MISTLETOE OVER MANHATTAN

by Barbara Daly

  "I'll see if I can get a reservation at the JUdson Grill. It's noisy enough that we'll be able to talk without anybody overhearing us." He picked up the phone and dialed Directory Assistance. He knew he couldn't spend the whole evening in the suite with her without jumping her. This was only Step One—don't let anybody else jump her. Step Two was win her respect for his intelligence and professional skill, which to him meant settling this case and effectively saving her company. His mouth watered just thinking about Step Three, when he'd make her desire his body, which had always been the easy part for him.

  "Got the reservation," he yelled through the door when she withdrew to do who knew what before rushing out to taunt her date with her utter desirability—and then ditch the bastard.

  "It's just a working dinner," Mallory said breathlessly to Maybelle fifteen minutes later.

  "Whoopee!" Maybelle cried. "Progress! Dickie!" And then to Mallory, "We gotta go shopping."

  Mallory gasped. "I can't. I told Carter I'd be at the restaurant at eight-fifteen."

  "So? I've gotta get back here at eight to meet with the president."

  "The president?"

  "Yes?" Richard said, gliding through the door.

  "Get us our coats. Get the car. We're goin' to Bergdorf's."

  "The president?" Mallory repeated.

  "Uh-oh, a shopping spree," Dickie said, but was back in half a minute with Mallory's black cashmere and a coat for Maybelle that appeared to be several llamas sewn together.

  She shrugged it on over a top that featured sequined diagonal stripes in purple, yellow and red. It made her look like a parrot. The llamas toned down the effect a bit. "Not our president," she said suddenly, as if Mallory's question had just registered. "He's the president of a little country, the kind they call 'emergin'.' Needs an image change if he's gonna win the next election. I shouldn'ta been blabbin' about it, either. Come on, hon, no time to waste."

  "I don't need more clothes," Mallory protested as Maybelle dragged her to the car. It was an enormous pale blue Cadillac of indeterminate vintage, with Richard at the wheel.

  "No, y'all jes' need more clothes like that little red jacket," Maybelle said. "Ain't no wonder he didn't want you seein' anybody else tonight."

  Was that why he'd suggested the working dinner? "I have to admit he forced my hand and that's the only reason I wore the red jacket," Mallory said, and told Maybelle about the mustard shower.

  Maybelle cackled. "Sounds like he wanted y'all out of that black jacket right bad."

  "So I'll wear the red one again."

  "Caint wear it ever' day or he'll catch on," Maybelle argued.

  "Then I'll wear my black suit tomorrow whether he likes it or not."

  Maybelle gave her a look.

  "Okay," Mallory said, capitulating, "maybe I could buy another sexy jacket to wear tomorrow. But after that I really must leave to meet Carter."

  "Id-zackly what I had in mind," Maybelle said smugly. "Jes' stick with me, hon, and you'll be at that restaurant right on time."

  "Maybelle, we haven't seen you in weeks," gushed a salesperson, rushing across a carpeted floor.

  This was Bergdorf Goodman, as expensive a store as one could ever hope to avoid, and they were on the third floor—designer clothing. Yet the saleswoman was rushing toward a parrot wearing cowboy boots and shrouded in llamas. Mallory found her hospitality heartwarming.

  Maybelle shrugged off the coat and dropped it on a bench as if she owned the place. "Haven't had a client who needed clothes in weeks. This one needs 'em bad and fast." Her tiny figure buzzed from one rack of clothing to another, a hummingbird now rather than a parrot.

  "We need a coupla sexy suits—"

  "I said one suit. I mean one jacket," Mallory puffed, pausing to zero in on a price tag and wipe her forehead. "I'll wear it with my black pants and skirt."

  "Or some other black pants and skirt," Maybelle said.

  "What I really need are some of those plastic shoes that go over your own shoes—"

  "We'll find y'all some cute snow boots later," Maybelle said.

  Mallory caught up to her in the Gianfranco Ferre in-store boutique and spoke to her in a hushed whisper.

  "Maybelle, I do make a very nice salary, but I can't afford…"

  Maybelle brushed off this absurd reasoning with a diamond-studded wave. "I have a charge account here," she said. "We can talk about the money later."

  Mallory groaned. Later it would still be too much money.

  Somehow she was in a dressing room, with Maybelle and the saleswoman ripping clothes off her and stuffing her into new ones.

  "I think we can make it to the weekend without new undies," Maybelle confided in the saleswoman as if Mallory were not there. "Now, hon, that's what I call a black suit."

  Mallory turned slowly to the mirror. This suit jacket had narrow shoulders, a fitted waist and was too short to cover even half her rear end. The pants were so narrow-legged that without the vents, she couldn't have gotten her bare feet through them.

  She looked terrific in it. Even she had to admit it. She gritted her teeth. "Okay, I'll take the whole suit. But not another thing."

  "Keep your new pants on," Maybelle said. "It'll save time."

  In addition to the black suit, Mallory left the floor with a featherweight jacket that matched her eyes and a coordinating top, one skirt that wasn't as short as Phoebe Angell's but almost and another very curvy one in the new midcalf length. Both Maybelle and the saleslady, whose eyes had begun flashing dollar signs, insisted the longer skirt had to be worn with very high heels to achieve the proper proportions.

  That's why they were speeding toward "Designer Shoes" on the fifth floor—to further reduce Mallory's stock and bond holdings she'd intended to live on in her retirement. Here the saleswoman began to confer with a salesman who'd been looking down his nose until he caught sight of Maybelle. In a dizzyingly short time, Mallory owned Prada pumps with sky-high heels.

  "Do you have any of those plastic shoe covers—"

  "Snow boots," Maybelle interrupted her. "We want a pair of them little high-heeled ones with the fur at the ankle. Don't wrap 'em. She'll wear 'em."

  And once she was in them, Mallory realized she couldn't live without them. She'd stopped looking at price tags. Now was when she needed to live, not after she retired. It was a one-time binge. She'd never do it again. She'd have Maybelle paid off in two, three, four, ten years and start saving again.

  Panic seized her. What was she thinking? Her mother would disown her.

  Beside her, Maybelle said serenely, "I'll get the rest of this stuff brought right to your room in that suite. And I'll make sure your young man isn't there when they're delivered. Now you run on. You got twenty minutes, time to spare."

  "I have to tell you something before I go."

  "Shoot."

  Mallory took a deep breath. "I'm a lawyer for Sensuous, the company that made the dye that turned Kevin's hair green. I started to tell you last night, but the subject changed somehow."

  It was odd that Maybelle didn't seem surprised. She dismissed the confession Mallory had dreaded making with one of her dismissive waves. "Don't worry about it, hon." Her eyes widened, blue and innocent. "We're all perfessionals here. That's not gonna have nuthin' to do with the advice I have to give you."

  "I would never have known if we hadn't deposed him today," Mallory said, surprisingly relieved that Maybelle didn't seem to be upset about the coincidence.

  "And that wouldn't have been a problem if I hadn't shot my mouth off about him last night," Maybelle said, and sighed. "Don't know what made me do it. Then when he tole me y'all deposed him today, I—"

  That startled Mallory. "He told you I deposed him?"

  "He tole me he was bein' deposed," Maybelle said, again fixing Mallory with those innocent blue eyes. "You tole me it was you deposed him."

  Too innocent, Mallory thought suddenly, and narrowed her own eyes.

  "I think Kevvie's sorry he got snookered in
to this lawsuit," Maybelle went on. "If he hadn't, we coulda had that bathroom upstairs regrouted already—heck, I could have done the job myself—and Kevvie coulda had free haircuts and manicures until all the green was gone, at least where's you could see it." She snickered. "And he could be waitin' tables and auditioning again instead of … other stuff."

  It was at that moment Mallory knew. It all came together, Kevin's peculiar behavior when he stepped into the conference room, his reluctance to reveal what his "seasonal" work was, the joke nobody understood about cookies and milk, the traditional snack children left for none other than—

  "Maybelle," she croaked, "who was Santa Claus?"

  Maybelle looked disgusted. "I never could keep a secret," she said. "Yep, hon, Kevin's yore Santy Claus."

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  Carter stood at the bar, not drinking, just leaning his elbow on it for support while he watched the door and ticked off the minutes, eight-twelve, eight-thirteen, eight-fourteen…

  There she was, looking at the sign on the window, probably wondering why the JUdson Grill capitalized both the I and the U and wishing she were somewhere else besides here. She stepped in, and even as his pulse speeded up and his heart started directing all his blood south, he observed that she didn't look especially happy to see him. In fact, he had to say she was looking frantic.

  "Hi," she said, looking at the room rather than at him. "Been waiting long?"

  "Four minutes," he lied. He'd been there since eight, just in case the man she'd gone to see escorted her back to the restaurant, perhaps to see whom she was having dinner with. But she was alone. He examined her closely. "Our table's ready."

  A very New York-looking woman, severely polished and self-assured, divested Mallory of her coat, and Carter steered her up to the headwaiter, another New York-looking woman who sent them off with a waiter—male, with a ponytail—to the table. Carter moved along behind Mallory. She was obviously upset. This was bad news. Her pants were the good news.

  They weren't the loose-fitting, pleated ones she'd worn on the plane. These were so tight she'd have to call the fire department to help her get out of them. But what a lot of trouble to call the fire department when he'd be right there in the suite and happy to come to her rescue.

  This delightful daydream faded when it occurred to him that she'd left the St. Regis wearing a skirt. What did a change in clothes indicate, a change of clothes that hadn't happened in the privacy of her bedroom?

  They sat down. She leaned forward. Carter closed his eyes, and when he opened them, she was fiddling with the silverware. Her date must have given her a hard time, must have been mad that she wasn't going out with him, after all. So the man really liked her, or was really turned on by her, or both. Or maybe he was just a jerk with a bad temper, but Carter didn't think Mallory would go out with a jerk. So he liked her or was turned on by her and maybe she was turned on by him, too, and upset that Carter had sabotaged her plans for the evening. Damn. What had her plans for the evening been? Besides changing clothes.

  The answer hit him in the stomach. The guy had ripped the skirt off her. She'd had to put on the pants, which she must keep in his apartment because Carter hadn't seen her in them before. Any fool could figure out what that meant.

  The guy with the ponytail was back. "Would you like to start with a cocktail before dinner?"

  "No," said Mallory.

  "Menus?"

  "Yes," Carter said.

  "And a wine list?"

  "You bet," Carter said.

  He'd have to find out what her relationship was to this guy. Better to know. "You're all wound up about something," he said after he'd taken a cursory glance at the menu and another at the wine list. "I hope your date didn't go ballistic when you told him you had to work."

  "Who?" She looked up from her menu. "Oh. No." At last she seemed actually to see him. "I was thinking you were all wound up about something. Was Brie mad?"

  "She was okay about it," Carter said. In fact, Brie had said she needed to work, too, that stocks were down and bonds were up and she needed to strike while the iron was hot. Those were her actual words, and she'd added that she had some bonds she wanted to get him interested in.

  "Is that Regis Philbin over there?" Mallory said next.

  "It wouldn't surprise me," Carter said. "This is a media mogul hangout. Now, back to your date. If he didn't upset you, what did? Anything to do with Santa Claus?" He projected the words, noticing with satisfaction that she jumped, and with longing that her breasts undulated. The sudden emphasis on a couple of words was a technique he'd used in the courtroom, but it had never made anyone's breasts roll like that.

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  She was regaining her poise, but if he'd ever seen a guilty party he was seeing one now. "I mean," he said, "that you and Santa did a lot of whispering while he was holding you on his lap—" he projected that word, too "—and if a department store Santa came on to you, he should be reported."

  "Are you crazy?" Openmouthed, she stared at him.

  "Are you ready to order?" The waiter hovered above them looking a lot like the referee in a boxing match. Carter realized his voice must have projected farther than he'd intended it to. He had to calm down before he got Regis Philbin's attention.

  "Yes, we are," he said. "Mallory?"

  She spoke to the waiter while still staring at him. "I'd like the pear and Roquefort salad and the sweetbreads."

  He stared back. "I'll have the mussels and the steak. We'll share an order of your onion rings. And a bottle of…" He'd forgotten which wine and had to break eye contact to find it again on the list.

  This couldn't be jealousy eating at him. He had no claim on Mallory. He felt responsible for her, though, a need to protect her from wolves and other predatory types.

  Responsible for her in the big city. Yes, that was how he felt. "I just don't want anything unpleasant to happen to you," he said. "I made you go up there, and if he—"

  "Made me go up where?"

  "To sit on Santa's lap."

  "Oh. There."

  Where else? "So if he did anything like come on to you, or ask you out—"

  "He didn't."

  "Then does it have anything to do with that Kevin person?"

  This time she didn't tell him he was crazy. Carter almost wished she had. Instead, she was pink with embarrassment and guiltier-looking than ever.

  "Your wine, sir," said the wine steward, proffering the bottle for Carter's inspection.

  "It's fine," he said without looking at it. "No, I don't want to taste it. Just pour it."

  Mallory had walked the distance from Bergdorf's to the restaurant hoping her sexy new snow boots would fail their first test. She'd slip on the icy sidewalk and fall down. As good as she was at not being noticed, she could lie there quietly on the cold concrete until she froze to death, which seemed infinitely preferable to telling Carter she'd sat on Kevin's lap and spilled out her soul to him.

  She'd told the opposition's witness she wanted the lawyer for the defense for Christmas. Kevin could blackmail her. How far would she go to keep him from telling Carter how she felt about him? Worse, what if Kevin were, even now, telling Phoebe they had one of the defense lawyers in a bad spot? She groaned.

  "Pardon?" Carter said, his eyebrows lifted.

  "I'm dreading to tell you what I have to tell you." There. That was a start.

  He seemed to tense up a little. "Always better to do it and get it over with."

  She sighed. "It does have something to do with Kevin and with Santa Claus," she answered him.

  "I knew it!"

  Now they had everyone's attention. Even Regis Philbin looked up from the intense conversation going on at his table. "Carter," she said in an urgent whisper, "Kevin was Santa Claus."

  His eyes widened. His mouth, which had been fixed in a thin line, began to quirk up at the corners. "That's his seasonal work?" Carter said. "Being a department store Santa
Claus?" His smile broke through, followed by a snort of laughter.

  Mallory fixed him with a stern glare. "I sat on the lap of a witness for the prosecution." While it was a great pleasure to see him smile, this was no laughing matter, and he didn't know the half of it, nor would he ever if she was lucky.

  He stopped laughing almost as quickly as he had begun, and before her very eyes, Mallory could see the legal part of his mind kick in. "How do you know Kevin was Santa Claus?" His voice had cooled off.

  Now she'd have to lie, which had been the best reason for not telling him anything. "I'd rather not tell you that." She set her jaw, knowing he wouldn't settle for that answer, but it would give her a second to think of another one.

  "I'd rather you did." He set his jaw, too.

  "A Roquefort-Pear Tower for the lady," their waiter droned above them. "Curried Mussels for you, sir, and an order of our famous onion rings."

  Mallory could imagine the conversation going on in the kitchen. "Will you hurry up with the orders for that pair at table nineteen before they draw blood?"

  She attacked her salad with feigned gusto, but even with her gaze downcast she could feel him boring a hole through her forehead.

  "I guessed," she said suddenly.

  "You guessed."

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  "Oh, his voice. Or something."

  "So this is just a guess on your part."

  "No, then I asked."

  "When did you ask him?"

  "At a time when you … weren't there."

  He frowned, probably trying to remember a point in the afternoon that she and Kevin might have been alone, and she hoped he didn't put too much pressure on himself. He wasn't going to remember one because there hadn't been one.

  "I see," he said at last. "Well, now that that's out of the way, maybe we can get back to work. How do you think we ought to handle the woman with green teeth we're deposing tomorrow?"

  Carter figured he could talk and brood at the same time. He didn't believe she'd asked Kevin. He didn't think there'd been a time he'd been out of the room when she and Kevin were still in it. She was still keeping secrets from him. And if her dates last night and tonight hadn't been with Santa Claus or Kevin, because they were one and the same, they'd been with somebody or bodies else and who the hell was he or they?