by Jule McBride
“Anton? Sorry to keep you on hold.”
“No problem. I know you’re not really supposed to—”
Josh’s chuckle cut him off. “Anything for a buddy.”
Santa smiled. “I just wanted to see what you could tell me about a man named Harry Stevens. He used to live in Alabama. I need his marital statistics.”
“You sound pressed for time.”
Santa mustered a good-old-boy laugh. “Yeah, but I promise to call and converse soon. Maybe I’ll even head down to D.C.”
“That’d be great,” Josh said. “Hold on a minute and let me see what I can give you.”
Santa listened as the water was turned off. Now Cyn was stepping from the shower, fully naked, and into a thick woolly towel. He could smell her everywhere, he thought, and hear her steps. Last night she’d nearly driven him crazy, singing along with those sappy Christmas carols. Santa sighed again, thinking he’d really hate her if he found the proof that she’d withheld from him the one thing he’d never really had—a family.
Winter was always tough. His mother and father had both died in winter. Christmas was even worse. During the season, everyone on earth seemed to have somebody. Not that he gave a damn if he didn’t, of course, but the impending holiday was why he’d grabbed the New York job. When the referral service that managed his schedule called, he hadn’t even asked questions. He liked to keep moving. This time of year, he moved even faster.
But now he’d stopped. And he was reclining on a bed in Cyn Sweet’s apartment of all places. After their exchange in the kitchen, he was beginning to think that neither he nor she were particularly likable people. She was as spoiled as ever. He was acting edgy. But I have every right to, because of Amanda. Still, he could remember a time when they’d both been open, thoroughly likable and deeply in love.
“Anton?”
“Josh?” The severe cold had been affecting the lines, and the phone suddenly crackled. “You still there, Josh?”
For a moment the two waited for the static to clear.
“Yeah,” Josh finally said. “Harrold Stuart Stevens married Cynthia Anna Sweet...” Santa grabbed a notepad and began writing the pertinent dates as Josh talked. “The daughter, Amanda, was born September 17, 1990.”
It was a close call, but Amanda could be Harry’s. “What do you have for the guy’s death date?” Santa felt a little disappointed. He’d gotten this much from Amanda.
“Death date?”
“Yeah,” Santa said. “He died in a car wreck.”
“Hang on.”
“We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas...” Santa sang along with the Musak in spite of himself. Then he tilted his head and stared into the mirror, trying to recall the particulars of his Jake Jackson persona. After all, given the palpable, sensual energy coursing between him and Cyn, she was bound to recognize him sooner or later.
He half hoped it was sooner, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was simply because high drama and heart-stopping action made him feel so alive. If Cyn recognized him, sparks would surely fly. Especially if Amanda really was his.
He decided he didn’t look like Amanda’s father. The reflection staring back at him was clean shaven, shorthaired and in a suit. It was definitely the no-frills Santa. He sighed, wondering how anyone could have loved Jake Jackson. Especially Cyn. She was a golden girl. Spoiled, no doubt, but made for life’s finer pleasures.
Long-haired rebel Jake Jackson could have given her none of them. He’d been as lean and mean as Santa had been back then. A scruffy kid who was out to prove himself. His hair, mustache and beard had been blond and he’d had a penchant for hip leather jackets and motorcycle boots. He’d worn sunglasses so often that Cyn probably couldn’t even remember his eye color. Yeah, Jake had been a far cry from the clean-cut straight arrow who was now staring back at Santa. And if Cyn’s taste ran to the Jake Jacksons of the world, the real Santa didn’t stand a chance.
“Great,” he murmured aloud. He tried to tell himself that the last thing he wanted was a second chance at Cyn Sweet. “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” broke into “Deck the Halls.”
“You say this guy died in a car wreck?” Josh asked.
Santa sat up. “He didn’t?”
Josh chuckled. “According to this, buddy, Harry Stevens is alive and well and still living in Alabama.”
After a long moment Santa murmured, “Do you have an address and phone?”
“Sure do.”
Santa started scribbling again.
“You visiting family for the holidays?” Josh asked.
“No.” Santa thought of Amanda. “Well, I’m not sure yet.”
“Well, merry Christmas, Santa.”
“You, too, buddy.”
He hung up still thinking that Harry Stevens could be Amanda’s father. But why would Cynthia and her father take it upon themselves to claim the man was dead?
* * *
“AMANDA?” Cartoons played on television, the door was wide open, and all Santa’s senses went on alert. He hadn’t been on the phone but ten minutes. Now he slipped noiselessly into the living room. Involuntarily his hand slid over his chest toward his holster, and he wished he hadn’t removed it in deference to Cyn’s wishes.
“You can’t catch me!” Amanda shrieked. She shot from behind the Christmas tree, a fast blur of a man on her heels.
Santa easily lunged between Amanda and her attacker. In a second flat, he’d gripped the man’s parka and lifted him clean off the floor.
He turned his head slightly to the side. “Go to your room, Amanda,” he said with deathly calm.
Amanda wavered uncertainly by the door to the guest room. Her white velvet dress was embroidered with holly berries. Its sash had come untied, her white leggings sagged at the knees, and her little black patent leather shoes gleamed. In spite of the circumstances Santa found himself thinking she looked as pretty as a picture.
“Go.”
She streaked down the hall like a bolt of white light.
“Now—” Santa glared at the culprit. He was blond, blue eyed and about five-ten. He looked twenty-five or thirty and scared spitless. “Who are you?”
“Get your hands off me!” he yelled, trying to squirm away from where Santa held his collar. Suddenly he pushed both hands against Santa’s chest.
“Oh, brother,” Santa muttered as the man bolted for the door. He threw out his foot, catching the other man’s ankle. The poor fellow crashed into Cyn’s Christmas tree, then leaned forward, in an effort to regain his balance. He tripped over a wrapped present, then went sprawling across the floor.
“Please don’t try to get up,” Santa said, sounding bored.
The man rolled over, raking his fingers through his hair. It was strewn with strands of silver tinsel.
“What is your problem?” The man sounded furious, but it was clear he didn’t intend to fight.
“How did you get in here?”
“I let him in!”
Santa turned toward the hallway. Cyn’s hands were on her hips. She was either going to laugh or start shrieking. Amanda peeked out from behind her. “For heaven’s sake! He’s the delivery man from Bloomingdale’s.”
“Bloomingdale’s?” Santa repeated. For a long moment he and Cyn gawked at each other. She was wearing a red suit today, with another short skirt. She had on high heels, too, the kind that made him want to let her walk all over him. “Never leave the door open,” he finally said.
“I had to get my wallet,” she protested, still gaping at him.
“Next time, leave him in the outside hall, then lock the door,” Santa said, fighting to maintain his cool. “And then you go get your wallet.”
“If you hadn’t put in that newfangled keypad, perhaps I would have.”
“I could sue for this!” The man was clearly trying to salvage some semblance of his destroyed dignity.
“You could.” Santa shot him a quelling glance.
“But maybe I won’t,” the
man quickly added. He warily watched Santa as he struggled to his feet.
Amanda giggled. “You still got tinsel in your hair, mister!”
“You were the one who insisted I play tag with you,” the man returned tightly.
At that, Santa was glad to see that Amanda had the decency to blush. But then she giggled again. “I was winning!” she squealed.
Cyn’s shoulders started to shake with laughter. “I’m so sorry,” she said, rushing forward. One of her perfectly manicured hands slid inside her wallet, and she pulled out a hefty-looking number of bills. “So very sorry,” she repeated, pressing the money into the man’s hands.
The tip seemed to help some. “Merry Christmas” the man said grudgingly, heading for the door. “And have a happy New Year.”
Santa shut the door and activated the lock from the inside. Behind him, Cyn’s chuckles gave way to full-scale laughter. When he turned around, she was crumpling against the wall, indulging her shoulder-shaking giggles.
“Heavens,” she gasped, between fits. “I’m sure glad you’re here to protect us.”
He decided to let her get it out of her system. It would take more than a barb like that to unman him. Amanda hadn’t joined in. She was staring at him, looking as guilty as sin. After a moment she crept uncertainly to his side. She placed her tiny hand in his and squeezed tightly.
“It’s okay, Mr. Santa Claus,” she said in comfort. “It could have been a robber or a mugger.” Her voice rose hopefully. “Maybe next time it will be.”
The words sent Cyn into another bout of hysterics. The situation made Santa feel a little ridiculous, but he had to admit it was good to hear Cyn laugh—really laugh—again. She nearly staggered across the room, teetering on her high heels, then collapsed in an armchair, sighing. Watching her cross her long, elegant, black-stocking-clad legs, Santa almost sighed himself.
“I’m gonna go get my coat by myself now, like a good girl,” Amanda said, releasing his hand. “Mommy says we’ve got to go to a promp-tion at the store.”
Promp-tion? Oh. Promotion. He glanced down. The little girl barely came to the level of his thighs. He felt a sudden urge to lift her into his arms again.
“I just bet those kidnappers are gonna come to our promp-tion,” she crooned, still clearly trying to soothe him.
“Oh,” Cyn managed to call out as Amanda flew past her, “but don’t you think we should give him the day off, Amanda? After all, he’s been working so hard this morning.” At that, she started laughing so uncontrollably that she actually snorted.
“Very unladylike,” Santa muttered under his breath. He tried to tell himself that her hysterics weren’t annoying him. He was merely anxious to complete the day’s agenda so he could call Harry Stevens and have a nice little chat.
When he could no longer stand it, he said, “You’ll need your coat, Ms. Sweet.”
His tone sobered her. She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to offer some tart response, then clamped it shut. “Whatever you say, Santa,” she finally conceded weakly.
“Right,” he said, sounding more agreeable than he actually felt. “I’m glad to see you’re getting the picture.”
* * *
“NOW, AMANDA,” Cyn said, “every time someone comes up, you reach in the box and hand them an ornament. Then, when they take the ornaments to the elves, the elves will hand them a copy of your book. Okay?”
Amanda crossed her arms defensively over her sash. “I know what to do.”
“I know you do.” Cyn smoothed the velvet hem of Amanda’s dress, then glanced anxiously around Too Sweet Toys, feeling sure the promotion had drawn in needed customers. All three levels, the glass walls of which faced the Fifth Avenue side of Rockefeller Center, were crowded with shoppers and their children.
The long-needled pine she and Paxton had ordered from upstate rose to the high first-floor ceiling. Ladders had been placed around the tree, and workers in elf costumes—mostly unemployed actors and actresses—were ready to place ornaments on the higher branches. Cyn caught a glimpse of both her father’s assistant and her mother on the escalators. Eileen was going up; Analise was headed down. Kids sprawled and squirmed in the many colorful armchairs that had been placed throughout the store for tired shoppers.
Suddenly Cyn’s nose came level with a pant leg. She sucked in a quick breath, then slowly raised her gaze. It traveled over the finely woven, expensive fabric, then inadvertently stopped at the apex of the man’s thighs. She gulped.
“I’ll stick close to Amanda.”
Cyn craned her neck and found herself peering into Santa’s eyes. They were every bit as powerful looking as his thighs. Realizing that he was towering over her, her mouth went dry and she forced herself to stand. Not that it helped. In her heels, she was nearly his height, and now her gaze met his, dead-on. The way her knees buckled almost made her wish she was staring at his pant leg again. The man was definitely growing on her. In fact, she was beginning to think more about him than Jake Jackson.
“The store’s so crowded....” She smiled as kindly as she could, hoping to atone for laughing at him earlier. It had clearly made him furious. “I’m so glad you’re here. I really am.”
She thought he nodded, but it was hard to tell.
“You’re not much for conversation, are you?” she prodded just as the first toddler, a little girl, ran up to her daughter. Amanda handed her a gleaming silver bulb.
“You know—” Cyn felt foolish, but felt compelled to continue. “Like I would say something, and then you would, and then I would.” She blew out a quick sigh. “Guess you just don’t like to talk.”
At that, Santa actually grinned. “Depends on who I’m talking to.”
“So the problem’s just me?” she asked coyly.
“I’m working.”
He sounded more annoyed that he actually was, she decided. Something in his eyes made her sure he was beginning to crack a little. “Well, I’m going to go say hello to my mother.” She pointed toward the opposite side of the first floor.
“You’re not my client. You don’t need to clear your comings and goings with me.”
She felt almost as if she’d announced she was going on a date. She arched her brows. “I’m not your client?” If Paxton had hired him, it was as good as if she had.
“No.” He glanced down just as Amanda handed a little boy a bright blue origami ornament. “Your daughter is.”
Cyn squinted at him, wondering why he always used such an odd intonation when he said “your daughter.” She decided there was just no talking to the man, and glanced around the crowded store again. As a mother, she couldn’t help but give ear to those occasional stories about mothers who’d lost children in public places. “You’ll watch her, won’t you?”
“With my life.”
He sounded so serious that she gulped. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s my job.”
It was hard to turn away from him, but she did. Before she’d reached her mother’s side, Bob Bingley steered her past an armchair. He pushed her behind a counter, saying, “Sorry, but we need you on register one, Cyn.” He wiggled his brows. “Or should I say ‘doll face’?”
“If you want to die,” Cyn returned playfully. The store was the Sweets’ lifeblood, and Cyn easily began ringing up purchases. As she worked, her eyes kept drifting back to her baby and the bodyguard.
They were an odd couple. Santa towered behind Amanda, with an erect posture, his hands held loosely at his sides. Even from where Cyn was, she could feel his eyes sweeping back and forth across the room, in watchful protection. Sometimes, his gaze seemed to want to stop on her, but it never did.
Men had occasionally come on to her like gangbusters. But not this one. Because he was always watching Amanda, talking to him was even more difficult. She found herself wondering how she might arrange to spend some time alone with him. Just to see if he warmed to her....
He’s a bodyguard, all right, she thought, as she gift wrapped a Barney do
ll. Santa’s suit was so nondescript as to make him invisible. When she’d first seen him, she hadn’t even noticed his good looks. Now the adults in the store barely noticed him at all. But the children did, she realized with surprise. They gravitated toward him somehow, as if sensing he was keeping them safe. Just watching him, noting how good he was at what he did, she felt a chill creep along her spine. Don’t worry. No one will ever take Amanda. Jake Jackson’s in jail.
Her discomfort passed. Once again she was aware of the lively Christmas music. The kids rushed to the elves and pointed toward where they wanted their ornaments hung. Some opted for the lower branches and hung the decorations themselves. In return, each received a wrapped copy of Little Amanda’s Perfect Christmas.
“Thank you for shopping at Too Sweet!” Cyn smiled brightly and extended the elegantly wrapped Barney doll.
“So far the best day for sales yet!” Bob Bingley called. He raced past her, a ribbon of calculator tape trailing over his shoulder.
“Have you seen your father?” Analise leaned against the counter.
Cyn continued to ring up purchases. “You’re looking for Dad?” Were her parents speaking again?
“Looking to avoid him,” her mother admitted.
Cyn sighed. If she knew more about her parents’ difficulties, maybe she could help fix them. “He’s staying on the third level,” she said, handing a bag to a customer.
Her mother smiled. “Good. Then I can lean here for the whole of two seconds before Bob requires me again.”
“Thank you for shopping at Too Sweet,” Cyn said cheerfully to a woman about her age. She lowered her voice as she reached for the next batch of merchandise. “Why are you and Daddy fighting, anyway?”
Analise shrugged. “What I want to discuss is your bodyguard.”
Cyn chuckled. “I believe he belongs to Amanda.” She glanced in his direction again. Santa was helping Amanda untangle the hanging wires on some of the ornaments. Even from here, it was clear that Amanda’s hands were too little and his were too large. Illogically Cyn thought she could almost stretch her arm across the room and fix things for them.