Teresa Southwick - Crazy About The Boss

“It’s part of my job and what you expect from me,” she shot back. “And here’s an observation for you. In spite of that, he seems like a charming man.”

He scowled. “Believe me, he’s not the nice man you think, Maddie.”

She waited and hoped he’d say more, but he’d shut down tighter than an airport in a blizzard. If he expected them not to talk about what happened tonight, he’d brought the wrong woman to London.

“Jack, we all have flaws. Yours is a reckless streak that makes you very good at what you do.”

“Your point?”

She stopped and waited until he looked at her. “Your father is no doubt imperfect, but he loves you.”

The dark look got darker still and his blue eyes glittered with something dangerous. “And you got that from an observation?”

“No. I got it when he told you it’s been a long time.”

“I’m not following,” he said, shaking his head.

“That meant he’s missed you.”

“Oh, really?” He leaned forward.

“Yes, really. And when he said you’ve done well, that meant he’s proud of you.”

“I had no idea you were gifted in reading between the lines.”

“It’s easy to read between the lines when one isn’t emotionally involved,” she told him. She set her fork down on her empty plate.

“And you think I am?”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s your father. You love him and he loves you.”

“And you know this—how?”

“When you abruptly announced it was time to go, he tried to get you to change your mind.”

“Translation?”

“I love you. I’ve missed you. I’m not ready for you to leave so soon.”

He laughed, but the sound was bitter and harsh and completely humorless. “Not that I buy into such a lunatic theory,” he said, “but how do you know this?”

“My father.” She pushed her plate aside. “He used to tell me I looked like a college football quarterback and I found that fairly offensive as I prided myself on being feminine.”

“And doing a fine job.”

There was that gleam in his eyes again as he let his gaze boldly roam over her. Along with the compliment, it produced a warm glow in the wasteland of her heart. She wished she could blame the feeling on the wine, but that simply explained the buzz. This sensation was so much more. It was all that attention zeroed in on her. It was exciting. It was scary. It was a stepping-stone to heartbreak.

“I complained to my mother and she explained it was approval. That he was actually saying that I’m trim and fit.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Jack’s gaze lowered for a fraction of a second.

His attention was more than scary. It made her want to run but she wouldn’t because she’d be humiliated and Jack would win. She forced herself not to look away. “That’s when I started translating male speak,” she explained.

“Fascinating.”

“I’m convinced your father was trying to reach out—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He stood abruptly. “Did you leave room for pie? I had it made specially. Let’s have it in the sitting area.” He took one of the pieces on a dessert plate and walked over to the sofa.

And just like that the conversation was over. “All right.”

She took the other piece of pie and followed him. The suite, ironically enough, was decorated in the color of money. Thick jade carpet cushioned her bare feet and furniture covered in varying shades of green was arranged in a conversation area on one wall. Maddie sat on the sofa at a right angle to him and concentrated on eating her dessert.

“This is really delicious. Almost as good as my sister Susie’s. The whipped cream is to die for,” she said, closing her eyes. Memories of a past holiday flitted through her mind and she started to laugh.

“What?” Jack set his untouched pie on the table, then rested his arm on the end of the sofa.

“I was just remembering the time my mother caught us squirting the whipped cream straight from the can into our mouths.”

“A hanging offense if I ever heard one.” This teasing man was more like the New York Jack.

Relaxing, she set her plate with half the pie uneaten beside his, then curled up on the love seat. “It’s funny now, but my mother was not amused.” She rested her chin in her palm as she looked at him. “Do you remember what your favorite Christmas present was?”

He grinned. “A bike. Top of the line. I’d been lusting after it for months. Cut a picture out of a catalogue and hung it in my room. What about you?”

“A doll house. With furniture.” She sighed. “It was—”

“What?”

“You’ll think it’s silly.”

“No, I won’t,” he vowed. “Give me a chance to screw up before you make me guilty.”

“You’ve got a point,” she agreed. “Okay. It was that tweener time—”

“Excuse me?”

“That time between when you believe in Santa Claus and when you suspect the truth. I wanted to believe, but I’d heard the ugly rumors.”

“Gossip does spread.”

“I was like you and the bike, wanting that doll house so badly it was all I could think about. But I knew my parents couldn’t afford much that year. My sister got braces. We needed a new car. Money was tight.” And why was she spilling her guts? It wasn’t what she and Jack did. But she’d started this. “Anyway, I decided to go see Santa with my younger brother, Dan.”

“Dan was a believer?”

“Yeah. But he was intimidated by the beard and suit. I sat on Santa’s lap to coax him into it. Mom wanted a picture.”

“And you told Santa what you wanted?” he guessed.

“On the off chance that he was magic, I sort of whispered it in his ear.” She shrugged and self-consciously toyed with a strand of hair. “Pretty silly, huh?”

“On the contrary—” He reached over and put his hand on hers.

The touch was warm, strong, sweet, and stopped her heart. It could have been the wine, the buzz, or sharing a suite with Jack, but the feel of his hand on hers was like a punch to the gut and it took two deep breaths to get everything moving again.

That had never happened before.

“Did you get it?”

“What?” she asked.

“The doll house?”

“Oh. No. Anyway—” she eased her hand from beneath his “—tell me about your bike.”

“It was blue. And it didn’t come from Santa,” he teased.

“I knew you thought I was being silly. It’s very sad when you have to grow up.”

“It is, yes.” He looked at her, an odd expression on his face. “If you still believed, what would you ask Santa for this year?”

“Florence,” she said.

“Who?”

“Not who,” she said, laughing. “Italy. I’ve always wanted to go there.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure why. I’ve seen pictures, but I just have a feeling it’s one of those places you have to see with your own eyes.”

“Who knows? Maybe Santa will make it happen.”

“Maybe.”

When he smiled, the scary exciting feeling came back with a one/two punch. It was time to call it a night before she said something else she’d regret.

“I’m exhausted. Funny how sitting for hours on a plane can do that. I think the traveling has caught up with me.”

Amusement disappeared from his eyes, replaced by what looked like regret. “I’m sorry, Maddie. I shouldn’t have made you travel on Christmas. You had plans. With someone special?”

“Yes.” Not quite a lie; her friends were special. “But it’s okay. Actually, this turned out to be a nice holiday after all.”

The brooding look was back, as if he were remembering the ghosts of Christmas past. Quite frankly she’d never seen a man more in need of a hug.