Santa, Baby

by Lisa Renee Jones

  She only had her grandmother. He wondered if that wasn’t part of that vulnerability he sensed in her. “Why vicariously?”

  Her eyes sparkled and she leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “She seems to have another interest now. I think the retired fireman who pops into the library she’s volunteering at might have a thing or two to do with it. I can hardly believe how smitten she is.” Caron eased back into her chair again. “My grandma! Unbelievable. I mean Grandpa passed a good thirty years ago, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her take to another man. It’s actually pretty fun to watch.”

  “My parents have been married forty-five years,” he said with pride, but his mind was on a burning question he couldn’t hold back. “Can I ask what happened to your parents?”

  Solemnly, but without hesitation, she answered. “I lost them a long time ago—when I was five. My father was an architect who’d been invited to bid on a project in China. It was a rare, unique opportunity, and he took my mother along for the preliminary evaluation. I, of course, being so young, stayed home with my grandmother.” A bit wearily, she inhaled and then exhaled. “While they were there, they chartered a plane from one location to another and, well, that was how it ended.”

  His gut twisted with that news. Five and no parents. “It must have been hard growing up without them,” he commented, prodding gently for more insight into this woman who drew his interest more with each passing word.

  Staring at the wineglass, her eyes turned down, she stroked the stem a bit more. His gaze caught on her long, delicate fingers. Everything about her intrigued him. “I think maybe it’s easier at that age than being older and losing your parents. There is an emptiness inside me, yes, but not the kind of pain that comes with vividly remembering someone you’ve loved and lost. It’s more indefinable.” She let out a brittle, humorless laugh. “But then, as sure as I say that, I feel guilty for the absence of emotion—they are the people who brought me into this world.” Emotion laced her next confession, “Sometimes that freaks me out a little. Not being able to clearly recall their faces. It sends me rushing to the photo album, trying to picture them in my mind again.” She studied him carefully. “Again, probably way more than you wanted to know.” She swirled her wine gently. “I blame the wine for making my tongue waggle.”

  “Then I’m glad for the wine,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock salute, a moment before their eyes locked and held. The room seemed to heat, shared intimacy wrapping around them just as a blanket might. Then, he gently, seductively teased, “I find myself wanting to understand more about you than your inability to properly define the word nice.” His pulse pounded in his temples, desire rocketing through his body. He leaned back in his chair before he caved to his desire, reached around the table and pulled her onto his lap.

  More and more, he knew he wasn’t going to be fair to her. She created a burn in him, a burn that wasn’t going to be sated anytime soon. All he would do is drag her into the mess he was going through. She was just so damn real. He needed that right now. Needed it in a way that made it hard to do what was right. Which was walk away. Maybe he could make her do it for him. “You should run from me right now, Caron. Get far away from me before I’ve got you into something you don’t want to be part of.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Because of the accusations made against your VP?”

  His lips thinned. “You’ve seen the papers, I presume?”

  “Not before Friday night,” she assured him. “But since then…yes…I was curious enough to look you up.”

  Again, her honesty. No coyness. No games. “Then you know why I worried about that dance Friday night. Why I’ve tried to keep you from the press.”

  “It must be difficult,” she said, not directly commenting on his statement. “Trying to seem impervious to onlookers, even those close to you who trust you to make it all turn out okay.”

  “The hardest damn thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he found himself admitting, despite the warning in his head telling him to stay silent. But the truth was, he had no one to talk to but Caron. Everyone else did expect him to be the steel behind the crisis. “My father is taking the entire thing far more smoothly than I am, but then he’s in Europe on vacation—rather removed from it all. And Jett is someone I’ve considered a friend. That makes this more difficult to swallow.”

  “Jett,” she said. “That’s the VP accused of securities fraud.”

  He gave a quick nod. “I would have sworn he was innocent.”

  “Would have?”

  “His absence is pretty damning,” he said, repeating what he’d only said in his head until this point. “Why run if you’re innocent?”

  She dismissed that immediately. “Fear and stupidity don’t equal guilt. And fear makes people do stupid things.”

  He paused to consider her and then laughed. “You just say whatever you think, don’t you?”

  “Every time I’ve ever tried not to, it’s backfired. If my foot is going to end up in my mouth, I, at least, want to be speaking the truth when it lands there.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Baxter said, smiling yet again as he sipped his wine.

  Caron did the same and then said, “It sure beats that bitter champagne from the party Friday.” She sniffed. “Though I very uncharacteristically did it more justice than it deserved.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked, giving him a disbelieving look. “It was hard enough to walk down that runway with all those people watching. But I wasn’t exactly expecting to be Marilyn Monroe that night.” She sipped her wine. “And I can blame my plumbing for that one. I was late and they gave my Audrey costume away, which was why I told you to look for Audrey when we met. Then the woman scheduled to be Marilyn broke her ankle, and next thing I knew—poof. I was blonde and wearing a dress with cleavage to the waist. I was terrified.”

  “Speaking from close observation,” he said, “you owned the runway and the costume. You certainly got my attention.”

  “I thought it was the sweat suit,” she countered.

  “Oh, it was,” he assured her. “That and the way you told the doorman about your plumbing problems.”

  She grimaced. “He didn’t seem to understand my urgent parking situation.”

  The buzzer on the table went off, and Baxter hit a button. The door to the room opened, and their food was served.

  As they began their meal, to his surprise, he found himself thoroughly engaged in conversation, forgetting all the reasons to keep Caron at a distance. Debates arose over politics, the state of the city council, and even who made the better James Bond. He couldn’t remember a dinner that he had enjoyed more in recent times, if ever. And for the second time in two weeks, both occasions in Caron’s company, Baxter found himself relaxing.

  A good hour after dinner was served, Baxter and Caron relocated to a sitting room attached to the dining area where they sat on a plush red couch that faced huge double-paned windows overlooking the ocean. Slices of chocolate cake and cups of coffee sat untouched on the rectangular table before them, the magnetic pull of their attraction darn near combustible.

  He turned to her, their knees touching. “I did bring you here to prove a point, you know?”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  “Are you going to give me that opportunity?”

  “I’m still deciding,” she said. “Perhaps you should give me a reason.”

  “Friday night was—”

  “Memorable,” she provided, the glint in her eyes saying she knew he wouldn’t like that description any more than the nice orgasm.

  His hand slid around her neck, his mouth lowering to linger above hers; a soft floral scent flared in his nostrils. A silky strand of hair fell gently to his cheek. “You enjoy teasing me, don’t you?”

  “I believe I do,” she replied, leaning into him, fingers pressing into his chest, promising sultry caresses to follow.

  He laughed, so da
mn taken with her frankness, with the sweetness that was so purely Caron. “Do you know that a Red Door is symbolic of passion to many—to others, a sanctuary?” He didn’t intend for her to answer, didn’t give her a chance. “That’s why I chose the Red Room. So it could be our little sanctuary.” His lips feathered over hers. “I’m going to make love to you, Caron,” he whispered. “And there isn’t going to be anything nice about it.”

  “Promises, promises,” she whispered just before he slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue pressing past her teeth with a hungry kiss that answered her teasing with more than a promise—it answered with proof.

  10

  IT WAS OFFICIAL. Caron had become a wanton vixen, and she should immediately cease to act so brazenly. And she would. Right after she kissed Baxter just a little bit longer. Just a kiss—a nice, deep, sensual kiss. With lots of serious tongue. No one would know. There was that red door protecting her from exposure. Oh, yes. She liked that red door. And she liked Baxter. So much. Too much.

  And just as she’d hoped, long, deep strokes of Baxter’s tongue delivered the promised kiss, working her over, reason slipping further from the forefront of her mind. His hand slid up her thigh, under her dress, and Caron felt her legs inch apart, boldly encouraging him to move higher. She didn’t know what had happened to her since she donned that blond wig, or maybe she did—Baxter had happened. He had swept into her life and taken her on a roller-coaster ride of passion sure to end with her being heartbroken. But somehow she couldn’t seem to care. Nor did she think twice when his lips, and then his hands, lured her to his lap, her legs spread wide, dress hiked to her waist as she straddled him. He was hard, his erection straining against the zipper of his slacks, the thin material doing nothing to disguise the thick ridge of his impressive bulge. That didn’t help her muster any willpower, considering she knew just how impressive his cock was. She pressed against him, fought the urge to rock, but found it nearly impossible. She was losing her mind with need, losing herself to desire.Suddenly, the buzzer on the door sounded with warning. Caron tore her lips from Baxter’s. “Oh, God.” She tried to escape his lap. But his hands settled on her waist, held her in place.

  “They won’t come in unless I hit the remote entry button.”

  Her eyes were wide, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. “What? Where?”

  “On the same remote I ordered dinner from.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive,” he assured her, his hands gliding up and down her sides to create a soothing sensation. Slowly, she eased into him, allowed him to lure her lips to his.

  And then the buzzer went off again. A voice sounded through the mike on the remote control. “There’s an urgent call for you, Mr. Remington.”

  Baxter sighed in defeat and pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry.”

  Something in his voice reached out to her, told of something more than regret. She leaned back, searched his chiseled features, his furrowed brow. Exhaustion haunted the depths of his eyes, the kind born of far too much stress.

  Her fingers curved his jaw. “It’s okay.” She grabbed the remote from the coffee table and handed it to him. “Talk to whoever you have to talk to and get it over with.” She offered a soft smile. “Then we can eat that chocolate cake.”

  He brought her fingers to his lips and smiled in return, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That sounds perfect.” Caron slid off his lap; she quickly tugged her clothing back into place as he hit the speaker on the remote and said, “What line?”

  “The caller said he would ring again in exactly ten minutes,” came the response. “That was three minutes ago, sir. I’ll put him through to your room when he calls if that meets your satisfaction?”

  “It does,” Baxter said, his brows furrowing all over again.

  Caron gave him a keen inspection. “What’s troubling you?”

  He scrubbed his jaw, then rested his elbows on his knees. “Anyone who I’d want to talk to would call my cell phone.”

  Caron tucked her hair behind her ears and made the obvious assumption. “Reporters?”

  “Or the damn FBI,” he grumbled. “No matter how many times I tell them I don’t know where Jett is, they insist I do.”

  Caron swallowed her guilt. She should tell him about being approached. She would tell him. However, this moment didn’t seem exactly right.

  The phone mounted on the far left wall near the window rang. Baxter pushed to his feet, and Caron stood, as well, thinking he might want privacy. “I’ll go to the ladies’ room,” she told him.

  He gave her a quick, appreciative nod—she had no doubt he was embarrassed by all of this. By the time she reached the door, Caron heard him answer the line, and then the muffled, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Jett, she thought. Caron’s stomach churned with this knowledge, with the fact that she might know something she didn’t want to know. She wasn’t certain, and she didn’t want to be. The truth was, she liked Baxter, probably far more than she should. Maybe she wasn’t fully objective anymore. The less she knew, the better.

  Exiting to the hallway, Caron found it empty, flickering with those candles that could be sexy or spooky, depending on the moment, and right now, spooky seemed more like it. Where the heck was everyone? All behind closed doors, she thought, and doing naughty things, like the things she and Baxter were about to do.

  Oh, wow! She stopped dead in her tracks. Was Dinner Club a translation for Sex Club? Suddenly, Caron felt nauseous.

  Quickly she rushed toward the double-pillar archway that seemed a logical restroom entrance. Up ahead, a woman in a conservative business suit walked through the pillars, a briefcase and purse in hand. Male voices sounded, and Caron paused as the woman greeted three men, their legal chatter beginning almost instantly. Attorneys here on business, she surmised quickly.

  Caron let out a relieved breath. This was not a sex club. Good grief, that Agent Walker and then that phone call had her paranoid. Of course Baxter had not brought her to a sex club!

  Marginally less tense, Caron found the ladies’ room and entered the marble-tiled sitting room finished in blues and grays that adjoined several restroom stalls. Caron claimed the edge of a soft love seat and let her face fall into her hands. How did she end up in this ritzy place, with a rich, sought-after guy, who incidentally happened to be involved in a nasty legal scandal? She should run away, as he said. Do so quickly and decisively—leave—do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, which in this case translated to, do not collect another orgasm.

  “Seems you weren’t completely honest with me, Ms. Avery.”

  Caron jumped at the unexpected female voice, her hands going to the edge of the seat. To her utter dismay, as if conjured up by her thoughts, Agent Walker stood before her. And she was looking far more intimidating in a black pantsuit, her hair twisted in a knot at the back of her head, than she had in her blouse and jeans in their previous encounter.

  Caron’s mouth went dry, her throat tight. “I thought this was a private club.”

  Agent Walker shoved her jacket aside to indicate the badge hooked to her belt. “I’ve got the ultimate entry pass,” she boasted and then added drily, “Bet you wish I didn’t, right about now.” She crossed her arms in front of her ample bosom and tapped a high-heeled foot. “Don’t play me for a fool,” she said. “You weren’t going to see Baxter Remington again, but yet here you are.”

  A defensive, rushed response flew from her lips. “I didn’t plan to. I didn’t. He came—” She bit back the rest of the words. This was not the FBI’s business. She owed them no explanation of her personal life. She might not be a pushy witch like this woman, but her grandmother had not raised a pushover, either. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Going to dinner with this man does not make me a felon nor does anything I’ve heard from you, or the media, indicate he’s a criminal. This is harassment.”

  Agent Walker cast her a dubious stare and then sat down on the love seat. She sighe
d, ran her hands down her legs. “Okay. I’m forgetting my badge for a minute and talking woman to woman. Baxter Remington is hot. I get that. He’s rich. I get that, too.”

  “I don’t care about his money!” Caron objected, offended.

  Agent Walker held her hands up stop-sign fashion. “Sorry. My point is simply that a man like Baxter can lead a girl to the wrong place. I know, believe me. I’ve had my Baxter, and I don’t want to go for that ride ever again.”

  Caron pursed her lips. “He’s not leading me anywhere.”

  “Good,” she said with enough bite to the reply to seem as if she really meant it. “Don’t let him. Many a good person has fallen for the wrong person and regretted the outcome. Don’t let that be you. Remember this—if you find out Baxter is involved in any illegal activity, or even that he knows where his VP is…and you don’t say something…then you’ve crossed a line of guilt yourself.” She fixed Caron in a steady stare. “Don’t cross that line. Come to me. Let me help.” She handed Caron a card, pressed it into her hand. “Call me any time of the day or night. I’m not the enemy. I’m a friend.”

  Without another word, Agent Walker pushed to her feet, her high heels clicking a taunting rhythm on the tiled floor as she departed.

  Caron sat there, nails digging into the velvet cloth of the seat, and willed herself to think logically, not to panic. She wasn’t going to get in trouble because she’d done nothing wrong. Right now, the only thing she was a part of was a two-night stand. Baxter was going out of town, and most likely that would be the end of their little adventure. Which was good. Because that kept her out of this FBI trouble for one thing. And it kept her from doing something crazy, like falling for him.

  Her gaze traveled to the expensive painting on the lounge wall. Right. He wasn’t right for her anyway. The man lived in a world where the bathroom decorations cost more than the plumbing bill she couldn’t afford to pay. So what if he was funny, charming, and kissed like Don Juan—or the way she assumed Don Juan must have kissed.