by Jule McBride
“Well, with that build, I think he might make even a grown-up girl feel safe.”
Cyn reached under the counter, groping for more gift boxes. “Or like she’s in dangerous trouble,” she said to her mother.
“So you like him?”
Cyn shrugged as she punched out the flattened sides of a box. “I don’t think he likes me.”
“Who wouldn’t like my daughter?” Before Cyn could respond, Analise gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Bob calls,” she said, heading toward the escalators and waving over her shoulder.
A full hour later Cyn felt a tug at her skirt. She glanced down. “Amanda?” When Cyn raised her gaze to Santa’s, she realized he looked vaguely embarrassed.
“I gotta go to the potty right now and Santa Claus can’t guard me there,” Amanda said in a distressed tone.
“Come on. I’ll take care of you.” She hoisted Amanda to her hip and headed toward the employees’ bathroom. Unable to help herself, she glanced over her shoulder and shot Santa her most flirtatious smile. “Coming, Santa Claus?”
“Right behind you.”
“You could walk beside us,” she offered.
He sped his steps until they were walking side by side, in perfect rhythm. When his hips grazed hers, warmth seemed to infuse all her limbs.
Until Santa leaned against a wall. “Just don’t get lost in there, ladies.”
“And run the risk of never seeing you again?” Cyn raised her brows and stared boldly into his eyes. “No chance.” She playfully slammed the door.
As coy as she was by nature, she couldn’t quite believe the way she’d looked at Santa. Even at her age, she wasn’t above practicing the proverbial come-on look in her mirror. Her eyes had been beaming out rays of pure lust, and she knew it.
As she helped Amanda, she wondered what he’d say when she came back out. Perhaps he’d actually pick up the thread of the flirtation she’d begun. But to her disappointment he’d vanished. He’d taken up his post by the tree again. Since Amanda ran ahead, there was no real reason for Cyn to follow. Except that she wanted to.
Only after all the ornaments were hung did Cyn come anywhere near Santa again. “Can Mr. Santa please do the star at the top?” Amanda begged.
Cyn could almost feel Santa holding his breath. Christmas clearly wasn’t his cup of tea. She looked at him pointedly. “Mr. Santa?”
“Please, please, please!”
He exhaled audibly. “Sure.”
Without waiting for him, Amanda marched toward one of the ladders, quickly dispensed with one of the elves, then climbed upward and seated herself on a rung. Her dangling ankles curled around the ladder’s sides. She crooked her finger in Santa’s direction, then smiled, showing her dimples.
“I do believe your client wants you,” Cyn said wryly.
“That she does.”
Cyn watched him head for the tree. He took the star, agilely climbed the ladder, then hung it. As he did, all the children in the store applauded. Cyn wasn’t positive, but she was fairly sure he would prefer to be back in whatever sunny country he’d just come from.
When he came down, Amanda grabbed his hand. Her face was lit up with pure prideful pleasure. She glanced from Santa, to the tree, then to the other children. When she craned her neck to look at Santa again, her gaze seemed to say she owned him. Cyn felt her shoulders begin to shake. You poor, poor man, she thought, as Amanda led him toward the counter.
He gingerly removed a teddy bear from an armchair and eased himself into it. “May I rest now?”
Amanda clasped her hands in front of her and smiled sweetly. “You can do what you want,” she said, wriggling onto his lap.
Cyn realized she wasn’t the only person getting a juvenile crush on Santa. Her daughter had fallen—head over patent leather heels—in love. Cyn leaned around the arm of the chair and tugged Amanda’s elbow. “Why don’t you go see Grandmama? Mr. Santa’s been standing for a while. He might want a break.”
Amanda reached for her, just as a shopper jostled Cyn from behind. Cyn found herself teetering, then turning, and suddenly—without understanding how it happened—she was sitting on Santa’s spare knee. An uncharacteristic flush rose to her cheeks.
Amanda giggled. “I already told Santa that I gotta get a daddy for Christmas,” she announced.
Everything in her daughter’s eyes made clear just which daddy she had in mind.
“But I can’t call him ‘daddy,’ even though you said it’s okay. He’s not my daddy and I’m not a liar. Now I gotta go.” In a flash, Amanda tore toward Analise.
“I—I’m sorry,” Cyn managed. Her head was still reeling from her daughter’s lengthy speech, and her heart was beating double time. She started to get up, but Santa’s hand caught her waist. This is a definite role reversal. What’s he doing?
“Now, wait a minute, Santa—” She’d meant to sound playful, but failed miserably. She felt unbalanced, even though the thigh that supported her was as hard and steady as a rock. “First you won’t even talk to me, and now you’re—”
He chuckled. “It’s Christmas. I thought everybody wanted to sit on Santa’s lap.”
This is my fault. I’m the one who was coming on to him. “What?” She was glad her voice wasn’t quivering as much as her insides. “Are you going to ask me what I want for Christmas?”
“Now, what could it be?” he drawled. “You’ve already got your two front teeth.”
She relaxed right up until she remembered she was seated on his knee. “The better to bite you with,” she returned.
He raised his brows and gazed into her eyes, letting the remark hang in the air. “I didn’t mean it like that!” she exclaimed, lightly punching his shoulder.
“Like what?” he asked innocently.
She shot him a smirk. She wasn’t about to let him embarrass her into silence. “You know,” she said, poking his chest with her index finger. “Like when people kiss and accidentally bite each other.”
His lips were twitching all over the place, as if he were fighting not to crack up. “Well, one should watch those slips of the tongue.”
She feigned confusion. “I keep all my slips in my drawers.” What am I saying?
“Funny,” he said. “Most women I’ve known don’t tuck them in.”
Cyn couldn’t help but shake her head. “Sorry, Santa. You lost me on that one.” She tried to scoot casually off his lap.
He held her tight. “Drawers as in bloomers,” he drawled. “And why are you wiggling away? Not three hours ago, you were desperate to see if I was capable of conversation.”
“You call this conversation?” Her cheeks were getting warmer by the second. The undeniable, volatile chemistry cooking between them seemed about to explode. It was no accident that they’d somehow gone from slips to drawers.
“Sure,” he said. “You know. I talk, you talk, I talk.”
“Whatever it is,” she managed to say. “I definitely mean to keep my slips in check.” Watching Santa’s face, she wondered if she could. The man smelled like clean winter weather, the day of a first snow.
“What a shame,” he murmured.
For the first time Cyn realized that shoppers were gawking at them. Nevertheless, she relaxed against his chest, as if his proximity wasn’t affecting her in the least. “And I thought you were just wondering what I want for Christmas,” she said levelly.
“But, Cyn—” He bent so close his lips touched her ear. “Have you been good this year?”
She leaned back, only to find that his penetrating eyes were judgmental, as if she’d been bad. Her mouth went dry. She felt as guilty as she had when she was a kid on Santa’s lap. After all, like most kids, she’d been bad much of the year. She thought about how she’d considered not turning in Jake Jackson. But that was four years ago!
“I’ve been good,” she finally protested, feeling suddenly annoyed.
His eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She forced
herself to smile. “Better than a man like you would ever deserve,” she added tartly.
“Probably true.” He chuckled softly, even though his gaze seemed somehow veiled and a little sad now. “Probably true.”
“Mommy!”
Cyn turned away from Santa. She felt relieved at the intrusion, until Amanda crawled onto her knee and swung mistletoe above her head.
“Okay, Mr. Santa Claus,” Amanda said. “You gotta kiss Mommy. I’m the boss.”
Santa grinned. “Where’d you get that?”
“Granddaddy,” Amanda squealed.
Good going, Dad. Cyn sucked in a quick breath. Her first impulse was to run. Then she decided to play it cool. After all, she’d been making a play for the man. He’d just shocked her by responding. She raised her brows archly, shot Santa a smile, then jutted her chin forward, offering him her cheek.
“Oh, goody!” Amanda hopped down.
“A quick peck won’t kill you,” Cyn said.
“To make Amanda happy, of course,” he returned.
“And only Amanda,” she said. “I do assure you.”
When Santa’s thumb grazed her chin, white-hot fire seemed to pour into her veins. He’s supposed to kiss my cheek! Instead, he turned her face, and his lips quickly claimed hers. One instant, she was merely sitting on his knee. The next, she was curled into his shoulder, her chest crushed against his.
It was a full-service kiss, with no preliminaries. She could feel Santa strain against his own desire, every touch of his mouth making clear he wanted more. It was almost as if he’d known and wanted her for a long time, years even. He seemed to be drinking her in...hungry for her.
Suddenly she wrenched away and stared into Santa’s eyes. Her breaths came in great gasps. For the second time in two days she could swear Jake Jackson was in the room. Except this time she was sitting in his lap and he’d just kissed her.
“Oh, Mr. Santa Claus,” Amanda said breathlessly. “That was just great!”
“Glad to oblige,” he said casually.
Jackson slipped from Cyn’s mind as quickly as he’d entered it. Hadn’t Santa felt anything at all? She managed to shut her gaping mouth and pat his shoulder. “Thank you so much for doing that,” she said sweetly, “and all for the sake of my little girl.”
Then she stood slowly, brushed her crinkled skirt and sashayed away, as if she had somewhere important to go. She made sure her heels beat a steady, rhythmic tattoo on the tile floor, and hoped she looked thoroughly unaffected.
But her insides quivered like jelly. Her knees wobbled like rubber, and her lips felt as swollen as a prize fighter’s. Her heart was soaring, though. Because she’d finally found a man in this world who could kiss as wickedly as Jake. And Anton Santa, thank heavens, was honest in the bargain.
* * *
“WONDER WHAT’S GOING ON between those two,” one of the Too Sweet executives murmured as he watched Cyn approach. Even from across the room, he’d felt the fireworks. Now, he wondered if this, too, might play into his hands, somehow. Maybe he was about to find out. Cyn was coming at him like a magnet.
He hadn’t sent the notes, of course. Still, when they’d arrived, he was sure the story would reach the press. It hadn’t, and that had been terribly disappointing to him. After all, he’d researched Too Sweet carefully. The family and company were so intertwined that every time personal tragedy hit, the stocks plummeted, making the place ripe for takeover.
Not that a kidnapping was necessary. Bad press was all he needed, even if he’d prefer not to leak it himself. Nevertheless, he did have enough dirt on the Sweet family to cause a stir. He’d heard the rumors about Cyn’s torrid affair with a convict, and about Harry Stevens. And the holidays would be the perfect time to republish materials from The Grinch Gang’s trial.
He just wished today’s promotion hadn’t been so successful; it meant the company was getting stronger by the day, rather than weaker. Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration. That’s what I’ll do....
When Cyn reached his side, he realized her lips were kiss swollen, and that she’d beat a truly hasty retreat across the room. She also looked as if she’d never been happier to see anyone in her life.
“It’s good to see a friend, right now,” she said.
He smiled. “It sure is.”
Chapter Three
Thursday, December 15, 1994
Santa stepped from the shower onto a bath mat woven with a Santa Claus face, then knotted a woolly red-and-green holiday towel at his waist, wishing Cyn had just left his room alone. He wished he hadn’t kissed her, too, since the lingering taste of her lips had kept him awake. Now every cool, dripping-wet inch of him felt singed, as if she’d touched him with burning need.
“But no,” he whispered. She either felt sorry for him, or wanted to let him know that his kiss hadn’t affected her. She’d employed all her decorative talents, and now his room looked fit for Kriss Kringle. She’d replaced his bathroom water glass with a Frosty mug, switched the previously blue towels to red and green, then hung a wreath of rope pine, complete with red velvet bows on his door. Paper reindeers were now taped above his headboard, flying in the direction of the hallway. And the closest avenue of escape, he thought.
“It’s no wonder a man can’t sleep around here,” he muttered aloud. When he’d opened his eyes at five-thirty, he’d found himself staring into the spray snowflakes on his mirror. He’d read all the morning newspapers, but had forgone his usual police procedurals. Instead, he’d read through Cyn’s scrapbooks, yearbooks, and photo albums for two hours while ensconced between Christmas-tree-print bedsheets. The only thing Cyn seemed to have forgotten was to hang some more mistletoe.
He opened the bathroom door and headed toward his closet to choose a suit. Just as he decided on navy, a sheet of lined, ragged-edged paper shot beneath the door and slid across his bare feet. He agilely retrieved it from the carpet, then squinted. “Aw,” he said softly. It was a crayon drawing.
He wasn’t sure but thought it was of him in a Santa suit, and it was signed with a word that resembled “Amanda,” except that the d was backward. At the bottom, in Cyn’s writing, it said, “Hope you like Amanda’s decorations in your room!”
So, it was Amanda’s idea, not Cyn’s. He should have felt relieved, but he didn’t. He’d imagined Cyn riffling through her decorations and thoughtfully deciding where to place them. He’d imagined her breathing in his scent while she’d hung those ridiculous reindeers, too. He’d imagined her wanting him.
He sighed, crossed the room and gingerly wedged Amanda’s drawing in the bedroom mirror’s frame, next to a snowflake. Then he returned to the bed, sat down and glanced around, trying to remind himself that he hated Christmas. But how could he keep hating it when a little girl—maybe his little girl—drew such cute pictures for him? Or when her beautiful mother helped her decorate his room?
“Get ahold of yourself, Anton,” he murmured. He grabbed the phone receiver with more force than was necessary, then dialed. What if she’s not my little girl?
The most annoying thing was that his morning researches had rendered countless photographs of the supposedly deceased Harry Stevens. He’d attended high school with Cyn and they’d clearly been close. Worse—he was far better looking than Santa, at least in Santa’s own humble opinion. Fury had coursed through him when he’d realized Cyn had always kept Harry waiting in the wings. Not that he’d found wedding pictures.
But if Harry Stevens had done something terrible—which might be why Cyn had pretended he was dead—then she may have destroyed evidence of their nuptials. Good. As it was, Santa had seen more than he’d wanted to. The snapshots of their senior prom had nearly turned his stomach. Santa absently rubbed the scar on the underside of his jaw, as if to remind himself of why he should steer clear of Cyn. Then he glanced at his calf and the circular two-inch scar left by the second bullet.
Harry Stevens didn’t pick up until the sixteenth ring.
Santa went directly into hi
s spiel, using his thickest Southern drawl. “Mr. Stevens? Now, you are Mr. Harrold Stevens, aren’t you? Well, I’m B. D. Whittacker—talent agent out of Atlanta. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Santa stopped for a breather and allowed Stevens to say that he’d never heard of him. Instead, Stevens said, “I’m not sure, but I do believe I may have heard that name.”
The worst thing was that Stevens was just trying to be polite, and Santa wanted to like him. “Well,” he continued, “down here in Atlanta, we’ve been following the Too Sweet promotion in New York City, and I was hoping to speak with you—and your wife, of course—about using your little Amanda for a commercial. Not a big contract, just a local baby food, mind you, but a start...” Santa paused, almost hating himself for laying it on so thick.
“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong—”
Santa’s heart dropped to his feet. Stevens didn’t know what he was talking about. Did the man even know Amanda existed? He’d have to, if the census reports were right.
“Oh!” Stevens chuckled. “You mean Amanda?”
“Do you always forget you have a daughter?” Santa returned gruffly.
“It’s my ex-wife I try to forget,” Stevens said smoothly.
Santa couldn’t help but feel a little defensive on Cyn’s behalf. Still, he was mad. She’d pretended Stevens was dead. She’d kept the man waiting in a wedding tux, when she’d been seeing Jake. Now it appeared that Amanda was Harry’s child. As soon as he hung up, he was going to call Paxton and quit.
“My daughter lives with her mother.” Stevens continued so easily that Santa was sure Amanda belonged to him. “Look, I was just leaving, to catch a plane home for the holidays.” Santa could almost see the amicable, sandy-haired Harry smiling. “But would you like me to give my ex-wife a call? Or perhaps I could give you the number for Too Sweet Toys.”
“Why, that’s mighty nice of you.” Santa suddenly wished Harry didn’t have those sandy-blond blue-eyed good looks. “Just let me get a pen.”
He held the receiver in the air and mentally counted to five. It was a shame Stevens was headed out of town. Santa’d had every intention of calling back later—from Puerto Rico, after he quit. He’d play a confused bureaucrat who needed to clarify Stevens’s supposed death records. He swung the mouthpiece to his lips again. “Could I possibly have a number where I could reach you? In case I can’t find your wife?”
