by Jule McBride
Why is it that every time I see him with Amanda, I think I could fall in love with him? Cyn wondered. She tried to tell herself that it was only because the dainty, feminine room made him look so much more masculine. His hands seemed larger and darker against the tiny pink throws, his back seemed broader beneath the frilly canopy, and his feet—clad in shiny dress shoes—looked adultly male next to Amanda’s girlish pocketbook, which had fallen to the floor.
A tug of sadness pulled at Cyn’s heart. She’d barely dated in the past four years. It had seemed best to focus on Amanda, to try to give her everything in the world. But she hadn’t given Amanda the thing she most wanted. A daddy. Right now, seeing such a strong man watch over her little baby, the absence of a father almost hurt. Jake Jackson isn’t coming within a mile of Amanda, no matter how much she needs a dad. Cyn sighed. She was a daddy’s girl, herself. She was approaching thirty, but she simply couldn’t imagine a life without Paxton, or her mother.
Amanda had accepted Santa so easily. What would happen when the threats were gone and he left? Even now, Cyn feared the effect on Amanda. And on myself. In a few short days Cyn had come to want him. Maybe that was fine, she decided. If she made love to him, he would leave. He would be a man who briefly touched their lives—without leaving heartbreak in his wake.
She sucked in a sharp breath. As if remembering that she was watching, Santa gently smoothed the hair on Amanda’s forehead. He leaned, retrieved Amanda’s pocketbook from the floor and placed it on her bedside table carefully. Then he reached for her lamp. Its shade was scalloped and its base was a pink porcelain ballerina. The tutu seemed to shrink beneath his hand as he turned out the light.
“Sleep well, Amanda,” Cyn heard him whisper in the darkness. “And dream of a nutcracker prince.” The whole room grew quiet and seemingly smaller and Cyn felt oddly self-conscious.
“It was a big night for her,” Cyn whispered as she and Santa tiptoed into the hall.
“For me, too,” he said softly as he opened the coat closet. He looked sleepy, and the dim light transformed his eyes so that they softened to a gleaming gold. He stepped behind her. When he removed her coat, his fingertips grazed her bare shoulders and glided gracefully over her skin.
“So, did you have an all right time?” she murmured, facing him in the hallway’s dim light. Was it her imagination or were his hands really luxuriating in the sensual feel of the fur?
He nodded as he hung her coat for her, then shrugged out of his own. “It made me think of lost childhoods,” he said in a dreamy-sounding drawl.
“And lost first loves?” she asked, before she’d really thought it through.
He hung up his coat, then leaned against the door frame. “Those, too.”
There wasn’t much light, but it caught in his slicked-back hair and streaked it with a gold that matched his eyes. She smiled. “Just how many lost first loves can one have?”
His eyes suddenly seemed so all-knowing that she nearly flinched. His lips parted slightly, then closed, as if he’d been about to say something but then changed his mind. “Only one,” he finally said.
She tilted her head, wondering what he’d decided not to say. “Who was yours?” Her voice lowered huskily.
He merely stared at her, as if he could do so forever. A look she could swear she’d seen a thousand times in his eyes now touched them. It was of sadness, longing and desire—all combined. “Who was yours?” he countered softly.
Jake Jackson, she thought, wishing there was just one other name...one other man. One other time when she’d been touched to the depth of her very being. “Bad topic?” she suggested. She tried to tell herself that the raspiness of her voice was caused by sleepiness, not Santa. And yet, she knew she wanted him.
“Afraid so,” he murmured. He leaned lithely and touched her pearl necklace. His fingertips lingered against her collarbone, then he lifted the strand just inches into the air. He thoughtfully turned it one way and another, as if watching how the pearls caught the light.
The thought flashed through her mind that she’d thrown her pearls before swine, with Jake Jackson, and yet when Santa carefully replaced her necklace all she could think of were those tanned fingers that remained on her skin.
Say something, she thought illogically.
“Good night, Cynthia.”
He said it, but he didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers traced across her upper chest, then slid up the column of her neck. Just when she remembered to breathe and sucked inward, his hand turned and cupped her chin.
Her lips parted. Slow heat curled in her stomach like trailing smoke, and fire seemed to lick its tongue into the corners of her body. Her mouth went as dry as cinders. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. Oh, how this man’s going to kiss me.
He leaned and pressed his lips against hers with an astonishing gentleness. She’d expected feverish fury and fiery intensity. She’d expected to feel his whole body crush against hers. Heavens, she’d expected the kiss they’d shared in the kitchen. But the almost chaste, steady pressure of his lips was even more intimate. She realized she was holding her breath.
He leaned back. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured softly.
Her heart was hammering, her knees were wobbly, and she still hadn’t breathed. Santa’s golden eyes flickered as if lit by inner fires, and his broad shoulders looked strong enough to carry the weight of the world. Cyn exhaled shakily. “Ah, Santa,” she managed to whisper, “who needs to dream?”
Chapter Six
Sunday, December 18, 1994
“A fine dinner, as usual, Cynthia,” Paxton said. He took a last quick bite of cheesecake, then leaned back and sipped his espresso. He tilted his head toward the CD player, as if listening to the soft classical music. “You’ll make a man a fine wife, someday.” He glanced mischievously in Santa’s direction. “Won’t she, Santa?”
“Perhaps sooner than she thinks,” Santa drawled from the head of the table, where Paxton had insisted he sit. She’d dimmed the lights, and Santa’s eyes danced in the candlelight. For a second his penetrating stare made her feel particularly transparent. She could swear he knew her innermost secrets.
“Amanda needs a father figure,” Paxton continued.
“Now, Daddy,” Cyn protested weakly. Her gaze drifted to where his shirt cuffs peeked from beneath his suit sleeves. As usual, her father was missing a cuff link. She wished he’d concentrate more on dressing himself and less on marrying her off. She simply couldn’t believe how Paxton had warmed to Santa.
“Well, they always say that second marriages are the best,” Santa said to Paxton, picking up the thread.
Is it my imagination or does Santa know something about Jake and Harry? “So glad you could come, Daddy,” Cyn piped in, for what had to be the umpteenth time. Why wouldn’t her father take the hint? Not that she wanted to be alone with Santa. All her five senses longed for him, but her sixth sense kept screaming, “mistake.” She’d avoided him today, since he hadn’t attended church with them. Instead, he’d rifled through drawers at Too Sweet again.
Paxton sighed, placing his napkin beside his plate. “I’d glance in on Amanda, but I don’t want to wake her.”
“You won’t,” Cyn said quickly. “You know how soundly she sleeps.”
Paxton ignored her and turned to Santa. “Real cute, isn’t she?” he prodded.
Santa’s eyes, which had seemed so nondescript just days ago now steadily met Cyn’s, making her whole body tingle. “Cyn or Amanda?” he finally asked, his gaze never leaving hers.
Paxton chuckled. “Amanda.”
Santa nodded. “She sure is.” Everything in his expression made Cyn sure he was thinking of her. And not in terms of cute, exactly. She appreciated the easy way in which he humored her father. Still, she was starting to feel testy.
“Next time Mother can’t make dinner, I’ll call,” Cyn said, more pointedly than she’d intended. Her parents traded Sunday night dinners, and this one belonged to Analise. Cyn wished her moth
er hadn’t worked tonight, too. She half expected her father to come right out and beg Santa to marry her.
“Yes, Amanda is cute, isn’t she?”
“I think you said that, Daddy,” Cyn reminded.
“As a button,” Santa said. From the opposite end of the table, he shot Cyn a grin, as if to say he was as aware of Paxton’s machinations as she was.
“Heavens!” Cyn cleared her throat loudly and looked at a clock. “How time flies!”
Paxton scrutinized her, then Santa. “Oh!” he exclaimed guiltily. “I guess you two want to be alone.”
Cyn’s cheeks warmed. “That’s not what I meant! I mean—er— I just need to start cleaning up....”
“I’m no fool,” Paxton said, sounding pleased. Feeling flustered, Cyn slammed her demitasse cup onto its saucer.
Santa smirked, seemingly enjoying her discomfort. “I’ll walk you to the door, Paxton.”
Cyn busied herself by gathering up the dessert plates. She was nearly to the kitchen when she heard Paxton say, “You’d be a good man for my daughter, Santa.”
Santa’s laughter rang in her ears. “You just don’t quit, do you, Paxton?”
In the kitchen, Cyn put her hands on her hips and sighed. As much as she loved to cook, she’d also managed to dirty every dish in the house. She headed toward the dining room again and collided with Santa. He caught her in his arms, and once more she felt sure he was going to kiss her.
Instead, he said, “You rinse. I’ll carry.” With that, he playfully marched her back toward the sink.
“Sorry about my father,” she said.
“You sure rushed him out.” Santa’s breath whispered by her ear.
“I’d had about all the male bonding I could take,” she managed to say. Feeling Santa’s broad chest press against her back, she half wished he’d responded differently to her father’s last words. He could have said he was Mr. Right, for instance. Instead, he’d laughed.
“The Super Bowl is male bonding,” he said, depositing her in front of the dishwasher. “What your father engages in is old-fashioned matchmaking.”
Watching him amble back down the hallway, Cyn almost wished it had worked. He was obviously attracted to her, and she was fairly sure he wasn’t bothered by the ethical question of their involvement. Ever since he’d tried to quit, his eyes had flickered with invitation. On the one hand, a casual affair, which was all a traveling man like Santa could offer, seemed perfect. And yet, Cyn wasn’t sure she was capable of it. She’d end up wanting more. She sighed and started cleaning with a vengeance.
“Why doesn’t a woman like you have a cook?” Santa asked moments later. He grabbed a towel and began hand-drying the sterling silverware.
She shrugged. “I like to cook.” When she glanced at him, she realized he’d removed his jacket. His suspenders were off his shoulders and hung in loops by his thighs. “Besides, I love turkey dinners.” She smiled. “I even make them in the summer.”
He leaned casually against the counter, while he polished a serving spoon to perfection. “At least someone to clean up...”
She placed the last pot in the drain board. “Why?” she asked saucily. “When I have you?”
“Ah—” he drawled. “But do you have me?”
She decided not to pursue that one. “Honestly, I don’t really like having people around all the time. My mother always did.”
He chuckled. “Is that a not-so-subtle hint?” He slapped the towel over his shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just what am I getting in the way of?”
“Oh,” she managed to say lightly, “of my many dates.” What am I saying? What dates?
He grinned wickedly. In the next instant, the towel snapped off his shoulder and he playfully swatted her behind. “Meet me in the living room.” He shoved away from the counter with his hip.
He’d nearly reached the hall before she asked, “What for?”
“You know.” He turned in the doorway. “I’ll take you out, squire you around town. We’ll have dinner. Take in the show...”
“A show in my living room?” she asked archly.
He turned and strode down the hall with such lean-looking long strides that her heart started to race. “Always,” he called over his shoulder. “If you’re there, sweetheart.”
“I guess we could watch TV,” she yelled.
Another throaty chuckle floated to her ears. “I was thinking more in terms of fireworks.”
* * *
“SO, IS THIS WHERE you bring all the girls?”
For a moment, Santa kept staring through the living room window at the snow flurries. Would it ever really snow? And did he dare seduce her? Wouldn’t she realize who he was? He forced himself to turn around.
He watched her smooth her crepe cream dress beneath her behind as she sat daintily on the sofa. She sat right in the middle, too, which meant she intended for them to get cozy. Her thick hair was drawn into a soft, seductive knot. He almost wished he’d extinguished the candles and turned on all the lights. “It might be more to the point,” he finally drawled, “to ask if this is where you bring all the boys.”
“Ah—” She flashed him a quick smile, then glanced at the two glasses of wine he’d poured and left on a coffee table. “Many a man has lost his virtue here,” she said. The tremor in her voice almost convinced him it wasn’t true.
“Not to mention his heart, I’m sure.” Santa’s own skipped a beat, and he wondered just how much truth there was in what she’d said. He was a little jealous by nature, and he couldn’t help it.
“A man’s heart,” Cyn returned lightly, “is the very last thing I need.” She picked up a glass and took a quick sip of wine.
He crossed the room and sat next to her on the sofa. She looked as lovely to him as she had the previous night. Through the transparent sleeves of her dress, her skin glowed. “So, it must be a man’s hand you’re looking for....” he said in a teasing whisper.
She smiled. “Oh please. Not that.”
He burst out laughing. “Just what part of a man do you want, Ms. Sweet?”
Her smile broadened. “Do you really want to know?”
He managed to straighten his face. “Actually—” He casually laid his arm along the back of the sofa, above her shoulders. “I’m afraid to ask.”
She took another sip of wine and replaced her glass on the coffee table. Then she turned and looked at him boldly. In the dim candlelight, her eyes seemed as darkly green as a forest at midnight. Just looking, he felt himself getting pleasantly lost. “You should be,” she said, holding his gaze.
Many times, he’d noticed that Cyn had grown up. But this was too much. How many men had she talked to this way? He knew he hadn’t been her first lover. And yet, she said there’d only been one other man, one time. All along, he’d assumed it was Harry Stevens. Maybe it wasn’t.
When he said nothing, she leaned forward again. When she lifted her wineglass, her stocking-clad knee brushed his slacks, begging the question again: Could he possibly make love to her without her recognizing him? She took a sip that left her mouth wet and glistening. The classical CD fell silent between movements of a symphony, and in the sudden, hushed quiet, her glass tinkled against a coaster.
Without even thinking, he leaned forward as she leaned back, and his arm left the sofa and curled around her shoulders instead. In a second, her cheek was pressed against his chest. “I’ve lost my fear,” he said huskily. “Just what part of a man do you want?”
The hemline of her dress had risen and how her long, perfect legs twined at the ankles suddenly captured his whole attention. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt her smile press against his shirtfront.
“What part of a woman do you want, Santa?” She poked his chest lightly with one of her long, polished nails.
He chuckled softly. Everything about her—her playfulness, her nearness, and her scent—was arousing him. The pressure of her hip against his was warm. “Depends on the woman.”
She snuggled closer, nuzzling her cheek into his shoulder. “What about me?”
“You?” He dipped his head and breathed in the clean, fresh scent of her hair. As he brushed his lips across her thick bun, he thought about removing her hairpins. Heat coiled in his abdomen and his whole body felt heavier. His slacks began to tug perceptibly. My face is different. My hair’s another color. I’m more muscular. But my inner self, the way I am when I lose control, when I make love...
“Who else but me, silly?” she finally murmured.
When he inhaled, his mouth went dry. He licked his lower lip, knowing he couldn’t take much more of this. Not the constant teasing. Not the soft, almost accidental touches when they brushed past each other. Not the way her legs could twine around his waist if he only pulled her on top of him. He wasn’t wondering about Amanda at the moment. He had to know if he was her father, but right now, all he knew was that he wanted Cyn.
Finally he said, “You’re not the kind of woman that I could break down into parts.” He dropped his arm from around her shoulder and slid his fingertips down the length of her arm.
She giggled throatily. “So the whole of me is greater than the sum of my parts? Isn’t that some law of chemistry?”
“Philosophy, I think,” he murmured. He tightened his arm around her, thinking that he was nearly ready to make love, even though he hadn’t even kissed her yet. “But chemistry will certainly do.”
“Is that a compliment, Santa?”
“No, sweetheart,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “It’s an invitation.”
“Am I supposed to RSVP?” Her voice lowered so that it was barely audible. She kicked off her high heels.
“Immediately.”
When she sat up, he wished he was still wearing his suit jacket. As it was, there was nothing to hide his aroused state. Her gaze flitted toward his lap, and rose immediately to his eyes. The sheer vulnerability he saw in her face made him sure he was making a dangerous mistake. Her confidence was gone. So was the jaunty smile that preceded her saucier come-on lines.
“I don’t want—”
She was speaking so quietly that he had to lean forward to hear. He glanced toward the hallway. “Are you worried about Amanda?”