by Jule McBride
“Well then, hear this,” she said calmly. “In the past couple of hours I decided—” I want to marry you. Oh, don’t say that! Something in his expression—a warning, perhaps— stopped her.
He looked alert, but his brown eyes seemed sexily lazy. She decided he was intentionally trying to look bored.
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
She uncurled her feet beneath her. They slapped the tile floor when they hit it. “I think you’re afraid.”
He merely surveyed her with that trademark Santa look, where his lips parted but he didn’t speak, and his eyes looked heavy but he didn’t roll them heavenward. Everything in his gaze said there was nothing he feared.
She tossed her head so that her loose hair fell behind her shoulders. “You travel a lot, and you’re used to being on your own,” she said. “Having things your own way...”
“So, I’m afraid?”
“Maybe.” As if to undercut her own seriousness, she managed to shoot him an unconcerned smile.
“Of what?”
“Loving me.”
He chuckled softly. “Don’t kid yourself.”
She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. “Well, I know why I wouldn’t fall in love with you.” She wished the smile she’d plastered on her face wasn’t making her cheeks tingle.
He sighed. “Do tell.”
“Oh, well—” She busied herself by picking up crumbs—some real, some imaginary—from the tabletop. “You’re a globe-trotter, and you’re involved in a dangerous business. I mean—” She clapped her hands together above a saucer, dusting off the imaginary crumbs. “You could get shot at any moment.”
“My, my, don’t you sound bloodthirsty.”
He sounded annoyed now. She suddenly hoped she could make him every bit as irritated as she felt. “Not at all,” she returned lightly. “But I think it’s sweet that you don’t want to involve yourself with a woman on account of that.”
“Cyn” he said flatly, the veneer of banter vanishing. “That has nothing to do with—”
“Well then, what does?”
He didn’t look particularly happy about being caught in her verbal trap. “You said you wanted to sleep with me, for just one night. So, I did. That’s all.”
“That’s all!”
“That’s—” He paused and swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was unnervingly calm. “That’s right.”
“Right after you kissed me, when the note concerning Amanda came, you tried to quit.” Her voice leapt upward and she couldn’t rein it in. “When I needed you most, you walked out. Do you always leave when people need you?”
“That’s enough,” he said levelly.
“Apparently, I’m not,” she returned in a steely tone.
He was clearly trying not to react, but his expression softened. “You’re my client,” he nearly whispered.
She rolled her eyes. “Amanda’s your client.”
“I’m an up-front guy,” he countered. “And I’m calling it like it is.”
It was clear he’d taken his position and didn’t intend to budge. But she didn’t, either. In those long, cold, wee hours of the night, Cyn was just too sure she’d finally found a man she wanted to be with. He was amazingly strong, but he could be so caring and gentle....
They were still staring each other down when the phone rang. “Who could be calling at this otherworldly hour?” she muttered, reaching it first.
“May I please speak to Anton Santa?”
She held out the phone. “It’s a woman,” she said, not bothering to hide her pique.
When he reached for the receiver, his fingertips grazed the back of her hand. She wanted to hang up the phone and feel the strength of his arms around her again. She wanted to be held. He turned his back to her. “Yeah? This is Santa.”
Cyn crossed her arms over her chest and listened to his hmms and sighs. After a moment, she decided that something was wrong. “Thanks for calling as soon as you got the information, Sally,” he finally said. “I owe you one.”
“What is it?” she asked as he hung up and turned around. His eyes were even more disturbing than the call. She was almost sure that he was considering offering her comfort again. It’s bad. I can feel it. A shiver of both fear and longing raced down her spine.
“I got an address on Matthew Lewis.” Santa’s voice gentled for the first time that morning. “He’s nearby. At a house in Jersey.”
* * *
“I‘M COMING WITH YOU!”
“You’re staying with Amanda and the rent-a-cop,” Santa called over his shoulder, listening to Cyn’s flat boots thud after him, through the parking garage. He turned the key in the driver’s side of his rented sedan. Just as he opened the door, Cyn elbowed him with such force it nearly took away his breath. Before he could grab her, she’d scooted in and slid across the seat.
He glanced over the items she’d brought with her: oversize pocketbook, picnic basket and thermos. He removed his handcuffs from where they were looped over his belt and tossed them onto the seat, next to the car phone. Then he got in and slammed the door. Hard.
He felt half-inclined to tell her he was Jake Jackson, if for no other reason than that she’d hightail it back to the apartment. But he meant to tell her in his own good time. Like when he figured out what he wanted to do about Amanda, for instance. If he’d ever felt he was exacting revenge by keeping his identity hidden, it was doubly true now. When he told her—and he’d have to, since Amanda was his daughter—Cyn would never recover from the blow. Not after he’d made love to her. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care. She was a liar and two-timer and he didn’t want her back.
“I know what Matthew Lewis looks like,” Cyn finally announced breathlessly as she rummaged in her pocketbook, pulled out a plastic band and drew her hair into a loose ponytail. She pulled on a little black knit hat, then stuffed her stray hairs beneath it. “And you don’t.”
“Fine,” he said, wishing she didn’t look so cute in her ridiculous undercover getup, and thinking he knew damn well what Lewis looked like. If Cyn came with him, Lewis might see the two of them together, and identify Santa. After all, the man had seen him clean shaven and in a suit. As soon as Santa had left the hospital, he’d questioned him. Well, Santa thought as he turned the key in the ignition, he’d just make Cyn stay in the car. When the sedan roared to life, he felt half-inclined to squeal out of the garage. Instead, he somehow managed to calmly back out of his space.
“I bet this’ll be kind of fun,” she said as he pulled onto Eighty-eighth Street. “I mean, a stakeout and everything. I made some turkey sandwiches, either with or without mayo, and a whole thermos full of coffee, with the cream separate, of course, since I know you like yours black.”
He hit the brake at a light and slowly turned his head, staring at her pointedly. His gaze dropped slowly over her outfit and, suddenly, he had to fight not to smile. She was wearing all black—tights, hooded sweatshirt, suede coat and hat. She looked like an adorable thief in a TV movie. Since it was daytime, she looked pretty obvious, too.
“Maybe you like peace and quiet when you drive,” she said, after a moment. She made a show of primly folding her hands in her lap, then glanced away from him and stared through the windshield.
He took the FDR, doubled back into midtown, then took the Lincoln Tunnel. He didn’t know which was worse, her silence or her chatter. He didn’t know why he was so furious, either. After all, hadn’t he suspected Amanda was his daughter, all along?
But hearing Cyn say the words had changed everything. He was a father. She was a liar. And he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about any of it. Oh, he’d claim Amanda. He had no intention of letting her go through life believing her father’s name was Jake Jackson. Still, once he claimed her, what in the world was he going to do with her?
He drove in silence for some time, trying to tell himself he hated Cyn, even if having her had only made him wa
nt her all the more. Being trapped in the cramped, closed confines of the car made things infinitely worse. Not a second passed without him feeling conscious of her nearness. He could pull her silly hat from her head, release her hair band, and all that disheveled, luxurious hair would cascade around her shoulders. Beneath the scents of bath powder and perfume, Cyn’s own scent filled the car. Resting one hand lightly on the wheel, Santa cracked his window with the other. The chilly rush of air smelled like burning leaves, but it didn’t help.
Because he was thinking about Cyn, he made a wrong turn and landed on an expressway. He braked at a tollbooth harder than was necessary, rolled down his window and handed over the money, thinking that maybe he could start a securities business in the city. Images of picking Amanda up and dropping her off at Cyn’s flashed through his mind. What a mess.
Cyn. Was that really what he was mad about? Threads of their conversation kept replaying in his thoughts. Had she really had the nerve to accuse him of walking out when she’d needed him? That was rich. She’d left him lying in her parents’ yard with two gunshot wounds. As badly hurt as he’d been, he’d chased after her. He’d saved her life, too. Now he pulled off the expressway and tried to get his bearings.
“Such cute decorations,” Cyn remarked pleasantly. As Santa wound down the circular streets, he couldn’t help but follow her gaze. “Oh, look! Look at that!”
She pointed excitedly at a house with candles in the windows. A German shepherd, wearing a green bow for a collar, thumped his tail on the front porch and pawed the door. In another yard, a huge plastic Santa sat on a sleigh, driving a team of reindeer. In front of a quaint two-story stone place, tall brass lanterns tied with red bows marked either side of a brick walkway. Dark smoke plumed from chimneys, then trailed through the whitish winter sky. Wreaths hung from nearly every door.
He hazarded another glance at Cyn, thinking that she’d deprived him of this. Of some homey little neighborhood somewhere with her and Amanda. Of holidays with a family he could call his own. Maybe he and Cyn would even have had other children by now. Four years had passed, three Christmases where Amanda had squirmed on Santa’s lap and torn crinkling shiny paper from her presents. Damn.
“I just love the decorations,” Cyn crooned softly. “Don’t you?”
He didn’t know whether it was her proximity to him in the seat or the fact that he was breathing in her perfume with every breath, but he found himself nodding. “Yeah.”
She whirled around, laughing. “Was that a yes, Santa?”
“Can’t a man like decorations?” he asked gruffly.
“Absolutely.” Her eyes were twinkling but he was fairly sure her attitude correction was a ploy. She was still furious. Cyn didn’t take no for an answer when she wanted something. And she wanted him. Too bad, he thought. He battled another sudden urge to reveal himself. The information would go down like a bad medicine, but it would definitely cure Cyn of her desire for him.
He pulled to a curb. “See the brick place down there? The one with the lit-up dogwood tree?”
Cyn nodded.
“That’s Lewis’s mother’s.”
She scooted up and peered through the windshield. “Can’t we get any closer?”
He shook his head, then leaned and stretched his arm over her knees. When he did, she nearly jumped out of her skin. He wished he didn’t want to smile at the proof that her newfound perkiness was nothing more than show. He slowly opened the glove compartment and took out his field glasses.
“Oh,” she murmured. “You were just getting your binoculars.”
“Don’t worry,” he said as he raised them to his eyes. “I won’t attack you.”
* * *
“WHERE DO YOU FIND the patience for this stakeout stuff?” Cyn asked hours later. She raised her arms above her head and yawned lazily, looking at Santa.
“I’m a patient man,” he returned. He polished off the last bite of his second turkey sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.
You sure are, she thought. Images from their night together touched her mind, but that wasn’t the only reason she had to know him better. Paxton liked him. Amanda felt as strongly about him as she did, herself. Santa had seemed less perturbed by her presence as the day had worn on, too. “Don’t you start feeling like you just have to do something?”
“No.” He glanced at her. “Like what?”
“We could make out,” she teased. “After all, we are parking. It’s cold in here, too. We haven’t turned on the car or the heater forever.”
He shook his head in mock censure. “You’re a woman with only one thing on her mind.”
She curled her legs in the seat and turned to get a better look at him. She felt all rumpled and he looked as dapper as he had at the crack of dawn. “Are you trying to tell me you’re less focused?” she asked, as if she felt sorry for him.
He relaxed in the seat and tilted his head, his eyes roving over her face. “Maybe I have only one thing on my mind, too.”
She arched her brows and stared back at him innocently. “What?”
“Making sure Amanda’s safe,” he said levelly.
Cyn gulped, wishing they were here for some other reason. “I know you will,” she said, meaning it. Santa was so patiently diligent about his work that Amanda could have been his own daughter. Could he ever truly accept Amanda as his own? And, after having Amanda to herself for so long, how did Cyn really feel about sharing her? With Santa, she thought, perhaps she could.
Her eyes drifted over him as they had a thousand times that day, and she thought, as she had each time, that he seemed like the strongest man in the world. While she was looking at him, his whole body suddenly tensed.
“There he is,” Santa whispered.
She whirled back toward the windshield and gasped. “How did you know it was him?” Her blood boiled as she watched Lewis cross the yard and get into a compact car. Was it her imagination or did he look nervous?
“Is it him?” Santa asked.
“Yeah,” she said, staring the man down. An almost murderous hatred pumped through her veins. The sensation couldn’t have been more intense if she had seen Jake Jackson himself. After all, Lewis was one of the men who’d nearly destroyed her life four years ago. And now he might be coming after Amanda.
Santa started the car, then pulled out, keeping a good distance away from the compact. Cyn fell silent and glanced between Santa and the other car. He was good at tailing people. Half the time she was sure they’d lose the man, but they never did. The longer they drove the more anxious she became. Suddenly all the lovely Christmas decorations seemed a little menacing.
“Damn,” Santa muttered under his breath.
Something in his voice made Jake Jackson’s face pop into her mind. It’s only because we’re tailing Lewis. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“Er—nothing.” He sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t meant to curse out loud. He sighed. “If I’d known we’d be following him, I wouldn’t have let you come.”
“I’m not going to get hurt,” she said defensively. Why did he think she couldn’t handle herself? She felt touched. He was worried about her, which was a good sign. Up ahead, Lewis pulled to a curb. Santa backed into a driveway.
After a moment his wry chuckle filled the car. “Just don’t make me take another bullet for you,” he said. “Okay?”
She leaned across the seat and playfully poked him in the ribs. “Another bullet?” she teased. “Have you been having fantasies about protecting me or something? I mean, I don’t remember that first one.”
He flashed her a quick grin. It seemed to light up the dreary winter afternoon, but it didn’t completely hide the sadness in his eyes. What was it in this man’s past that haunted him?
“Maybe you just didn’t see it coming,” he finally said.
* * *
“STAY PUT,” Santa said roughly, feeling desperate to ensure that Lewis and Cyn didn’t get within view of each other. “A
nd I mean it this time.”
“But, Santa—”
He shot her a long, penetrating glare to communicate his seriousness. He had a hunch about what was happening. It had come from a thousand subtle impressions: the way Lewis squared his shoulders, fidgeted with his hands, tensed his thighs, paused before he rang a doorbell. Santa felt he was standing at the most precarious impasse he’d ever encountered. Should he keep Cyn away from Lewis...but at the risk of not capturing the man who might be threatening Amanda?
“I mean it,” he repeated, grabbing his cuffs.
“Whatever you say.” Cyn sounded resigned. She wasn’t happy about it, but everything in her expression said she meant to stay in the car.
Santa quietly shut his door, then casually ambled toward the house Matthew Lewis had entered. It was a shingled two-story, surrounded by boxwoods. A rough-hewn wooden deck had been added onto the back, and at either end were stairs that led into the backyard. It faced a privacy wall that presumably hid an alley.
As Santa neared the house, Lewis stepped onto the deck with another man. Looking at them, Santa could bet his bottom dollar that the second man—a man Santa had only seen in a mask—was the one who’d escaped from the Sweets’. He was also the man who’d pulled a gun on the cops. He was wearing only jeans and a flannel shirt, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets for warmth. When he spoke, his breath fogged the air.
As soon as the men turned their backs, Santa bolted through the yard at a silent crouching run, then stealthily crept beneath the deck. He squatted down, glanced up through the spaces between the boards and listened.
“What are you doing here?” It was definitely the man who’d gotten away. Santa recognized the voice. The man bounced up and down as if he were cold, making the boards above Santa creak. “This is my mother’s house. We could have met somewhere.”
Oh no. Santa drew in a breath and glanced over his shoulder. He could hear Cyn’s boots crunching over the frozen grass from a mile away. Fortunately, the men above him were too engrossed in each other to notice. Santa tried not to think about the last time Cyn had taken it upon herself to follow him into a dangerous situation.