Santa, Baby

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Caron laughed in disbelief. This might be a long night, because she wasn’t giving up on the word nice until she was darn good and ready.

  CARON LAY NUZZLED UNDER Baxter’s shoulder, her hand on his chest as he slept. She stared across the room, through the open patio window, to the moon hovering low, threatening to be replaced by sunlight. She couldn’t sleep, and she didn’t want to wake up to be stuffed into an awkward Marilyn costume, trying to navigate an equally awkward morning-after. The question was—how did she get out of here without Baxter waking up? And what to do when she did? She had no purse, no money. Considering she had to leave dressed as Marilyn, the sooner the better. She didn’t need unwanted attention. Flexing her fingers on his chest, Caron inhaled one last breath of Baxter’s scrumptious male scent, and then gently eased away from him. Or tried.

  He lifted his head, tightened his arm around her. “Where are you going?”“Bathroom,” she murmured.

  “Hurry back,” he replied sleepily, patting her on the ass.

  Caron’s heart fluttered. He liked her ass, he’d made that clear. She’d liked that he liked it. But it was done, over. Baxter appeared unworried about an awkward morning-after. He was Baxter Remington, and even Caron, reader of romance, not newspapers, knew his reputation. A new woman every time he was photographed. Maybe he was just so used to morning-afters, they weren’t weird to him anymore.

  Caron scooted off the bed, naked, aware of feeling exposed for the first time in hours. Sadness pitted in her stomach. Her Cinderella night was over. She tiptoed toward the bedroom door, ignoring the bathroom, though she could darn sure use a little detour in that direction. Looked as if she’d be squeezing her legs closed upon exiting Baxter’s apartment just as she had entered, but this time the reason wouldn’t be quite so joyful.

  She snagged her shoes on departure, one by the bed, one by the door—not sure how that had happened. The thigh-highs, she wasn’t even going to try to find. Quietly, she rounded up her clothes and dressed, leaving the wig on the couch. The sexy dress was enough zing and bling to draw watchful gazes on its own—she didn’t need the blonde Marilyn thing going on along with it.

  Dressed but for the shoes—which she planned to carry for the sake of quietness—she began the hunt for a pen, to leave a note. It seemed wrong not to. Problem was, the apartment was so darn neat, free of any signs of real living, let alone anything useful, like that pen.

  A snakelike, steel stairwell in the far corner of the room led to a loftlike area above. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Right. Why? She knew why. Because all she’d cared about last night was Baxter’s naked body. She frowned. Was it an office? Yes. It looked like an office.

  Shoes dangling from her fingers, she tiptoed up the stairwell and then stood in awe at what she found. It was a library. A library! Full of books. Fiction, history, business. Big fluffy chairs with lamps and tables beside them. Windows offering a dreamy view. It was the most wonderful room. A room she had always longed to have in her own home. And she’d accused him of having no books. Who would have thought? She sighed. She liked Baxter. Too much. His playfulness. The way he made her laugh and forget nerves and inhibitions. Regret curled inside her at never seeing him again, and she shook herself. She had to get moving.

  Her bare feet sank into plush carpeting as she moved to the corner desk by the window and found a pen and paper. She studied the blank page, unsure what to say, but certain she was out of time. Baxter would discover her absence soon. A mischievous smile slid onto her lips and she started scribbling. “Thanks for a ‘nice’ night.” Pleased with herself, she retopped the pen and set it down.

  She rushed to the stairs and hurried back to the lower level, thankful all was still peaceful there. In a quick dart, she made it to the door and exited, sticking the piece of paper in the door. Now, to creatively figure out how to pay for a cab with no wallet. This should be interesting.

  After twenty minutes of trying, and the early-morning sky blossoming with oranges and yellows, Caron accepted she wasn’t getting a cab with the promise of payment on the other end of the ride, and she simply wasn’t willing to charge Baxter’s account. So she started walking, the breeze from the nearby water turning sixty degrees into fifty. And she had no coat and a slinky dress on. Thankfully she was in a good area of town, and the sun was fast rising. It was an idea that lasted a block. She was freezing. She had to go back, to charge Baxter’s account. She’d send him the money later that day. She turned to retreat and found a petite blonde approaching in slim black jeans and a turtleneck, a businesslike look on her chiseled face.

  “Caron Avery?”

  A badge flashed in front of Caron and she frowned. “FBI?”

  “Agent Sarah Walker. You are Caron Avery, correct?”

  “I am,” Caron agreed cautiously. “Did I do something wrong?” Concern prickled. “Oh, God. Is something wrong at my store? Was I robbed?”

  “Your store is fine, Ms. Avery,” she quickly assured, though her tone was serious. “I’m here about Baxter Remington.” A dark sedan pulled up beside them. “Why don’t you let us give you a ride home, Ms. Avery, and I’ll explain?”

  Alarm bells went off in her head. “I’m all about respecting the law, Ms….”

  “Agent Walker.”

  “Agent Walker,” Caron amended, hugging herself against the chilly air that darn near had her teeth chattering. “But I’m not getting into a car with you just because you flash a badge. How do I know it’s real?”

  The woman raised a brow in surprise before a look of appreciation settled on it. Several cabs pulled up to the red light at the corner, and Agent Walker rushed to the edge of the sidewalk, signaling for one’s attention. One of the cabs backed up and parked in front of the sedan.

  Agent Walker yanked open the back door and called to Caron. “I’ll spring for the ride to your apartment.”

  Caron’s indecision lasted all of ten seconds before she dashed toward the cab. She was too cold to turn down a cab, and it seemed as safe, or safer, than walking. In the backseat of the car, Caron tried to subdue her shivers, offering the driver her address.

  Agent Walker was quick to join her, wasting no time getting to her point. “We need your help, Ms. Avery.” Her voice was low, for Caron’s ears only. “Baxter Remington’s partner is being investigated for securities fraud and he’s gone MIA. He has ties to a certain investor who miraculously knew the exact moment to unload his Remington stock. We believe Baxter knows where his partner is.”

  Now she understood what Baxter meant by scandal, and why he’d wanted to protect her from the press. It appeared that the FBI wasn’t so easily avoided. “Maybe he doesn’t know anything. And what does that have to do with me?”

  “We need you to use whatever bond you have with Baxter to find out exactly what he does know.”

  A disbelieving laugh bubbled from Caron’s lips. “Me?” she asked. “I have nothing to do with Baxter Remington. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

  “Weren’t you with him tonight?”

  “That has nothing—”

  “Then you’re the right girl. You can do this. You have to do this. It’s your duty as a citizen to use the opportunity you have to get close to this man and stop any wrongdoing.”

  Okay, now Caron was getting mad. “Duty?” she asked. “How is it my duty when I don’t even know this man?”

  “Then why are you leaving his apartment at the crack of dawn?”

  Caron opened her mouth and shut it. Bit her tongue and processed, flustered. This was none of their business. “I won’t be seeing him again,” she finally ground out. “Period. End of story. No forwarding number or address left.”

  “It’s your duty as a good citizen to see him again. You have a chance to stop someone from getting away with a crime.”

  Caron shook the cobwebs from her head. “Let me get this straight. Baxter isn’t being accused of wrongdoing, but you want me to manipulate him to catch someone who is? And you’re calling that my duty?” />
  “We don’t know what Mr. Remington’s role in all of this is, but aiding and abetting a wanted man is a felony, Ms. Avery. So yes, Mr. Remington could very well be in a great deal of trouble.”

  “But all you want to do is question Baxter’s partner,” she pointed out. “He’s not charged with a crime. I don’t know the law all that well, yet that does seem relevant.”

  “He’ll be charged,” the agent assured her. “And so will your lover boy is he’s not careful.”

  Anger began to curl in Caron’s belly at what was nothing more than a manipulative threat. “Clearly, you have no proof Baxter knows where his partner is. I mean, surely you’ve done your surveillance on him and found nothing damning or you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.” She gave a little snort. “Because I have to tell you that thinking I can get answers from Baxter Remington is putting you in the pretty desperate category. As I told you.” The cab pulled up to Caron’s building, and she quickly opened the door. “I can’t help you, Agent Walker.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both,” Caron stated, and tried to get out of the cab. She’d always had instincts about people, and Baxter wasn’t a felon. A bit arrogant, a lot playboy, but not a felon. She wouldn’t be party to manipulating innocent people. Not that she had any influence over Baxter in the first place.

  Agent Walker gently shackled her arm. “You can do this. I saw the way he looked at you at that party. You have his attention.”

  “You saw the way he looked at a dolled-up fantasy. That’s not me.”

  Agent Walker seemed as if she would insist further, but she didn’t. She dropped her hold on Caron. “Think about it, Ms. Avery. I’ll be in touch.”

  Caron climbed out of the car, and it sped away. She turned and looked at her building and cringed. She didn’t have her keys. They were in her purse. It seemed her fantasy night had started with the toilet and ended there, too. Maybe she should have stayed for that awkward morning-after. A hunk of a hot man and a warm bed sounded pretty darn “nice” right now.

  7

  MONDAY MORNING BAXTER stood at the window of the conference room. His weekend rendezvous with Marilyn was not forgotten, but the day had started with the grim depiction of Remington Coffee’s tumbling stocks. He now listened to a group of five employees as they debated “image management” and ways to increase sales, while the PR person he’d hired, Katie Kelley, nixed one idea after the other.

  Baxter scanned the oceanfront horizon. Doing so reminded him of how he’d spent far too much time this weekend staring at that damn note Caron had left him. Her message “thanks for a ‘nice’ night” had taunted him. It wasn’t like him to be so easily distracted, and certainly not in the midst of a crisis, but he couldn’t stop the burn to want to find Caron and prove how much better than “nice” their night had been. But he’d restrained himself. This unfamiliar need to prove something to a woman served no purpose, and would most certainly drag her into his present hell. But that hadn’t stopped him from sending Caron a little goodbye of his own by way of his assistant, to arrive at her bookstore this morning.“What do you think, Mr. Remington?” Katie asked, referring to a suggestion for a “Remington for Kids” fun time at select coffee shops every weekend. A portion of all sales during the event would be donated to charity. “With Christmas only a few short weeks away, we could use the holiday as a launching platform. The program will appear motivated by the holiday, not the scandal.”

  Baxter turned to the group sitting around the rectangular mahogany table and dismissed the idea. “We’ve never made our charity events self-serving.”

  “It’s well-timed charity, Mr. Baxter,” Katie countered. “The public needs something to talk about other than the scandal. Because speaking frankly, there is a natural human tendency to cling to the scandalous.”

  Reluctantly, Baxter agreed. And a vice president accused of insider trading, now gone missing, was pretty scandalous. And damning where investors were concerned.

  She continued, “We must counteract the negative media attention, flood the memory banks with positive. And remember that staying strong in their eyes allows you to continue to give back in such a generous way while securing your employees’ futures, as well.”

  Baxter felt a steely punch in his gut for the people Jett had put in jeopardy, guilty or not, by fleeing. Everything his father, his family, had built was in jeopardy.

  “I find your points valid, Ms. Kelley,” he conceded. “However, there are those who will spin whatever we do into something corrupt right now. We must tread carefully.” Strategic, rapid action—that’s what his father had preached and what Baxter lived.

  “If I may,” offered Dan Moore, VP of marketing, clearing his throat. He was thirty-something, ambitious, full of good ideas with action to back them up. “Why not roll out a program that’s threefold and appeals to more than one type of consumer.” He ticked the three areas off on his fingers. “Discounts, charity, new product.”

  The debate continued for another hour until Baxter finally found a comfort level and agreed to the three-pronged approach, sending Katie, Dan and the rest of his staff on their way to make it all happen—preferably yesterday. Finding his way back to his office, he passed in front of his secretary’s desk as she juggled a delivery person and several phone calls.

  At sixty, Lorraine had been with his father before working for him. Not only slender and elegant, she had enough style and snap to teach a few of the much younger up-and-comers around the office the meaning of the word professional. Baxter couldn’t live without her.

  He’d barely settled behind his desk when Lorraine poked her head in his office.

  “How are you holding up?”

  He waved her forward. “Better than I would be without you,” he countered, not as a compliment, but the simple truth.

  Lorraine shut the door behind her and then perched on the edge of the chair in front of his desk, pad of paper and messages in hand. “Your father called from Europe. He’s—”

  “Worried,” Baxter said, as he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and then let go. “I know. And let me guess. My mother called. She’s worried.”

  “And wants to remind you about your sister’s thirty-fifth birthday on Saturday. You’re headed out of town for the rest of the week. It’s likely to be busy when you return. I thought you might want me to pick up a gift.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll go today.” Maybe he’d go to Caron’s store and look for a gift. But he left that part out, adding, “Thirty-five is a big birthday. I want it to be special.” He and Becky were only two years apart, him being the oldest; they’d grown up close and remained that way. He wanted her gift to be special. “Remind me again why I thought this Texas trip was a good idea?”

  “You wanted to be sure the new stores meet company standards and rally the troops,” she answered, as if he didn’t know his own reasons. “Why not cancel?”

  He nixed that as quickly as Katie had rejected a dozen ideas. “A cancellation might rattle the staff. I don’t want them thinking that trouble is keeping me away.”

  “Well, there is one positive to an absence,” she commented. “The FBI can’t camp on your doorstep.” She slid a pile of messages to his desk. “The top three are all from Agent Sarah Walker, who would like you to call her, apparently right away since she won’t stop calling.”

  He scrubbed his jaw. “What else?”

  “Confirmation the package you wanted delivered was received,” she said, setting the slip on his desk, showing that the courier had, indeed, left Caron his little package.

  “Oh, my,” Lorraine laughed. “I wish I’d looked inside that package. I’d like to know what put that expression on your face.”

  Baxter blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve known you since you were a kid, Baxter Remington,” she scolded. “I know a look when I see one.”

  Having no intention of opening the door to speculation, he p
ushed to his feet. He didn’t know why Caron wouldn’t get out of his head, but it was time to find out. “I’ll grab that gift before my next series of meetings begins.”

  Lorraine stood, as well. “Did I mention you don’t need to call back that FBI agent?”

  His brow lifted and she continued, “She’s in the lobby waiting for you.” She shrugged. “I figured as many of these meetings as you’ve endured, she could wait until we were done.”

  Baxter would have laughed at Lorraine’s tactics if it wasn’t for the dread he had of yet another FBI meeting. He’d been cooperative above and beyond what his attorney had advised.

  “I’ll tell her goodbye on my way out the door,” he quipped, crossing the room. He exited to the lobby.

  A petite blonde sprang to her feet from a lobby chair, and Baxter barely spared her a glance. He punched the elevator button as she rushed to his side.

  “If you have something to ask me, do it on the ride down,” he scolded, punching the elevator button again.

  “I’d think you’d prefer these matters private,” the woman said, reaching his side.

  The familiar female voice grated a nerve. Baxter knew her. The woman from the party, the one he’d suspected of being with the press. He sliced her a chilling look. “Do you often try and seduce the men you’re trying to question?”

  “I don’t remember ever being given the chance to identify myself,” she countered. “We need answers, Mr. Remington.”

  He shook his head. The elevator opened and he walked inside, hovering in the doorway to block her entry. “On second thought,” he told her, “I’ll take this ride down on my own. Call my attorney. I think he’ll have a word or two more to say this time.” He stepped back inside the car and let the door shut.

  He realized then one of the reasons why Caron appealed so much to him. Even in that Marilyn Monroe costume, she’d been real, one-hundred-percent pure honesty. One of the few people he’d met who was so purely human, flaws and opinions, and personality. No games that weren’t shared fun.