They drove past an ornate verdigris gate whose plaque announced in formal script that she had entered the hallowed precincts of the Regent Beverly Wilshire, and stopped under the broad portico. A uniformed valet had her door open in a trice— probably because he wanted to touch the splendid car—and helped her alight. A bellman rushed over to take her bag. Both men looked normal, but something about them made her think that they were goblins.
“This is Miss Navarra,” Morrison said.
“Of course. This way, ma’am. I’ll show you up to the presidential suite. You are expected.”
Adora nodded, keeping her smile to herself. The presidential suite? It had to be nice to be rich.
“Thank you, Morrison,” she said, smiling at him and taking a last look at the Packard. Parting was such sweet sorrow.
“My pleasure, ma’am. I’ll see you later, I’m sure.”
Adora sincerely hoped so.
The presidential suite overlooked Rodeo Drive. She had little time to appreciate the view, though, because she was shown immediately into a library, which had heavy drapes drawn over the massive windows. She took a quick look at the shelves, half-expecting to see a complete oeuvre of modern mystics and crackpots represented, but neither Edgar Caycen or Nostradamus were anywhere in sight. Oddly, many of the books appeared written in foreign languages she couldn’t identify.
Hearing soft footsteps, she turned to find the man she assumed was her new employer.
“Mr. Bishop Nicholas?” she asked as the door to the hallway shut softly behind her. The bellman, who had grown increasingly nervous as they approached the suite, hadn’t waited for a tip; he had dropped her off and then fled.
A man with silver hair and wearing a dark Armani suit paused for a moment in a shaft of sunlight that had sneaked through the velvet drapes, and then walked toward her. His long legs ate up the distance. With every step, his stunning features grew clearer, and Adora’s first thought was that he was the most radiantly beautiful creature she had ever seen.
“Only in my public life,” he replied. “Please, call me Kris. Kris Kringle. It’s a bit of a joke.” He offered his hand and a long, unblinking gaze with a halfsmile. Up close, his eyes were a shade of silver-blue that Adora had never seen. They invited her to step into them and drown.
“That would be Kris with a K?” she asked, accepting his hand and allowing his fingers to briefly touch hers. She felt a bit stunned, as though the earth had spun off its axis. She didn’t gasp or swoon, but Adora felt the sudden flush of color that flowed into her cheeks. If her employer was paying attention, even in the dim light he would also notice that her pulse was gratifyingly unsteady—presuming he was hoping she’d be disconcerted by her sudden attraction to him.
“Naturally with a K. It makes for excellent visual alliteration.”
Adora reluctantly dropped his hand and took a half-step back. She forced herself to form a complete—and hopefully more realistic—impression.
On second glance, her would-be employer’s face was rugged and experienced rather than beautiful. And it wasn’t so much youthful as ageless and mobile. His voice was as flexible as his face—though at the moment better controlled and directed at her with some as yet unrevealed purpose.
His hair was silvered and long enough to touch his shoulders, but rather than the texture of gray hair it had the gossamer quality of a baby’s tresses. Adora was willing to bet that this was the same shade of hair with which he had been born. It was impossible to guess his age.
The brows above his startling silver-blue eyes were dark, a sharp contrast to the locks that framed his face, and they swooped backward, giving him a permanent quizzical expression. The body beneath the face was lean, and it moved quickly and efficiently, reminding Adora of a cat—one of the dangerous, hunting types.
His voice wasn’t feline, though, she thought as he spoke again. It was pure magic—sugarplums and dark chocolate and every type of delicious sin. Combined with his unblinking stare, it made her feel like she was slipping into a hot spring on a snowy February night. She didn’t know how it could be, when she was usually immune to male charms, but Adora admitted—at least to herself— that this man was exerting some sort of psychic gravitational pull on her. Charisma. She had met people who had it before, but never to this degree.
Her second thought was that he was the most unlikely-looking Santa she could imagine. There had to be some mistake.
If she was guilty of staring a bit too hard, then so was he. She would like to think that it was because he was equally stunned and attracted by her person but doubted that was the case. She had been ill for several months—perhaps a final present from Derek, the lying rat bastard—and though she had put a lot of the lost weight back on, Adora knew that the only thing really striking about her was her golden pallor. Unfortunately, illness hadn’t made her fragile and cuddly; the hollows under her cheeks could almost qualify as caves, and her limbs were bony and angular. Instead of a waif, she looked more like an anorexic Valkyrie.
“I don’t mean to be rude or abrupt,” Adora forced herself to say in a businesslike voice, “but I wish to be plain right from the start. You do understand that your assertion that you are Kris Kringle—Santa Claus—is more than a bit farfetched, and that I will require some proof—actually a great deal of proof— of this claim as the project progresses? I am not willing to lie to the public about such a thing.”
You aren’t, huh? Joy had stirred. Anyway, are you sure you really want proof?
“But of course you aren’t. And I’m not fond of lying myself.” Kris smiled fully, making himself twice as charming. He added gently, “I don’t mean to be rude either, but you’re staring awfully hard. Have I got something caught in my teeth?”
“I’m looking for wings or a halo,” she said defensively, embarrassed by her lapse in manners. She hoped he wouldn’t notice her tripping pulse. “Is it a great effort to hide them from the world? Or do you just have a good tailor?”
He laughed. “Wrong legend. I never claimed to be an angel, only a saint. If you recall your childhood literature, you will note that my appearance supposedly ran more to red suits and reindeer.” Briefly, a dark look crossed his face.
“So you’re sticking to that story? You are Santa Claus?”
“Oh yes, absolutely. Santa Claus. That’s the one I want you to tell. Didn’t your agent explain? I asked Pennywyse to be explicit about the project.” His smile was hard to resist. It made even the unreasonable seem possible—even probable. Perhaps this project would work as a book on tape. If he narrated, he could hypnotize the audience into believing him.
“Pennywyse?” Adora asked, unable to focus on anything except his voice.
“My assistant. He called your agent and arranged for you to come here.”
“Ah.” Pennywyse was the one who had given Ben the wrong phone number, so she supposed she owed him. She sighed and heard herself saying out loud: “They’ll throw me in the nuthouse, you know. If I do this.”
Kris shook his head and smiled again. “No, they’ll want to throw me in the nuthouse. You’ll just be branded as an exploitative, publicity-hungry kook who took advantage of a mentally ill person.”
“Which is much better,” Adora retorted dryly, though she was both gladdened and surprised that he understood and admitted to the likely consequences of their actions. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. So, score one point for Kris with a K.
He seemed to take her words as a question. “Oh, yes. At least I think so. Far better to be thought an opportunist than an idiot, or so it seems to me,” he said, echoing her thoughts.
“That doesn’t sound like a very Santalike thing to say,” Adora pointed out. “I thought you were always jolly and looking on the bright side of things.”
He shook his head and asked reasonably, “Now, how can you know what I would or would not say? Everything you’ve heard about me is at best garbled legend and, at worst, downright lies. You’re here so we can set the record stra
ight.”
“They’ll make us publish this as fiction,” she warned in a final attempt to break free of the deal. But it was less than wholehearted. In spite of herself, she was drawn to this man and wanted to hear his story.
And maybe feel him up, Joy inserted.
“No, they won’t,” Kris said confidently, squashing her last feeble hope of rescue from Wonderland. “I’ve already spoken with the publisher, and he’s a believer. The fact that he is also something of a distant relative is a help too. Sadly, the old saw is right in publishing: It isn’t what you know, but who you know. Now, won’t you have a seat? May I get you something to drink before we start?”
Adora was suddenly aware that her feet hurt. Against all common sense, she had chosen to wear her highest heels to this interview. Her usual pumps would have been okay, but these strappy sandals were problematic. They were fine for about three hours—if one stayed seated—but standing in them was unpleasant and walking well-nigh impossible once her feet began to swell and the straps got tight as Tupperware. Why she had worn them, Adora didn’t know; she’d just had some vague sense that this multimillionaire deserved her most frivolous footwear. And somehow being tall had seemed advisable.
Adora looked up from her feet. Kris was closer, and she had to tip her head backward a bit to make eye contact. If her object in wearing high heels had been to appear taller than her client, she would have been disappointed. Kris, with a K, was built along impressive, nonelfin lines.
She took a breath and agreed to his terms. “Fine. It’s your commitment proceedings. If the contracts don’t have a clause indemnifying me from future lawsuits, we’ll add one.” Adora sat down on a plush chair and pushed up the sleeves of her dress. It was a soft gray cashmere, very pretty but also reasonably businesslike. She opened her small briefcase on the glass-topped table and pushed a vase of flowers aside. “Let’s get started. Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”
“Not at all.”
Kris seated himself across from her. As soon as her feet were out of sight, she slipped off her sandals. The relief was immediate.
“I’m afraid that we’ll only have about half an hour to talk this morning,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps we should discuss your schedule first.”
“My schedule?”
“Yes. I’ll be moving around quite a bit and will need you to travel with me. In fact, we’ll be leaving for New York the day after tomorrow.”
Adora blinked.
“We’re going to be traveling? To New York?” She frowned. Ben hadn’t said anything about traveling. She didn’t mind—was thrilled, in fact—but it did complicate things. She had packed for the more casual environs of L.A. It would mean a fast trip home—please, God, not in the Storch. She said aloud, “Where else would we go? Assuming I take the job, will I need my passport?”
“Oh, no. We won’t be going anywhere that requires a passport. Yet. To begin with, I plan New York and San Francisco. And perhaps Palm Springs. These days I’m also doing a bit of a Robin Hood gig and need to stick close to home while arrangements are made to rob Prince John. He goes by the name of General Anaximander these days. His Sheriff of Nottingham is a creature called Raxin.”
She’d heard the name Raxin but couldn’t recall in what context. Adora wanted to ask what he meant, but she was interrupted by the entrance of a small, nervous man in a dark green suit.
Kris said, “Miss Navarra, let me introduce my publicist, Maxwell Brand. He handles many of L.A.’s up-and-coming stars and will see to it that your book is made known to the world. Max, this is Adora Navarra, the biographer.”
The biographer. She liked the sound of that.
“A pleasure,” Max said, and somehow managed to sound like he meant it. Perhaps she was looking like a sane ally in the land of sugarplums and legends. Even for L.A. publicists, Santa Claus had to be an out-there kind of client. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Kris, but Mugshottz has been looking for you. He’s had a cable from . . . from your nephew. Things sound . . . on course. But Jack would like a consult as soon as you’re able to get away.”
“Excellent. I think of Mugshottz as my Little John,” Kris added as an aside to Adora. “He’s certainly tall enough.” He turned back to his publicist. “Max, tell him I’m—never mind. Here he is. Mugshottz, come and meet Miss Navarra. She’s going to be writing about me.”
Adora looked at the creature lumbering down the hall toward them and swallowed hard. She had understood that she was in a goblin city and that it was possible she would see some lutins, but her online research had led her to believe that goblins were diminutive creatures that had surgery to appear human. This person was the size of a smallish grizzly bear, and if he’d had any surgery to help him look human it had been done by a mad scientist who spent too much time watching B horror movies.
“Call the Fab Five. We have a fashion emergency,” she muttered, again speaking aloud without meaning to. And when she got a better look, she whispered, “He’s got a head-piercing—right through the temple!” Adora found herself staring at the bolts projecting in a Frankensteinish manner from Mugshottz’s head. She didn’t like to make snap judgments about people, but she thought it unlikely that she and this creature would be best friends. Certainly she would have to be nuts to take style advice from him.
“Yes, Mugshottz is a troll-goblin mix,” Kris answered, assuming she was speaking to him. He added loudly, “He claims to have some gargoyle blood too. I’m not exactly sure where he keeps his brain, but I have long suspected that it isn’t in his head.” His voice returned to normal. “He’s a good bodyguard, though, and would die to protect me, which is all I can ask.” Then he again lowered his tone to add one more thing: “By the way, he’s from the Bronx. Pretend not to notice the accent. He’s self-conscious about it.”
Adora pulled her eyes away from the monster long enough to see if her new employer was kidding. He didn’t seem to be. He looked genuinely concerned about hurting this creature’s feelings— and why shouldn’t he? Kris was apparently kind to all his people. She could feel herself being drawn in to his vision of the world, despite her reservations.
Trolls and gargoyles as bodyguards? Why not? At the moment, it seemed believable.
You are such a sucker, Joy complained.
And maybe she was. This Kris had an irresistible sense of purpose that swept everything before it. Adora had expected a certain operatic greatness to surround him—most wealthy men had a touch, and this one thought he was a living legend—but whatever else her employer was, he wasn’t a lamebrain pretender. He might be delusional or psychotic, but he was sincere and energetic, and seemed to have a mind as sharp as a headsman’s ax.
A thought occurred to her. Maybe Kris thought he was the reincarnated Saint Nicholas. That was a little less weird. Lots of people believed stuff like that, especially in Hollywood. Heck, she hadn’t entirely ruled it out of her own philosophy. Reincarnation was something she could get behind, since she believed in second chances.
“Your bodyguard—is he likely to be called upon to die anytime soon?” she asked, pretending concern. She joked: “Should I ask for combat pay?”
Kris shook his head. “Of course not. Having a bodyguard is just a precaution I’ve taken to please my nephew and other backers. Jack worries a lot.”
Adora nodded. “I guess you have to keep the insurance company happy.”
Kris blinked, and she had a feeling that something she had just said surprised him, though she couldn’t imagine what.
“Insurance company. Just so. Tell me, Miss Navarra—”
“Adora, please. We’re in California. Last names sound ridiculous—unless you like them, of course,” she added politely. “I want you to be comfortable with me.”
“Adora, then.” The words were an unintentional caress. Or maybe not. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. The thought made her frown.
“Given your obvious reservations about the project—and the added, though limited, danger—are
you willing to take on this job?” Kris asked. “I hate to rush you, but time is short. I think you’ve met most of my staff now—at least the ones you’ll see daily. Can you stand to live with us while you do this work?”
Adora forced herself to take a last long think. The man’s pilot, limo driver, publicist and secretary were all reassuringly normal. She had half feared that they would resemble the cast from Santa Claus is Coming to Town. But they all—except the bodyguard—eschewed any semblance to elves or pixies or fairy-tale monsters of any stripe, and Mugshottz . . . Well, he wasn’t that scary now that she saw him up close. Just large and silent and looming. And she wasn’t a species bigot, was she?
“We won’t be taking the Storch to New York, will we?” she asked suspiciously. “Because I have to tell you that I don’t do well in small planes.”
“No. There isn’t enough room for all of us. And I prefer speed as a rule. I only sent the Storch as a treat for you. I figured that as an historian you would appreciate it more than an efficient but characterless means of travel. I myself am quite fond of antiques.”
“Hm. Well, thank you. I certainly loved the car. What a gorgeous automobile.” The words were absentminded but sincere. She was still thinking, still weighing. Kris nodded and waited while she finished. Unlike her agent, he seemed to feel no need to rush her into conversation or decision.
“Okay, I’m in,” she said. “And God have mercy on us all.”
“Wonderful. Max, would you ask Pennywyse to fetch the contracts? Adora, I have put together some biographical material for you to read in your spare time. It will fill you in on some of the more colorful details.”
Colorful? Joy laughed. I bet they’re blinding.
“Fine. But please hurry, before I change my mind,” Adora muttered. At Kris’s concerned look, she added: “I just know that this is a mistake for both of us.”
He chuckled at her complaint and she smiled, but it wasn’t really a joke. Adora had the clearest feeling that she was making a decision with huge future consequences, all of which were presently unknown. Still, what did she have to lose—except her house and professional credibility and credit rating?
The Saint Page 5
