“Alrighty, then.” She headed to the window display to survey the possibilities. An enormous artificial Christmas tree with expensive trimmings and loads of presents sat in the corner by a very real looking wood fireplace. She noticed a switch right above the mantel on the wall. When she flicked it on, to her delight, the gas fire lit, its warm glow reflecting off the silver and gold shimmery material of the stockings.
Samantha grudgingly admitted Mark had better taste than she remembered. Classy and expensive, not tacky as she had hoped, but he had no idea how to organize it all. Impressive but commercialized, cluttered and mismatched. He’d even added an authentic looking Santa who sat on a chair in the other corner.
Samantha hadn’t exactly planned ahead, though, so she would have to improvise with what she had on her. She could do this. They paid her big bucks to come up with creative ideas all the time. Of course, never under the influence of the All Powerful Peppermintini, but how hard could it be?
She spotted Mrs. Claus sitting on a chair beside Santa. “Bet you’ve been naughty a time or two just so Santa would spank you.” Samantha giggled, shaking her finger at Mrs. C. A bunch of little elves surrounded her, hard at work, and an idea began to form. She sang one more time for good measure, “Samantha Darling has come to your tooooooown.”
Mark Monroe was going to wish he’d never met her by the time she got through with him. She couldn’t wait for him to see her handiwork. Who knew naughty could be so much fun?
***
Ugh! Being naughty was highly overrated, Samantha thought as she struggled to open her eyes, the blinding light making her killer headache worse. Peppermintinis might taste yummy going down, but they left a skunky taste in your mouth the next morning and sure packed a hell of a hangover punch.
She held on tighter to the man her arms were wound around, his facial hair tickling her cheek as she tried to go back to sleep. Wait a minute. Tall, Dark and Stuffy didn’t have a beard. She had a sinking sensation this wasn’t her bed, and she was no longer dreaming. Running her hands over what felt like genuine velvet, she thought, Oh, boy. This wasn’t a man, either. He was too hard and not in a good way.
Samantha blinked her eyes open and lifted her pounding head to look straight into Santa’s eyes. She had crawled into his padded wooden lap, and now her stiff joints and sore butt were paying the price. Only she wasn’t wearing her clothes. She glanced down at her outfit and chewed her bottom lip. Oh, no. She was wearing Mrs. C’s outfit. Then that meant...
Afraid to look but having no choice, Samantha glanced to the side and winced. Yup, just as she’d feared. Mrs. C wore Samantha’s clothes but not her suit. That would have been too easy. Nope, she’d dressed her up good in her underwear: black lace bra, matching thong, and garters to boot, as Mrs. C fixed her blank stare on Samantha while holding her martini glass in her hand like a well-earned trophy. Only Mrs. C was several sizes bigger than Samantha, so Samantha’s thong looked like string as it cut deeply into Mrs. C’s padding.
“Sorry, Mrs. C,” Samantha whispered, holding her head so it wouldn’t fall off. She glanced at the elves, who were hard at work, and repeated, “Lord, am I sooo sorry.” Samantha gulped, staring at her handiwork in horror. She’d undressed each one as well, making them look like a page right out of a twisted fairy tale: “Mrs. C and the seven castrated freaks.”
Mental note: elfish manikins were not anatomically correct.
Samantha had positioned them in precarious poses, resembling The Village People gone wild. If they could sing, she somehow doubted they’d be singing, “Y.M.C.A. It’s fun to go to the Y.M.C.A-hay.” She had a suspicious feeling it would sound more like, “Squeeze, press and rub. We love our job as we squeeze, press and ru-hub.” Their jolly little faces grinned wide as they massaged parts of Mrs. C no elf should ever be allowed to touch.
Good Lord, what the hell had she been thinking?
Samantha groaned, wanting to crawl into a corner and die. She remembered sitting on Santa’s lap, pretending he was Mark, and lecturing him about what a no good hussy Mrs. C was. Damn peppermint poison, she thought when another thing struck her. If Mrs. C was wearing Samantha’s underwear, then that meant...my God, Samantha must be buck naked beneath all that fur, apparently, giving jolly ‘ole St. Nick--who looked nothing like hot St. Nicky--a lap dance he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.
“Merry Christmas, Big Guy,” she muttered and could have sworn his eyes twinkled. Her cheeks flooded with heat and they undoubtedly turned as rosy as his. She must have passed out before she had a chance to make her getaway last night, because the sun shined bright in the sky now.
Mark would probably be here any moment to open the shop, and she did not want to be caught in this predicament when it happened. Samantha struggled not to throw up and held her throbbing head as she managed to climb off Santa’s lap without falling. When the room stopped spinning, she slowly turned around to peek out the window then gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth and blinking as though her eyelids were a string of flashing Christmas lights stuck on high.
Oh! My! God!
She was such a moron. Apparently, dressing up Mrs. C like a hooker, the elves like the Chippendales, and giving Santa a lap dance hadn’t been enough while under the spell of the All Powerful Peppermintini. She’d strung a line of those damn festive Christmas condoms from one side to the other--no need for lights, those suckers glowed in the dark--and wrote ‘Merry Dickmas’ in bright red lipstick across the storefront window.
She wasn’t only going to jail; she was going to hell for sure. She shaded her eyes, blinking against the pain as she studied the shoppers outside the window. Shocked wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the slack jaws, gaping pie holes, and bugged-out eyes staring back at her.
“Merry Christmas,” Samantha said, as she clutched Mrs. C’s coat tighter, smiled weakly, and waved to all of ‘whatever-flipping-town’ she was in. Bet they hadn’t expected to see this lovely little display today, or anytime, for that matter.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph what was Mr. Snow thinking?” a middle-aged man with a top hat said as he made the sign of the cross and patted his gasping wife.
“Well, he won’t get my vote with a display like that.” A woman with a pointy nose stuck way up in the air tsked as she covered her daughter’s eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know. Mrs. Claus has never looked so good if you ask me,” said a leering old coot with tobacco stained teeth. He wagged his brows and winked at Samantha.
Ewww! she thought and wondered whom this Mr. Snow character was and what he could possibly have to do with Mark’s shop. Feeling like an idiot, she stood there with her bed-head hair and baggy Christmas digs, no doubt looking like the star of a really bad porn flick called, “Samantha Does Stowe’s Boutiques.” If only she hadn’t fallen asleep.
She gnawed at her bottom lip and strove to find a way out of this mess, when a new spectator walked up to peek in the window. Samantha gasped. Tall, Dark and Stuffy? What on earth was he doing here?
Samantha couldn’t believe the same man from the bar last night, whom she’d made an ass of herself in front of, was standing outside of Mark’s store this morning. Of all the bizarre coincidences, she thought. His eyes landed on her and sprang wide, then they narrowed in a dangerous scary way as they roamed around the storefront window.
Great. He truly must think she was certifiable.
“Interesting display, Mr. Snow,” another shopper said.
He was Mr. Snow? This just kept getting better and better.
In the full light of day, he looked even more stunning than he had the night before and still oddly familiar. He had black slicked back hair, black eyes, black clothes...and a black scowl to match. Not a pretty boy Ken doll attractive, but a brooding, macho, powerful kind of attractive with hard chiseled features more like Ken’s evil brother, the devil himself.
Samantha found it hard to breathe just looking at him.
He stepped aside as a petite, silver-haired pit-bull of
a woman pulled out a set of keys and charged forward to slide the key in a lock...the same lock Samantha had jimmied the night before. Samantha frowned. Just peachy. He must work for Mark, along with Ms. Pit. Mr. Snow followed Ms. Pit inside, followed by half the town.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” Samantha managed to say to Ms. Pit, while taking a wobbly step back from Stuffy’s intimidating figure. Samantha was sure his after shave would normally smell lovely, but this morning it just made her stomach roll. She strangled Mrs. C’s duds as she clutched them tighter to keep him from seeing her unmentionables. Then she bit back a nervous snort. Like her unmentionables weren’t already exposed to the entire world as they covered Mrs. C’s private parts instead of her own.
“Ya think,” Ms. Pit roared surprisingly loud for such a small woman, while Stuffy just stood there with a hard edge to his features and a curious look on his face.
Samantha grabbed her head and winced. “Not so loud, please.”
A light dawned in the small dynamo’s beady eyes. “Not feeling so clever this morning, are we?” she asked in an even louder voice. “Serves you right,” she added, flicking on all the bright lights she could find and opening the blinds fully.
Evil, evil woman! Samantha shook off a wave of nausea. “Where’s Mark?” she ground out and looked past them both, searching the growing crowd. “And where’s the hussy?”
Ms. Pit’s gaze followed hers. “What are you blubbering about?”
“You know. Your bosses. The owners. Where are they? Because if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go before they get here.” Samantha stepped toward the door.
Tall, Dark and Stuffy, who looked far scarier than anything else right now, blocked her path and spoke for the first time. The deep timber of his voice sent chills throughout Samantha’s body that had nothing to do with the weather. “I’ll bet you would, but you aren’t going anywhere except jail.”
“J-Jail,” she squeaked, her eyes colliding with his, and she tried not to shiver. What say did he have? He was just an employee. If anyone had any pull at all, it would be Ms. Pitt, and Samantha had a feeling the woman didn’t like her one bit. Ignoring Scary, she tried to appeal to the feminine side of the pit-bull...if there was one. “If you know the owner, then you should understand. He’s a real ass.”
Ms. Pit’s face turned the color of beets, and she puffed out her chest, looking ready to explode. Before she could answer, those dark intense eyes of Scary’s formed eerie slits yet still managed to look mesmerizing. “You don’t say.” He crossed his arms over his sculpted chest. “It just so happens I do know the owner. Quite well, in fact.”
“Oh. Sounds like you like the guy.” Probably because he was a guy, and well, Ms. Pitt had obviously embraced her “inner” guy. Samantha’s heart plummeted right down to her stilettos. “Guess there’s no chance you’d take my side then, huh.” She wrung her hands in Mrs. C’s threads.
“Not likely...considering I’m the ‘real ass’ of an owner.”
“Wait a minute.” Samantha’s brow knitted together, and she attempted to clear the fog of her ‘Tini hangover. Not an easy task, mind you. “Isn’t this Stowe’s Boutiques?”
He arched a sleek black brow. “No. Stowe’s Boutiques is two towns over. You’re in Redemption, Massachusetts, and this is Snow’s Antiques. I’m Nathan Snow.”
Total shock followed by full-blown panic seized every cell in Samantha’s body. When she finally picked her jaw up off the floor, she said in barely more than a whisper, “And I’m Samantha Darling, the biggest idiot of them all.”
Chapter Two
The Nathan Snow?
The significance of his name hit Samantha square in the face, and she reeled backward. No wonder he’d looked familiar. How could she not have recognized him? Apparently her subconscious had, because that’s the name she’d slurred off the night before. Bile hit her throat. He was on all the covers of both the business and entertainment magazines, listed as one of the wealthiest men in the Northeast, and one of the most eligible bachelors. Of all the shops to ransack, she had to go and choose one owned by a man with such a cold and ruthless reputation. She fell back on Santa’s lap in a stunned state of shock.
Ms. Pit shrieked, “Don’t sit there, you imbecile! You have no idea what you’ve done. Now go and ‘carefully’ change out of Mrs. Claus’s clothes. Those are antiques. Vintage antiques. As in one of a kind. They cost a fortune, and I’d like to try to salvage the material before you ruin them completely.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Samantha struggled to get up.
When she couldn’t, Nathan reached out a large, masculine hand and helped her to her feet.
“Thanks,” Samantha said, barely able to look at him.
“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but I’d be lying,” he added.
“Guess I deserved that.” She wobbled over to Mrs. C and started to undress her, but Nathan stilled her with his hand on her arm, his long tapered fingers squeezing just enough to let her know he meant business.
“Please, allow my manager.” He grunted. “I insist. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
Samantha dropped her hand and had to stand there like a doofus while Ms. Pit removed Samantha’s bra, thong and garters from Mrs. C. She handed them to Samantha and pointed the way to the bathroom for her to change. So much for closure. Samantha had a feeling this new chapter in her life had only just begun.
Five minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom in back and handed Nathan Mrs. C’s clothes. While Ms. Pit redressed both Mrs. C and the elves, Nathan told the town’s people to go, except for the judge and the sheriff who remained in the front of the store with Ms. Pit in case Nathan needed them. Nathan guided Samantha into his office to talk. She sat down while he towered above her, and she told him her whole sappy story. He just stood there, staring at her for what felt like ten minutes.
“This is what I propose,” he said at last. “I won’t have you arrested,” she started to say thank you, relief flooding through her, but he held up a hand, “for now. It’s Christmas, and contrary to popular belief, I’m not a Scrooge. Just because I don’t like Christmas, doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart.”
“How can you not like Christmas?” She gaped at him, her relief short lived.
“That’s neither here nor there,” he responded. “The point is I have a business to run. Winning the Best Christmas Window Display contest brings a lot of shoppers into the winner’s store. More shoppers means more business. Not to mention, I’m sick of Nancy’s Knickknacks beating me out every year.”
His eyes took on a challenging gleam. “I come back to Redemption for the holidays every year specifically for this contest. This is where it all began for me, yet I have never won. This was supposed to be my year, but because of you, I have to start all over. You come up with a winning display by Christmas Eve, and I won’t press charges.”
Samantha leaned back, feeling like such a heel, but this was the holidays. The greatest of all holidays. Surely, he would understand. “Look, this is absolutely mortifying. I am not a drinker. Whatever was in that peppermint martini must have made me lose my mind, because I am not a girl who commits crimes. Chalk it up to a moment of weakness, if you will. The point is I will do whatever to make this up to you...but I always go home for Christmas a week early. And this is my year to put the star on top of the tree. There has to be something we can work out.”
“You sure this isn’t about payback because I shot you down last night? Maybe you figured out who I was, looked me up, and took out your revenge.” He leaned in until his face hovered only a few inches above hers, his hands fencing her in as they gripped the armrests of her chair. “Or maybe you were trying to finish what you started last night.”
Samantha gasped. “I-I am not that kind of girl, all right?” She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry with all that raw sexuality so close to her over-sensitized body.
“Right.” His breath fanned over her fa
ce as his gaze slowly traced her features, landing on her lips and remaining. “That’s why you openly flirted with me from across the bar.”
“I did not flirt. My well-meaning, spontaneous, totally reckless, idiot friends did. I am never spontaneous.” Samantha pressed her back further in her chair.
He simply leaned in another inch. “So you’re saying what you did to my Christmas display was premeditated?”
“No! Of course not.” She ducked under his arm and stood, her heart imitating the little drummer boy.
“Really, because I’ve never seen some of the positions those elves were in.” He straightened and slowly stalked her like a predator after its prey, backing her up against his office wall. “I must admit what they were doing to Mrs. Claus was damn creative. Looked like it took a lot of thought to me.”
“Liquor. It took a lot of liquor,” she squeaked, her chest heaving as she tried to find a way to escape. “No rational thoughts involved,” she added, more to remind herself her dreams of the two of them reenacting those positions all night long had been completely irrational as well. “I’m telling you, that wasn’t me last night. That was someone I don’t even recognize.”
“Oh, I recognize her. I’ve seen her kind before.”
“I’m sure you have, Mr. Snow.” She’d read all about his reputation, but she had no intention of becoming another notch on his belt. “But I can assure you, she’s long gone.”
“So now you’re a tease?” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
Her traitorous body trembled. “What do you expect me to say, let’s do it right here right now? Fine, then.” She thrust her chin up a notch and crossed her arms. “Strip.”
“As you wish.” He slowly loosened his tie, pulling it off and draping it around her neck then undid the top button of his black silk shirt.
“Oh my God, I was joking!” She flattened her body against the wall.
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