The Baby & the Bodyguard

by Jule McBride

  “Don’t change the subject,” he said levelly. “If you ask me, you could do a lot worse than Anton Santa.”

  She gasped. “Worse than! For what?”

  “You know exactly what I mean, Cynthia Anna.”

  Paxton never called her that unless he was truly mad. “All I need is for you to start playing matchmaker,” she returned huffily, wondering what had gotten into her father. Usually she could do no wrong; now he was actually taking Santa’s side. I don’t always have to have what I want, she thought, mentally mocking Santa.

  “Well, maybe you need a matchmaker.” Her father’s voice gentled. Knowing what was coming, she had to fight not to pitch the phone across the room. She grabbed it from an end table and cradled it against her stomach. “After all, you can’t raise Amanda alone. You need someone. And you haven’t—”

  “Haven’t done such a good job matching myself up?” she asked tartly. Her father was definitely making veiled references to Jake, and she was starting to feel like a pressure cooker that was about to blow.

  “Santa’s responsible,” her father said. “He’s protecting you and Amanda and you’ve got to appear appreciative, at the very least. He’s just not the sort of man who’ll put up with nonsense.”

  A quick image of Santa, clad only in his “Merry Christmas” towel flashed through her mind. She almost chuckled. “And he’s good-looking and wears tailored suits, instead of leather jackets,” she added, not bothering to hide her irony.

  “He does dress nicely.” Her father suddenly sounded agreeable.

  Cyn’s hand tightened around the receiver. “And so he must be the man of my dreams? Practically every man in New York wears suits, Dad!” Except Jake Jackson, she mentally amended.

  “I don’t see what you’ve got against him.” Paxton’s voice rose again.

  “Why, not a thing.” The words were delivered more sarcastically than she’d intended. “Maybe I should just marry him tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you should.” This time it wasn’t Paxton. It was Santa.

  She whirled around. “Do you always eavesdrop?” Hot color seeped into her cheeks. Before she’d met Santa, she hadn’t blushed in years. Only Jake had flustered her to that point. It was positively infuriating. So was his opening line. He meant to continue a flirtation, even though there’d be no follow-through. “How long have you been standing there?”

  He smiled pleasantly, his eyes looking like dark round globes beneath his thick lashes. “Long enough.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t creep around!” The receiver slid downward. She caught it between her jaw and her shoulder. “I didn’t even hear you come in!”

  His eyebrow arched in a way that was barely perceptible. “Should I take that to mean you were listening for me?”

  The nerve of him. “All night,” she returned drolly.

  His powerful shoulders rolled slightly in their sockets, like a shimmying dancer’s. “Twisting and turning and waiting and wondering...”

  It was so true, she felt embarrassed. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped.

  He leaned forward idly, resting his elbows on the back of an armchair. “I’d much rather flatter you.”

  “Be nice to him!” Paxton warned over the phone.

  “You could flatter me by vanishing,” she said with a scowl.

  “I said, be nice!” Paxton shrieked.

  This time Santa clearly heard him. “I—I...” She didn’t know who to address first, her father or Santa.

  “Be nice to me,” Santa mouthed, wagging a suntanned finger.

  “I am being nice,” she said into the mouthpiece.

  “And let me know when you’re off the phone,” Santa said.

  “Does Santa need to use the phone?” Paxton asked. “If he does, it’s probably important. We’d better get off, Cyn.”

  Her lips parted in wonder. Santa’s self-satisfied smile made him look like a cat who’d just lapped up the last of the cream. “Daddy, we need to go over the final plans for this evening’s promotion!”

  “Santa has an important call to make,” her father returned.

  Her eyes widened and she sighed. “Love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you, too,” he said. “And be nice to Santa. I’ll be watching you at the drawing for the tickets to The Nutcracker, to make sure you’re behaving.”

  She hung up and glared at Santa. It was difficult. She could still feel his lips on hers. Her thighs suddenly tingled, as if he were pressed against her again. His sharply tailored, double-breasted chocolate suit made his eyes look darker. But, she had to remind herself, the first time he’d kissed her without mistletoe, he’d tried to quit his job. “When did you get so buddy-buddy with my father?”

  Santa shrugged, looking genuinely puzzled. “He seems to like me.”

  She nodded as if he had just confessed to armed robbery. “Just what did you do to him?”

  “The regular snow job.” He flashed her an irresistible, glistening grin that made his eyes twinkle.

  She sniffed. “And he fell for it,” she said, as if to indicate that she hadn’t.

  Santa gazed at her steadily. The grin slowly tempered to an amused smile. “You’re jealous.”

  As soon as he said it, she knew it was true. Her father had never taken someone else’s side. “I thought you’d quit,” she remarked lightly, wishing the man couldn’t read her quite so easily.

  “Changed my mind.”

  “Would you like to tell me why?” Had he really come back for her? she wondered. Maybe he’d worried all night about his ethics regarding clients, but couldn’t get their kiss out of his mind, so he’d come back. Maybe she was being too hard on him. “Why?” she repeated softly.

  He chuckled. “Every time I say no, your father pays me double. It’s starting to add up.”

  That figured. “Good,” she said with a lightness she didn’t feel. “I was afraid you’d reconsidered your client-involvement policy.” She eyed the armchair, wishing she could sit down. Her fool knees were buckling again.

  “Oh,” he drawled softly. “That, too.”

  “Ah—” She sucked in a quick breath, hating him for thinking she was that easy. “But in the gray light of another chilly New York morning, I’m sorry to inform you, I’ve cooled considerably.”

  They stared each other down for a solid minute. Everything in his eyes said he knew she was only saving face. “Didn’t you say you had a call to make?” she asked innocently, holding out the phone.

  He was still sizing her up with his eyes. “Sorry,” he drawled. “My call’s private.”

  She couldn’t help but wonder whether he was phoning a woman. Given his looks, she imagined he found plenty to call. “Well,” she said. “I hope you don’t expect me to leave the room.”

  She wasn’t sure but thought his shoulders were beginning to shake with laughter. He turned on his heel and headed for his room. “I guess I can play the gentleman. Once.” He glanced over his shoulder and winked at her.

  Now that Dad’s on his side, I’m doomed, she thought.

  She stared at his closed door, feeling more curious than ever about who he was calling. Was it a woman he’d been with the night before? As much as she hated herself for it, she found herself dragging the living room extension down the hallway and into the kitchen, away from the TV. She shut the door.

  Don’t do it. So far, your jealousy has gotten you nowhere but in a heap of trouble. She tried to keep reminding herself that the last supposed “other woman” she’d researched had led her to The Grinch Gang. Nevertheless, she very quietly picked up the receiver.

  “Santa, I’m going to have to put you on hold for a minute,” a woman said. The line went blank and Cyn held her breath. She felt like an idiot. What was she doing?

  “Oh, Cynthia,” Santa singsonged. “Who’s eavesdropping now?”

  Caught red-handed! She considered hanging up, but that would be even worse than an outright admission of guilt. “It could have been Amanda,” she said coolly.


  “But it wasn’t,” he returned. The last thing she heard before she hung up was Santa’s resounding belly laugh.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” she muttered. Still, she knew it took an extremely powerful man to reduce her to such juvenile tactics. Mulling things over, she almost convinced herself that Santa hadn’t come back for the money, but because of her. Hadn’t he?

  * * *

  “SORRY, SANTA, just one more minute.” Right before his friend put him on hold again, he heard her perkily answer the other line, saying, “Sally Steele, Riker’s Island.”

  He’d spent the previous night rifling through desks at Too Sweet. He’d been determined to find stray bits of cut magazines, an X-Acto blade, or the typewriter on which the last note had been composed. He’d found zero. He’d paid for the rent-a-cop to watch Cyn’s place out-of-pocket, too.

  He removed his cuffs from where they were looped over his belt, tossed them onto the mattress, then leaned back on his pillows. Cradling the receiver against his shoulder, he decided that seducing information out of Cyn would be a piece of cake. She was angry, but only because he’d rejected her yesterday. Nevertheless, her supposed premonitions about sensing Jake Jackson’s presence were making him nervous.

  Why was it so important that he hear the information from between her lying lips? he wondered. As much as he fought it, he thought of her around the clock. He kept imagining the moment when he’d take her. It would happen quickly, without feeling, but sometimes now, the fantasy ended all wrong. She realized who he was, they forgave each other, and everything was hunky-dory. Why hadn’t he simply pushed Paxton harder for the truth?

  And how long could he wait? He was being jerked around like a lapdog. First he was Amanda’s father. Then he wasn’t. Then he was again. What was he going to do if he found out he was? Take Amanda from her mother to live with him? How could such a thing work? Excuse me, would you mind watching my little girl...while I take a bullet for the Speaker of the House?

  The line clicked on. “Sally?”

  “Hey there, Santa Claus! Haven’t seen you out at Riker’s Island lately. Guess you’ve been good this year.”

  If he wasn’t careful, Amanda’s nickname for him was going to stick. “Hey there,” he said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Besides leave your husband?”

  She giggled. Sally loved her husband more than life, and both of them knew it, but she always flirted with Santa. “It would be too cruel to leave him before Christmas,” she chided. “But is there something else?”

  “I’m checking on an inmate. He was arrested on a B and E four years ago. The name’s Matthew Lewis.”

  “Guess you’ve been sunning yourself in the Caribbean again.” Sally laughed. “Don’t you watch the news?”

  He sat up. “No, I’ve been reading the papers, though. Did he escape or something?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the escape artist,” she said flirtatiously.

  Santa chuckled. “Sally, honey, you’re married.”

  “So true.” Sally blew out a mock beleaguered sigh. “The guy you’re looking for was released on a holiday pardon from our humble Riker’s two weeks ago.”

  “He’s been out for two weeks?” Santa repeated. That meant Lewis could have sent all the notes. Having worked with The Grinch Gang, Santa knew the man was skilled enough to get into Cyn’s place, too. Prison might have hardened him and made him mean enough to steal Amanda. Maybe this time he wouldn’t get caught.

  “Should I call you back with an address for him?” Sally finally asked. “It’s hard to find people this close to Christmas, but I’m sure I can track down his parole officer.”

  “That would be great,” Santa said, giving her Cyn’s number. “I owe you one.”

  Sally’s ribald laughter cackled over the line. “Keep saying that,” she said coyly, “and I just might try to collect.”

  “I’m sure you’d take it out in blood,” he teased.

  “I was thinking more in terms of flesh,” she joked. “As in your hide. But perhaps your firstborn would do.”

  He thought of Amanda. “Oh, please, Sally,” he said, “not that.”

  “Don’t tell me there are little secret Santas out there,” she said laughing. “Ones you’ve never told us about.”

  “Sally,” he said before he hung up, “when I know, you’ll know.”

  * * *

  “I CAN’T STAND TO HAVE a man watch me cook,” Cyn said, tightening a red-and-green apron around her waist. She shot him a taunting smile, then shoved a tray of cookie sprinkles in his direction. She’d changed into black wool slacks and a white silk blouse, through which he could see hints of a lacy camisole.

  “Nothing worse than a feminist,” he returned playfully, seating himself at the table. The aroma of freshly baked cookies filled the warm kitchen and made him think of home, hearth and family. Glancing between Cyn and Amanda, he wondered yet another time if this really was his family.

  “What’s a fem-nist?” Amanda lathered a cookie with icing, getting more of the green goo on her hands than on the cookie. She pushed it toward Santa, who was now on sprinkle detail, apparently.

  “A mild annoyance,” Santa teased. He chuckled, gazed into Amanda’s adorable green eyes, then picked up her cookie. Instead of sprinkling it, he naughtily popped it into his mouth whole.

  Amanda gasped, staring at him, slack jawed. Then her rosy cheeks dimpled and she giggled. “Mommy, Santa Claus don’t help us bake right.”

  “It’s won’t, not don’t, and men never do, honey,” Cyn replied over her shoulder as she put another tray into the oven.

  When she turned around again, Santa surveyed her with the most penetrating gaze he could muster. She leaned against the same counter where they’d kissed the day before. “But don’t forget, there are some things only men can do in a kitchen,” he said. Judging from the way she pursed her lips, she too was now thinking about kissing him.

  “Yeah,” Amanda said brightly. “Men can come and they fix the sink when the water goes everywhere.”

  “Right, Amanda,” Cyn said, leaning against the counter and giving Santa the once-over, as if she couldn’t have made the point better herself.

  Still, he was pleased to hear that her voice sounded a bit faint. She was thinking of kisses, all right. The corners of his lips twitched. “Men can fix all kinds of broken-down things.”

  Completely forgetting Amanda, Cyn’s eyes widened. “I sure hope you aren’t implying that I’m somehow broken-down.”

  He shrugged. “No, but are you now implying I could fix you?”

  “Put me in a fix is more like it,” she said coyly, clearly unable to stop herself from rising to the bait.

  “And then there’s your father—” He grinned and leaned his elbows on the table, enjoying himself. “Who’s trying to fix us up.”

  Cyn suddenly chuckled. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I’m not fixing to let him.”

  Santa glanced at Amanda, who now looked thoroughly confused. “Granddaddy’s a fem-nist,” she piped in as she finished icing the last cookie.

  Cyn’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “How’s that?” she asked as he leaned forward and sprinkled tiny pink stars over Amanda’s cookie. The gesture won him endearing smiles from both Amanda and Cyn.

  “Granddaddy calls and don’t let me watch cartoons,” Amanda groused, jumping up from the table.

  Ever the patient mother, Cyn automatically repeated the won’t-not-don’t rule, then said, “How would that make him a feminist, Amanda?”

  “He was ‘noying me,” Amanda said promptly.

  Cyn’s laughter seemed to make the kitchen even warmer. “No, what a feminist is—”

  “I’m gonna get my dress to wear by myself,” Amanda announced, interrupting her.

  Cyn smiled. “You go pick out a dress. I’ll call you when the next batch is ready for icing.”

  “If Santa Claus doesn’t eat them all,” Amanda said, shooting San
ta a coy glance that she’d clearly copied from her mother. “I get in trouble. Mr. Santa should be in big trouble.”

  “As soon as you leave to pick out your dress,” Cyn said gravely, “I mean to explain the rules to Santa.”

  “Rules?” As soon as Amanda had gone, he picked up another cookie and took a large bite.

  “We don’t eat without asking.” Cyn tossed a dish towel over the lip of the sink and stared pointedly at his cookie.

  There were some remarks even he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Still he couldn’t help but imagine his mouth sliding over Cyn’s smooth skin. When he said nothing, her face suddenly went from wintry pale to berry red in a second flat.

  “You are so crude!” A faint, shocked smile curled the corners of her lips.

  “I didn’t say a word,” he drawled.

  “You don’t have to. Is your mind always in the gutter?”

  He downed the rest of the cookie and reached for another. “Perpetually, when I’m around you.”

  “You have a whole tray of sprinkles to finish,” she said, suddenly sounding like a drill sergeant. “And I suggest you get to work. Otherwise, you’ll disappoint Amanda.”

  Was Cyn really going to try to implement her own hands-off policy? Good luck, he thought. Given the energy between them, her resolve would never last. “Hmm,” he finally hummed, picking up a container of sprinkles. “If I concentrate real hard on decorating, then maybe you won’t be so likely to read my gutterlike mind.”

  “I sure hope I can’t,” she returned archly. “I’d probably collapse from the shock.”

  His gaze dropped from her face and lingered momentarily on her blouse. Looking at how the scalloped lace edges of her camisole formed heart shapes over her breasts, his smile almost faltered. “No probably about it,” he said softly.

  Her sharp breath seemed overly loud in the quiet kitchen. She grabbed the dish towel, dampened it, then strode to the table and began mopping in and around his elbows, as if he weren’t even there.

  “Missed a spot,” he prodded as he put down the pink star sprinkles and reached for the tiny blue dots. When she glanced his way, he pointed at a glob of green icing.