by Jule McBride
Now the only one who understood was Cyn. They’d shared terror, grief and comfort. He’d never felt as close to anyone as he had to Cyn in the past twenty-four hours. But what had their lovemaking meant? Commitment or comfort?
He stepped into the elevator, without bothering to greet the operator, thinking that he’d been undercover, when he’d met her. He’d been so close to criminals that he could be mistaken for one. Hell, he’d even enjoyed pretending to be one. Four years ago, in the excitement of his undercover work, the only thing he’d regretted was not being able to tell Cyn the truth. But now, for the first time, he was truly on the other side of the law. The side where he was the parent of the victim.
“You okay, Santa?”
The doors opened. He glanced from the lobby to the operator. “Morning, Jim,” he said gruffly. The man’s concerned glance reminded him that he was usually more chatty. “I’m fine,” he added as he stepped out. “And back in a second. I just need to get the papers.”
“I’ll hold the elevator.”
Santa strode down the corridor and out the front doors. He dropped quarters into the machines at the corner and pulled out the papers: the Times, the Daily News, and Newsday. He shoved them under his arm and headed back inside. The temperature had dropped, and he found himself hoping that Amanda—wherever she was—wasn’t outside. Don’t even think it.
“You were quick this morning,” Jim said jovially.
Santa nodded. “Yeah.” As the elevator began its ascent, he pulled out the Daily News. He looked at the headlines and a familiar feeling of surety hit him so hard that he felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. It was more than a hunch. He’d found her. “Hurry up,” he said.
Jim chuckled. “An elevator’s only got one speed, Santa.”
When the doors finally opened, Santa bolted down the hall. He pounded on the front door as he opened it. “Everybody up,” he yelled. “Get up.”
He bounded past Analise and Paxton, rushing straight for Cyn’s room. “Cyn?” He leaned and shook her shoulder gently. “Cyn?” She rolled over and her green eyes opened in slits.
“I know where she is,” he said quickly. “Get dressed.”
She jerked upright. “Where?”
He was already halfway to the door. “Evan’s, I think.”
“Evan?” Analise yelled from the living room, sounding wide-awake. As Santa walked in, she jumped from the sofa and began wiggling her feet into her shoes. “But I was at Evan’s last night. I didn’t see anything that would—”
“Has either of you told anyone else she’s missing?”
“No.” Analise shook her head and brushed the skirt of her rumpled suit. “Maybe a policeman told someone.”
“Of course I didn’t tell anyone,” Paxton said groggily. He squinted at Santa as if he couldn’t quite remember what was happening.
Cyn scurried into the living room, her stockings trailing over her shoulders. Her eyes riveted on Santa’s, she began to don her stockings, matter-of-factly and in front of everyone.
“It’s in the paper,” he said. He tossed the Daily News toward the coffee table, but Analise snatched it up before it even landed.
“That—that—man.” Analise’s voice was so murderously hot it could have boiled water. Her head jerked up from the headlines and she stared at Paxton. “You never had an affair with Eileen, did you?” While she waited for a response, Analise staggered backward a pace, as if her mind were reeling and she couldn’t quite keep her footing.
“Mother, we’re trying to find Amanda!” Cyn shrieked.
“Eileen?” Paxton gasped. “My assistant? You think I had an affair with my—”
“Evan told me you—” Analise dropped the paper as if it had just scalded her skin. She reached over the back of the sofa and grabbed her coat. “I am going to go kill that man now,” she announced with lethal calm.
“You’re staying right here,” Santa said smoothly. “Call the police. Tell them I’m at Evan’s.”
“Me, too!”
Cyn was shouting even though they weren’t a foot apart. Santa was hardly going to argue. “Fine.”
“He’s the only one who could have told the media.” Cyn ran back to her room and emerged with her and Santa’s coats. “I don’t know why he’d do this,” she continued, her voice catching with relief. “But I don’t think he’d hurt her.”
“Why would he kidnap her?” Paxton asked, sounding confused.
“Because he wants to take over Too Sweet,” Analise screeched. “That’s why.” She groaned. “And I’m the one who hired him! I thought his Wall Street background would—”
“Eileen?” Paxton asked again, clearly beginning to wake up. He shook his head. “I thought you were mad because I’d finally decided to track down Jake Jackson. While I was trying to protect Cyn during the trial, you seemed so upset about all the lies I told...and you said Jackson was Amanda’s father, no matter what illegal activities he’d been involved in—”
“You knew!” Cyn gasped.
“Knew what?” Analise asked.
Paxton flushed guiltily. “You two better get going,” he said. “We’ve got to find Amanda.”
Santa grabbed Cyn’s hand. “I suspected he knew,” he muttered as he pulled her toward the door. “I asked you directly whether or not Jake was Amanda’s father, Paxton,” Santa called over his shoulder. “Why did you lie?”
“You two needed the chance to get to know each other again,” Paxton replied.
Santa groaned. Under his breath, he muttered, “Your father is nuts.”
“Call the cops,” Cyn yelled at Analise as she went out into the hall. “You really think Evan has her?” she asked Santa.
“Sometimes I get a strong gut feeling,” he drawled. “And I’ve never been wrong.”
“So, you know he’s got her?”
Santa put his arm around her, glad he wasn’t lying this time. “I know he does, and she’s just fine.”
* * *
“THE BIKE’S RIGHT IN the damn driveway,” Cyn seethed. Her eyes darted to the upper windows of the two-story house. If only she’d see Amanda’s face peek out from behind the curtains...
“It’s halfway behind a bush. Analise wouldn’t have seen it in the dark.” Santa pulled into a driveway two houses down.
Before they were even parked, Cyn pushed open her door and bolted. As soon as she saw Amanda safe and unharmed, she fully intended to commit her first murder. She didn’t get far. Santa caught her elbow and she spun around.
“Keep your head,” he chided softly.
A thousand protests shot to her lips, but she knew he was right. Looking into his eyes, she knew she could trust him. She’d shared the best moments of her life with Santa, and he’d held her tightly during the worst. “I just want her back so bad,” she said.
“So do I.” He steered her around a hedge that separated the lawns. When they got next to the house, they circled around, staring into the windows one by one. Through the cracks in the curtains, it seemed that no one was home.
“Where is he?” Cyn murmured. “And where are we going?” she continued, when they’d reached the front door again.
“This time we’ll see if one of the windows won’t op—” Santa nearly grinned.
“What?” Cyn asked urgently.
He nodded in the direction of the porch. “The front door’s open. C’mon.”
She did a double take, then kept close to Santa as he cautiously approached the porch. “Looks closed to me,” she murmured. But sure enough, it was open an inch; there was barely a crack between the door and the frame. Does anything escape this man? She watched his lips part.
“Get behind me,” Cyn whispered before he could say it. She dutifully took the backup position. He nudged open the door, then went in. She followed. Just in front of the door were the stairs. The place felt empty.
“Hello,” Santa called.
Cyn nearly jumped out of her skin.
“You here, Evan?” Santa sounded
so jolly that he might have been delivering Evan’s Christmas gift. He glanced at Cyn and shrugged.
“Let’s check the downstairs.” She was already moving toward the dining room, on her right.
Santa frowned when they reached the stairs again. He glanced up them. “He’s hiding.”
“After you,” Cyn whispered.
They moved stealthily, hugging the wall. When they were halfway down the upper hall, they heard a scraping sound. Cyn jerked her head in the direction of the farthest room. Someone was moving around in a closet. Those were hangers scraping over the bar. She ran toward the sound, close on Santa’s heels.
“Amanda!” Cyn exclaimed. She tore through the bedroom so quickly that she banged her hip on the side of an ornate brass bed. The room was empty, but the closet door was shut, and a key was in it! Cyn quickly twisted the key and flung open the door.
“Glad someone finally showed up,” Evan said drolly. He was seated on a footstool, in the middle of the walk-in closet, with his feet propped on a typewriter. A silver tray, laden with the remains of someone’s breakfast sat on the floor.
“He doesn’t have her,” Cyn murmured, barely aware that Santa charged past her. A moment later she realized he was dragging Evan from the closet by the scruff of the neck.
“Watch my suit,” Evan protested. Santa cuffed him to one of the brass curlicues in the headboard, just as the phone on the nightstand began to ring.
“Where is she?” Santa demanded.
His drawl was so calmly menacing that Cyn figured Evan was about to die a slow, torturous death. “Spit it out, Evan,” Cyn found herself saying, “or I’ll kill you before he does. Where’s my little girl?”
Evan’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard the rumors about you and your burglar boyfriend, you know. And I’d like to inform you that your little girl clearly carries the genes of her criminal father.” He smiled a sharklike smile. “Mind answering my phone?”
“Where?” Santa repeated. He advanced on his prisoner, murder in his eyes.
Either Santa’s threat or the sudden wail of approaching sirens loosened Evan’s tongue. “She was in the closet. This morning she kept yelling that she wanted breakfast. When I came in with the tray, she locked me in. The little creep took my wallet, too.”
The phone was still ringing, and outside two cop cruisers squealed into Evan’s driveway. Car doors slammed. “Why’d you do it?” Santa asked.
“Every time something bad happens to the Sweets, their stocks plummet.” He flashed a grin at Cyn. “And I own more of them than you think I do.”
The phone was driving her crazy. She snatched it up, prepared to say that the man of the house was under arrest. Then she realized that Evan might have a partner. She clenched her jaw, waiting for the caller to speak first.
“Is someone there?” Analise finally asked.
“Mom?”
“She’s here!” Analise exclaimed breathlessly. “She’s here!”
Cyn gasped. “Amanda?”
“Paxton just went to get her,” Analise said in a rush. “She pulled right up to the store in a cab. After we called the police, we realized that Evan wasn’t handling things here and— None of it matters. She’s at the store!”
“Be right there.” Cyn hung up, just as Officers O’Malley and Blankenship charged into the room and began reading Evan his rights.
“Is she okay?” Santa asked.
Cyn nodded. “She’s at the store.” Santa caught her in his embrace and swung her around high in the air.
* * *
IT WASN’T AMANDA, but Bob Bingley who met them at the door. A folded Santa suit, a wig and beard were piled in one arm. He clasped his free hand tightly around Santa’s bicep, as if he meant business.
“Where’s Amanda?” Santa attempted to shake off Bob’s grasp.
“Third floor,” Bob snapped.
Cyn ran toward the crowded escalators. “Bob, there are things happening here that you don’t know about.”
Santa chased after Cyn. Since Bob wouldn’t let go, he simply dragged the poor man behind him. He knew he could disengage himself, but he didn’t exactly feel comfortable belting Analise’s right-hand man. He wanted to hurry, though. He wouldn’t believe Amanda was safe until he saw her. Up ahead, Cyn was already weaving through shoppers and climbing the escalator stairs. She whirled around.
“Bob!” she screamed over the heads of the bystanders. “Let go of him!”
“Sorry! Some of us are trying to ensure that this promotion runs smoothly!” Bob tightened his grip on Santa as they took the first stair. “But no one bothered to show up this morning—not you or Paxton or Analise or Evan—not even Santa Claus! He’s sick again. Only Clayton came to work. So, Cyn dear,” Bob railed, raising his voice to a shrill pitch, “I need your bodyguard in exactly two seconds.”
“I can’t believe this,” Santa muttered. “You want me to be Santa Claus.” To appease Bob, he began pulling the Santa garb over his suit while they jostled customers aside and ascended the moving steps.
“You can’t go up!” Bob exclaimed, even though they’d already reached the second floor.
“Give me the pants.” Without waiting, Santa jerked them from Bob’s arms and stepped into them as he walked. Cyn was nearly to the top of the next escalator.
“Not upstairs! The promotion’s down here! The kids are waiting beside Santa’s chair!” When Santa grabbed the wig and beard, Bob wrung his empty hands nervously. “Oh, no, those pants are falling down. Padding. I’ve got to find extra padding!”
By the time the three of them reached the third floor, Santa found himself dressed from head to toe in the red velour suit.
Bob was still pawing at his sleeve. “Put on that beard. It’s got elastic in the back!”
“Mommy!”
Santa forgot Bob entirely. His little girl shot out from behind a Barbie display and ran toward Cyn in a blur of green velvet. He watched Cyn drop to her knees and catch Amanda in her arms. She stood slowly, still clutching their daughter, and then turned around and around in circles.
Santa bounded toward Cyn and Amanda—his girls—and reached them just as Cyn collapsed in an armchair. “Are you all right?” Her hands roved over Amanda’s arms, legs and back. “Are you?”
Santa was barely aware that Analise and Paxton were standing near the chair. He only had eyes for Amanda, who now wiggled in Cyn’s lap. “I get to wear the same dress for two days,” she said happily. “And Evan didn’t make me get a bath or anything.”
When Cyn glanced at Santa, tears were streaming down her cheeks. A wealth of understanding seemed to pass between them. Regardless of where they were all headed, their baby was safe. Sand, Santa thought illogically, his eyes stinging. Must have sand in my eyes.
He blinked just as Amanda looked at him. “You’re not Santa Claus!”
He sank down beside the chair, squatting on his heels. He felt so relieved he could barely breathe. His little blond-haired, green-eyed girl was the most beautiful sight in the world. She really was his, too. Anton Santa had really brought that kind of beauty into the world. He cleared his throat. “There’s only one Santa,” he managed to say. “I’m just a representative.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. They seemed touched by more sadness than a child could know. “You can’t hear what we want?”
“You mean, what you want for Christmas?” he asked softly.
Amanda’s face became a mask of forced bravado, and Cyn began rocking her, as if sensing something was wrong. When Amanda blinked, one round tear rolled down her cheek. How could his daughter smile gleefully one minute, then cry the very next? Santa wondered.
“I gotta see Santa!” she suddenly wailed.
“You can talk to me,” he said.
His little girl’s arms stretched for his neck. As Amanda fell from Cyn’s lap onto his knee, Cyn shook her head in worry. Her eyes said, Please fix this, Santa.
A lump lodged in his throat. “So, what do you want for Christmas?”
> “I don’t want nothing. I gotta get a daddy,” Amanda said in a rush. Then the floodgates opened. One minute she’d been talking; now she was sobbing against him. His chest constricted, and he rubbed her back. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he soothed.
Finally Amanda sniffed. “You’re nice,” she said weakly. “Right?” She looked at him as if his eyes might contain the answers to all the questions in the world.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Words suddenly poured from her lips so fast that he couldn’t keep pace. “What about a girl whose daddy was so bad that he had to be a con-vic and then she stold money and didn’t go where she was spose’d to—” Amanda stopped just as suddenly as she’d started and hiccuped.
Santa knew exactly which convict daddy she was talking about. He had half a mind to tell her the truth now, Cyn be damned. Instead he asked, “What money?”
Amanda hung her head and swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “The cab man counted, and he said he was spose’d to take fourteen to come home, and he said I took three hundred dollars ‘cause it was at Mr. Mor’sey’s house.” A sob caught in her throat. “I still got the rest! I could give it back!”
“We know you took three hundred dollars from Evan’s wallet, honey.” The edge in Cyn’s voice cut through Santa’s heart like a razor. “But you had to, to come home. It’s okay.”
The words only sent Amanda into another fit of sobs. “He—he—”
“Who Amanda?” Cyn asked urgently.
“Mr. Mor’sey says—says I was mean...” Amanda sniffed.
“What, honey?” Santa ducked his head so he could hear her.
“‘Cause my daddy is mean and me, too, like Little Amanda in our story and that’s why I gotta get a new daddy,” she whispered mournfully. “‘Cause I steal stuff—” Amanda sucked in sharply. She pursed her lips, holding her breath, then exhaled shakily. “I steal Barneys and Barbies and Slinkys—and I’m a crim’nal!”
Santa had had about all he could take. He found himself glaring at Cyn. His eyes said, let me tell her. And Cyn wavered. He hated her for it. His little girl’s heart was breaking, and he could do little more than have a staring contest with her mother. Even worse, Cyn won. He blinked first.