Santa, Baby

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Her mind raced as she searched for the lead stylist, Betsy, to announce her arrival. Illicit thoughts of living out a fantasy—with Baxter Remington in the starring male role, and she, the sophisticated starlet—took root. She almost laughed at that. She’d met the man in a sweat suit, with no makeup on—a guise that wasn’t uncommon on her days off. It was comfortable. And men like Baxter Remington did not do women like her. Not that she wanted to do him. Or him to do her, rather. She grimaced. Okay. Maybe she did. If she was going to live a fantasy, why not do a man as hot as Baxter? That highly sensual, quite entertaining idea lasted all of two seconds before being smashed nice and flat as she found Betsy.“I’m here,” she announced, and smiled nervously. “Just in time, right?”

  “We already replaced you.” Betsy delivered the message with all the brassy personality that her red hair and bodacious curves suggested. Did so while still managing to stick some bobby pins in the wig of what appeared to be a business owner representing Elizabeth Taylor.

  Disappointment washed over Caron, and she whispered, “Replaced me?”

  “What’d you expect me to do, sugar?” Betsy challenged. A hand went to her robust hip. “You’re hours late. Not one hour. Hours late. As in plural.” She raked fingers through a mess of wild red curls. “I had to turn one of the makeup girls into Audrey, and that wasn’t an easy task.” She grimaced. “Suzie barely fit her size-eight body into your size-four dress. I worked miracles, I tell you. Miracles.”

  “I really loved that dress,” Caron half whispered to herself.

  “You weren’t here,” Betsy countered.

  “I know,” Caron admitted, feeling the heat of embarrassment and disappointment rush to her cheeks. “I left a message. I had a plumbing problem.”

  “And I was in poo up to my neck,” Betsy spat. “This event is televised, and my job is to fill these dresses with starlet look-alikes before those cameras roll.” She motioned to all the craziness around her. “And do I look like I could check messages? I have a show to put on.”

  “And a problem to solve,” came a male voice.

  Caron, Betsy and Elizabeth Taylor all turned to find Reginald, Betsy’s assistant, holding a blond wig. Betsy grabbed Elizabeth Taylor’s shoulder, and Elizabeth yelped. Betsy quickly apologized, dropping her hand but not the grimace on her face.

  “Why are you holding Marilyn’s hair?” she asked, her face redder than Caron’s felt.

  Reginald was a tall, black, effeminate man, with better grooming than a lot of the women she knew. “Because,” he said, lips pursed, “Marilyn doesn’t like high heels and never wears them, thus, how she fell down the stairs and broke her ankle. She’s out. No show for her.”

  “Come again?” Betsy asked, blinking as if she didn’t believe what she’d heard.

  “She’s out, Betsy. We lost our star!” Reginald was losing his cool.

  Betsy turned slowly, and fixed her attention on Caron. “You’ll be Marilyn.”

  Caron’s eyes went wide. “Are you nuts? I don’t look anything like Marilyn.”

  “The dress will swallow her whole,” Reginald interjected.

  “Turn Suzie into Marilyn,” Caron suggested. “Let me have my Audrey dress back.”

  “Listen,” Betsy commanded, “I sewed her into that thing. She’s not coming out anytime soon. You’re Marilyn, honey. You owe me for being so late.” She waved at Reginald. “Get the dress, and let me work my miracles.”

  Caron looked down at her B-cup chest. “I don’t have the equipment.”

  “It’s time for you to learn the miracles of the pushup, gel bra. You’ll never again leave home without one.”

  Reginald reappeared with a figure-hugging white dress, and Caron’s mouth went dry. “Are we doing this?” he asked.

  “I need you, Caron,” Betsy said.

  It had taken her all week to embrace her walk down the runway as the demure, sophisticated Audrey Hepburn. She had all of thirty seconds to decide on a very different role—the sexy, sensational Marilyn Monroe. Did she dare? Caron inhaled, thinking of paying back her grandmother, of the exposure this event would deliver to her store and her future. And yes, the adventure she’d been craving came to mind, as well. Responsibility and adventure—an enticing combination. She made her decision. Yes—she dared.

  FBI AGENT SARAH WALKER slid a hand over her silver satin-covered hip and sashayed into action, speaking low into her invisible mike. “I have Baxter Remington in view. Repeat, target in view.”

  Her assignment was simple, direct—get up close and personal with Baxter Remington. Find out what Baxter knew about his now-missing VP’s insider trading activities, and the missing man’s current location.Considering Baxter’s affinity for blondes with curves, she was the perfect agent for the job. Considering he was James Bond debonair, the assignment wasn’t totally unappealing. Not that she was anything but professional. That said, Baxter’s appeal did nothing to change how much she despised being used for her looks. She always paid the price later—less respect from a partner who had barely offered her any to start with. That really ticked her off.

  She was good at her job, top of her class at the academy, promoted long before many of her peers. And she wanted another promotion, far away from this place and her partner’s abuse. Baxter Remington was her ticket to that promotion. Snag him and his VP, and she’d snag opportunity and an exit from hell.

  Time for action—she stepped around a Christmas tree decorated with brilliant, albeit costume, diamonds and pearls, and intercepted a waiter. Perfectly timed, Sarah managed to reach for the champagne tray at the same moment Baxter did. Their hands collided and she laughed, low, sexy.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, casting him an interested look.

  He gave her a half smile. It lacked the returned interest she’d hoped for. “Ladies first,” he offered, motioning to the tray.

  She accepted a glass from the waiter and watched as Baxter did the same. Expectantly, she waited for the server to leave, waited for Baxter’s affinity for flirtation to kick in. Instead, she found him turning away, watching the stage.

  Fred, her partner and the agent in her earpiece, spoke. “Sarah, honey, you are going to have to do better than that.” Fred hated female agents. Or maybe he just hated her. She wanted to tell him what she thought of him, but professionally, this was not the time, or the place.

  Sarah blew a long lock of silvery blond hair out of her eyes. She’d sprayed it with just enough silver sparkle to bring attention to her dress and her ample cleavage. She’d really put herself out to look like Baxter’s ideal fantasy. Baxter had a thing for blondes; it was well-known. As a favorite of the local press, he was often photographed with a blonde flavor-of-the-month dangling from his arm.

  The announcer came to the stage. The runway show was starting. A reporter appeared in front of Baxter, drilling him over the accusations of his VP’s insider trading activities. Sneaky bastard had managed to snag an invitation to the party. He should be working for the Feds, she thought. Sarah flagged another waiter and told him to call security, quickly easing her way to Baxter’s side and bringing his conversation with the reporter within hearing range.

  “Mr. Remington,” the reporter said. “I find it hard to believe that your VP is your closest friend and yet you knew nothing of his actions.”

  “Frankly,” Baxter stated, “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you believe.”

  Sarah smoothly linked her arm to his. “Security is on its way, sugar,” she said, glaring at the reporter, who cursed and searched the crowd. Sure enough, a pair of security guards were rushing in their direction. The reporter darted away.

  She glanced up at Baxter, saw the heaviness of his stare, the disinterest. Damn. What did it take to get this man hot?

  “I’m Sarah,” she said, leaning into him so that her breast brushed his arm. She used her real name as often as possible. It was easier to avoid screwups that way. “I gather you’re Baxter Remington.”

  He stared down a
t her, no sign of emotion, an indecipherable mask on his handsome face. He disengaged his arm from hers. “Thanks for the save, Sarah. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I don’t want to miss the show.”

  The first model was taking the stage, and just like that, he walked away. She watched him weave through the crowd, edging closer to the stage.

  Sarah’s efforts at seduction had been fruitless.

  “I guess he doesn’t prefer all blondes, babe,” Fred said into the mike.

  “Jerk,” she hissed, working her way through the crowd toward an empty spot at the food table, where she could speak more freely.

  “Save the sweet talk for later, honey,” Fred said. “Right now, we need someone close to Baxter Remington. Since you can’t do it, we’d better hope one of the other ladies in that joint can. And when she does, we’ll snag her, and convince her to help us.”

  “I’m not your honey or your sweetie,” she replied. Unfortunately, she wasn’t Baxter’s, either.

  “Yeah, well—”

  She set her plate down and reached up and flipped off her mike, tired of Fred’s mouth. Turning to the room, Sarah took in the glitter and glam, and hoped like hell some lucky girl would score with Baxter, as Sarah had not. Because that lady’s score would be Sarah’s score, as well. They’d both get their man.

  And then Sarah could get rid of Fred.

  AFTER THAT DISTASTEFUL encounter with the reporter, all that kept Baxter from leaving the charity event was the prospect of another glimpse of the mystery woman wearing the pink sweats. As for the blonde’s blatant flirtation, she might not be a reporter, though he wouldn’t rule it out. An opportunist of some type, regardless. Been there, done that, not interested.

  Impatient, staring at the stage, Baxter’s mind flickered to the questions the reporter had flung in his direction. He was sick and tired of the accusations directed at his personal character, tainting the reputation of a company he had worked into a solid success. A company that he’d committed to the mission of giving back to the community at every opportunity. Yet, now, thanks to a trusted employee, he was seeing that reputation, that foundation he’d fought so hard for, smashed into oblivion.“And as Audrey Hepburn, we have the lovely owner of the Book Nook, Caron Avery.”

  With that announcement, Baxter’s eyes riveted to the stage; all thoughts of the reporter, of the scandal haunting him, slid away. Caron Avery was the mystery woman, and she owned a bookstore. He found that charming for reasons he didn’t understand, any more than he understood the overwhelmingly complete way the woman had taken him by storm. When was the last time his gut had twisted with anticipation over seeing a woman? The fact that Caron Avery had excited such a response had become the reason he was still here.

  His heart raced as the brunette at the end of the runway appeared; his limbs heated. What would she look like transformed into a starlet? But then he was quite partial to that little pink sweat suit for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he thought of the way it hugged her cute, firm backside with delicious precision. Okay, maybe he did know what he liked about it.

  A female appeared at the edge of the runway and began to sashay toward the crowd. Baxter inhaled, savoring the moment, anticipating the thrum of fire in his veins. The fire that never came. He frowned. This wasn’t the woman he’d met at the valet podium. He knew it with the same certainty that he knew those pink sweats had made him hot. The woman on the runway was taller than his mystery woman; she walked with heavier steps, her hips and breasts, fuller.

  Baxter cursed under his breath, disappointment curling in his gut. Disappointment that was no more explainable, no more logical, than the over-the-top interest that a chance meeting with a stranger had created in him.

  “Correction, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. “Caron Avery will be with us later in the show. We’ve had some last-minute costume changes due to a missing model. In the role of Audrey Hepburn is Suzie Cantu, one of the staffers from the event. What a trouper she is. Whisked onto the runway with no warning!”

  The tension in Baxter’s shoulders slid away. A waiter appeared and offered him a glass of champagne, and he decided to indulge—that glass of bubbly wasn’t the only thing he planned to indulge in. There was a woman on his mind, a woman who had his attention, a woman he had to have. Instinctively, he knew she wasn’t a woman for casual bedroom encounters—the only thing his life allowed at the moment. She might want him, but he was certain she would hesitate to act. He would simply have to convince her of the value, the pleasure, of a night of sensual escape. She would be a challenge, a provocative chase he couldn’t wait to get underway.

  “TIME TO HEAD TO THE STAGE, honey.” The brassy yell came from behind her as Betsy appeared in the mirror behind Caron and whistled. “I do declare, missy. You make a damn good Marilyn Monroe.”

  Did she? Caron wasn’t sure. The transformation had happened so quickly, her mind was spinning. She stared at herself in the mirror, amazed at what she saw, amazed at herself. The woman in the reflection wasn’t her—but yet, it was. She would never have thought that blond hair would suit her coloring, but with the right makeup and the ruby-red lipstick, she had to admit it appeared she could pull it off.Then there was her clingy sparkling gown that somehow seemed to create curves that weren’t there before, hugging her waist, and caressing her hips. As for her breasts—well, gel bras were, indeed, the true miracle bras. And the low cut of the gown showed plenty of cleavage. Too much. Oh, yeah, too much. How could she walk out on the stage with so much chest showing?

  She whirled around and motioned to her chest. “I can’t go out there like this.”

  “Looking sexy?” Betsy asked. “Of course you can!”

  Her hands covered her breasts. “They are so exposed.”

  Betsy laughed. “They are not,” she scoffed, one hand on a cocked hip. “You look elegant sexy, not slutty sexy. You, darlin’, are the show in this showcase. You look amazing.”

  This was not going as planned. “I was supposed to wear the other dress. The one with the high neckline.”

  “You wilted in that dress,” Betsy said. “You shine in this one.”

  Oh, God. Her neckline concerns slid away as a new worry took their place. “What if I fall?”

  “You won’t fall!”

  Her stomach rolled. “I fell during high school graduation. People laughed. They laughed a long time. And loud.”

  Betsy paled, clearly rattled, but it didn’t keep her from pushing onward. “Think of this as a challenge. Take over the room like you do your business. Just go out there and forget the crowd, and be Marilyn!”

  Betsy really did not understand. “Unless there is a list I can check off and a plan I can follow, I don’t do challenge. I do planning, organization. Structure. High necklines.” Caron shook her head. “No. No, I don’t do last-minute, daring things. It’s not me.” She waved her hand over the dress again, pointing at her exposed chest. “I. Don’t. Do. This.” She was starting to hyperventilate. She hadn’t done that since college. Not since she’d tried hypnosis. “I can’t. I—”

  “You can,” Betsy argued.

  “Can’t…breathe,” Caron wheezed. “I can’t…breathe.”

  “Step aside! Step aside! She’s hyperventilating.” Reginald rushed forward with a bag. He started to hold it to her mouth and hesitated. “Watch the lipstick.” She grabbed the bag, and he said, “That’s it, breathe.”

  “We have three minutes,” Betsy announced, and now she sounded as if she might hyperventilate. “If we don’t get her out there, I am going to need that bag.”

  Reginald held up a hand. “Wait,” he murmured, and focused on Caron. He dropped the bag, put his hands on Caron’s shoulders. “My therapist, also known as my older sister, taught me a trick. Imagine—”

  She could breathe just enough to cut him off. “Don’t say ‘the audience in their underwear’ or I’ll scream.”

  He pursed his lips and ignored the interruption,
as if it did not justify a response. “Shut your eyes.” She hesitated and he grimaced and put some authority into his voice. “Snap. Them. Shut. We’re out of time.”

  She grimaced right back, but did as he said. It was better than going out on that stage.

  “Now,” he said. “I want you to imagine yourself inside a red glowing circle. A protective circle.”

  Her eyes went wide. This wasn’t unfamiliar. “You’ve done hypnosis.”

  He pursed his lips. “Snap those eyes shut and imagine the circle.”

  She inhaled a heavy breath and did as he said.

  “Inside your circle is your safe zone. No one can hurt you, no one can laugh, and you cannot and will not fall down. You can be anything you want, do anything you want. You can be Marilyn. You can be daring, be challenged. You can live the fantasy.”

  She repeated his words in her mind, not about the damn red circle, but about how silly she must seem right now. As if a red circle would help her? Please. Hypnosis hadn’t done nearly as much for her as the idea of needing it had.

  Shoot. Why did she freak out like this? Why couldn’t she be Marilyn for a night? Why couldn’t she live the fantasy? She opened her eyes. She could live the fantasy! She would live the fantasy. She was going to walk that runway, and meet any challenge that came her way that night with bold daring.

  Baxter Remington and everyone else in that room—beware! Marilyn Monroe aka Caron Avery was headed their way.

  3

  HOURS AFTER CARON had walked out on that stage, she prudently nursed her second glass of champagne, the sparkling liquid tickling her tongue, the party around her abuzz with food, friends and chatter. Caron herself was abuzz with a titillating game of cat and mouse, which had ensued shortly after her surprisingly successful walk down that stage. A game of Hunter and Huntress, with she and Baxter Remington exchanging heated stares, connecting with an electricity that defied reason. There was no conversation, no attempts at contact, the anticipation heightening with each glance. It excited, it entranced. It promised pleasure long overdue.