Naughty or Nice?

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Or seemingly so.

  Jack forced himself to reflect, as he tailed Katherine Peale from department to department at FAO Schwarz—taking pains to conceal himself among the throngs of holiday shoppers packing the celebrated toy emporium this Saturday morning—that women like her were never quite what they appeared to be.

  Indeed, today she appeared as artlessly unaffected as a college girl. Jack almost hadn’t recognized her when she’d walked out of her apartment building this morning dressed in a cinched trench coat and khakis, her hair pulled haphazardly back in a ponytail. Grady, swilling lattes in the front passenger seat of Jack’s gray Saturn half a block away on East Thirty-seventh, had nudged him and pointed. That’s not her, is it?

  I’m not sure.

  Nah, can’t be, Grady said decisively. What kind of femme fatale wears penny loafers?

  But it was her, as they realized when she walked past. They’d waited thirty seconds, then got out of the car and pursued her on foot across to Fifth Avenue and up to Fifty-eighth Street and FAO Schwarz. Jack had followed her inside, instructing Grady to wait for him in the plaza out front.

  The subject toured pretty much the entire store, finally settling down in the second-floor “Bookmonster” department, where she perused titles with an expression of focused intensity while Jack watched from behind one of the two giant monster legs that disappeared up into the ceiling. She was drawn to young adult novels, of which she gathered an armload.

  When she entered the robot-shaped elevator to go back downstairs, Jack made a beeline for the escalator at the rear of the store, but she had already dissolved into the crowd by the time he got to the first floor. That swaying flaxen ponytail made her easy to spot, though, and before long he caught sight of her again, in the stuffed-animal department, taking in the life-size giraffe with an oddly contemplative expression. She had big blue-gray eyes with that slightly heavy-lidded, sensually languid look that Jack associated more with a Mediterranean than a Nordic brand of beauty. With the arm that wasn’t holding the books, she cradled a stuffed furry brown koala bear against her chest as if it were a baby.

  Jack fished around for something clever to say as he approached her, but he must have been out of circulation too long, because the only opening gambits that came to him—all playing off the giraffe—sounded like the punch lines of bad Playboy cartoons: Pretty impressive, but do you think size really matters? Or: They say he’s an animal in the bedroom. Or: Why don’t you just slap my face now and get it over with?

  “Cool, huh?” was what he finally opted for. Cool, huh? What are you, nineteen?

  She lowered the koala, her hand automatically resting on her shoulder bag—the urban woman’s first instinct when accosted by a stranger. She glanced at him, gave him a too-polite half-smile, said, “Yep,” and turned away.

  “Christmas shopping?” Jack cringed inwardly at his own inanity. Get it together, man. Fifty grand is riding on this. Do you want to spend your whole life spying on cheating husbands?

  “That’s right.” She assessed him swiftly, taking in his empty hands along with the upscale threads in which Grady had costumed him for his role—Lower East Side knockoffs of sportswear by some designer Jack had never heard of, which had saved him, Grady estimated, somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand bucks over the real thing. Contrary to Celeste’s advice, he’d chosen not to dip into her five grand quite yet; he made it a practice not to touch a client’s down payment until the job was in the can.

  “I’m just getting started,” Jack said. “On my Christmas shopping.”

  She nodded, looked away.

  “For my nieces and nephews,” he continued, a veritable glutton for punishment. “I’ve got, like, a thousand of them.” A thousand. A thousand nieces and nephews. Just shut up, why don’t you? Shut up and walk away. This is humiliating.

  “Well, this is the place for it,” she said as she turned to leave.

  “Look, I’m no good at this,” he said quickly as he darted in front of her. “I don’t know what to say to women in situations like this. You know, when you see a woman and you think maybe . . .”

  She was staring at him.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  “Um . . .” She looked away again, and he knew she was composing a tactful rejection.

  “There’s a place right around the corner—Moe’s. Just a cup of coffee. Ten minutes. Just so I can, like, prove that I really can hold a conversation and I’m not some—”

  “I’m sorry.” She took a step back, the polite smile back in place. “I really can’t.”

  “Because you don’t know me? Okay. Name. Johnathan Rory Patrick O’Leary, but my friends call me Jack. I don’t smoke, take drugs, or drink to excess. I box at Gleason’s Gym in Brooklyn four or five nights a week. I own my own business and I’m healthy and well adjusted. References and test results on request. I’m a nice guy—really. Not some . . . you know. I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, and I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but I’m, like . . .” She tucked the koala more firmly against her. “I’m involved, and . . .”

  “Ah.”

  “He wouldn’t, you know . . .”

  “Like it if you went out to coffee with some guy you just met at FAO Schwarz.”

  She smiled. “References and test results notwithstanding. So I’m afraid . . .”

  “How come he’s not here with you?” Jack was feeling a little more confident now that she was actually engaged in conversation with him, even if it was just to make excuses for not being able to have coffee with him. “If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

  She gave him an Oh, brother look, but not before he caught a subtle little wavering in her eyes that spoke volumes. She was flattered. Maybe even a little interested—or would be, if it weren’t for Preston.

  “He left town yesterday,” she said. With his wife, Jack mentally added, although naturally she would choose to omit that particular detail. “But trust me, he would not be amused if I had coffee with you, and yes, he would find out because I tell him everything, so I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry. Really. Enjoy your shopping.” She turned and strode off purposefully in the direction of the cash registers.

  Jack knew better than to pursue her. The line between “earnest nice guy” and “total pain in the ass” could be excruciatingly thin.

  Instead, he exited the store through its imposing Fifth Avenue entrance with those mile-high windows, slid on his RayBans and scanned the crowd—thankfully sparse—for Grady, whose defensive-lineman build and orange-dyed buzz cut made him hard to miss. Maybe he’d ducked inside; it was chilly, despite the dazzling sunshine.

  Jack finally spied him over at the edge of the plaza, chatting with a guy roasting chestnuts on a cart; their sweetly scorched aroma greeted Jack as he approached. “Front and center, Grady. Time to earn your pay.”

  His nephew shot him a beseeching look. “Can it wait?” The chestnut vendor, giving Jack a lazily curious onceover, was slim, goateed, and earringed, just Grady’s type.

  “Sorry, pal. She’ll be coming out any second now.” Grabbing Grady by the sleeve of his bomber jacket, Jack propelled him across the plaza. “Here’s what I need you to do.”

  The mugger struck the moment Katherine Peale left the store with her two shopping bags, materializing as a hulking blur at the edge of her field of vision.

  She dropped the bags and grabbed her purse just as the brute reached for it, cried “No!” as he yanked at it.

  She impulsively yanked back.

  Seizing the purse with both hands, her assailant tore it out of her grip, throwing her off balance in the process.

  “No!” she screamed as her legs skidded out from under her. She broke her fall with her hands, crying out in pain as she landed.

  The mugger, fleeing with her purse, heard her and glanced back over his shoulder. To her surprise, he turned and gaped when he
saw that he’d knocked her down. He hesitated, almost as if he couldn’t decide whether to run off with her purse or double back and help her up.

  “Are you all right?” Someone—a man—crouched over her. The few other onlookers stood and watched as if it were street theater. Customers exiting the store just circled around them.

  “My purse.” Kat flinched when she tried to rise; her palms felt like they were on fire.

  “Stay put.” The good Samaritan leaped up. Even from behind, he looked familiar—dark hair, that tobacco-brown suede jacket, those shoulders. And she recognized that scratchy-deep voice; it was the guy who’d asked her to coffee just now. Jack . . . O’something. “What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed as he stalked toward the orange-haired behemoth of a mugger.

  Uh-oh. Kat struggled to sit up. This was real life, not a boxing ring at Gleason’s Gym. “Jack, don’t.”

  The mugger was not only a little taller than Jack—no pygmy himself at six feet or more—but he carried half again as much bulk, with a tree-trunk neck and bone-cracking hands. Yet he backed away a step as Jack approached, the handbag clutched to his chest—a ludicrous image, given his brawn and the fact that he’d just snatched it away from her. “I . . .”

  “Give me that.” Wresting the purse out of the mugger’s hand, Jack gave him a shove—a hard one that sent him stumbling backward. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m sorry, man.” Meeting Kat’s gaze, he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Sorry.” He shrugged helplessly, then turned and sprinted away.

  The onlookers whooped and applauded as Jack returned with her purse.

  “Wow,” Kat said. “That was . . .” Strange. Cool, but . . . “He just . . . buckled when you confronted him. How’d you know he’d react that way and not”—she shrugged—“slug you, or whip out a knife, or something?”

  “Dumb luck, I guess.” He knelt beside her and slid off his sunglasses, giving her a close-up of those knee-weakening hazel eyes that had so taxed her composure as he’d held forth with goofy sincerity about boxing and references and being well adjusted. Right now they were dark with compassion. “That never should have happened. That was . . .” He looked away, swearing under his breath.

  “Hey, that’s life in the big city,” she said, striving to keep from shaking now that it was all over.

  “Yeah, well . . .” He shook his head. “I’m sorry it happened.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He looked at her. She thought he was going to say something, but then he just sort of sighed. “It’s broken.” He showed her where the purse’s shoulder strap had gotten ripped out.

  “They can fix that at the shoe repair place. At least you got it back for me. Thank you, Jack. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You really went above and beyond.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, I’m a real swell guy.” Rising, he reached for her hands. “Here, let me . . . oh, my God. You’re hurt.”

  She groaned when she got a good look at her palms, which were scraped raw—especially the balls of her hands, one of which was bleeding.

  “Are you okay otherwise?” he asked, gingerly patting her arms through her coat sleeves. “Should I take you to the emergency room? Or maybe you’ve got a doctor . . .”

  “I’m fine. I mean, except for my hands. I just need to get them cleaned up.”

  “Here.” Gripping her by the upper arms, he lifted her easily to her feet. “I know a place nearby where we can get you fixed up. That coffee shop I mentioned before—Moe’s.”

  “No, really,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it at home.”

  “How are you gonna get home?” Lifting her shopping bags, he said, “You can’t even carry these with your hands like that. Come on, let me help you out here. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Why? You don’t even know me.”

  “So, introduce yourself.”

  She hesitated, a reluctant smile tugging at her mouth. What the heck . . . “Name. Margaret Peale, but people call me by my middle name, which is Katherine, except for close friends and family, who call me Kat. Let’s see. I don’t box, but I do kickbox—three times a week, san shou style, at this place on West Twenty-fourth. No smoking or drugs for me, either, although I do like a glass of wine with dinner—red only, merlot or pinot noir, even if it’s fish or poultry. Or sometimes a beer, especially if it’s a nice pale ale. As for employment . . . I’d guess you’d have to say I’m self-employed.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It’s . . . hard to describe in a nutshell.”

  Jack regarded her thoughtfully. “All right . . . Kat, is it?”

  “Well, to my close—”

  “You’ve talked me into it, Kat. I’ll take you to Moe’s.”

  Two minutes later, he ushered her into an unprepossessing little breakfast and lunch place around the corner, where the white-aproned owner greeted him with garrulous enthusiasm. Moe—yes, there actually was a Moe, and he was it—guided Kat and Jack through the kitchen and into a small, dimly lit storage room with a utility sink in the corner. Tsk-tsking over Kat’s abraded palms, Moe fetched the first-aid kit Jack asked for, then left them to attend to business.

  “Nice guy,” Kat said as Jack eased her coat off and hung it on a nearby coat rack, along with her purse. His eyes widened slightly when he got a good look at her sweater, and his mouth twitched, but he was too diplomatic to laugh out loud.

  “Moe is my cousin.” Shucking off his suede jacket, Jack pushed up the sleeves of his own sweater—a handsome heathered wool pullover, the antithesis of hers—and set about washing his hands in the utility sink with a bar of Ivory soap.

  She smiled. “One of your thousands of cousins?”

  He shook his head, smiling, as he opened up the first-aid kit on a stack of cardboard cartons and proceeded to paw through its contents. “That’s nieces and nephews you’re thinking about. I’ve only got about three, four hundred cousins. Five, tops.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Us O’Learys don’t know when to stop.” He set out a tube of antibiotic ointment, a roll of adhesive tape, and two paper-wrapped gauze pads. “We have to rent out convention centers when we throw a wedding—which is, like, every other weekend.”

  At the mention of weddings, Kat found her gaze homing in on the ring finger of his left hand, which was bare.

  He noticed and held the hand up, fingers wriggling. “Always the usher, never the groom.”

  “Never?”

  He pushed her sleeves up, then opened her hands to inspect the damage. “I’m not sure, but I just might be the only straight thirty-seven-year-old male in New York City who’s never once made that long walk down the aisle. National Geographic’s thinking about doing a special on me.”

  Kat chuckled, wishing it didn’t sound quite so nervous.

  He frowned as he studied her hands. “You’re trembling.”

  She swallowed. “Adrenaline.” And you. Being here with you in this small, dark room with my hands in yours. Being afraid to look directly at you, for fear you’ll see something in my eyes that you shouldn’t see. “It’ll pass.”

  He rubbed his thumbs over the delicate skin of her inner wrists, as if to soothe her. Only it made her heart race even worse. “Have you ever had your purse snatched before?”

  “No, and I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life. I must emit kickboxing vibes or something.”

  Jack turned on the tap and adjusted the temperature, warning, “This is gonna sting, I’m afraid.”

  She sucked in her breath, but somehow kept from yanking her hands away as he guided them under the warm stream.

  “You’re a good patient.” He soaped up her wounds with gentle, dextrous fingers. “Why’d you hold on so hard to that purse? I mean, not that it was your fault, any of it. He didn’t have to . . .he shouldn’t have been so . . .” Jack’s jaw clenched.

  “I guess I should have just given it up,” she said. “But that purse is special to me.
It was my Grandmother Augusta’s. She had a weakness for Italian handbags, and that was her favorite one, from Adela Borse in Florence. It was the one she carried to St. Bart’s every Sunday when I was growing up, except for Easter, when she always let me borrow it.”

  “Is she . . . ?”

  “She died in her sleep two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jack blotted her hands carefully with paper towels, then opened up a gauze pad and smeared it with antibiotic ointment. “Sounds like you two were close.”

  “Very. My favorite belongings are the things she gave me, especially the things she made herself. She knitted me this sweater when I was a teenager.”

  Jack regarded the sweater with an expression that could only be described as politely jaundiced as he taped the gauze pad over the abrasion on her right hand. “Nice.”

  “You think it’s ludicrous.”

  “Not ludicrous.” He grinned. “Unusual, maybe.”

  She smiled, too. “Unusually ludicrous.” Not only had Grandma Augusta knitted every conceivable Christmas symbol right into the sweater—Santa, tree, stockings, candles, wise men, wreaths, reindeer, angels, candy canes, you name it—but she had further embellished it with generous applications of sequins, buttons, ribbons, pom-poms, beads, and googly eyes. There was nothing remotely tasteful about Grandma’s Christmas sweater.

  “If you feel that way about it,” Jack asked as he prepared the second gauze pad, “how come you wear it?”

  “ ’Cause it makes me happy to wear it. Sure, it’s busy and silly and more than a little tacky. But so is Christmas, and everybody loves Christmas.”

  Jack looked as if he were going to say something, but thought better of it. Something stiffened in his expression as he applied the bandage to her left hand. For the first time she noticed a rigid, almost surly thrust to his jaw. It wasn’t unattractive—actually, quite the opposite, when contrasted with his warmly expressive eyes—but she wondered about the subtle mood shift.

  “You don’t like Christmas,” she said.

  He shrugged with an indifference that looked forced. “I don’t like it or dislike it. It’s just another day. Or it would be, if the stores would stop hyping it for months beforehand. By the time it comes around, aren’t you just a little sick of it?”