by Sharon Page
Tess glanced toward the door, but her two new friends had already gone. “Just two kindhearted souls helping a damsel in distress.”
“Those two souls are none other than the Penrose and Tutt who’ve made millions in the gold mines,” he replied in a conspiratorial whisper. “Spec’s Broadmoor Hotel and other undertakings have made Colorado Springs the place for the wealthy to flock.”
Tess accepted her ticket with a quiet smile. “Thank you for getting my ticket changed,” she murmured as she rose from her chair. “Where would we be without the grace of God and the kindness of strangers?”
Back in her private Pullman, Tess pondered her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror. Was she really a woman any man would want? Even if she had only the black clothing on her back? True enough, Reed Mahaffey sought her attentions, but today, two total strangers had reaffirmed her allure without knowing a thing about her or her bank accounts.
And they know Santa! And they think I’m perfect for the position he’s advertised.
Tess grinned, loving the roses in her cheeks, because she’d despaired of ever blooming again. She slipped the newspaper page from her dress pocket and reread the ad with more enlightened eyes: A sweet future indeed for an Applicant who’s both Naughty and Nice—and who believes in Magic!
She certainly believed in magic now. A childlike excitement made her glow all over. As Tess Carnegy Bennett, she’d been reared to be the epitome of nice, under the most pressing of circumstances. So . . . just how naughty was Naughty?
Her giggle filled the opulent private car. She couldn’t wait to find out!
3
“Daphne, you naughty girl! Leaving Edgar bound to the bedposts—legs and arms stretched across the bed in such an indecent pose!”
“You don’t fool me for a moment, Blythe,” came the saucy reply. “You’re the one who rolled a sock into her elf costume—like a big ole cock!—and threatened to go to our Denver charity event that way unless Eddie—”
A flying pillow cut Daphne’s retort short.
As Johnny Gazara smoothed the edge of a green, hollyshaped piece of glass, he glanced through the high transom window at the entry to Edgar Penney’s master suite. Damn. How was a man supposed to work while two blond nymphs in black garter belts cavorted around their employer, who lay spread-eagle on the rumpled bed? Edgar Penney sported a huge erection as he laughed at their antics.
Not that Johnny was complaining: The owner of the Penney Candy Company paid him well above the rate mosaicists received in Paris or New York. And the childlike, reclusive man always suggested just one more mural, one more frieze, which he envisioned in glimmering shades of ceramic and glass, every time Johnny finished a project.
Nearly a year Johnny had worked here, enjoying the sumptuous guest quarters and the creativity Penney’s designs demanded—not to mention the company of Edgar and his two comely companions. And yet . . . his heart yearned for life outside this snowbound little pocket of the Rockies, where cathedrals and grand hotels might commission him to create truly notable works of art.
The trouble with this imaginative house? It was mostly underground, hidden away from harsh winters and connected to the Penney Candy Factory, which turned a mind-boggling profit. Edgar Penney, the ageless entrepreneur behind confections known around the world, had built a playground here for his lovelies and occasional favored guests, but he himself rarely set foot in the real world.
The other problem with this place? Johnny could look, but he couldn’t touch. Blythe and Daphne belonged to Edgar, and while they might tease him with their wayward games, Johnny went to bed alone. Long after the girls’ laughter and Penney’s cries of ecstasy fell silent each night, Johnny ached for a woman of his own.
A real man would’ve left months ago, his conscience chided when he rose in the wee hours to smoke. So what’s keeping you here? You could earn a fine living on those high-and-mighty masterpieces you daydream about.
Or were those cathedral ceilings and hotel murals only figments of his wistful imagination? As ephemeral as the curls of minty-sweet smoke from his custom-carved pipe? This gift from Edgar Penney, given when Johnny had covered the factory’s main wall with elaborate scenes from Candy Cane Lane, matched Edgar’s pipe and symbolized their free spirits—as well as the invisible chains that bound them all here. Only after several long, loose conversations in which he and Penney had brainstormed incredible new confections and fantasies in glass did Edgar admit their custom blend of pipe tobacco was laced with opium.
Johnny could lay it aside anytime. Walk away to another job, another life.
But would the ideas go with you? What if it’s this magical place—and the playful man behind it—that inspires your best imaginings?
A cacophony of bells, like those that jingled on sleighs and tolled in belfries and clanged around cows’ necks—and the ones that called a farmer to his dinner—announced a visitor. Edgar raised his head from the mattress. Daphne and Blythe froze in place, one straddling Penney’s hips as the other spread her legs above his face. Again the doorbell chimed like a choir of handbells gone awry, yet no one in the bedroom moved.
“Johnny, I must ask you to see who’s here,” Edgar pleaded mischievously. “The girls are nearly naked, and I . . . Well, you can tell our guest I’m all tied up at the moment!”
Gazara sighed. Carefully he laid aside the fragile holly leaves and their ruby-red berries, pieces of the stained-glass garland that would eventually stretch around every wall of Penney’s suite. Down the ladder he went, then hurried between exotic mosaic dancers enacting the “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” on the hallway walls, to ascend the passageway that entered the vestibule at the opposite end of the house. Chances were good their guest would’ve given up and left—which was probably Penney’s intent when he’d designed his rambling mansion beneath a mountain, leaving only the front door at ground level.
Johnny swung open the massive door, squinting in the bright daylight. “Yes?”
“Telegram for Mr. Penney.” The local postman, a scarf wound up to his eyeballs, peered through his fogged eyeglasses. “Two of ’em, actually, but with that storm yesterday, nobody set foot out in the elements.”
They’d had a storm? Johnny noted the dramatic drifts and tall pines with icicles that glistened like ice daggers. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take these to—”
“True what they say, ’bout Penney havin’ squinty little eyes that can’t tolerate the sun?”
Johnny paused over another local rumor. Edgar Penney had large, dreamlike eyes that radiated warmth like a cup of cocoa. “Nope.” He took the envelopes, tipped the curious postman from a box on the table, and then closed the doors.
As he returned to the master suite, Johnny became curious: Edgar regularly received orders for candy but rarely got personal messages. On the oversize bed, Blythe was riding Edgar’s hips, her head thrown back as she approached climax, while her friend straddled his face. Penney had his hands full of Daphne’s pretty ass, so he couldn’t open these telegrams right now. They were unsealed, too . . . flaps loosely tucked. So, since no one would be the wiser, Johnny peeked.
The first note, dated this morning, told Edgar to watch for a pretty little widow named Tess to arrive shortly. The sender insisted Tess was exactly the kind of Penney Candy girl he was looking for.
Johnny tingled all over as he opened the other telegram, which had come from Tess herself. Don’t you dare hire anyone but Tess Bennett! I’ll be in Cascade shortly and you’ll see why!
He stifled a laugh. Weeks had passed since Edgar had run his ad, and this lone applicant sounded pushy and full of herself and—
Tesssssss, his mind rhapsodized. Rhymes with yesssssssss!
Johnny hardened against the seam of his pants. What were the chances he could woo this new elf, if indeed she met the Penney Candy girl criteria—or hell, even if she didn’t! Mrs. Bennett surely had other worthwhile qualifications, even if she wasn’t cute, petite, and a saucy blonde!
He g
lanced again at the first message: none other than Spencer Penrose was endorsing this woman. The multimillionaire of Cripple Creek’s gold mines was known for his way with the ladies, and as one of Penney Candy’s largest customers, Penrose knew quite well what Edgar Penney looked for in an assistant.
Johnny’s heart fluttered. He closed his eyes. How would the man buried beneath two blondes possibly pleasure a third one? While they needed another elf to hand out candy at their upcoming charity events, her presence would change everything. How would Daphne and Blythe respond to yet another pretty blonde vying for Edgar’s attentions? And how would an unknowing applicant react, once she discovered their unconventional living conditions?
“Gazara! What could possibly be so grave and complicated that you’ve assumed such a serious expression? Or are you praying?”
Johnny jumped and his eyes flew open. What the hell could he say? Edgar lounged against the doorway, flushed and naked, his gaze fixed on the telegrams.
“Sorry, I . . .” He handed over the notes. “It wasn’t my place to open your mail.”
“We’ve received responses to my ad, have we not?” His face glowed pink from sconces Johnny had fashioned as ruby glass poinsettias. “I knew the right eyes would eventually see—and a special heart respond to—my plea for another—”
The chaotic chiming of the doorbells made their eyebrows rise.
Edgar’s eyes shone like hot coffee. “You don’t suppose that could be—”
“Tess. Yes!” Johnny’s heart pounded. “You’re not dressed for a guest, so I’ll let her in. But don’t expect me back for a while, Edgar! Any decent woman would have second thoughts when she sees . . .” As he gestured toward the four-poster bed, where Blythe and Daphne sprawled across the wrecked sheets, he was already hurrying along the hallway. What luck! Fastidious Mr. Penney wouldn’t greet anyone until he’d bathed and dressed in fresh clothing, and he would insist his two lovers do the same. Or would he instruct the girls to remain in their rooms while he interviewed this applicant?
Please, God, make her take this job. And make her take me, too. Johnny trotted up the winding hallway, past his work—ballerinas in mother-of-pearl tutus, their arms forming heartshaped arches beneath a ceiling that glistened with snowflakes and sugarplums dusted with tiny facets of glass. It was all overdone, with details only he and Edgar fully appreciated, yet this ostentatious home reflected its owner perfectly.
Mrs. Bennett’s reaction to this décor would be the best gauge of her suitability. If she stared—or worse yet, frowned—she’d be gone. Edgar suffered no naysayers or employees of limited imagination. As Johnny reached the final rise toward the foyer, the doorbell chimed again. Bells of all sizes and tones clanged in the vaulted ceiling above him as he entered the mirrored vestibule that glowed with his own stained-glass designs.
Be still, my heart! He steadied himself with a deep breath. Was he smiling like a lovesick fool? Did he seem too needy? He’d gone such a long time without a woman; his desperation might announce itself in embarrassing ways....
But if she balks at what she sees, it’s better if she turns tail. Edgar’s candy castle is no place for the faint of heart.
Johnny paused with his hand on the knob. If the postman had come back with another nosy question, he’d feel like a topnotch fool, wouldn’t he? As the various bells died above him, he squared his shoulders. When he swung open the door, snowflakes whirled around a figure clad in black from top to toe.
The bluest eyes he’d ever seen widened at the sight of him. A black hood framed the cutest little peaches-and-cream face, the most dazzling smile.
Johnny groaned. In spite of his best intentions, his manhood saluted, and he was grateful for the snow glare that blinded her to his predicament. “Tess? Er . . . Mrs. Bennett?” he corrected in a voice that sounded painfully adolescent.
“Santa?” Her drawl whispered of magnolia blossoms caressed by a spring breeze.
Oh, God. He was in worse trouble than he’d feared.
4
Tess gripped her cloak, wishing she’d directed the coach driver to a dress shop instead of coming here directly from the station. When Mr. Tutt had noted her lack of luggage, he’d quietly suggested a seamstress in Colorado Springs who would send him the bill, but Tess was too proud—in too damn much of a hurry—to accept Charley’s help.
And now she stood before the devil himself, olive-skinned with midnight hair and lashes, wearing a white silk shirt unbuttoned to such an indecent length she saw the curls on his broad chest. A hot yearning welled up and came out as a sigh.
His smile widened—as well it might! Hadn’t she just announced she was lonely and desperate and willing? And then she’d called him Santa! How stupid was that? “Yes, I’m Mrs. Bennett—Tess—here to answer your advertisement. And . . . well, I had no idea what else to call you. Sir.”
Oh, his sly smile hid secrets. Tess stood absolutely still, determined to not lower her gaze, but the wind made her shiver.
Her inquisitor softened. “Please, come in! How rude of me to keep you waiting in this cold!” He took her arm, guiding her into a vestibule that sparkled like the inside of a queen’s jewel box. “The house is underground, to discourage spies and busybodies, so we have no idea when it snows or—”
The house is underground. For a heart-stopping moment, Tess imagined herself in Henry’s place, boxed and buried where the sun would never shine. It was a morose thought, the stuff of her nightmares after her husband and Claire had died, but it was not what she expected after reading that whimsical advertisement. Nor did the high-ceilinged entryway, with its skylight and mirrors framed in faceted stained-glass gemstones, hint at anything so funereal.
“We hope you’ll find Mr. Penney’s home as delightful a place to live and work as we have,” her greeter continued. He wasn’t releasing her arm; instead, he rubbed her hands between his larger ones to warm them. “We’ve been looking forward to your arrival, dear lady.”
He would think her dense if she didn’t reply, yet Tess’s head had already filled with more questions than answers, and she didn’t even know this brazenly handsome fellow’s name. “So . . . you’re not the man who ran the ad in the Rocky Mountain News, asking for—”
“But I’m the man who ran the ad to the News office,” he interrupted playfully. His smile flashed as he raised her knuckles to his lips. “Johnny Gazara. So nice to meet you, Tess,” he purred. “And while I’m not directly associated with Edgar Penney’s candy company, I’ve been decorating his home and factory for several months now. So if you have questions—any questions at all . . .”
Why is a dangerously attractive man like you becoming tongue-tied over a waif like me? sprang to mind, but Tess kept quiet. Mama had often remarked that while beauty might only be skin-deep, it was most men’s strongest weakness.
And if this rake was hoping to be her mentor and close personal friend, in a house that sounded decidedly strange, she wasn’t sure how much she should ask him. Or reveal. It seemed that ever since she’d run away from home, men with alluring smiles had appeared to assist her. It was only a matter of time before one of them turned out to be the Big Bad Wolf—wasn’t it?
Tess looked around the colorful vestibule to assess her situation. It would be a shame to leave now, after traveling so far on her high hopes of finding joy again . . . and it would be no easy feat to get a stagecoach, out here in this drifted hinterland. She’d delighted in looking at the deepest snow she’d ever seen while they’d rolled along a road that glistened with fine, powdery diamonds, swirls of sparkling white against a sky the color of morning glories. But it was another thing altogether to navigate this snowy mountain town on foot, wearing clothing more suited to Memphis.
Not that the man holding her hands seemed inclined to let go. He cocked his head slightly, still smiling in that secretive way. Could he hear how her pulse thrummed? If he could feel her rising excitement . . . Was he about to kiss her, or had it been so long she was misconstruing his cues?
Tess glanced away, pretending to admire the play of stained-glass colors in the sunbeam from the skylight. What if this whole adventure had been a bad idea from the start? Why had she picked up that newspaper, anyway, when Warren Coates had arranged an itinerary that was safer for a woman alone? Would she never listen to that inner voice that warned her to behave like a lady? To follow the rules for her own good?
“Have I said something to upset you, dear Tess?”
Everything you do upsets me. In the best possible way. She met his shining black eyes again. Damn. Johnny Gazara, a man as rakish as his name, stooped to meet her gaze with his onyx eyes.
He expected an answer. He expected a kiss. And then he expected a yes.
Tess sucked air, struck dumb by this man’s intensity. “You say you have decorated this fabulous room, Mr.—”
“Please, call me Johnny. And, yes, I did!” He bowed, obviously pleased with his work and her response to it.
He’d regained control of his voice now, and his rich baritone wrapped itself around the need inside her . . . the need to hear such a masculine voice murmuring in her ear while his fine artist’s hands did unthinkable things to her bare body. Tess inhaled deeply, hoping to clear her head, but his scent . . . the rich aroma of mint tobacco . . . harkened back to afternoons in Papa’s study, where she’d felt so cherished and secure. So loved.
Her eyes drifted shut, even though Gazara knew exactly how to play her to his advantage. Her lips parted to meet his. Johnny’s sigh was so soft and his breath so warm as he kissed her, framing her face with hands that barely skimmed her skin. It was an eager yet thorough exploration of her mouth that promised far more.
Just that fast she became his captive.
Tess rose to meet him, her arms encircling his neck as her senses reeled and her body came to life again after too many months of not having a man. Sweet and eager, Johnny tasted. When his tongue darted between her teeth, Tess’s giggle echoed in the vestibule.