“Argh!” She stomped her foot. “I don’t like all the secrets. Can you at least tell me who the dead man was?”
“Frank Richards. Does the name ring any bells?”
Mary scratched through her memory. “I’ve never met a man by that name, nor has Dad mentioned it. My dad and I are very close.”
“What about your stepmother?”
Her jaw tightened. “She’s only been in the picture for the past couple months. Before that, my father and I had no secrets from each other.”
“What do you know about his life before he moved here?”
“My dad’s lived in North Pole ever since I was born.”
“Where did he live before that?”
“I don’t know, I never asked. I knew he’d been in the military, but he didn’t like to talk about it.” For someone who loved her father more than any man in her life, she didn’t know him very well, did she? Her breath caught in her throat and she swallowed hard.
“What about your mother?”
“She was from Fairbanks, born and raised.”
“Was?” he prodded, his voice low, but insistent.
Mary turned to stare at the curtained window. “She died fourteen years ago in a car wreck.” Her death had been the reason Mary had stayed in North Pole as long as she had. Her father had loved his first wife completely. Olivia Claus had been a shining beacon, a consistently happy woman, content in her life in Alaska, thrilled to be a part of Christmas Towne and in love with her husband. And Santa had loved her more than life itself.
When Olivia Claus had died, Santa had needed Mary more than ever.
For the next fourteen years, she’d concentrated on making her father happy. She’d graduated with honors from high school, gone to college in Fairbanks and put off her dreams of moving to the lower forty-eight, indefinitely. Then she’d met Bradley and thought she was in love. When he’d turned out to be a cheat, her dreams of raising her children near her father fell through. That’s when her father arranged for her move to Seattle, to get away from bad memories.
She shook herself out of her morose musings. “How old was the man in Brooklyn?”
“Early sixties, maybe. We’re still looking into his background. I don’t know much about him yet, other than he was a retired Army sergeant.”
“You think he might have known my dad before he moved to Alaska? Back when he’d been in the military?” When had her father moved to North Pole? Perhaps she could ask Christmas Towne’s janitor, Mr. Feegan. He’d known her dad about as long as anyone, she guessed. A glance at the clock confirmed it was too late to call now. At nearly midnight, she wouldn’t get a coherent response if she got him to answer the phone at all.
And Nick still hadn’t answered all her questions. “You still haven’t said who you work for.”
“Let’s just say, I used to work for the country and in a way I still do. You better get some rest. We want to start fresh and early looking for your father.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Like what?”
“That I still don’t know what you are.”
“I’m just a man here to help Santa.”
“Like some kind of saint from heaven?” Mary snorted. “North Pole’s very own Saint Nick?”
“I’m no saint.” All humor disappeared from his face, leaving his eyes dark and fathomless.
She glanced at the gun in his hand. “How do I know you’re not here to kill my father? How do I know you didn’t kill Frank Richards?”
“You don’t.” He set the gun inside a dresser drawer and scooped her elbow with his palm. “Now, are you going to your room, or would you rather sleep here?”
Mary’s heart flip-flopped in her chest at the thought of staying in the same room with this man who was sexy enough to be a model and with just enough mystery to be dangerous. A deadly combination for her under exercised libido. If she didn’t leave now, it might be fatal to more than her tenuous hold on self-preservation. Who was to say he wouldn’t kill her? Her skin chilled. “I’m going.”
She couldn’t hustle across the hallway and into her room fast enough. When she turned to close the door, she noticed Nick leaning in his doorframe. Having shed his jacket and with his black hair falling over his forehead, he could crank up any female’s blood pressure and she was no different.
