That Maddening Man. Debrah Morris
I don’t have any gas, either.”
“Where’s your sleigh, Santa?” Born verbal, Lizzie had no qualms about jumping into adult conversation.
“Can’t drive the sleigh without snow, darlin.’ I had to use the truck today.”
“Does it fly?”
“Nope. That’s why I need gas.” He turned to Ellin. “I’m running behind schedule. I’m due at Shady Acres in a few minutes. Big Christmas party for the residents. The old folks are really looking forward to it, and I’d hate to disappoint them. It’s just up the road. Could you give me a lift?”
Not hardly. A deserted road. Stranger. Unarmed female with small child and wheezy dog. It had all the makings of a late-breaking news story. But, she reminded herself, this was not Chicago. Washington, Arkansas, wasn’t exactly a teeming hotbed of criminal activity. Besides, would the roadside strangler go to the trouble of donning a beautifully made, fur-trimmed, ruby-red crushed velvet Santa suit, complete with shiny black knee boots, wide silver-buckle and jaunty cap?
She thought not.
“Mommy!”
Ellin looked back at Lizzie and wondered if the callous treatment of a childhood icon might someday propel her daughter into therapy. “What, honey?”
“Give Santa a ride so I can tell him where my new house is.”
Like she’d let that happen. “Actually, I’m headed for Shady Acres myself,” she told the man behind the fake beard and pillow-stuffed tummy. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a shoulder-length white wig that curled on unelfishly wide shoulders and a big, droopy mustache that twitched when he smiled.
She lowered the window another inch. “I’ll give you a ride. If you can tell me the administrator’s name.”
“Is this some kind of test?”
He might not be Santa, but his brown eyes definitely twinkled. “Not as in ACT, but I need proof you’re telling the truth.”
“Mommy! Santa Claus wouldn’t fib.” Lizzie was scandalized.
The man in the Santa suit laughed. The rich sound was like aged brandy, and made Ellin feel flushed and warm all over. “I need to be careful.”
“I appreciate your caution. The administrator’s name is Lorella Polk. She’s fifty-eight years old. Married to Henry Polk, mother of Bobby, Tracy and Paul. She has four grandchildren. Allen, Lindsey, Derrick and Ty. She belongs to the First Baptist Church and sings alto in the choir. She’s been running the nursing home for twelve years. Before that, she had a home decor party business and before that, she sold cosmetics door-to-door. She had her gall bladder removed last year and has to watch her cholesterol. Recently, she developed an annoying rash on her—”
“That’ll do,” Ellin said briskly. “What are you? The local operative for the North Pole CIA?”
He leaned down and smiled through the window at Lizzie. “Santa Claus knows everything. Right, princess?”
Lizzie beamed and waved her wand, clearly gratified to meet someone who recognized royalty when he saw it.
“Right.” With a sigh, Ellin unlocked the door. Father Christmas fetched a big canvas bag full of brightly wrapped presents from his truck and placed it in the back seat. Then he slid in beside her and Pudgy, and arranged his long legs.
Wow, she thought as she accelerated. Who would have guessed a guy who hung out with reindeer would smell so nice?
“Do you gots a surprise for me in your sack, Santa?” Lizzie asked hopefully.
He turned and gave the little girl a solemn look. “I just might. But you’ll have to wait until the party to find out.”
“Goody! Mommy says you don’t need a chimbly to get into my house on Christmas Eve. Is that true?” Apparently, even four-year-olds knew to verify questionable data.
“Your mommy’s right about that.”
“Let me hear you go ho, ho, ho,” the princess commanded.
“Okay.” He gathered a deep, dramatic breath, clamped both hands on his sizable tummy, and let loose a rumbling trio of hos.
Ellin frowned, then smiled at her daughter’s obvious delight. Who was this man?
“Hey, Pudgy, how ya doin’ old buddy?” He ruffled the dog’s fur, and the beast crawled into his ample lap.
“How do you know my grandmother’s dog?”
“Santa knows everything, Mommy.” The princess had long since perfected a tone of superiority when dealing with her subjects. “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.”
The man didn’t miss a beat. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good,” he sang in an ingenuous baritone that rumbled through the car’s interior.
“So be good for good’ess sake.” Lizzie finished with a reprimanding shake of her tiny finger. At least all the hours they’d spent on the trip listening to the same two Christmas CDs over and over had paid off.
“I probably don’t need to tell you this,” Ellin said with a sidelong glance at her mysterious passenger. “But my name is Ellin Bennett and that’s Princess Lizzie.”
He patted the dog with his white-gloved hand. “I know who you are. I’m—”
“Santa Claus, of course.” Ellin cocked her head in Lizzie’s direction, warning him with a look not to destroy the little girl’s illusions.
“That’s right. Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho.”
Jack Madden knew exactly who Ellin Bennett was, but the dark-eyed brunette was not the hard-driving piranha he’d expected. He’d heard all about the big city journalist in town to take over the paper while Jig Baker was in Peru living his dream of participating in a full-scale university-sponsored archaeological dig.
Jig had said she was a career-minded divorcée with a young daughter. He warned Jack she was used to doing things differently in Chicago and might make some changes during her tenure. So be prepared.
But nothing could have prepared him for these two. Even Mrs. Boswell had failed to mention that the granddaughter she’d recommended for the job was a striking beauty. She’d bragged about her great-granddaughter, but never said she was such a precocious little angel.
Jack moonlighted as the paper’s sports editor and roving reporter, so he was curious about the new boss. He satisfied that curiosity by watching her openly as she maneuvered the winding road. Word around town, she was a hard-nosed newspaperwoman. But from where he sat, her nose looked anything but hard.
In fact, everything about the big city hotshot looked enticingly soft. Touch-me-and-see-for-yourself-soft. She had peachy pale skin and thick-lashed golden brown eyes. Full lips the color of his mother’s coral tea roses. Her long brown hair was twisted into a gravity-defying arrangement skewered by two ebony chopsticks.
Jack was thrown off balance by the sudden urge to reach over and slip out those silly sticks, just to watch the whiskey-colored mass tumble down. He managed to resist temptation but had an unbidden image of classy Ellin Bennett wearing her little girl’s endearingly fake tiara. And nothing else.
The Santa suit suddenly became too warm for comfort. A master of restraint, he didn’t usually have such inappropriate thoughts about a woman he’d just met. But this one was having a profound effect on him…a very pleasant effect.
He couldn’t take his gaze off her. She looked more like a delicate old-fashioned cameo than the competitive workaholic Jig had described. Maybe the softness was part of her ensemble, to be shrugged on and off as occasion demanded. Like the creamy angora turtleneck and brown woolen slacks, the camel coat and expensive boots. He noted the delicate gold watch on her wrist and the little diamond studs in her earlobes. Tasteful,