I guess you can call me Cyn.”

  He stretched his legs over her carpet. “Well, Cyn, you never know when unwanted elements might penetrate—” he swept his arm over his own lap “—into your very living room.”

  “You say that almost as if you’re such an element,” she remarked with a smile.

  “Maybe I am.”

  “No maybe about it,” she said lightly.

  Amanda pranced into the room and whirled in a circle, showing off her long white gown. Then she lunged into Santa’s lap. “I’m the boss and you have to put me to bed!”

  Santa rose without bothering to gauge Cyn’s reaction. Was the little girl in his arms really his? “Sure, sweetheart, point the way.”

  Cyn’s spoiled her rotten. Amanda had more toys than were offered for sale at Too Sweet. Her walls were pink, the canopied bed lacy and ruffled. Just looking at the room, and feeling Amanda snuggle against him, he suddenly felt as if his heart might break. Whether it was because he’d never had a childhood himself, or because he may have missed part of his own daughter’s, he didn’t know.