The Baby & the Bodyguard

by Jule McBride

  As he pulled back Amanda’s covers and leaned to slide her beneath them, he felt Cyn’s eyes on his back. His sixth sense told him she was directly behind him, in the doorway. He even knew that her arms were crossed over her chest.

  “Now you gotta kiss me,” Amanda whispered. “Okay?”

  He clamped his jaw shut, since his face felt quivery. Amanda was so beautiful. Was that why he now doubted she was his? Could rough-and-tumble Anton Santa have helped make someone so perfect? Her green eyes were twinkling, and her blond hair, which was as fine as silk, now spread across her pillow. He suddenly realized he’d never kissed a kid before.

  “You don’t gotta, not if you don’t want, Mr. Santa Claus.”

  Santa just wished Cyn wasn’t standing behind him. He had few vulnerabilities, but he meant to keep the chosen few hidden from her. He leaned slowly and kissed Amanda’s cheek. Her skin was smooth and cool, like fine china. His throat felt as dry as dust. “Night, Amanda.”

  “You’re gonna shoot ‘em when they come here. Right?” Amanda murmured excitedly. “Like on a cop show.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly.

  Amanda’s blond brows crinkled. “You don’t gotta go home for Christmas, do you?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You’re gonna get in big trouble from your mom and dad.”

  “They’re dead.” The look of surprise and sorrow on the little girl’s face made him want to double over. How could he have been so insensitive? Amanda was just a kid.

  “It’s okay,” he quickly added. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Oh, Mr. Santa!” she exclaimed in a soft, breathy voice. She sat up, hugged him tight and pressed kisses against his shirt.

  “Night,” he managed to say, turning away.

  He didn’t look at Cyn when he passed her. He just couldn’t bear to, somehow. He was nearly out of earshot, when he heard Amanda say, “Please, can I call him daddy? Please, Mommy?”

  He cocked his head, listening for Cyn’s response. He heard none.

  “I need a daddy and I don’t got one! And he doesn’t got a mom or dad.”

  He heard whispers and hushed rustling. After a moment, Amanda’s voice rose. “I’m gonna tell him your secret!”

  “Fine, then,” Cyn said.

  Santa’s jaw dropped open in astonishment. What was Amanda using for blackmail? And was she really his daughter? The Santa mole was a possible giveaway, but Amanda also happily engaged in doll theft and now blackmail. Definite proof of the Santa genes, he thought dryly.

  “I’m turning off your light now, honey,” Cyn said.

  Santa quickly gathered his bag and coat and headed for the room Cyn had indicated. It was early, but he didn’t want to see her again. Not tonight.

  “I wouldn’t have imagined you’d go to bed at seven-thirty.”

  It was Cyn. He turned in his doorway. Their eyes met and held. “I need to sleep,” he said gruffly. “I’ve been traveling a long time.”

  For a moment his last words hung in the air, as if they meant something special. He wondered if he would tell her his true identity, or if she would discover it. Would he then tell her about those four long years of traveling?

  “Somehow,” she said softly, “I imagine you have.”

  Santa breathed in sharply, feeling sure she’d recognized him after all.

  * * *

  “ON THE FIRST DAY of Christmas my true love gave to me...” Cyn sang along with the CD. She’d meant to finish wrapping copies of Little Amanda’s Perfect Christmas, which would be given away tomorrow, during the Christmas tree decoration promotion at the toy store. Instead, she found herself leaning in the living room window, sipping mulled cider. Outside, dry flurries spiraled in the dark air but never landed. It was so cold, the cement of the sidewalk below looked white.

  Inside, warm yellow light seeped from beneath the bodyguard’s door, which meant he’d lied. He was wide-awake. But why had he been in such a hurry to escape? The man really was as mysterious as the North Pole Santa, she thought wryly. After all, he was the one who’d been uncivil.

  Seeing him with Amanda, she’d felt herself warming to him. She felt sorry for him because he had no family to visit at Christmastime, too. Maybe a man like Santa—one who kept his cards close to the vest—was better than the more flirtatious type, she decided now, wishing she could quit comparing him to Jake Jackson....

  Like Santa, Jake had had no family. At least he’d said his father had died in a work-related accident, and that his mother had died of cancer. Unlike Santa, Jake had sure been outward. He’d had a heavy Southern accent, thicker than molasses, but his every word had been nothing more than smooth talk. Only after she’d slept with him had she started to worry about his many small evasions. Only then had she started wondering if they’d added up to him seeing another woman.

  That was why, four long Christmases ago, she’d followed him. He’d already kissed her goodbye, since she was supposed to meet her parents in Puerto Rico for a tropical Christmas, but when she’d reached Kennedy, her plane was snowbound. Like a thief in the night, she’d stolen back to Jake’s place in the Village and waited for him.

  She’d tailed him and another man over perilously icy roads, right to the house she’d just left, the one she’d shared with her parents. At the high wrought-iron gates, they’d met a third man, the one who’d gotten away. He was already wearing a red-and-green ski mask.

  That a group called The Grinch Gang had been playing local heiresses for fools was old news, but she was so shocked at finding herself a victim that she’d waited another fifteen minutes before calling the police from her car phone.

  No. Admit it, Cyn. You were considering not turning Jake in. Now she turned away from the window, hardly wanting to think about what happened after she’d made the call. She glanced at Santa’s door again, just in time to see his light go out. The darkness left her feeling bereft.

  “You can’t make me feel safe,” she whispered. I doubt you’ll make me forget Jake Jackson, either. “Even if you’re the best of the best.” After all, there were no locks for the mind. No chains or bars to keep away the fantasies. No cage that could withstand her dreams. And even if there were, her jewel thief was as slippery as Houdini.

  Why can’t I stop thinking about Jake? Perhaps because it was Christmas again. Or because the bodyguard made her think of danger, and Jake was certainly the most dangerous thing she’d ever known. Anton Santa would never know her secret, but it was her attraction to him and her memories of Jake that had made her decide to let him stay. She could have dissuaded Paxton, and she was positive the notes didn’t signify real danger.

  But other threats were always real. That Jake would be released from prison and come to claim Amanda, for instance. It was all the more terrifying, since Cyn still found herself wanting to make excuses for him because he hadn’t had parents. And yet, it wasn’t his background but his lips that had almost made her lie for him. If he ever came back, she was sometimes sure she wouldn’t be able to resist....

  How could she? No other man had set her nerves on edge in the exact way Jake had—until today. And that was the real reason Anton Santa had to stay.

  Because maybe he could make her forget.

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday, December 14, 1994

  “What are you doing to my apartment?” Cyn croaked. She’d hardly forgotten about Anton Santa, but now she wished she’d come into the living room in something other than her red silk robe after she’d checked on Amanda.

  The new bodyguard turned away from two jeans-clad workmen who were standing beside her fireplace. “Exactly what I was hired to do,” he said calmly. Had his eyes really flickered with contempt? It almost seemed as if he were testing her, or as if he harbored a secret he thought she should know.

  As her gaze flitted around the room, her lips parted in horror, then pursed again. The windows were covered with white wrought-iron bars, which weren’t entirely unattractive. A complicated-l
ooking, dowel-style lock secured the terrace door, and parts to a keypad alarm system were sprawled over her floor. Her mild annoyance rose to outright anger. “I have no intention of living in a fortress, Mr. Santa!”

  “You’ll live any way I tell you to,” he said simply.

  Their eyes met and held, neither wavering. The various parts of him—his short hair, practical dress shoes and nondescript tie—should have made him look like a G-man. But his hooded hazel eyes seemed to smolder with hidden emotion. The slacks to his loosely tailored gray suit—the jacket of which was neatly draped over a chair—hugged and accentuated his slender hips. Thin, narrowly striped suspenders curved over his crisp white shirt, showing off his powerful shoulders.

  For the first time she decided he had a little Latin blood. It was in the eyes, which were more heavily lidded than she’d previously thought. He turned back to the workmen, as if satisfied. That gesture, showing a complete lack of regard for her opinions, made her anger rise to the level of pure fury.

  “Wait just a minute!” Unfortunately, her voice was too sleep-creaky to carry much authority.

  He turned his head to the side, as if she didn’t merit so much as direct eye contact.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulders with two quick jerks of her head. “By the time I’m dressed, I want those bars off my windows, that mess off the floor, and these men out of here! My father hired you, I didn’t! And I can’t have you waltzing in and rearranging my life to suit his—and your—whims!”

  One moment, he wasn’t even looking at her. In the next, he’d crossed the room. He grabbed her elbow firmly, turned her, then began propelling her down the hallway. “Go ahead and install the front door keypad,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Just who do you think you are?” she sputtered.

  “Whoever it is, I’m sure you’d be surprised,” he said cryptically.

  “Let go!” His chest was flush against her back and he was breathing down her neck, making it tingle. She tried to wrench around and face him.

  In a quick reflex he tightened his grip, pulling her even closer. Cyn clutched her robe lapels against the collar of the high-necked gown she wore beneath, feeling exposed. Without her high heels, he was taller than she and when she craned her neck to look at him, her gaze settled on his jaw. She realized a hairline scar ran the length of it.

  “You will not rearrange my life,” she repeated. “And you cannot manhandle me from room to room, either!”

  In the kitchen, he pulled out a chair and shoved it beneath her behind. He stared at her for an instant, licking his bottom lip as if the gesture might keep him from smiling. “I can’t? I believe I just did.”

  She blinked as if that might somehow make the man vanish. Not that he noticed. The timer on her coffeepot had ensured that coffee would be waiting when she awakened, and Santa was now pouring a cup, without offering her any.

  “I see you know where my cups are,” she said huffily. “I take it you’ve already pawed through all my cabinets.” When he glanced over his shoulder, his lower lip curled slightly, as if to say she amused him. She sighed. “You wanted to make sure my cups and saucers didn’t pose a serious threat to our security, right?”

  He turned and leaned against the counter. “No,” he said calmly. “I made myself breakfast. Not everyone sleeps until noon.”

  Somehow she couldn’t imagine Anton Santa puttering around a kitchen. She rolled her eyes. “It’s only nine.”

  He glanced at a clock. “Ten after.”

  Her lips suddenly quivered with impending laughter. What would it take to get a rise out of him? Had any woman ever gotten under his skin? “You seem to have a lot of hidden talents,” she said coyly.

  “Like knowing how to tell time?” He shot her another trademark Santa glance that was so hard to define. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t really smile. His head tilted to the side, but he didn’t quite cock it. His eyes were just about to roll heavenward, but they never did. That look both chastised her for baiting him, and yet it urged her on, since it also said she’d never best him.

  “Yeah,” she finally said. “Why, the next thing I know, you’ll be tying your own shoelaces.”

  “Only time will tell,” he drawled, still sizing her up with his eyes. His own seemed to say that she was playing with fire and she was about to get burned. To her surprise, he placed the cup of coffee, he’d poured, in front of her. His lips twitched. “I had mine at five-thirty.”

  “This morning?” she couldn’t help but ask, appalled.

  This time, he did roll his sexy eyes, almost flirtatiously. Or was that just wishful thinking? “No. Five-thirty last night.”

  Her brows drew up into points. “You really don’t like me, do you?” She toyed with the rim of her coffee mug, deciding she would get a rise from this standoffish enigma of a man one way or another. His sudden smirk seemed to say that she was welcome to think whatever she pleased.

  “Why?” she prodded, lowering her voice. “Judging by your suits, you do all right for yourself, so it can’t be because I’m a spoiled rich kid.”

  When his eyes dropped from hers to the lapels of her robe, she wondered if it was intentional or accidental. Either way, his gaze lingered on her breasts, as if to point out that she wasn’t a kid at all, but a woman. The tips of her breasts constricted and stiffened against her nightgown, and she sucked in an audible breath. His jaw tensed, his facial muscles hardened and his eyes rose again in a leisurely fashion, as if he meant to make no apology for looking. There was an extremely awkward silence.

  “You don’t really think Amanda’s in danger, do you?” she finally managed to ask. His gaze remained so steady that she felt the sudden urge to jump up and tickle him.

  “Like I said, I’ve been around.” His voice made her think of tightly coiled metal that was about to spring free. “And no threat should be taken lightly.”

  But it was Santa she shouldn’t take lightly. His strangeness had worn off, and she could see him now. The powerful, sensual virility in his gaze and body carried both threats and promises. “And just how long have you—” The back of her throat went dry. Her gaze dropped from his eyes over his rounded, muscular shoulders. “Been around?”

  He shot her the trademark Santa look again, and she felt a little silly. Surely she was imagining he desired her. She could bait him all she wanted to but he’d never rise to it. As soon as she blinked, he turned to the refrigerator, took out a carton of half-and-half and placed it beside her mug.

  “Now, wait a minute, Santa.” She squinted at him. “How do you know I take cream?” Something about his air of suave cool made her smile. “Do you have ESP? Before you became a bodyguard, you were a professional psychic, right? You had a big glass ball in which you could read the future and a book of spells....”

  This time he gave her enough of a smile that she could see his polished, gleaming, straight white teeth. There was another difference between him and Jake. Jake had had crooked bottoms.

  “I’m sure I’d be good at anything I undertook.”

  She wasn’t certain but thought he was implying he was a good lover. He probably is. Her smile faltered. “You’re sure about that?” Her voice was raspier than she’d intended.

  “Absolutely.”

  She decided he had to be attracted to her. Their combined physical energy seemed to make the very air vibrate. “So how did you know I take cream?”

  He leaned quickly, so his lips were next to her ear. “Because I’ve been around a lot longer than you think.” His breath sent a tingle down to the toes of her bare feet.

  “And what else do you think you know about me?” She couldn’t decide whether his self-containment was making her angry or not.

  “Ms. Sweet,” he drawled softly. “Before you ask, you should be damn sure you really want to know.” With that, he pivoted and strode from her kitchen.

  “You’re a strange one, Anton Santa. You really are.” Cyn was still staring from the carton to the empty doorw
ay when Amanda bounded over the threshold.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” she said breathlessly. “How can Santa Claus get in now?”

  For a second, Cyn didn’t know what she was talking about. Then she remembered the bars, dowel and keypad. She chuckled, thinking of Anton Santa. “Amanda,” she said, “maybe the real question is whether or not we can get out.”

  * * *

  “MORE CHRISTMAS CAROLS,” Santa muttered. This time they were Musak. He reclined on the guest room bed, bunched the pillows beneath his head in preparation for a long wait, then coiled the phone cord around his finger. While he patiently waited for one of his old college friends who now worked at the census office to come on the line, he simultaneously listened to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and the running shower.

  He was glad Cyn was performing her morning ablutions, since it was buying him time to make calls, but he wished he could quit imagining how she looked, scrubbing herself beneath those water jets. He could nearly see her long, well-toned arms stretch as she sudsed her hair. Slender, foam-tipped fingers kneaded her scalp. A round water drop glistened on her collarbone. It grew heavier, then slowly snaked toward the dark, hard, beaded tip of one of her breasts. Santa’s slacks tightened and he all but squirmed. Quit torturing yourself. Hell, she’s just a woman. He blew out an annoyed sigh. Their encounter in the kitchen had left him with enough unwanted arousal to last him a week. He hardly needed fantasies.

  “Census office,” a woman said.

  Good. Something to occupy my mind, other than Cyn. “Right. I’m holding for Josh Meyers.”

  “He’ll be right—” The woman didn’t even finish before she put him on hold again. Just opposite him was a large mirror in which he could see himself. The room itself was chic and contemporary, done in blue and black, with steel and glass tables. Anyone would have been comfortable in it. Even him, if it weren’t for the fact that it was in his ex-lover’s apartment.