“Sure. I’m working an inside connection.”
“You are?”
“Yeah.” Nick stood and walked across the room. “Santa’s daughter.”
“Santa’s daughter, huh? Want Tazer to run a check on her? What’s her name?”
“No. I think she’s genuine. Her name’s Mary...Mary Christmas.” Nick grinned, imagining Royce’s expression.
“I’m sorry, there must have been some static in the line. Did you say Mary Christmas?”
“That’s right. These people really get into the whole Christmas theme up here.” Something completely foreign to Nick.
“I knew that, but...Mary Christmas?” Royce paused. “Is she normal?”
Normal? Mary Christmas? Nick envisioned the long silky blond hair and even longer, silkier smooth legs he’d glimpsed peeking out of her robe last night. His groin tightened. “Yeah, she’s normal.”
“Well, keep an eye on her. If Richards thought Santa was in danger, Santa’s daughter might be a target as well. Keep me informed. Kat will be there in the next day or so.” Royce ended the call.
Nick slid the cell phone into his pocket. He’d already considered Mary as a target for whoever was after Santa. Thus, the restless night, listening for sounds.
The best way he could protect her and learn more about the town was to get close. A pinch of irritation gnawed at his gut. He liked working alone. Liked keeping a distance from the subjects of his mission. It spared messy goodbyes. And face it, he would be saying goodbye once he’d located Santa and neutralized the threat to the bearded elf and his family. Nick St. Claire didn’t stay long in any one place.
Get in, solve the problem and leave.
Passed from foster home to foster home as a child growing up in Texas, he’d learned emotional ties only weighed you down.
Another glance at the clock. He’d promised to meet Mary at eight. In two and a half hours. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option. Going for a run was.
He slipped into socks, tennis shoes and several layers of clothing before stepping out into the darkness of an early winter morning. With the cold wind biting at all exposed flesh, Nick reevaluated his decision to jog. After ducking back inside and donning his snow boots and a solid white snowsuit, goggles and hood, he left his room, feeling a bit more prepared for a brisk walk and a chance to learn the layout of the town.
Mary must have fallen asleep sometime after three because she didn’t wake until thirty-five minutes after five, when she looked at her clock again. Nightmares had plagued her. All involving her father and some dark menace lurking in the shadows of the town, of her home and the bed-and-breakfast where she and Nick St. Claire were staying.
Had she scared herself awake or had something disturbed her sleep? Maybe a noise? She sat up and held her breath, straining to hear it again.
A door opened and closed in the hallway, and from the sound of it, right across from hers. She flung the covers back and ran barefoot across the carpeted floor. She took a moment to shove the dresser aside before she could yank open the door.
A man in a white snowsuit stood in the hallway, bundled up from head to toe.
Mary opened her mouth to scream, but before she could utter so much as a squeak, the man reached out, grabbed her arm and spun her around, clamping a hand over her mouth.
Her heart pounded in her chest so hard, she thought maybe she’d pass out, but she couldn’t. This could be the man who was after her father. Barely able to breathe, she fought with all her might against the arm crushing her breasts beneath the thin flannel of her pajamas. No matter how much she wiggled and kicked, his hold didn’t loosen.
Over the sound of her own muffled grunts, a deep baritone penetrated her frightened mind. “Be still. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Too late, her foot had been in mid-swing, and she couldn’t stop her heel from gouging the man’s shin hard enough to make her heal radiate with the pain.
The man grunted. “It’s me, Nick.” He let go of her so suddenly, she almost collapsed on the cool tile of the hallway floor. She spun and faced him, ready to kick again, her breath coming in ragged pants, anger replacing fear. “Why the heck did you grab me?”
“Did you have to go and kick me so hard?” He bent, rubbing his shin, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead, exposing those brown-black eyes that sparkled like a moonlit oil-spill.
“What did you expect, after what’s happened? My room’s broken into?—”
“—by your father, so you said—” Nick straightened, a frown denting his forehead with fine lines.
“—my father’s missing, and last night a man almost ran me over in the hallway?—”
The corners of Nick’s lips twitched, “—who could have forgotten to turn off the stove in his house—” And the jerk had the audacity to grin.
