“See who?” she asked evasively.
“Bernard and Ginger.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she insisted, looking away.
“Oh come on, Ms. Mistletoe. Don’t play dumb with me. It’s beneath you.”
“All right, yes, that’s how I see them,” she hissed.
Bartlett watched as her tiny pink tongue came out to swipe at the chocolate on her upper lip. It was enticing.
“So, she’s the husband stealer and poor stupid Bernard had nothing to do with it?” he asked with a slight smirk. “She just captured him in her sexy, evil web?”
“Something like that,” she admitted quietly.
“Don’t you think that’s a little one-sided?” he inquired. “All the blame is on her and he gets off with a free pass for being weak?” With a short laugh he shook his head in disbelief when she nodded.
“Bernard is easily led,” she explained coolly.
“Led or bossed?” he countered.
“Look, this isn’t the time or place for this conversation,” she snapped, rising quickly.
“Then have dinner with me tonight,” he suggested, surprising even himself.
“Why?”
“I want to help you, Merry. You’re too talented to be shuffled off to some obscure department. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want it to come to that.” Rising he stood and looked down at her as he waited for an answer.
“Where do you want to meet?” she asked, defeated.
“Come to my cabin. We need privacy, without a lot of curious eyes watching. There is enough gossip around here as it is. People will talk because we had this little break together,” he said a bit disgustedly.
“What time?” she whispered as she followed him to the entrance.
“Seven, and don’t be late. I like punctuality.”
“And do you always get what you want, Mr. Bright?” she sassed.
“Most of the time,” he replied with a laugh. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Merry rolled her eyes and spun away. He certainly didn’t lack confidence. Maybe if Bernard had had a bit more of that he wouldn’t have been such an easy target. Now, with a child on the way, he was well and truly trapped. Well, it served him right. He’d made his sleigh bed, now he’d have to sleep in it.
CHAPTER2
The rest of the day flew by far too quickly. She managed to paint a couple of happy-faced dolls, but the majority of today’s work would be rejected, a fact she was well aware of. It annoyed the hell out of her. She was an artist, of sorts, a professional who should be able to put her personal feelings aside and do her job.
Merry cleaned up her workshop slowly, in no hurry to keep her appointment with Bartlett Bright. It would consist of dinner, served with another round of lectures for dessert. She would send him a message informing him she had a headache, she finally decided.
Then she thought about another long and lonely night in her suite and sighed deeply. That was equally as unappealing. It was a quandary to be sure, which was the lesser of two evils?
Occasionally, she was plagued by bouts of honesty. Often she hated it, but she supposed it was the result of her upbringing and career. The North Pole was not the place for liars and cheats, and in her somewhat biased opinion, Bernard and Ginger should be tossed out on their pointed little ears.
Admittedly, it was not the loss of Bernard that bothered her. He was a weak-willed little weasel and she was glad to be rid of him, mostly. No, it was the humiliation that hurt. The fact that he’d tossed her over for a red-haired floozy of an elf with big tits. Their actions put her in the center of whispered conversations that stopped abruptly whenever she walked by.
Speculation ran rampant. Elves and humans alike looked at her with curious eyes, wondering why she’d allowed Ginger to steal her man. Unfortunately, she couldn’t admit the truth to anyone; in fact she’d only recently realized it herself. Bernard Breadhouse wasn’t worth fighting for.
He was a self-centered jerk and she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember what she’d ever found attractive about him. Physically he was acceptable, reasonably pleasant to look at and he could, on occasion, be charming. He’d been an adequate lover, nothing earth-shattering happened in bed, but she figured that was mostly in novels written by imaginative women anyway.
