Debrah Morris - That Maddening Man

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, understated. And utterly feminine.

Jack smiled. They were definitely in for some changes. Watching this urbane beauty adapt to small-town living might very well be the most entertaining thing to happen in Washington for years. The thought of getting to know her better filled him with a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt since he was a kid waiting for Christmas himself.

“So, how’s Ida Faye doing?” Ellin’s feisty old grandmother was one of his favorite people. He’d visited her several times since her discharge from the hospital and knew she wasn’t happy being “incarcerated” in the nursing home. His Aunt Lorella made sure she received the best of care.

“You know my grandmother?” Ellin’s puzzled look was replaced by a smug knowing one. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. Santa knows—”

“Everything!” Jack and Lizzie called out in unison.

“Right.” Ellin flipped on the turn signal and pulled into the nursing home drive.

“I warned her not to shovel snow at her age.” Jack hoped he would be as spry as Mrs. Boswell in his eightieth winter. “But you know Ida. Always helping everyone.”

Ellin parked near the door and switched off the engine. “Well, this time she helped herself to a broken hip and a doctor-ordered stay at Shady Acres.”

She dropped the car keys in her coat pocket, opened the back door, unsnapped the child restraint and lifted the little girl out. Pudgy bounced around their feet.