Christmas Confidential: Holiday Protector

by Marilyn Pappano

  A short distance ahead was the entrance to the interstate, along with a half dozen fast food joints. Remembering her fondness for small, very basic burgers, he slowed and pulled into the drive-through for the golden arches. “Want something?” Other than to be away from me?

  He thought she was going to continue the silent treatment, but as he stopped in front of the order box, she relented. “A burger.”

  “With cheese, right?” Though he’d never known many of the details of her life, he remembered she liked burgers with cheese, coffee with cream, onion rings instead of fries, loved hot cocoa and had a wicked sweet tooth that she indulged every evening and compensated for by skipping breakfast the next morning.

  And he remembered that her kisses tasted of chocolate and rich dark roast coffee, that she smelled like jasmine and felt like the finest-woven silk.

  He definitely remembered his regret that she’d been arrested before he’d been able to get far enough past her defenses to have sex. He was pretty sure it would have been the best he’d had in a long time.

  Scowling, he ordered four cheeseburgers, figuring if she didn’t want a second one, he could polish it off. He added pop, diet for her and high-sugar, high-caffeine for himself, then tossed in an order of fries. He could always run an extra few miles.

  “What’s the food like in prison? I hear both good and bad about it.”

  Nothing.

  He let his gaze slide over her, from the top of her natural blond roots all the way down to her well-worn tennis shoes. “It doesn’t seem to have hurt you.”

  Ah, the muscles in her jaw twitched. It wasn’t much, but it was a response. She didn’t have to be friendly. She just had to lead him to the cash.

  As he pulled up to the window, she shifted to dig in her pocket, pulling out a crumpled bill. He waved it away, smiling as if she wouldn’t like to claw his eyes out. “My treat.”

  Without protest, she put the money back.

  The woman at the cash register was chunky and gray-haired and looked as if she’d had a long shift, but her smile was genuine. “Four dollars and eighteen cents is your change. Y’all have a Merry Christmas.” Then she winked slyly. “Hope you find what you want under your tree Christmas morning.”

  Dean grinned. “I always do.” He was lucky that way, and this year a hundred grand would make for the best holiday ever.

  After picking up the food and drinks at the next window, he pulled into a parking space and began unwrapping one burger. He felt Miri’s attention before she actually spoke.

  “Can’t you drive and eat?”

  “When I need to, but what’s the hurry?”

  Her mouth pinched again, and he was pretty sure she’d barely stopped an eye roll.

  “Let me remind you, Miriam, if I hadn’t talked you into accepting a ride, you’d be hoofing it into town about now, then waiting for a bus. I know that because the guard told me when I went looking for you at the prison. Since you’re ahead of schedule, you can spare a few minutes for a civilized meal.”

  This time the corners of her mouth twitched, but she maintained the flat expression. “This is your idea of a civilized meal? Even in prison we sat at tables and had utensils—nothing dangerous, of course—and napkins.”

  He dipped into the bag and pulled out a handful of paper. “We have napkins. And who needs utensils for hamburgers? Besides, I’m not sure I’d trust you with anything dangerous, either.”

  She stared at him while nibbling her burger, taking delicate little bites and chewing them thoroughly before swallowing. He’d finished his first and a handful of fries in the time it took her to eat a third of hers.

  She did everything delicately. Even the smallest of movements, like brushing back a strand of hair or pursing her lips in concentration, were potently feminine and graceful, sensuous and innocent. He’d wondered a lot over the past year how much of it was an act, but he’d never been able to decide. She’d planned and carried out a complex crime, and yet she looked... Not like an angel. Heavenly beings surely didn’t kiss the way she did. Like a faerie or pixie or some other make-believe creature.

  “Why are you here?”

  Though he saw her lips moving to form the words, it took him a moment to hear the question. With a shrug, he unwrapped the next burger. “I told you, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the way things worked out. I know a ride’s not much in exchange for sending you to prison, but—”

  Her shrug was much more elegant than his. Her thin jacket, worn over a plain T-shirt, shifted and hugged her, reminding him of the curves those clothes held. Not that he’d actually seen her naked. He’d never gotten her stripped beyond her shirt, but the memory of her breasts and the small bits of lace that didn’t quite cover them still hung around. He could imagine the rest. He was a man, after all.

  “Like you said, you were doing your job.”

  That surprised him. “You don’t hold it against me that I turned you in?”

  She took a suck of pop before giving him that look again. That was the only real difference he’d found yet: that flat lack of expression. Just how bad had prison been to wipe all the emotion from her face?

  “Am I a success or failure among your cases?”

  “I caught you. What do you think?”

  “But you didn’t recover the money.”

  “I wasn’t hired to get the money back.” Not that time, at least. “My orders were to find who was funneling Mr. Smith’s money into overseas accounts and stop it. I did.”

  “Mr. Smith.” Her tone was almost disinterested, but faintly, barely noticeable, scorn underlay the words.

  When she didn’t continue, Dean finished his second burger, then asked, “So if you don’t hold the whole arrest and prison thing against me, then we’re good, right? Friends again?”

  * * *

  Making and keeping friends had never been an easy thing for Miri. When Social Services yanked her from home to home for nearly a year, then she and Mom had had to stay on the move the next seven years to avoid their notice, she hadn’t had friends—just people who came and went from her life. By the time she was old enough that no one cared whether she had a stable home or slept under a bridge, she’d lost the ability to make friends. Everyone she’d loved had abandoned her. Everyone, even her mother, had gone on to a better life without her. How could she have trusted anyone to stay?

  All her adult relationships had been superficial—the occasional boyfriend for occasional sex, office chatter with the people whose desks surrounded hers, exchanging guarded hellos with her neighbor. Finding Sophy, Oliver and Chloe would give her back that ability to connect, she’d thought, and so she’d searched and plotted, but she’d wondered. Was it already too late? Was she too damaged to have normal relationships again?

  With Dean, she’d begun to believe the answer was no. She’d trusted him. She’d connected with him. She’d believed he wanted her, cared for her. Then she’d opened the door to him the evening of their last date, and there he’d stood with two detectives behind him. He had listened to them read her rights, had watched them lead her away in handcuffs, and he hadn’t said a word.

  As they’d both said, he’d just been doing the job Smith had hired him for. She’d been well aware when she came up with her scheme that her freedom was at risk. But she hadn’t known her heart was at risk, too. She hadn’t counted on Dean Montgomery romancing her, gaining her trust, making her think he might love her, all for the sake of his job.

  That was what she held against him. What she couldn’t forgive.

  Friends again? “That’s not going to happen. But I do appreciate the ride.” She took the last bite of her cheeseburger, savoring the taste as she carefully wadded the wrapper into a neat ball with the napkin and straw paper inside. Deliberately she turned her head to the side again, glancing from restaurant to gas station to pa
ssing traffic. So many people with places to go, families to see, friends to celebrate with. She felt so alone, but that was nothing new. If men were put on earth to break women’s hearts, maybe she’d been put here just to have her heart broken. Maybe she was one of those sad people destined to live their lives in quiet despair, so needy of companionship that they’d take it from anyone or so fearful that they couldn’t risk it with anyone.

  Now, wasn’t that a cheery happy-holidays thought?

  “I am sorry, Miriam.”

  “Okay.” She locked her gaze on a minivan with out-of-state plates at the gas station next door, kids piling out of the back, herded inside by their father while their mother pumped gas. Suitcases were lashed to the baggage carrier on the roof, and piles of brightly wrapped gifts were visible in the rear storage space. Did those kids realize how lucky they were? Did they know they would look back in twenty years and forget the long hours of traveling and the squabbling and just remember that they’d been together?

  Probably not. Look at Dean. He had his entire family, minus parents, ready to welcome him into their midst for Christmas, and instead he chose to stay here in Texas and...what? What use could he possibly have for Miri now?

  The money, of course. It was only reasonable to assume that as soon as she got out of prison, she’d take the money and run. Returning it to John W. Smith—Mister Smith, she scoffed—would turn her case from merely solved to successfully tied up, restitution made and everyone happy except Miri.

  In Dean’s dreams. That money belonged to her and nothing—no one, she added as he started the engine to back out—was going to take it away.

  Once they’d merged into traffic on the interstate, he turned on the radio and for a moment, Christmas music blasted into the car. One good thing about prison: she hadn’t been forced to endure six weeks of “Jingle Bell Rock,” “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” or “The Christmas Song.” Before she finished the thought, though, he switched to a CD, Eric Clapton singing the blues. Much more appropriate to her mood.

  They’d gone through that and a Joe Bonamassa disc before Dean spoke again. He was no longer making an effort at charming her. “Where do you want to go?”

  She looked around and saw that they’d covered the distance into the city while the music distracted her. “My old neighborhood.”

  His look was sharp, but he said nothing. He hadn’t liked the area around her apartment, or so he’d said. She needed to find someplace safer, less scary. As if he’d cared.

  She wouldn’t forgive him for making her think that. Wouldn’t forgive herself for being so gullible.

  The traffic, the crowdedness, the buildings looming everywhere disconcerted her, knotting her stomach. She’d lived her entire life in cities. They were wonderful places for getting lost, for being anonymous, but suddenly she was having trouble filling her lungs. Once she’d made contact with her sisters and brother, she would find a small town to settle in, maybe near them if they were open to that, maybe somewhere out west where she could finally start that brand-new life she’d been longing for since she was ten years old.

  “Now where?”

  She looked around again and recognized the down-on-its-luck neighborhood she’d called home for two years. On the four corners where they waited at a red light sat the market where she’d bought huge cups of diet pop more for the finely crushed ice than the drink, the dry cleaner where she’d dropped off her work clothes every Friday, the gas station where she’d filled her car when she forgot to do so at the cheaper stations on the way to work and a bar that did steady business all day and into the night.

  Three blocks away was one of the storage facilities she’d rented more than a year ago.

  “You can let me out here.”

  “Come on.” He shot her an impatient look. “You don’t expect me to just leave you on a street corner.”

  “I don’t expect anything of you.” She’d learned that the hard way.

  “I told you I’d take you wherever you want to go.”

  “I want out here.”

  “Miriam—” A horn blasted behind them, and he scowled into the rearview mirror before turning the corner and pulling to the curb. “You don’t even have a place to stay.”

  “I had access to both mail and telephones in prison. I took care of that.” She unbuckled the seat belt and reached for the door handle. His hand on her arm stopped her.

  “Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll take you there.”

  The smile that curved her lips as she turned to look at him was cool and a reminder of the chill deep inside her. “Why would I want you to know where I’m staying? Given our past—”

  “You said you didn’t hold the job against me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then I don’t get—” He removed his hand to drag his fingers through his hair. “I said I’m sorry, damn it.”

  She stared at him a long time, committing every detail to memory—as if she’d ever forgotten. “Some things can’t be fixed with an apology.” Her father had taught her that. I’m sorry, but I can’t live this way any longer. And later, I’m sorry, but I can’t take you with me. Later still, I’m sorry, but she’s not my problem. Neither are you. I have a life, you know. Obligations.

  She, Sophy, Oliver and Chloe hadn’t even ranked as obligations to their father.

  Mister Smith.

  Before Dean could say anything else—or, worse, touch her again—she opened the door, climbed out, then closed it again with a solid thunk. She was in Dallas. Sophy’s gift was only three blocks away. Dean Montgomery was about to drive out of her life forever.

  She was ready to take the next step, and she did it literally, turning to cross the sidewalk and go inside the market. The clerk behind the counter was the same elderly Vietnamese woman who’d worked there a year ago. She looked up from the customer she was waiting on, and a rote smile flashed across her face. Not a sign that she remembered Miri, but just the way she greeted every customer.

  Miri browsed up and down the aisles, keeping an eye on the street outside. Dean sat there for a long time, long enough to change the clerk’s expression from polite to suspicious. Miri picked up a couple of candy bars, a bag of potato chips and filled a monster cup with ice and diet pop, and finally Dean drove away from the curb. Satisfaction settled over her. Weird how it had a kind of disappointed feel to it.

  She was the lone customer at the counter when she paid, adding a last-minute purchase of a ball cap. Sliding her change into her pocket, she ripped the tag from the hat, then picked up the bag and the pop before asking, “Would it be okay if I go out the back door? There’s a man...” She gestured toward the street, even though the Charger was gone.

  The woman’s gaze narrowed, but after a moment she nodded toward the rear door that led into the storeroom, then to the back door. As Miri was walking that way, the woman murmured, “Welcome back.”

  Miri stumbled, a sharp sting in her chest making her breath catch. The woman remembered her, even though her entire adult life she’d worked so hard at being forgettable that she’d actually become it. “Th-thank you.”

  The storeroom’s heavy steel door opened into an alley that stank of refuse. Clamping the hat on her head, hair gathered up beneath it, she removed her jacket and shoved it into the plastic bag. As camouflage went, it wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. She walked to the far end of the street, eyes shifting constantly, then turned left for a block. There was no sign of Dean anywhere, thank God.

  There were no decorations attached to the light poles, but about half the businesses she passed had some sign of the holiday: wreaths on doors, paintings of Santa, reindeer and plump snowmen on the plate-glass windows. Snippets of the Muppets singing carols came from one open door as she passed, too sudden to tune out.

  At the next alley, she turned again, zigging and z
agging until she reached the storage facility. The chain-link fence was lined with Christmas lights, even its sagging sections, and life-size replicas formed a manger scene in the yellow grass outside the office door. Overhead, garish red-and-green lights on a sign flashed out greetings and Bible quotes.

  She’d rented the smallest-size locker eighteen months ago, paying cash for two years, to store what few belongings she’d brought to Dallas with her: clothes, keepsakes, books. On good days, her mother had read the books to them every night. On bad days, her flair for the dramatic soared over the top, funny and entertaining until they—at least Miri and Sophy—had realized the behavior was a sign that something ugly was about to happen. Those were the days their father had turned cold, eventually sending their mother to bed where she cried inconsolably. A day, or two or three, later, she would emerge from the bedroom, smiling, happy once again, but each time more fragile, like a delicate glass ball that might shatter.

  Miri opened the door and walked into the space, barely bigger than a closet. By the light of the dim bulb overhead, she pried the lid from a plastic tub, took the backpack off the top and began stuffing it with clothes. She located the few bits of her mother’s jewelry she’d been able to hang on to and zipped them into the pack, then added Sophy’s favorite of the thin, flat storybooks. She traded her jacket for a sturdy coat from another tub before opening the bin labeled Dishes and taking out the final, most important item.

  Boo was close to thirty years old, the size of a small child, and he showed the wear of a well-loved bear. His button eyes didn’t match, and his fur was rubbed bare in places. One ear stood straight, the other flopping over, and thick black X’s stitched on his left arm showed Miri’s brief foray into a surgical career.

  To most people, he would look old, worn and worthless.

  But most people didn’t know about the quarter of a million dollars stuffed into his middle.

  Slinging the backpack over one shoulder, she wrapped both arms around Boo’s neck, locked up and headed back the way she’d come. It wasn’t more than a mile’s walk to the bus station, where she hoped she could catch a bus heading east.