A Bride For Saint Nick

by Carole Buck

  And then, hideously, the struggle was over. The monster who’d raped Suzanne Whitney and plotted the murder of Nicholas Marchand staggered to his feet, triumphant. John lay on the floor, alive but apparently unconscious.

  Stone wove an unsteady path over to the gun. He bent to retrieve it, giving Leigh a wink as he did so. “You’re next,” he said in a feral rasp, then started to laugh.

  Blinking back tears of mortal dread, Leigh watched as he walked back to his prey’s prone body. He uncorked a savage kick to John’s ribs. Then he lifted the gun.

  He took his time about aiming.

  The head.

  The heart.

  The head.

  The—

  John groaned and twitched.

  Stone pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Stone pulled the trigger again.

  Still, nothing happened.

  It’s jammed, Leigh thought, perilously close to screaming. My God, the gun is jammed!

  “Anthony!” It was Donatella Pietra’s voice, coming from the doorway of the living room.

  Stone jerked like a man who’d been poked with an electrified prod. He turned. “Ma!” he cried. “No!”

  “I gave you life. Now I take it away.”

  A shot rang out.

  Anthony Stone crumpled to the floor, the gun dropping from his lifeless fingers. A moment later Leigh heard another gun clatter against the hardwood, followed by what sounded like the collapse of a second body.

  “L-Leigh—?” It was John, stirring on the floor.

  “M-M-Mommy—?” It was Andy, struggling to sit up on the sofa.

  “Freeze!” somebody yelled. “This is the police!”

  For the second time in her life, Leigh McKay fainted.

  Chapter 15

  While people in small towns may be willing to tell all to each other, they tend to clam up in the presence of outsiders. Or so members of the national press corps discovered when they descended on a picturesque village in Vermont to uncover the “rear” story behind the death of the murderous fugitive, Anthony Stone.

  It didn’t matter who they were. Be they well-heeled network correspondents accompanied by multiperson crews and satellite trucks or semistarving stringers from third-rate grocerystore tabloids who could barely afford to use a pay phone, local folks regarded them with flinty Yankee stares when the subject of what had occurred at Leigh McKay’s house ten days before Christmas was raised.

  “Dunno much about that” was the standard comment.

  That Deputy Drake Nordling knew a whole hell of a lot about what had happened, and why, was obvious to everybody in the media horde. Getting him to go one syllable beyond the official story sent out in an obliquely-worded statement to the press was an entirely different matter.

  Under normal circumstances, such stonewalling would have produced a journalistic firestorm complete with front-page accusations of a government cover-up and demands for a congressional investigation. A couple of factors mitigated against that in this case.

  First, it was the holiday season and a lot of assignment editors were complaining that the public was clamoring for “uplifting” stories, not true crime.

  Second, one of the juiciest sex scandals in American history erupted a day and a half after Stone’s death. It was a bicoastal thing, involving three Hollywood superstars, two hotshot players from the National Football League, a member of the U.S. Supreme Court and a boa constrictor. Not only was everyone associated with the story spilling their guts, they were peddling videotapes to back up their stories, as well!

  The media circus moved on without ever having a chance to speak to Leigh McKay or John Gulliver, much less a not-yet-five-year-old named Andy. Nor did they happen to discover that it had been an ex-junkie/hooker-turned-bookstore-clerk named Deirdre Bleeker who had summoned police to her employer’s aid. It seemed she’d flipped on the TV in the back office of the shop as she’d been going over the day’s receipts and caught a spot news story about the manhunt for an escaped convict. She’d recognized the man in the mug shot flashed up on the screen as the customer who had come into the store several hours earlier asking questions about her employer.

  Most of what Anthony Stone had told Leigh during her captivity had turned out to be true in a twisted kind of way. His lawyer had confirmed a majority of the details as part of a plea bargain.

  The bodies of the two U.S. Marshals were recovered and interred with the honor befitting their line-of-duty deaths. The corpse of the computer nerd was claimed by an ex-wife who apparently thought she was due some insurance money. It was cremated on the same day a team of specialists whose bona fides had been checked, rechecked and re-rechecked began a security overhaul of the Justice Department’s entire datastorage system.

  Anthony Stone was buried in a pauper’s grave. Unmourned. Food for worms and maggots. He’d been shot through the head by the handgun that had been kept in the metal box he’d failed to open after prying off its lock.

  His mother, Donatella, was laid to rest in the cemetery of the church she’d attended—with Dee Bleeker, Thalia Jenkins and Edith from housekeeping—for more than two years. She was eulogized with kind words and genuine tears.

  “Massive cardiac failure,” had been the medical examiner’s verdict about the cause of her death. But Leigh was inclined to believe that Andy’s explanation was closer to the mark.

  “The bad man breaked her heart,” he’d said. “And nobody could fix it.”

  Andy seemed to be handling the trauma he’d endured pretty well. Drugged into unconsciousness as he had been, he’d missed the worst of what had occurred. A counselor had told Leigh that time, TLC and a stable environment in which he could talk openly about what had taken place were crucial to his emotional recovery. Leigh had assured the woman that she—and her husband-to-be—would see that Andy never lacked for any of those things.

  As for her own recovery and John’s…Well, perhaps the best indicator of that was their decision to pledge themselves as husband and wife on Christmas Eve.

  And after celebrating their marriage with a small group of very fond friends, the blissfully happy couple and their beaming little boy went home to the house the groom had purchased as a gift for his new family just two days before.

  “You know what?” Andy asked as he bounded into his brand-new bedroom in his same old bunny slippers and baggy pajamas. He was clutching a tomahawk. A rather classylooking tomahawk. It had been a gift from Drake Nordling, of all people.

  “No, buddy,” John responded, briefly debating whether his night-night duties included informing his son that he’d put his pajama top on backward and inside out. He decided there was no point in being picky. “What?”

  “I’m really, truly glad you married Mommy.”

  “I’m really, truly glad, too. Thank you for giving me permission.”

  Andy giggled. “D’you think Mommy b’lieved me when I pretended like maybe I wouldn’t?”

  “She looked a little worried for a minute.”

  “Yeah. But she looked beautiful today, huh?”

  “She certainly did.”

  “She put some girl stuff on her face so her owwle didn’t show at all.”

  John’s stomach clenched for a moment as memory assailed him. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. It was over, he told himself. It was over and the two people he loved most in the world were safe.

  “Miss Bleeker looked pretty, too,” Andy continued, plunking himself down on his bed. “I almost didn’t know who she was at first!”

  John smiled crookedly. If truth be told, he’d been rather stunned by Dee’s transformation himself. “I hope you didn’t tell her that.”

  “Naw. I just said she looked very, very nice. She got red when I did and for a minute I was a-scared she was gonna cry. Cuz girls do stuff like that at weddings, you know. Only then she looked at Mr. Warren from the garage and he got kind of red, too. Then they started smilin’ really funny.”

&nbs
p; “Well, uh—”

  “I think he likes her.”

  “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh. And I think she likes him, too.”

  “Could be.”

  “If they get married, will he have to show her his secret card tricks?”

  Whoa. He’d definitely missed something. “Excuse me?”

  “His secret card tricks,” Andy repeated with a trace of impatience. “Mr. Warren knows lots of ‘em. He showed me some the other day when him and Miss Bleeker stayed with me. ‘Member? When you and Mommy had to go meet with that Mr. Nordling guy?”

  “Yeah…”

  “He’s really good at cards. Miss Bleeker said he won lots of money playin’ ‘em when he was in the army. That’s how come he could ‘vest in his garage.”

  It took a moment or two for the full implications of these remarks to sink in. Then John started laugh. So much for his paranoid theories about money laundering and smuggling, he thought. Wesley Warren was a cardsharp!

  “I…had…no idea,” he said, sinking down on the bed.

  “What’s so funny?” Andy demanded.

  John got himself under control. “A grown-up joke, buddy. On me.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a pause. John reached out and ruffled Andy’s toffee-brown hair, hoping he hadn’t offended him. Unfortunately, there was just no way he could explain why he’d been laughing without coming off like a…

  Well, leave it that there was just no way he could explain it.

  Andy frowned suddenly, looking down at his chest. “Uhoh.”

  “What?” John stiffened.

  Rueful blue-gray eyes lifted to anxious brown ones. “I think I put my jammies on wrong.”

  “Oh.” Phew. “That.”

  Andy got up off the bed. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, starting to pull the garment up and off. “The tag thing is s’posed to be on the inside. And the picture of Simba from The Lion King is s’posed to be on the outside in the front.”

  John didn’t respond to this artless recitation. He couldn’t. He was transfixed by the sight of a crescent-shaped birthmark located to the right of the base of Andy’s bumpy spine.

  “Help!” The squawk was muffled by the fabric of the pajama top.

  John returned to full awareness with a jolt, realizing that Andy had gotten himself all tangled up. He staggered to his feet, coming to the little boy’s aid with shaking hands. The urge to brush the birthmark with his fingers to make certain that it was real was very strong, but he fought it down.

  “Is somethin’ wrong?” Andy asked when his jammies were restored to their proper order.

  “No.” John shook his head. He was having trouble breathing. “It’s just that…I, uh, hadn’t seen the mark on your back before.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Andy sat back down on the edge of the bed and kicked off his bunny slippers. “The one from when I was borned. I telled you about it.”

  “You…did?”

  “Uh-huh. The very first day I meeted you. I said Mommy said—”

  “That you’d been kissed by an angel.” The words surfaced from the depths of John’s memory and slid out his mouth.

  “Right!” Andy concurred with an approving smile. The smile gave way to a jaw-cracking yawn. He sagged a little, suddenly looking very weary.

  “Time for bed, buddy,” John declared huskily. “Santa can’t show up until you’re asleep.”

  Andy rubbed his eyes, then stretched out on the bed. John drew the covers up, tucking him in.

  “Will Santa know our new house?” the little boy asked through another yawn.

  “Absolutely,” John replied, bending down and kissing his son on the forehead. His control almost broke when Andy lifted his arms for a hug. “Sleep tight,” he managed to whisper as he eased out of the childish embrace.

  He had the light switched off and was about to step out the door when Andy’s voice stopped him.

  “John?”

  “Yes, buddy?”

  “Can I be Andy Gul’ver now?”

  He swallowed convulsively, tears blurring his vision. “You can be anything you want to.”

  “Really?” The word was spiced with wonder.

  “Really. Truly.”

  “And…can I maybe call you Daddy sometimes?”

  John took a deep breath then said what was in his heart. “Yes, son. Oh, yes. You can call me Daddy.”

  Leigh Gulliver blotted her eyes with the sleeve of the exquisite silk peignoir that had been a wedding gift from Deirdre. She was sitting on the king-size bed in the master suite of her new home, awaiting the return of her new husband.

  Spread around her were two-dozen travel brochures, each one more incredible than the next. They’d been contained in a beautifully gift-wrapped box the man she loved with all her heart and soul had handed her before he’d gone to tuck their son in for the night.

  “From the former Saint Nick to his beloved bride,” the card accompanying the box had read. “Where do you want to honeymoon?”

  “I hope those are tears of happiness, sweetheart,” a resonant male voice said.

  She looked up and held out her arms. “How could they be anything else?”

  John went to her. They embraced—kissing, caressing.

  “You’ve given me so much,” Leigh whispered, stroking her husband’s compellingly imperfect face. The ring finger of the hand she used was banded with gold.

  “No more than you’ve given me,” he avowed with passionate conviction. “You’ve given me a life in the light. You’ve given me your love. You’ve given me…a s-son.”

  Something inside her went very still at the way he inflected the final word of this litany. She eased back, her heart beating very rapidly. She stared at him for several moments. Then she started to tremble.

  “J-John?” she faltered. “What…what do you know?”

  He took her hands in his, enfolding them tenderly between his warm palms. “I meant what I said about damning biology,” he told her, gazing deeply into her eyes. “I love Andy unconditionally because he’s your son. But he’s mine, as well, Leigh. Mine, in every sense of the word.”

  “How—?”

  His lips curved. “Because I was kissed by an angel, too.”

  She shook her head, bewitched.by the sensuality of her husband’s smile but bewildered by the words that accompanied them. “I d-don’t—”

  John rose to his feet in a lithe movement, tugging the bottom of the dark turtleneck he was wearing free of the waistband of an equally dark pair of pants. Then he unzipped his fly.

  “At the risk of reminding you of our appendix-scar exhibitionist Bryan—” he said wryly, easing down his trousers and turning his back to her.

  Leigh gasped as she focused on a crescent-shaped birthmark that was identical in size and positioning to the one she’d seen on her little boy hundreds of times.

  John pivoted back to face her, his eyes ablaze with tender joy. “My father had one. His father had one.”

  “Oh…John!”

  Then he was back in her arms. They kissed again. And again.

  “Sweetheart,” the father of her son murmured, pleasuring her with nuzzling licks and teasing nips. “Oh…Leigh…”

  “But why didn’t I know?” she asked, tugging at his clothing with greedy fingers. Her blood was fizzing in her veins like electrified champagne.

  “Because—” he laughed throatily, his own hands busy with the tiny pearl buttons on her peignoir “—Suzanne Whitney was too shy to look at Nicholas Marchand when he was naked.”

  She stopped for an instant, drawing back so she could see his face. A unique feminine sense of power suffused her. She watched his eyes flicker and his nostrils flare in response to it.

  “Leigh McKay isn’t shy,” she finally asserted, her voice lush with erotic promise.

  John smiled. It was a slow, searing smile that threatened to fuse every synapse in her nervous system. “That’s one of many, many reasons I’m madly in love with her.”


  Leigh took his hands and pressed them against her breasts. His palms curved, caressing and claiming at the same time. Her lungs emptied in a rush of air. She swayed forward.

  “I have a wonderful idea,” she said at last. “Let’s have our Christmas honeymoon…right here.”

  * * * * *

  Look for RESOLVED TO (RE)MARRY—the next

  book in the HOLIDAY HONEYMOONS series,

  coming January 1997 from Silhouette Desire.

  eISBN 978-14592-7970-4

  A BRIDE FOR SAINT NICK

  Copyright © 1996 by Carol Buckland

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street. New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual’ known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  Printed In U.S.A.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page