Santa, Baby

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Has he called again?” she asked, referring to Jett, but somehow feeling uncomfortable saying his name.

  “No,” he answered solemnly, clearly knowing who she referred to. How could he not? “And he’s not going to. I’ve already accepted that this doesn’t have a happy ending.”

  “I’m sorry.” She felt the pain in his words, and wished she could help. The only way she knew how to do that was to listen. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Later. In person. Right now, I just want to talk period, to hear your voice. Tell me something good about your day.”

  She didn’t want to tell him any more about the nightmare that her day was, so she bit back her inhibitions, and started with what came to mind, “Talking to you right now,” she said. “Your voice is very soothing.” And yet so damn arousing, but she didn’t add that part. “Tell me about your new coffee shops. How many stores do you have there?”

  For a good hour, he told her about his travels, about Texas. Fifteen minutes into the call, Caron flipped on her space heater and shoved the covers aside to rest on her stomach and elbows. Much to her surprise, she learned that the Remington “Two-Hour Dash” was being discussed as a fast-launch program.

  She was flattered, but fretful. “What if it doesn’t work, Baxter? I’m going to feel horrible that I suggested this if it bombs. I should never have said anything. I was just rambling.”

  “Nothing is going to go wrong. We try new things all the time. Some work, some don’t. There is no failure in this, Caron. Only potential success. You worry too much.”

  “Me?” she scoffed. “Look who’s talking.”

  “We aren’t talking about me,” he reminded her all too quickly. “We’re talking about you.”

  “The ole double standard,” she accused.

  “Exactly,” he agreed. “And I’m going to take on the management of your stress as my personal priority, starting right now. I’m going to take you through some relaxation techniques.”

  “Now?” she queried, frowning. “You’re in Texas, in case you forgot.”

  “That is a bit of a problem,” he agreed, mischief lifting in his voice. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for your assistance. I’ll make it up to you later.”

  “Okay,” she replied, smiling. “I’ll bite. I have no idea where you are going with this, but what assistance do you require?”

  “I’m going to need you to pretend I am right there with you,” he explained. “And I’ll do the same. So first off, where are you?”

  She was grinning now. “In bed.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “But I hate hotel beds, so let’s be in your bed instead of mine. Describe yours to me.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You want me to describe my bed.”

  “I’d rather see it for myself, but due to my limited navigational abilities at present, I’ll settle for the description.”

  “Description,” she repeated. “Okay. It’s soft. Cushion top. Queen-size. Really soft, white down comforter. White sheets.”

  “Are you under the blanket?”

  “No,” she said. “Are you under yours?”

  “I’m with you—remember? On top of that soft down blanket.”

  “Oh.” She thought of how wonderful that would be. How warm. How—

  “What are you wearing?” he asked.

  She looked down at her blue flannel pajamas and had a sudden realization. “Are we having phone sex?”

  “Are we?” he asked, playfully. “What are you wearing, Caron?”

  They were having phone sex! She glanced back down at her pjs. “A pink silk gown.”

  “I like pink,” he murmured. “Tell me about it.”

  Tell him about it! “Pink.”

  “You said that,” he said, almost laughing.

  “Silk.”

  “You said that, too.”

  “Right.”

  “Long or short?” he asked, having sympathy and guiding her.

  She looked down at her flannel-clad leg. “Short. Just above the knee. Spaghetti straps. Lacy bodice. I have my space heater on so I’ll be warm.” She hit her forehead. What a stupid thing to say.

  “I’d rather keep you warm.”

  “That would be nice,” she said. Nice! “I mean wonderful. That would be wonderful.” They both started laughing.

  “One day, I vow to erase that word from your vocabulary,” he teased. “Now, back to getting me in that room with you right now. What color are your panties?”

  She swallowed hard, thought of the white granny panties she usually wore with a nightie and lied, “Pink like the gown.” Okay. Take control here, Caron. “What are you wearing?”

  “What do you want me to be wearing?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “No trick. I’m right there with you. What would you want me to be wearing?”

  “Though I do like your suits,” she said slowly, “I’d hate for you to get one of them wrinkled. I think you better take it off. All of it. Go ahead and just get rid of the boxers, too.”

  “Let’s keep the boxers,” he said.

  “Let’s not,” she countered.

  He chuckled. “Okay. I’m naked. Now, let’s work on getting you that way. Take off your gown, Caron. And the panties go, too.”

  She hesitated. “I’ve never done anything like this, Baxter.”

  “And that turns me on, Caron. It turns me on that I’ll be the first.”

  “The first?” Her voice cracked, her throat suddenly dry.

  “To make you come over the phone. You do want to come, don’t you, baby?”

  She melted. Good grief, melted like snow under the hot sun. Went from icy cold nerves to a warm flush spreading over her skin. And she didn’t like it. No. No. “I do,” she whispered. “But Baxter. I can’t do this without you here with me. Joking around and stuff was one thing. But I can’t go beyond that without you here, looking into my eyes, and letting me know that you feel the same things I do. I need that. I guess it’s more proof I’m not that daring bombshell you met Friday night. All I can be is me.”

  “All I want is you, Caron, and sooner or later, you’re going to figure that out.”

  “WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR PANTIES?”

  Sarah flipped the button to Off on the van’s control panel and set the audio to mute. Their phone tap was proving a little more provocative than expected, and Fred glanced at her with those smart-ass bedroom eyes and arched a brow.“It’s clear they’re done talking about relevant information,” she said. Sarah was not listening to phone sex with Fred. That was almost as good as having it themselves.

  He rotated his chair around to face her, and she tried not to notice how close he was. “A good agent doesn’t risk missing an important detail.” His arms stretched toward the dial.

  “Forget it,” she said, covering the dial with her hand. “We are not listening to them have phone sex. And damn it, I am a good agent, no matter what you think of me.”

  “I never said you weren’t a good agent.”

  “You make your opinions known.”

  “Or your own insecurity makes you read them how you see fit.” His lips thinned, those piercing eyes narrowing in on her face. “That could have easily been you sweet-talking with Baxter,” he said. “I would have been listening then, too. What’s the difference?”

  Then she wouldn’t be listening with Fred, but she didn’t say that. “Well, it’s not me.” She quickly trudged forward in hopes of redirecting the conversation. “From the moment Baxter set eyes on Caron, and we now know that was before she ever got into costume, he was completely absorbed with her. I think he might be falling for her. And that’s a good thing. It’s clear he’s talking to her. If we keep listening, we’re bound to get a nibble of something good.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said. “I meant you were willing to use yourself to get near Remington.”

  She turned to look at him. “To score the transfe
r I’ve asked for and get away from you and your superior attitude, I’d do that and more,” she said. “You don’t believe female agents have anything special to offer, but we do. And—”

  To her utter shock, he leaned forward, elbows on his legs—his face, his body—so close, she could barely breathe. “You don’t want to get away from me, and we both know it.”

  Fight or flight kicked in, and Sarah shifted away from him, intent on finding an exit. He gently shackled her arm, their knees colliding, heat ripping through her limbs, evil in its declaration of her desire for this man. The one she should hate. The one she did hate. “Let go.”

  He stared at her, unblinking, intense. “My sister was an agent.”

  “What?” she gasped, shocked at the declaration. “Was?” A bad feeling settled in her stomach.

  “She died,” he said. “The night before Christmas almost a year ago.”

  He let her go, recoiled away, and faced the blank television monitor.

  She wanted to reach for him, started to and hesitated, her hand falling to her lap. “How?”

  He scrubbed his jaw. “She was undercover, on a narcotics case, dating a guy high up in the organization. They delivered her body to the back door of the local FBI office with a note—‘She was good, but not that good.’”

  Sarah froze. “I’m sorry, Fred. I—I had no idea.”

  “She was all I had. She’d followed in my footsteps.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Sarah whispered, feeling the waves of pain washing off him.

  He cut her a sharp, sideways look. “I’m your partner,” he said, his tone angry, hard. “I can’t stop you from making dangerous choices. Don’t expect me to be agreeable when you do.”

  The attraction between them had always been obvious, but always before she’d discounted it because he was a jerk. Only now, he wasn’t so much of a jerk. And she didn’t know what to do about it. So she stuck to duty. “A good agent uses their assets to be successful.”

  “Because the job demands that they do so, not because the agent is trying to prove something.”

  Indignant, she objected, “I’m not trying to prove anything!” Though deep down, she knew she was. A detective father who’d wanted a son and got a daughter. A stepbrother who’d taken the place by his side that she should have had. A string of agents who’d made her feel second best.

  She sensed Fred’s piercing gaze seeping right into her soul, seeing the truth. “Yes. You are. About being a female and an agent. Just like my sister was. If you have something to prove, do it outside the job where you won’t get one, or both of us killed.” He didn’t stay for a response. “I’m going out to smoke.”

  “I hate it when you smoke.”

  “Exactly why I’m going to do it.”

  She huffed and focused on the blank monitor. “Damn, the man,” she murmured. She couldn’t stand him. So why did she want to storm after him, stomp out his damn, stinky cigarette, and then kiss him until the pain she saw in his eyes disappeared?

  She flipped on the audio, hoping like heck that the phone sex was over because she knew without a doubt that right now, she couldn’t take hearing two people who were falling in wild, passionate love. Because they were. Baxter Remington and Caron Avery were falling in love. While she and Fred seemed to be falling apart.

  “Happy Holidays, Sarah,” she muttered.

  The audio filled the room. “Good night, Caron.”

  “Good night, Baxter.”

  The line went dead. Caron’s sigh followed, a soft, satisfied sound that had Sarah wondering just how good that phone sex must have been. Her attention went to the van doors where Fred had exited. And she wondered just how good he would be. Wondered if she dared find out. Maybe she’d celebrate her transfer by finding out. But until then, he was her partner, and he was hands-off.

  Maybe she’d have to find out sooner. Maybe Christmas. They’d both be alone. They’d both be in need of comfort, and she found herself wanting to give it to him, for reasons she didn’t dare allow herself to consider. It would be one night. Only one night. And unlike Caron Avery, Sarah knew how to count. One night would be one night. No exceptions. No complications. Just pleasure.

  13

  IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK ON Friday morning when Caron settled into her office chair, smoothing her navy blue skirt over her knees, just above her boots. Her matching turtleneck was warm enough that she could shrug off her light jacket. She was eager to dig into last-minute prep for the weekend holiday sale. And despite the few hours of sleep—having stayed up talking on the phone with Baxter until 3 a.m.—she barely contained a smile. Especially considering it was one of several nights in a row they’d talked almost until dawn.

  She’d never talked to a man on the phone for so long, but the time had flown by with Baxter. Hearing him talk about his past, his present, even his future hopes, intrigued her immensely. And when he’d prodded her into talking about her life, she’d found herself surprisingly willing. Perhaps because the more she learned of his family, the more she recognized their rise to the top hadn’t been spun with silk and satin, but rather built with hammers and nails, like hers.This evening, Baxter would return home, and though admittedly she had a fluttery nervous feeling in her stomach, she couldn’t wait to see him. Another first for her because she didn’t remember any man ever making her feel that way. But then, she hadn’t really dated all that much. No one had really made her feel dating was much more than drama. Until Baxter.

  Intent on a little caffeine boost, Caron headed for the kitchen, where she’d left the gorgeous gift basket, compliments of Baxter, filled with coffee, chocolate and all kinds of goodies from the Remington stores—a thank-you for the “Two-Hour Dash” idea, with a note saying he’d thank her “properly” in person.

  Kasey appeared in the doorway of the kitchen about the time Caron filled her mug. At the same moment, her cell phone started to ring as it lay on the counter.

  “Don’t get that,” Kasey ordered. “Not yet.”

  With a frown, Caron agreed, “Okay.” She set her coffee down beside the demanding phone. A sense of something being wrong told her to steel herself for a jolt as she urged Kasey onward. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

  Kasey hesitated and then asked, “Have you seen the paper?”

  “No,” Caron replied. “I didn’t have time this morning.” She’d slept in to compensate for being up so late on the phone.

  Kasey pulled the paper from behind her back and dropped it on the counter. “Page twelve. There is a long piece about Baxter Remington’s VP and Baxter’s role in the whole mess. Then the article goes on to trash his personal life. They talk about you, Caron. They say he’s dating you. That suddenly he’s discarding his blonde bimbos for a ‘good girl’ and that the timing’s quite the coincidence.” She narrowed a knowing stare on Caron. “Never mind what the article says. That day he came in here…I told you, I saw how he was looking at you. This newspaper story means nothing. Baxter Remington digs you. The man is into you.”

  Caron’s head was aching and her stomach wasn’t much better. She grabbed the paper along with her other items. “I need a few minutes alone.”

  Kasey stepped aside, having the good sense to quickly clear the path for Caron’s departure. Caron’s cell phone started ringing again. She eyed the caller ID. Baxter. Of course. He’d read the paper. The whole world probably had, except her. And she didn’t want to. She’d heard enough from Kasey.

  Part of Caron wanted to take the call, to hear Baxter tell her the article was untrue, because hearing it from Kasey had soothed a tiny bit of the bite. Hearing it from Baxter would probably help more. Or would it? Another part of her felt hurt and betrayed, for probably illogical reasons, but still hurt and betrayed. It didn’t matter that the press, not Baxter, had done this. It felt bad, whether that was fair to Baxter or not.

  Caron entered her office, shut her door and leaned against the wall, her attention fixed on the red-and-pink-wrapped package on the corner
of her desk—the gift for Baxter’s sister. She pushed off the wall and all but fell into her chair. Her cell phone rang again. And again.

  When it finally stopped, Caron set it on the desk and pushed the voice-mail button: You have three unheard messages. Message number 1. Caron. Call me, please. I need to talk to you. Next message. Caron. I keep calling, and you’re not answering. I have to assume you saw the paper. Please, Caron. Call me. Don’t let this get to you. This is what the press does. This is—Next message. Caron. I’m crazy about you. I can’t wait to see you tonight. Please. Don’t let the press get to you. I have to hang up. I’m going through security at the airport. I’ll call—

  Yes, she knew he’d call again soon and she had to decide what she was going to do about it. How to deal with the conflicted emotions eating her up inside. And she didn’t have much time to think before that next call would come. He was taking an early-morning flight to St. Louis to do store inspections and then flying home later in the day. She knew all of this because he’d told her while he’d been planning their time together for this evening. Time that she wouldn’t be sharing with him after all.

  Caron squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t do this. Everything was out of control. There was no way to plan, no way to structure it all so that it could be controlled and that included what she was feeling. She was falling for Baxter in a really big way, and she could tell she was going to get hurt. Or hurt him. Everyone wanted to use her against him.

  She needed to get back on task—focus on her business, on paying back her grandmother. That needed to be her primary goal. Not wading around in the recesses of broken heart syndrome and earning bad press for the store and for Baxter. People might feel sorry for you, Caron. Come and buy from you because you’re so pathetic. That thought was an absolutely depressing one.

  She eyed the beautifully wrapped present and knew she had to get it to Baxter. Using a delivery person would be smart and easy, but she quickly discarded that option. She wasn’t about to allow a note to potentially end up in the wrong hands—like those of the press, or even the FBI. Taking the package herself gave her the opportunity to leave the key and a note, though it opened her up to being followed.