Naughty or Nice?

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “I don’t—”

  “I live on rental income from this place, which might sound like a lot on paper, but it’s an expensive building to maintain. I mean, I do okay. I’m comfortable. I’ve got this great apartment, and some old jewelry of my grandmother’s, but that’s about it. So you might rethink giving back that fifty grand, ’cause if you think you’re going to strike gold with me, think again. That vein played out a while ago.”

  “Kat—”

  “Goodbye, Jack. And please stop calling.”

  “Kat, don’t hang—”

  She hung up. And waited for the phone to ring again.

  It didn’t. He must have stopped to consider what she’d told him, which was no more or less than the truth—or had been for the past year or two, at any rate. For the most part, Kat let people assume she was still loaded for the sake of Augusta House and CFF. Money attracts money, as Grandma Augusta used to say. The illusion of vast wealth made her a much more effective fund-raiser. But it also tended to make her a magnet to the wrong kind of man. Was the trade-off worth it? Usually.

  It was almost noon by the time she dragged her sorry butt out of bed. Jack’s yellow oxford shirt, which she’d had on for some thirty-eight hours, was creased and rumpled. And it still smelled like him. She should take it off.

  She didn’t. She pulled on the sweatpants she’d tossed on the floor last night and finger-scraped her lank hair back in a rubber band. Her reflection in the mirror was pretty scary. “It’s the hap-hap-happiest time of the year,” she informed it.

  She should really shower. She should probably eat something, too. Instead, she went downstairs to the den, lay down on the couch and grabbed the remote. It was one of those shrill courtroom shows, but she watched it anyway, and then the noontime news and a battery of soaps. The boy-loses-girl storylines kept reminding her of her own romantic melodrama.

  Look into your heart . . . You know it was real.

  When the news came on again at five, Kat turned off the TV, went to the closet by the front door, and searched the pockets of her trench coat until she unearthed the crumpled-up printout for the Inn at Aspen’s Web site. Flopping back down on the couch, she lifted the phone from the end table, dialed the hotel and asked for the Worths’ room. As it was ringing, it occurred to her that Preston might answer. If so, she’d hang up and try again later.

  Luckily, it was his wife who picked up. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Worth? This is Katherine Peale. There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “ ‘God rest ye, merry gentlemen,’ ” sang the Augusta House Choristers from the communal room stage, “ ‘Let nothing you dismay.’ ”

  Yeah, right, Kat thought as she worked her way through a sinkful of dirty pots and pans in the kitchen. She’d known nothing but dismay in the three days since the meltdown of her relationship—if you could call it that—with Jack O’Leary. What was it he’d said about the holidays? That they were famous for having bad stuff happen during them? He’d had a point. If the torment he’d dealt her didn’t qualify as “bad stuff,” what did?

  “You’re working too hard.”

  Kat looked up to find Chantal scowling at her from the doorway.

  “There’s a dishwasher for that stuff,” Chantal said. “You ought to be out there eating pie and listening to those kids with everyone else.”

  At that moment, “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,” the Choristers’ final number, concluded to exuberant applause.

  “The dishwasher’s full,” Kat said as the roars died down. “The concert is now over. And I’ve got no appetite for dessert.”

  Chantal nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’d like some help in here.”

  “No, I’m good.” Kat rinsed a saucepan under the tap and propped it in the draining rack, then set to work on a yam-crusted casserole dish.

  “Kat . . . I was talking to Pia. We don’t like the way you’ve been isolating yourself for the past few days. You haven’t been this down since your grandmother passed away. Whatever this problem is with Jack, don’t you think it would help if you just talked about—”

  “No.” Kat couldn’t bear for her best friends to know how thoroughly and humiliatingly she’d been had by the charming Jack O’Leary. The memory of it still made her feel physically ill.

  She had risen above her misery only briefly yesterday afternoon, when she’d called Celeste Worth to ask if Jack had, indeed, turned down her fifty thousand dollars the day before.

  After expressing some surprise that Kat knew about her arrangement with Jack, and being assured by Kat that it was all water under the bridge, Celeste had said, “Yes, he told me yesterday that he didn’t want the money—although I was more than willing to pay him. After all, he fulfilled his end of the bargain by prying your tentacles off my husband.”

  Kat chose to ignore Celeste’s dig; why let her drag this conversation down to her level? “Did he give a reason?”

  “Apparently his conscience had reared its ugly head—isn’t that sweet? He said he didn’t feel right, taking the money after what he’d done to you. Which begged the question of what you’d done to him to have gotten him besotted enough to refuse his rightful payment. What’s your secret? Whips and vinyl? Or maybe that new tantric business. Do you give him ten-minute orgasms?”

  “What did he say, exactly?” Kat had asked. “About me?”

  “If you mean did he declare himself to be your abject love slave, not in so many words, but that was the impression I had. Until this morning, when he called back and said, oops! Changed my mind. I want the money after all.”

  “Oh.” That would have been after his phone call with Kat. The phone call where she’d told him she wasn’t, in fact, rich.

  “I gathered he was no longer in your thrall,” Celeste said, “thus freeing him from those pesky qualms of his. So of course I demanded to know whether you intended to continue your campaign to displace me as Preston’s wife. He said no, that you and Preston were through regardless, and that he’d earned the rest of his payment, which he asked me to FedEx to him. I asked him if he had any idea what it costs to overnight something on Christmas Eve. He said either I did it or he’d tell Preston what I’d been up to, the blackmailing son of a bitch. I told him I’d send it off by noon—which I did—and that I hoped he choked on it.”

  Déjà vu.

  So. He had turned down the fifty grand as a gesture to Kat of his good faith and undying devotion, only to do a complete one-eighty the second he found out she wasn’t made of money. He hadn’t called since yesterday morning, of course. No dummy, he knew when it was time to back away and cut his losses . . .

  Kat finished up the casserole dish and moved on to the carving board as Chantal waxed effervescent about the party. “It’s been awesome, Kat. You might not appreciate how awesome, ’cause you barely poked your nose out of this kitchen the whole time, but everyone’s really gotten into the spirit, especially the kids. Santa and the missus were a big hit.”

  “Are they still here?” Mr. and Mrs. Claus had spent the past three hours holding court on the stage next to a Christmas tree trimmed with handmade ornaments, wooden Hanukkah dreidels, and red, green, and black Kwanzaa streamers. They’d held enthusiastic one-on-one audiences with some two hundred children, each of whom got a present, a chat with Santa, and a Polaroid by Chantal to commemorate the event. Although she’d had her work cut out for her, supervising dinner for that many people, Kat had paused in the kitchen doorway from time to time to watch the kids take their turns. Even from all the way across the room, she could see the smiles on their faces, hear their excited laughter when Santa bellowed, “Ho, ho, ho!”

  She wanted to share in their joy, to laugh along with them. But after what had happened with Jack, all she felt was tired. She’d barely managed to get dressed and show up here today.

  “Yeah, they’re still around,” Chantal said. “Their gig’s over, but the kids keep coming up to them. They don’t seem t
o mind, though. Jack was right about his nephew being into Christmas—he was born to play Mrs. Claus.”

  “I thought the nephew was Santa.”

  “No, Santa said his name was Leon.”

  Kat said, “I really should come out of here and introduce myself and thank them for coming.”

  “You’re welcome.” It was a man’s voice, young but deep-chested.

  Kat turned to find Mrs. Claus standing in the doorway bearing a mountain of gifts in her stout arms. She—he—was a jumbo-sized, mobcapped, bespectacled archetype of a well-upholstered matron—but with the kind of vampish makeup you might see on a Vegas showgirl, up to and including inch-long false eyelashes. It was stage makeup, the kind that looked clownish up close but normal from an audience’s perspective; that was why Kat hadn’t noticed it before, what with her long-distance view of the stage.

  “You really were terrific, Grady.” Kat pulled off her rubber gloves and extended a hand. “You and Leon both.”

  “Hey, I was thrilled to be asked,” Grady said as he shook her hand. Something about him tickled Kat’s memory. She was about to ask him if they’d met, when he said, “These gifts are for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Special delivery from the North Pole.” He thunked them down on the steel worktable. There were five, of varying shapes and sizes, each wrapped in red and green striped paper garnished with a gold stick-on bow. “Open this one first.” He handed her a gift about the size of a coffee can.

  She shook it; it rattled like dried beans. “What’s the deal? Chantal, is this something you and Pia cooked up to—”

  “Uh-uh, girlfriend. I wish we’d thought of it.”

  “Go ahead,” Grady said. “Open it.”

  She peeled the paper away to reveal a jar of popcorn kernels. “Uh . . .”

  “Okay, this one next.” Grady handed her a larger, squarish gift. “I wouldn’t shake this one.”

  It was a six-pack of Bass ale. “Santa’s giving me beer?”

  “It gets better.” The next gift was shaped like a CD.

  “What is it?” Chantal asked as Kat stripped the paper off.

  “A DVD of It’s a Wonderful Life. Chantal, are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with this?”

  “You think I’m gonna give you another copy of that movie?”

  Good point. “Someone should tell Santa I don’t have a DVD player,” Kat said.

  “Uh . . .” Grady handed her the next to last, and largest, gift. “You do now.”

  Kat groaned as she opened it. “I can’t hook this stuff up.”

  A voice from the doorway said, “I’ll do it for you.”

  It was Jack’s voice. But the man standing in the doorway was . . . “Oh, my God.”

  It was Santa, all right, in full, red-suited regalia, the same Santa who’d been chatting up kids and laying gifts on them all morning. From a distance, Kat hadn’t recognized him, but up close, even with the beard and hat and wire-rimmed glasses . . .

  Holy cow, he was playing Santa? Jack O’Leary getting himself up in a silly red suit and booming “Ho, ho, ho”?

  “Wait a minute.” Kat wheeled on Chantal, who must have known it was Jack. She’d taken a couple of hundred Polaroids of him posing with children. “You told me some guy named Leon was playing Santa. You lied to me!”

  “No, I told you Santa said his name was Leon. You never asked me if he was telling the truth.” She smiled smugly.

  “I am going to kill you,” Kat said.

  “That would be my cue.” Chantal grabbed Grady’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “Your work here is done, Mrs. C.”

  “Wait!” Kat ordered Grady. “Where do I know you from?”

  Grady winced. “I, uh, kinda snatched your purse last week. And knocked you down, but that wasn’t part of the plan, and Jack danced on my head about it, which he should have, ’cause it was a totally lame move, and I’m sooo sorry. Really.”

  Kat just gaped at him.

  “Okay, that would be your cue,” Jack said as he ushered Grady and Chantal both out of the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

  Kat collapsed on a chair, dazed and incredulous.

  “I’m dying in this.” Jack took off the hat, glasses, and beard, and wiped his sweat-sheened face with a dish towel. He unbuttoned the red jacket, exposing a damp white T-shirt beneath. She should have guessed it was him from the way his shoulders strained the seams of the costume.

  “You told me you wouldn’t come today,” she said dully.

  “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t come. That’s why Chantal and Pia kept my secret, so you wouldn’t split.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “Christmas is a time of heartfelt giving, right? Your words. I wanted to give you some gifts.”

  “Beer?” She slid a bottle out of the six-pack.

  “Pale ale. You like pale ale. And your idea of heaven, if I’m remembering right, is”—he gestured toward the gifts—“a bowl of popcorn, an ice-cold beer, and a good cry at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life.” He hesitated, almost bashfully. “I’d . . . like to watch it with you sometime, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Jack . . . of course I’d mind. How could you think I wouldn’t, after everything that’s gone down between us?”

  “It would give us an opportunity to talk about all that. We could watch the movie and then—”

  “You hate that movie. You told me so!”

  “I said it was not my scene,” he corrected soberly. “There’s a difference.”

  She refused to smile. “Jack, I know you called Celeste and had her FedEx the money to you after we spoke yesterday. And I know why.”

  “Uh-huh.” He pointed to the fifth present, which was rectangular and about six inches long. “You haven’t opened the last one yet.”

  “I don’t want your gifts, Jack.”

  He pushed it toward her. “You want this one.”

  “Jack . . .”

  “And then, if you really want me to go, I will.”

  Kat looked at him, looked at the gift, let out a lungful of air. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said as she tore the paper off.

  And stared at what she’d uncovered: five bound stacks of twenties with a check on top for $45,000, all rubber-banded together. The check was from Celeste Worth, and made out to Jack. “What the . . .”

  “Turn it over,” Jack said. “The check.”

  She did. He’d endorsed it to Caring for Families.

  “It’s all yours,” he said, “the whole fifty grand, to put toward your new programs for battered women and runaways. See?” he asked when she looked at him in shock. “I’ve been taking notes.”

  “Jack . . . my God. I . . . I don’t know if I can accept this.”

  “You need it. You said yourself, you exhausted your own resources on Augusta House. You need cash to launch CFF.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to buy my affections, would you?”

  “This from the woman who, not one minute ago, implied that I’d only been interested in her for her supposed millions? No, honey. I’m giving this money to CFF because it’s either that or leave it with Celeste, and she doesn’t deserve it. And you know what?”

  He sank to his knees before her, took her hands in his. “I’m glad you’re not rich. I exulted in my heart when you told me you’d blown it all on Augusta House. Not only because I think it’s just fantastic that you’re so passionate about helping people, but because . . .” He closed his eyes; that vein stood out on his forehead again.

  When he opened his eyes, they were glazed with moisture. “Because I need you to know—really know—that it’s you I love, not what you can give me or do for me. Just you.”

  A squeezing pressure filled Kat’s throat.

  “Falling in love with you was the last thing I expected to happen,” he said. “It was incredible, ’cause I was so crazy in love with you, but it was terrifying, too, because it seemed so hopeless. I’d started off with
so many lies.”

  A tear trickled down his cheek. He let go of her hand to rub at it brusquely. This was the first time he’d shed tears, she realized, since he was nine. “I’m sorry, Kat, so sorry. I deceived you. There’s no excuse, and I’m more ashamed than you know, but I’m also . . .” He shrugged. “I’m just so grateful we met, even if that was the way it had to happen.”

  She nodded, at a loss for words.

  “But because of how it happened,” he said, “all the stupid things I did, I could lose you now, and that . . . God, it would kill me.” He clutched her hands tight. “Something else you said about Christmas is that it’s a time of rebirth.”

  Kat smiled down at his costume, her chin wobbling. “You certainly look like a changed man.”

  “Do you think, maybe . . . we could start over from scratch?” he asked. “With no Preston and no Celeste and no fifty thousand dollars? Just us? And see what happens?”

  “You know what I think?” She cupped his damp cheek as tears slid from her own eyes; he closed his eyes and leaned into her palm. “I think we already have.”

  Love

  Bytes

  SHERRILYN KENYON

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Could you please tell me what’s wrong with me? I swear if anyone else looks at me and snickers, I might go postal.”

  Samantha Parker looked up from her computer monitor to see Adrian Cole standing in her cube. Or rather towering over it. At six foot five, the man reminded her of a giraffe when he moved around the office.

  Not that she minded. Personally, she adored his height, just as she adored those gorgeous eyes of his. Deep and a dark chocolate-brown, they made her melt every time he looked at her.

  And the sleek, loose-limbed way he walked . . .

  Oooh, just thinking about it was enough to make her burn.

  She’d never been particularly fond of blond men, but those dark eyes with his thick mane of tawny curls and lush golden skin just made her ache for a taste. A nervous jitter went over her like it always did when he stood this close to her, and she could smell the clean, spicy scent of him. The man was simply mouth-wateringly scrumptious, and incredibly brilliant.