The Baby & the Bodyguard

by Jule McBride

  “So it wasn’t Jackson who had the gun?” he prodded, feeling oddly triumphant.

  “No,” she conceded, sounding almost as if she wished it had been him. “But the jerk sure deserved everything he got, including getting shot,” she added with uncharacteristic menace.

  “Well, maybe he learned his lesson,” Santa said. “Maybe he even reformed in jail. I mean, why would the man come back to haunt you?” Did Cyn secretly hope that Jackson still loved her? Maybe he does. Santa blinked, as if to make the thought vanish.

  She shrugged. “Matthew Lewis—he was the only defendant present at the trial—got really mad at one point. He jumped up and screamed that they—all of them—would come back someday. He said—” Her voice suddenly broke. “That they’d steal the closest thing to my heart.” Her eyes shot to his and misted with tears. “And that would be Amanda. Now, wouldn’t it?”

  “So it could be either Lewis or the man who got away,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “Why does it necessarily have to be—” He almost couldn’t say it. “This other guy, Jackson?”

  “It just is,” she snapped.

  “That doesn’t make sense, Cyn,” he returned softly. A thousand warring emotions were pulling him every which way but loose. He wanted to defend himself, he wanted to make her see reason. And yet, at moments—so drawn in by her lovely eyes—he nearly forgot he was Jake Jackson. Hell, hearing her vehemence, he was ready to kill Jake, himself. Worse, he wanted to take her into his arms and hold her tightly. “I’m going out of my mind,” he muttered.

  Her eyebrows shot upward. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” He got up and crossed to the kitchen counter, as far away from her as he could get.

  Unfortunately, her bare feet, complete with their dainty pink-painted toenails, pitter-pattered right behind him. She nearly leaned against him while she rinsed crumbs from her bagel plate. His hands itched to touch her soft thick hair and the silk of her robe. His eyes flitted over her, yearning to see every last inch of her skin. His mouth went dry with both desire and the urge to tell her the truth.

  But the truth no longer mattered. He didn’t love Cyn. She hadn’t trusted him. He didn’t want a woman who bolted when the going got tough, either. Besides which, he wasn’t even Amanda’s father.

  She hates Jackson now, and when she finds out the truth, she’ll hate me. The thought flashed through his mind, but he assured himself that wasn’t the reason for his silence. He wanted to rectify the past, perhaps, but he didn’t want her back.

  He absently touched the scar on his jaw, thinking he had so many motivations these days—some even running at cross-purposes—that he couldn’t keep track of them all. And he didn’t have to. He wasn’t telling her. Period. And he wasn’t going to stick around until some telltale sign gave him away.

  She turned from the sink and reached past him, to grab a dish towel. “I know Jackson’s been here,” she said as she dried her hands. “The man’s as slippery as an eel. When I went out this morning and saw the door wide open, I just knew it. I could sense it. I could feel him. In fact, I’ve felt his presence for a few days.” She stared intently at Santa. “I never really believed in such things before, but do you think it could be some sort of premonition?”

  Santa’s eyes roved over her face. If only her eyes were less green and her lips were less full... “Well, maybe he was here,” he said gruffly.

  Cyn placed her hand on his arm again and gazed at him trustingly. “But he’s gone now, isn’t he?” she asked softly.

  He could smell soap and the fragile scent of yesterday’s perfume. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “I guess.”

  Without moving away from him, she said, “You know something funny?”

  That you’re about one second away from being kissed? His lips parted, and he licked them. “What?”

  “Don’t take this wrong.” She came a step closer and their thighs brushed.

  The only wrong thing I’m going to take is you...in my arms. “I’ll try not to,” he managed to say.

  She cocked her head and glanced upward, scrutinizing him with a quirky, flirtatious smile. “Heavens, Santa,” she teased, poking his chest with her finger, “it’s not a test.”

  He dipped his head and grinned, his mouth just inches from hers. “Well, if it is,” he found himself drawling, “I sure hope I pass.”

  She leaned more of her weight against the counter. “You remind me of him a little.”

  His stomach balled in a knot. “Who?”

  “Jake Jackson,” she chided, playfully rolling her eyes.

  He didn’t even want to laugh this time. He cleared his throat. “Comforting, I remind you of a burglar.”

  She flashed him a quick smile. “Well, he was a cheat and liar, too.”

  When she shifted her weight again, the silk of her robe whispered against his fingertips. “Let’s not forget that,” he murmured.

  “And a convict,” she added.

  He drew in a quick breath. “Thanks.”

  Although she was gazing into his eyes, she suddenly seemed to be staring right through him. For an instant, Santa almost felt as if he’d vanished.

  “It’s so very strange,” she continued, sounding almost whimsical. “You don’t look like him, or talk like him, even though you’ve got a bit of a drawl. You sure don’t dress like him. And he was skinny, without a single muscle to speak of. He was a night owl, too.” She frowned. “I just can’t imagine him with a suntan. And he was so much shorter...”

  Shorter? I’m the exact same damn height. “The man doesn’t sound particularly appealing,” he finally said.

  “Try boy,” she quipped. “And not nearly as appealing as you.”

  Boy? I can’t believe I’m now being compared to myself. Did she really just admit she’s attracted to me? “So do you always date unappealing men?” It was increasingly difficult to match her teasing tone.

  She shrugged. “He was a jerk and I was young and stupid.”

  Actually, she hadn’t been all that young. She’d been twenty-four. She was acting as if their whole affair were easily summed up in a sentence, too. Boy, jerk, young, stupid. “But now you’re old and so very wise,” he said roughly.

  She didn’t notice his tone. “There’s just something about you. I can never quite put my finger on it. And—”

  He glanced down, both wishing she’d move away from him, and that she wouldn’t. “Hmm?”

  Her cheeks colored slightly. The silk of her robe still whispered against his fingertips, as if calling him closer. Pressed against his muscular thigh, her hand felt soft and warm. “When you kissed me the other day—” She paused and swallowed. “You know, at the store...”

  As if he could forget. Just a breath away, her lips seemed to beg for his. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated gruffly, “at the store.”

  “It just made me feel like...well, like...”

  I’ve had all of this I can take. “Like this?” He grabbed her waist, feeling amazed at how small it was beneath the slippery robe. As he pulled her in front of him, he covered her lips with his own.

  He’d taken her by surprise. He could feel it in how her thighs turned hard and unyielding against his, and in how her shoulders tensed against his chest. For a full minute her confused arms remained rigidly suspended in midair, while one of his circled her waist, keeping her close. His free hand raced up her back, under her soft hair, and cupped her neck.

  Then her shoulder gave, curling into the crook of his. Her thighs went as soft as a pillow and nestled against his legs. Her arms crept around his neck. And the warm spear of her tongue began to tussle with his. He nearly moaned when he felt her long fingers knead the muscles of his shoulders.

  In her bare feet, she was shorter than he, and as he plunged his tongue deep between her lips, he felt her strain upward on her toes. His hands automatically dropped down the length of her back, until he cupped her behind, almost lifting her. It had been so long since he’d f
elt her.... He almost leaned back, so he could see her face. Instead, he continued drinking her in, feeling as though he’d never stop.

  His desire for her had been tightly wrapped inside him for too long. Now it unfurled like a sail taking wind. He was ready to make love to her. Nothing mattered. Not the time or the place or the fact that she didn’t know who he really was.

  She was kissing him so deeply that he could barely breathe now. And when she arched against his growing arousal, his hands began to rove over the soft rise of her backside. He lifted her quickly, and turned, so that her back, rather than his, was against the counter.

  She drew away, with a shaky intake of breath. He let her slide down the length of him until her feet touched the floor again. Her green eyes looked as soft as water, and her lips were as swollen as ripe red berries. Her mussed hair looked like hell. And sexy beyond any words Santa could think of.

  “I want you,” she finally whispered, sounding breathless.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not that. Cyn had changed. She’d always been an unconscionable flirt, but never quite so bold. Now she was all grown-up, a woman conscious of her needs and desires. And he liked it. He glanced toward the doorway. The sound of Amanda’s cartoons suddenly seemed to fill the kitchen.

  She blew out a soft, satisfied sigh. “I don’t mean now,” she nearly whispered. “I think I just mean that I’m glad you’re here. The holidays are always a little hard for me.”

  He was somewhat taken aback. “Glad to be obliging,” he drawled, feeling a little breathless himself but determined not to show it.

  She chuckled, and a teasing glint winked in her eyes. She poked his chest playfully with a finger, yet another new gesture he was getting to know intimately. “But the real question is whether or not you want me, now isn’t it, Santa?” She gazed at him expectantly.

  His mouth dropped open in mock astonishment. “Are you always so blunt?”

  “One of the things I’ve found out in the past few years,” she said, “is that life’s too short.”

  “For old-fashioned courtship with the hired help?” he asked with a smile.

  “You really don’t have to answer me, Santa.” She wriggled out from between him and the counter.

  She was almost to the door when he said, “Cyn?”

  She turned and raised an eyebrow.

  “Just so your mind will be at ease...” he began softly.

  She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Just so I can sleep nights?”

  “Why, I’d hate to think of you tossing and turning,” he said, drawing out the words, “and all because you couldn’t quit wondering.”

  “Well, you better hurry up and tell me,” she teased. “Because I’ve got to take a load of clothes out of the dryer.”

  His brows shot up in genuine surprise. “You mean, a woman like you does her own laundry?”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward, then fixed her gaze on him. “Impressed?”

  He smirked back. “No.”

  Her laughter filled the room. “Those clothes of mine are probably burning up by now,” she singsonged.

  “I don’t know about the clothes,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “But I sure am.”

  Her smile spread into the sexiest grin he’d ever seen. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And I want you.” He gazed deep into her eyes. “Something fierce.”

  She quickly held up her index finger, touched it to her tongue, then waved it in the air. “Pssst,” she said. “Why the very air in here sizzles.”

  “But Cyn,” he continued, feeling an odd mixture of anger and desire, “I don’t have to have everything I want.”

  Her face fell just a little and, as much as it hurt him, he felt almost glad. “Don’t tell me. Santa is above involving himself with his clients.”

  “That’s right,” he said softly. “I’m here to do a job.”

  She shot him a false smile, then whirled around and headed for the door again. “Pardon my saying so,” she called over her shoulder. “But you don’t look all that busy to me.”

  “A minute ago,” he called at her retreating back, “I sure felt pretty busy. Didn’t you?”

  * * *

  “LOOK, PAXTON—” Santa blew out a very loud, annoyed sigh. He had to get away from Cyn. He couldn’t be in the same room with her without touching her. He had to get away from Amanda, too. The beautiful little girl wasn’t his. And now she represented his most secret dreams...of the family he wanted but would probably never have. “I hired a temporary rent-a-cop to stay outside Cyn’s door. And there are at least five other guys with my qualifications.”

  Paxton’s hands shot to his hips. He was facing away from Santa, staring through his office window at the Rockefeller Center tree. “Name one.”

  “Strauss.”

  Paxton snorted. “Mr. Santa!” He turned around and stared into Santa’s eyes. “Strauss is protecting the President of the United States! When we couldn’t find you, we tried him.”

  When Santa leaned back in the office chair, something stabbed him in the back. He glanced behind himself; it was the handle of a “say and tell” toy. He sighed again, thinking that Carpenter was in South America, Gibson had slipped two disks playing tennis, and O’Conner never worked Christmas. “Hudson,” Santa suddenly said. “Naomi Hudson.”

  Paxton’s jaw clenched.

  “She’s a woman,” Santa said. “But I assure you, she’s good.” With a woman, he wouldn’t have to worry about Cyn. After all, Carpenter and Gibson both had legendary reputations with the ladies.

  “I don’t care that she’s a woman,” Paxton said defensively, “but she works full-time for a senator in Texas.”

  Santa frowned. “I haven’t talked to her in a while,” he admitted.

  “With all the work I have to do this time of year, I can’t worry about Cynthia and Amanda,” Paxton said. “You have to stay. Especially since this morning’s note looks like a real warning.”

  “I’m sorry,” Santa said. “I can’t.”

  Paxton’s eyes narrowed. “Just what has Cynthia done to you?”

  What hasn’t she done? Santa couldn’t help but take the opportunity. “In researching the background, hoping to get to the bottom of this, I’ve come up with certain...” He paused. “Discrepancies.” Was it his imagination, or did Paxton look as guilty as sin?

  “What kind of, er, discrepancies?”

  “Harry Stevens isn’t dead.” Santa tilted his head and scrutinized Paxton. The man was hiding something. He could sense it. “When I work for people, I don’t like being lied to about the facts. Turns out your daughter also had an affair with a convict.”

  “He wasn’t a convict then! She didn’t know!” Paxton plopped in his desk chair so quickly that it nearly swiveled in a complete circle. He righted himself, looking resigned. “Harry used to be a good friend of hers,” he said, leaning his elbows on his cluttered desk. “He merely gave Amanda a name.”

  Santa wanted to rise to his feet but didn’t. His chest felt as if it were being squeezed by a vise. “The kid,” he said, fighting for control of his voice. “Amanda.” He crossed his arms, as if the gesture might still his beating heart. “She’s really Jake Jackson’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  “You know about the case?”

  Santa forced himself to nod. “Is she?”

  Paxton’s eyes widened. The man looked positively stricken. “I just don’t know,” he finally said. “Please, Mr. Santa, my daughter’s been through the wringer. There was a lot of press at that trial.” He waved a hand in the air. “Cynthia was devastated—just what you might expect when a young, vulnerable, sensitive girl has been betrayed like that.”

  At twenty-four, Cyn had been overprotected; still, she wasn’t a girl.

  Santa wasn’t sure why, but he felt guilty. “So why did you declare Harry dead?”

  Paxton shrugged. “It just seemed the cleanest way to end everything and explain Amanda.”

  Paxton was lying. Santa
was sure of it. It would be easy enough to get Amanda down to a lab for a DNA test. And yet, somehow, Santa didn’t want to do that. He wanted to hear the explanation from only one source. Cyn Sweet’s lips. He simply couldn’t believe how devious the members of the Sweet family were. “Whose child is it?” he finally asked.

  “I really don’t know,” Paxton repeated, sounding almost sincere.

  Santa thought about the way Cyn had been teasing and toying with him. Just how many men had she come on to in that way? He doubted she’d had an affair right after the trial, but it could be the truth.

  “Will you stay?” Paxton’s eyes were pleading him.

  Sure. I’ll seduce the information out of your daughter.

  “I’ll pay double what you’re getting now.”

  “Fine,” Santa said.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, December 16, 1994

  “Dad, I didn’t do anything!” Cyn exclaimed, twirling the phone cord around her pinkie. She retied her robe, then glanced toward the TV, wishing Amanda was watching in the den, rather than the living room. Fortunately, her daughter was thoroughly engrossed in Sesame Street. “In fact—” Cyn lowered her voice “—I haven’t even seen Santa since last night, when he left to—”

  “To storm my office!” Paxton barked so loudly that Cyn leaned away from the earpiece and grimaced. “And quit his job! For what I’m paying, things must be pretty darn bad, if he wants to leave. I demand to know why things aren’t working out.”

  Because he kissed me and I kissed him back so hard we could have made love. Her ego still stung from his rejection. How could he kiss her with Jake Jackson’s verve and passion, then say he wouldn’t act on it? And why had he tried to quit on her? Just where had he been all night? “I don’t know why he wanted to leave. Santa can be a little—er—standoffish,” she said in self-defense.

  “I’d call it respectful, young lady,” her father countered. She was sure Paxton was thinking of Jake Jackson, who hadn’t respected her in the least.

  “Daddy, when I’m sixty, are you still going to be calling me ‘young lady’?” She hardly felt inclined to discuss what was going on in her own apartment. Or not going on, she thought, feeling frustrated.