The Christmas Husband

by Mary Anne Wilson

  He glanced past her at the small refrigerator she had by her couch. “You wouldn’t have some bottled water, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Okay, okay. Kincaid called me half an hour ago and told me he had a request. It seems his wife is a fan of your show, and she’s got everything she needs. So this Christmas he wants to give you to her for her present.”

  “Ron, that’s—”

  “I know, but just hear me out.”

  “Go on.”

  “He wants to have you and your husband come to a vacation home he has near Tahoe for the weekend before Christmas to surprise his wife.”

  “Ron, when I hired on, it was you who insisted that I take on the persona of the original Dr. Love, Sherri Randall, so the listeners wouldn’t be disturbed or distracted by the change. It was you who insisted that I keep making references to the good husband that the original doctor had, so people felt I had personal experience in relationships. And I didn’t want to do it. But you insisted. Ron, you know I don’t really have a husband. I’ve never had a husband.”

  “How about a boyfriend?” he asked with a touch of hope in his voice. “Is there someone you haven’t told me about?”

  “No.” She couldn’t remember the last time she dated, and her last serious relationship had mercifully ended in graduate school. Dr. Love wasn’t in love, and she hadn’t been for a long time—if ever. “And whatever you’ve promised, it can’t happen.”

  “It has to happen,” he said.

  She spread her hands palms up. “I don’t do interviews or television or magazine articles or even hand out PR pictures. Dr. Love is a voice. All that the public knows is the voice.”

  “And you, as Dr. Love, touch people. People like Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “So what do you expect me to do, produce a husband out of thin air?”

  “If we have to,” he said with what she thought was total irrationality.

  “Ron, you can’t—”

  “I have to. There has to be a way to pull it off.”

  “Ron, I think you partied too much in the sixties. It can’t happen.”

  “What about that Mark guy you rent the apartment from over his store?”

  “It’s an auto repair shop, and I wouldn’t ask him.”

  “Why not? He’s always helping you out, fixing that old car of yours. Would it be too much to ask him to have a weekend in Tahoe and playact a bit?”

  “No way.” She shook her head. “He’s best friends with my brothers and there’s no way I’d want them to know I had to bribe a man to—” She shrugged, not about to go into how three older brothers could drive a person crazy if they got hold of something like this. Dr. Love getting a pretend husband? They’d love it. “He’s out of the question.”

  “Too bad Mr. Kincaid’s met me before, or I could fill in.”

  That made Madison laugh. Ron was a lot things, from a friend to a producer, but after three bad marriages, he never had been and never would be husband material on any level for any woman. “I don’t think so. Wasn’t the doctor’s husband a professional, a lawyer or a businessman of some sort?”

  “A corporate attorney, actually.” He nibbled on his lip and fiddled with his earrings. “It seemed like a good idea at the time to just slip you in and let you take over Sherri’s spot. You even sounded a lot like her, sort of soft and sexy and concerned.” He shrugged. “I never dreamed something like this would ever come up.”

  “But it did come up. Now all you have to do is tell Mr. Kincaid that I’d be delighted to stop by and see his wife for a few minutes. But Mr. Dr. Love is ill, just a shadow of his former self, almost nonexistent, and can’t make it.”

  He shook his head. “No, that won’t do. She wants the couple, the proof in the pudding, the happily married Mr. and Mrs. Dr. Love, the product of your knowledge and wisdom and whatever it is that makes Dr. Love a success.”

  She shrugged and sat back against the desk again. “I need to go and get ready for the show. You’re the producer, so you take care of it.”

  She started for the door, but she’d barely touched the handle before Ron stopped her with, “Madison, I do have a backup plan.”

  She stopped and turned to look at him. “A backup plan?”

  “What about the Harrington Agency?”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “Our sponsor, you know, call 1-800-HUSBAND.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “No, you don’t. I’m not going to pay money for some man to pretend to be—”

  “Give me an alternative,” he said, cutting her off. “Besides, you know they’re on the up-and-up. They wouldn’t have been accepted as a sponsor if they hadn’t been checked out. They provide husband figures for women who need to give the impression they’re married. And they guarantee discretion.”

  That didn’t stop her from feeling uneasy about the idea of paying a man to be an escort. “Ron, just tell Kincaid that my husband was called out of the country to protect national security. Or that he’s decided to go into the astronaut program. You’re creative. You can come up with something.”

  “I told you, he’s insisting on the package, husband and wife. And Harrington’s looks like the only way I can come up with what they want. And if they don’t get what they want, heaven forbid. They could pull spots on half a dozen programs and send the station into a nosedive. It’s politics, Madison, and money. The fine art of keeping money behind us to stay on the air.” He eyed her intently by the door. “What can it hurt? And look what good it could do.”

  She didn’t even want to think what it could hurt. “Don’t do this to me, Ron.”

  “A weekend at Tahoe, and I’m sure their place won’t be a shack. Along with a guy who’s trained to grant your every wish while he pretends to be your husband. It could be fun.”

  “Sure, and I bet you think root canal’s fun, too.”

  “Well, if you had a boyfriend instead of burying yourself in your work, this wouldn’t—”

  “Okay, okay, enough.”

  “Will you go and talk to them at the agency and see if they can fix you up for the weekend?”

  She exhaled. “I don’t—”

  He came over to stand toe-to-toe with her and she could almost feel the tension in him. “Please, just go and talk to them. This can work, Madison. I know it can.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then found herself nodding as she looked back at Ron. “Okay, I’ll talk to them.”

  “Great.”

  “But if they aren’t what we think, that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll come up with something else. I’ll call and get an appointment for you with the owner. I don’t think we can take a chance on dealing with anyone else there and we need to do this as quickly as possible. You’re going to Tahoe Friday afternoon.”

  “Okay,” she said on a sigh. “Just let me know when I’m supposed to go and pick out a husband.”

  * * *

  “...MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree.”

  Steven York hit the intercom button and rang for his secretary as the piped-in music kept filtering into his offices on the fifteenth floor of the York Enterprises Building.

  When there was no response, he yelled, “Valarie, shut that music off!”

  “On the third day of Christmas, my true—”

  “Valarie!” he called again as he stood and strode across his beige office, cursing the piped-in music as it played havoc with his nerves with each step he took on the plush, off-white carpeting.

  “...three French hens, two...”

  Steven reached the door, jerked it open and looked out into the reception area of the executive suite.

  “Valarie, for heaven’s sake, get someone to...”

  His words died out as he scanned the elegantly appointed area, with its soft turquoise, beige and dusty rose color scheme. An eight-foot-tall silver foil Christmas tree dotted with blue cryst
al bulbs and flowing bows of rose ribbons sat in front of the wall of windows that overlooked the business district. Its strings of tiny lights twinkled back in the glass panes.

  No one was there. The chair behind the desk by the double entry doors was empty. And the desk itself was clear of any clutter except for the computer, the phone system and a silver filigree basket filled with red and green foil-wrapped chocolates. The music kept going.

  “...four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves and a...”

  One glance at the wall clock by the open doors to the corridor, and he knew why there was no one around. It was eight-fifteen in the evening. Valarie usually left around five-thirty, and she had probably told him when she left. But he’d been so engrossed in the new files that he hadn’t heard her at all.

  “...geese a laying...”

  Steven raked his fingers through sandy blond hair that was a shade too long, then ran a hand roughly over his face, feeling the scratchings of a new beard. He’d done it again. He’d lost track of time, and besides not hearing Valarie leave or realizing how late it had grown, he’d completely missed the dinner he’d planned with Wyatt...again.

  “Damn it all,” he muttered as he crossed to the windows by the tree and looked out at the night panorama of the city far below. Flashing lights were everywhere, interspersed with ribbons of headlights from the procession of commuters heading for the bridges in the distance. A massive fir tree in the square across the street from the York Building had a white star shining brightly at the top and a cascade of lights tumbling over its sweeping branches.

  Christmas.

  He exhaled as he focused on his own reflection in the glass, backdropped by the signs of the holiday season all over the city. The dark vision was of a six-foot-tall man, with hair mussed from combing his fingers through it, and a square face with a slash of dark brows over narrowed eyes. His pale gray shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, the tie long gone, and the long sleeves had been rolled back over his forearms. A deep frown stamped on his face emphasized the darkness of the image.

  Hardly a face filled with Christmas cheer. It was a face that exposed the part of him that was annoyed when business slowed down to a crawl while people got lost in celebrations of the holidays. He wouldn’t even acknowledge Christmas if it wasn’t for his son, Wyatt. Christmas was for kids, and the boy loved the holidays. So he went along with him.

  He jammed his hands in the pockets of his dark slacks and knew that he’d have to call and apologize to Wyatt for missing dinner again. Thank goodness the boy wasn’t a whiner. He understood. He always did. Ten years old and he was savvy about this business from growing up with its craziness and the odd hours when business deals were hammered out and made.

  “...five golden rings, four calling...”

  The faceless choir kept singing about birds and rings and swimming swans as he turned from his reflection to the room. He didn’t have a clue how Valarie turned the music on for the business day or how it was turned off. Unfortunately, one of his best business gifts was the art of delegation. And that meant delegating the music to Valarie, who was probably at home across the bay right now.

  “On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...”

  “Who cares,” Steven shouted to the empty room as he turned and headed for the open door to his private office. “Let’s hope your true love gives you a good case of terminal laryngitis.”

  “Bah, humbug,” someone called out behind him. “Ebenezer Scrooge, I presume?”

  Steven turned and saw Martin Biggs coming through the entry doors. “You,” he said to the slender, balding man coming toward him.

  “Yes, it’s me. Is that a problem?”

  Steven grimaced at Martin and shook his head at the tie the man was wearing with his usual conservative gray business suit—a green tie with a huge Santa face in the middle with a blinking light making Santa’s eye wink. “That tie’s a problem. It’s horrendous and the piped-in music is driving me crazy.”

  Martin flipped his tie up to give Steven a better look at Santa winking at him. “It’s a great tie. It’s got a little tiny battery pack. And the music fits the season.”

  “I don’t care what it fits. Just tell me you know how to shut it off.”

  “Sure I do.” Martin crossed to the secretary’s desk, slipped behind it and reached for a switch near the phone by the computer. With one flick of his finger, the music came to a blessedly quick stop at “...and a partridge in a—”

  He turned to Steven and spread his hands in front of him. “There you go. Martin the miracle worker.”

  “You have my eternal gratitude. Now tell me what you’re doing here at this time of night.”

  “I called the house and Wyatt said you were probably still at work since you weren’t home. I was coming this way, anyway, so I thought I’d stop in and see if you were burning the midnight oil.”

  Steven pushed aside another twinge of guilt about Wyatt and asked, “What’s the problem?”

  “Do you have time to talk?”

  Even if he left right now, he wouldn’t be home before the boy went to bed, so a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything. “Since you’re the reason I’m still here, I think we should talk.”

  Martin studied Steven across the room. “I’m the reason?”

  “Exactly,” Steven said, then turned and went back into his office. While he crossed to his desk and sank back down in the leather chair, Martin followed him. When Steven swiveled around, he found the other man standing on the far side of the desk.

  “Okay,” Martin said. “Shoot. What’s wrong?”

  Steven grabbed the top folder in front of him, and he tossed it in Martin’s direction. It landed with a thud on the other papers near the far edge of the desk. “Does the name Harrington Agency mean anything to you?”

  Martin looked relieved as he leaned forward and pressed the tips of his fingers to the papers by the file. The action made his tie swing forward in all its garish, blinking splendor. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Good. Let’s make this simple. You’re crazy.” He settled back in his chair. “An escort service? Give me a break.” Martin was in acquisitions, the best man Steven had at scouting businesses for takeover or purchase, a man who usually found gems in piles of rubbish. But not this time. “I’m tired, and I’m certainly not in a mood to waste my time on rubbish.”

  “It’s not rubbish.” He jabbed the file with one finger, but never looked away from Steven. “I’ve put in a lot of time on it. It’s a fantastic opportunity.”

  “But an escort—?”

  “The Harrington Agency isn’t actually an escort service. It’s a specialized company that provides men for women who need to give the appearance of having a husband.”

  “And we all know what they want those men for,” Steven muttered. “I never thought I’d need to remind you that this business is built on acquiring legitimate companies that can be fixed, expanded or diversified for a profit. We aren’t going into anything like that.”

  “Will you just listen to me for a few minutes since we’re both here? I promise you, you won’t regret it.”

  Steven shrugged. “Okay, you’ve got five minutes.”

  But before the man could start his pitch for the Harrington Agency, the ring of the phone cut in. Steven sat forward and held up a hand to Martin. “Your five minutes start when I hang up,” he said as he reached for the receiver.

  Chapter Two

  “Mr. York? Bishop here,” a deep rumbling voice said on the other end of the phone line.

  While Martin grabbed the file on Harrington, then crossed to the windows and opened the folder, Steven said, “Yes, Bishop?”

  “Wyatt was expecting you to have dinner with him.”

  “I was just about to call and tell him I got tied up.” He glanced at Martin. “I’ve got some important business I need to finish here.”

  “What time should I tell him you’ll be back?”
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  “I don’t really know when I’ll get out of here,” Steven said, “but it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  “Wyatt wants Jared to spend the night again. How’s that with you, sir?”

  “Whatever he wants,” Steven said. “Is there anything else?”

  “You asked me to remind you about the gift.”

  The gift. He’d completely forgotten about that, too. “Thanks, Bishop. And tell Wyatt I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, then hung up.

  As Steven put the receiver back on the hook, he looked at Martin. “Sorry for that interruption. That was my housekeeper.”

  Martin turned and came back to carefully put the closed Harrington folder in front of Steven. “Any trouble?”

  “The usual. I ran late, and Wyatt expected me for dinner.”

  “It must be rough having to be mother and father to a ten-year-old,” he said as he went around to face Steven across the desk again. “It’s a shame you never remarried.”

  In the eight years since Jeannie died, he’d never even thought of marriage to anyone else. He’d never thought he’d ever marry, and it had taken him off guard when he’d realized that he’d wanted to spend the rest of his life with Jeannie. But he knew that would never happen again. It had been a one-time thing. And he knew that with a certainty.

  He shook his head. “Marriage isn’t even in the picture,” he said. “It’s been eight years since Jeannie passed away, and I’ve learned to get by. I’ve got help, even if Wyatt does call the housekeeper the Terminator.”

  “He calls Mrs. O’Neal—?”

  “Oh, no. She’s down in Florida with a sick sister, so we got a temp from the agency. This guy showed up, and he looks like he could pick up the Empire State Building with one hand. His name’s Bishop, and he’s at least six-three or -four, and weighs over two hundred pounds. But he can cook, clean, and keeps the household running smoothly.

  “About the only thing he hasn’t done is shop for Wyatt’s Christmas presents for me. Mrs. O’Neal always did that for me.” He eyed Martin. “Say, you wouldn’t want to do me a favor, would you?”