by Jule McBride
“Thank you,” she said a little huffily, swiping at the green smear with more force than was needed.
“Anytime.” After a moment, he cleared his throat and watched her busy herself, cleaning up the kitchen. He’d debated for some hours about whether or not to tell her about Lewis. He didn’t want to see fear in her eyes again. But he couldn’t protect people who weren’t aware of the danger they were in, either.
“Cyn,” he said. “We need to talk.”
She folded the dish towel, slapped it over the sink again, then rinsed dishes, as if she meant to ignore him. When they teased each other, there was always some truth in what was said. He wondered whether their words would heat up into a real argument or a kiss. This time he hoped they could simply talk.
She finally turned around. “Now, what do you want to discuss?”
“You might want to sit down for a minute.”
“You mean, right next to you?” She chuckled. “Forget it, Santa. Our knees might touch or something. And even though you seem ready to forget it now, I am your client. Right?”
“If I happen to forget I’m sure you’ll be the first to remind me.”
Her smile broadened into a confident grin. “Why, Santa—” She was mocking his drawl now. “I’d just feel so downright wretched if I accidentally compromised your ethics.”
His eyes never left hers. “Ms. Sweet as sugar,” he returned, “it’s not my ethics I’m worried about.”
That stopped her cold.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wisp of smoke. “And Cyn?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What?”
“I do believe your cookies are burning.”
In the next instant, she went flying around the kitchen like a spooked bird. She looked so upset when she slammed the tray onto the counter that he said, “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she quickly returned, as if not about to admit that he’d captured her complete attention. “Besides,” she said as Santa rose and came up behind her, “Daddy likes them that way.”
“Burned?”
“Crunchy,” she corrected. A flicker of awareness sparked in her eyes. Santa was sure she was thinking what he was. That they’d been standing in this exact spot when they’d kissed the previous day. “So, what is it?” Her businesslike tone was as crisply brittle as her cookies.
He suddenly wished that he could protect her and Amanda, not just from Lewis, but from all the harm in the world. His mouth opened slightly and he licked his upper lip.
“Don’t tell me,” she teased. She was clearly aware of the emotion in his gaze but read it incorrectly. “You’re going to propose to me now.” She smiled wickedly. “It always happens after men have known me three or four days.”
“I wish I were,” he found himself saying softly.
Her eyes met his dead-on, and widened. “It’s—it’s something bad,” she rambled. “I can tell, it’s something bad. Dammit, Santa, what is it?”
Somehow, he wanted to be holding her when he told her. “Matthew Lewis is out of Riker’s Island on a holiday pardon,” he said.
She all but crumpled against the counter. The expression in her eyes had gone from viciously teasing, to fearfully surprised, to helplessly vulnerable—all in a heartbeat. “Jake Jackson,” she demanded. “What about Jake?”
He should have expected that. And he didn’t want to lie. He was digging himself in deeper with every single falsehood he uttered. But seeing the expression in her eyes, he knew he’d tell a million lies to erase it. “I think he’s still in prison,” he managed to say.
She gasped. “Think?” Those beautiful green eyes pleaded with his.
“Know,” he corrected. He waited for her to say something more. She didn’t.
“Come here,” he nearly whispered. Before his arms were even around her shoulders, her face was pressed against his chest. Her body curled against his, feeling so right he was almost convinced they had never been apart.
He tried to remind himself that she hadn’t been there for him. That she’d left him, lying on her parents’ lawn with two gunshot wounds. She might have deprived him of his very own daughter, too. The woman who was asking for his strength now hadn’t given him hers. Cyn was demanding his trust but hadn’t trusted him.
Santa knew he was supposed to be seducing information out of her. Instead, he was almost sure he could fall in love with her all over again. But even if he could, he thought, he’d never forgive her.
* * *
“BUY NOW! Lotto tickets are distributed with every purchase!” Bob Bingley grandly barked commands over Too Sweet’s loudspeaker. “At exactly seven o’clock—that’s just five minutes from now, folks—we’ll dispense the very last ticket and the drawing will begin. That ticket might be a winner! So make your final purchases now!”
As Cyn and Amanda headed for the makeshift stage on the ground floor of Too Sweet, Cyn wished that the elf hadn’t called in sick. A flu bug seemed to have half of Manhattan under the weather. She leaned and adjusted her green leggings. The next thing she knew, she thought, she’d be dressed as Santa Claus.
She shot Amanda an encouraging smile as they took positions on either side of the air-driven lotto machine. Inside the transparent plastic, bright red and green balls printed with silver numbers whirled and tumbled.
How does Amanda stand this? Cyn wondered, plastering a smile on her face. Their matching elf outfits were bright green and consisted of pointy-toed, Aladdin-style slippers, thick leggings, and squarish, shorty dresses. What Amanda referred to as the Robin Hood hats had gargantuan red plumes. With Anton Santa staring at her protectively, Cyn felt more than a little idiotic.
She heaved a sigh of relief when the drumroll sounded. Over and over, Amanda pressed a button and the balls shot upward, landing in their ball-size pockets.
“Nine,” Cyn called over the microphone. “Seven. Four...” There were to be twenty winners, each of whom would receive three free tickets to The Nutcracker, so that parents could accompany the child. Cyn wished all the kids present could win. “Six. Seven...”
As she called out the numbers, she glanced at Bob, who was recording them all. Then her gaze returned to Santa. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He could be so sweet, when he wanted to be.
“Mommy,” Amanda said in a stage whisper.
Cyn started. “Three,” she called into the microphone, still watching Santa. “One...” She’d done her best to cold-shoulder him on their way out of the apartment, and now she was glad. In the few days she’d known him, he’d sent out more mixed messages than the post office. First he’d kept her at arm’s length, which had made her want to flirt with him. When it had led to a kiss, he firmly rejected her, then tried to quit his job. Now he was seemingly ready to offer her comfort.
“Mommy!”
“Lucky number one again,” Cyn said promptly. “Two. Nine...”
“That’s us!” someone yelled.
Cyn’s eyes darted over the crowd, settling on familiar faces—Eileen, Bob, Evan, Clayton. Somehow she half expected to see Matthew Lewis. Lewis made her think of Jake. I’ve got to stay away from Santa, she thought. “Three,” she called. “Seven again! Five...” After all, Jake Jackson had taught her enough about mixed messages to last her a lifetime. She wouldn’t have a man in her life who blew hot and cold.
“And now for the last lucky number!” she said brightly a few moments later as Amanda pushed the button. “Number nine!” She blew out a quick sigh, trying to forget that Santa’s call this morning had been to a woman. She grinned at the crowd. “That wraps it up! Have fun at The Nutcracker!”
Amanda preceded her down the steps and right into Paxton’s arms. “Good job, Amanda!” he said.
Meaning to avoid Santa, Cyn hurried toward the employees’ door. Glancing over her shoulder, she realized the man in question was right behind her. Paxton was following, too, with Amanda on his hip.
She needed to take a roll of
wrapping paper home, so she ducked into a walk-in closet that served as a supply room. The place was a mess, cluttered with tumbled stacks of boxes and scattered bows. Cyn smiled. A disaster area meant that today’s sales were good. Just as she glanced over the pickings—gold foil, red foil, and red-and-green wreath print—she heard steps. Then the door behind her shut.
“What exactly did I do wrong?” Santa leaned casually against the door. Even though they were at opposite ends of the storage closet, he was a mere four feet away.
“Not a thing.” She ignored him and bent over. Her hands fumbled over the various papers, even though she’d already decided on red. Suddenly she stood up straight. Just how short was her skirt? She forced herself not to grab at the hemline nearest her backside, and glanced at Santa. Pretty short, judging by his expression.
A loud series of raps sounded on the door. Saved, she thought, watching Santa cross his arms over his broad chest as if he didn’t intend to budge.
“Are you in there, Cyn?”
She smiled at Santa as if to say that he wasn’t going to get away with trapping her. “Yes, Daddy!” she called brightly.
“Santa?” Paxton called.
“Right here.”
Then the worst imaginable thing happened. The lock turned over. Her father had locked the door from the outside! What in thunder did he think he was doing?
Santa had the nerve to chuckle. “Your Daddy’s sure got a juvenile streak,” he remarked.
She sighed. “Why else would a man start a toy company?”
He shrugged. “The real question’s why my favorite elf ducked in here to hide.”
Favorite elf? His eyes gave her the once-over. She wished she was clad in anything other than a felt dress, and that the supply room was larger. “I’m not hiding,” she said pointedly.
“Does Cyn not want to join in our reindeer games?” he drawled.
She grabbed a roll of paper, feeling so flustered that she accidentally picked up the green rather than the red. She wanted the man, there was no doubt about it. But she was just as sure it would be a mistake. She stalked toward the door. “I’m an elf, not a reindeer. Remember?” She pounded on the door. Hard. “Dad?”
“Sorry,” Santa said softly. “But I think we’re at his mercy.”
Her gaze met his. “Let’s wait it out, like adults, shall we?”
He threw both hands in the air. “Is it something I said?”
She arched her brow as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Still, she’d made such a point of avoiding him that he couldn’t have missed it.
He shot her a knowing smirk. “You know what I mean.”
“All right,” she said levelly, leaning her shoulder against the door. “I’ll tell you.”
He turned so he was facing her. “Please do.”
“Number one, you’re toying with me,” she said, leaning even closer. “Number two, you blow hot and cold, and I don’t like that in a man. And number three,” she said, her voice rising, “I don’t play silly games.” She flashed him a quick smile. “Reindeer or otherwise.”
The fact that he was still smiling truly annoyed her. “I’m sorry I blow hot and cold,” he said. “But you know something?”
“What?” She just couldn’t help but ask.
“Right now, I’m blowing hot.”
Before she could even respond, the fool man was kissing her again. She dropped the wrapping paper, and her arms flew up in protest. As his lips claimed hers, one of her hands somehow wound up on his shoulder. The other, fortunately, remained rational. With it, she began pounding on the door, as if to save her life.
It flew open in the next heartbeat.
Thank heavens, she thought, just before she realized they’d been leaning on it. She and Santa tumbled outward, sprawling toward the floor. Having no choice, she clutched him for support, but he was airborne.
His lips never left hers, but he somehow managed to twist his muscular body so that he hit the hard tiles first. Her hat lurched off her head and then, because of the plume, floated slowly downward. Santa kept rolling, until he was right on top of her.
Cyn wrenched away, only to find that she was trapped by Santa’s weight. “Daddy!” she nearly shrieked. She looked up, into Paxton’s eyes. He seemed to be towering over her.
“Something wrong, dear?” Paxton stared down at her calmly. In his arms, Amanda clapped excitedly.
“Look at what this man just did to me!” Cyn burst out, her eyes shooting Santa daggers. She unpinned one of her arms and tried to pull down the hemline of her ridiculous elf outfit. It was bunched nearly to her waist and she now realized that one of her slippers had come off in the melee. “Just look!”
“What?” Paxton was all innocence. “Oh, I suppose I should thank Mr. Santa. After all, he just broke your fall with an astounding display of professionalism and expertise. Excellent job, Santa,” he continued as he began ambling away. “Excellent.” He glanced over his shoulder, suddenly chuckling. “Oh, and Santa?”
The man was staring deeply into her eyes, and the full length of his body still covered hers. Cyn was sure he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. He finally glanced at Paxton. “Yes, sir?”
“Do keep up the good work.”
* * *
I‘M DEFINITELY getting out of shape. Across the river, in New Jersey, a man grunted and leaned against a wall, debating if he should contact Club Med or buy a StairMaster. Then he lugged the heavy typewriter up the rest of the stairs. “What a workout,” he muttered when he reached his bedroom. He dropped the typewriter onto the mattress. It was so heavy that it bounced.
He fished through the odds and ends in his bedside drawer. When he found the key to his walk-in closet, he hoisted the typewriter into his arms again, carried it inside the closet, then shoved it behind a row of shoes. Then he locked the closet.
Things were getting serious, all right. Anton Santa had scrutinized the contents inside every drawer in the Too Sweet corporate offices. Santa had also looked at every typewriter. Worse, the last letter that had been sent hadn’t even been mentioned in this morning’s meeting. It hadn’t made the papers, either.
He wanted that toy company! If it were run as something other than a family business, it could become a franchise. He’d make a fortune. Contrary to what the other execs thought, bad press always lost Too Sweet money. But the notes hadn’t generated publicity.
He sighed. Maybe it was time he truly took matters into his own hands.
Chapter Five
Saturday, December 17, 1994
Santa glanced at his clock. He’d finished the papers and his police procedural by six-thirty this morning, and was halfway through a thick forensics book now. He finally dog-eared the page and stood and stretched, hoping he’d given Cyn enough time to dress. It was ten, but he still hadn’t heard the shower. One more look at her in a bathrobe, he thought, and he’d attack her.
How anyone could sleep past five or five-thirty was simply beyond him. The cartoons hadn’t even come on until eight. “Ready or not, here I come,” he chanted.
He flung open his door and found himself staring at the empty living room. He ambled in the direction of the blaring cartoons, only to find the den vacant, too. He tilted his head, listening. Nothing.
Both Cyn and Amanda knew better than to leave without him, he thought. Had someone forced them to? He crept down the hall. No one was in Amanda’s room. Her bed had been made and the toys she’d played with the previous night had been put away.
He checked all the rooms, then warily pushed open Cyn’s door. The room was a mess. Struggle or mere slobbishness? It was hard to tell. He circled her bed cautiously, half hoping the twisted sheets indicated a struggle, since he was neat to a fault. How could I ever live with this woman? He squelched that thought and squinted at her covers. Mere slobbishness, he finally decided. He didn’t know if he felt relief because Amanda was probably safe, or because the mess meant his and Cyn’s personal habits were so different.
In spite of the circumstances, he leaned and ran a hand over the sheets. They were of pink satin and so tangled that he could easily imagine they’d spent the night together. The whole room smelled like a woman who’d bathed and perfumed just for him, and the vanity was strewn with feminine trappings—powder-tinged makeup brushes, tiny crystal vials, delicate colored bottles, and crystal sprayers with pumps. Her blouse of the previous day had been sheer enough that he recognized the lace camisole on the floor. He had to fight not to pick it up.
He strode into her private bath and crouched down. The tub was dry, which meant she definitely hadn’t showered. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he snagged a bottle from the lip of the tub. He scrutinized it so carefully that it might have been evidence at the scene of a murder.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered, shaking his head. Cyn Sweet dyed her hair. The label really said Blonde. And all this time, he’d thought of her as a natural.
When he stood again, one of the soft silk stockings that hung over the shower rod fluttered against his face, then trailed over his shoulder. “She still wears garters, too,” he murmured. And I’ve got to get out of here. He turned abruptly, reentered her room proper and checked the closet opposite her bed. He found nothing but rods hung with clothes that smelled of Cyn. “Cyn?” he called, heading toward the kitchen. “Amanda?”
Her folded note was hidden under an angel-shaped refrigerator magnet. It said, “Don’t worry, we weren’t kidnapped or anything.”
He rubbed the scar on his jaw while he stared at the note. He was angry at himself for becoming so engrossed in his book, and furious at her. In fact, what he was feeling was out of proportion with the situation. He felt as if he’d just raced back in time. It was four years ago, and he was running through her parents’ front door. She took one look at his face, then turned and fled toward a cop cruiser. He felt abandoned.
He sighed. The kidnapper had a line on Cyn’s daily activities, judging from how the last note had been delivered. He or she could have forced Cyn to write the note.
“More likely you just took off.” He grimaced in the direction of a window, as if he might actually see Matthew Lewis, trailing Cyn and Amanda down the crowded avenue below. How could Cyn have left when they knew the man was out there somewhere?
