Santa Claws

He looked at his watch again. It was noon!

Chapter Three

“It’s Giselle,” she said to Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love. “Giselle Smith. And you’re...?”

“Alec Kilcurt. You have a lovely name.”

“Yeah, thanks. About that. The never-ending compliments. What is your deal? Now that I’m out of costume, you can see I’m nothing special.”

He laughed at her.

She frowned, but continued. “Too short, too heavy—”

He laughed harder.

“—but you keep complimenting me and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’re a census taker, right? A salesman? You want to sell me a fridge. A timeshare. A kidney. Stop laughing!”

He finally sobered up, although the occasional snort escaped. He snapped his fingers, and the glorious redhead at the next table, who’d been studying him while pretending to powder her nose, gave him her full attention. Her eyelashes fluttered. She licked her red, glistening lips.

Alec held out his hand, and after a puzzled moment the redhead placed her compact in his palm.

“Obliged,” he said carelessly. Then he snapped it open, showed it to Giselle. “This is what my people call a mirror,” he said in his ultra-cool Scottish brogue. “Y’should spend more time looking in one.”

“I know what a mirror is, you goob,” she snapped. “Too damn well. Stop shaking that thing at me or you won’t get anything nice for Christmas.” She nudged the bag at her foot; it held her costume. “I’ve got friends in high places.”

“Are you getting angry with me?” he asked, delighted. He handed the compact back to the redhead with barely a glance.

“Yes, a little. You don’t have to look so happy about it.”

“Sorry. It’s just...I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

“And almost as smart,” she said brightly.

“Most women find me a little intimidating.” He smiled at her. Giselle felt her stomach tighten, then roll over lazily. God, what a grin. “In my...family...we treasure women who speak their minds.”

“Then you’ve won the lottery today, pal. And you never answered my question. What are you up to?”

He reached out, and his big hand closed over her small, cold one. His thumb burrowed into her palm, stroked it. Her stomach did another slow roll, one she felt distinctly lower. “Why, I’m seducing you, of course,” he murmured.

Multiple internal alarms went off. “Whoare you?” she said, almost gasped.

“No one special. Just a lord looking for his lady.”

“Oh, you’ve got a title, too? Well, of course you do. That’s the way this day is going.”

“It’s Laird Kilcurt.”

“But your name is Kilcurt. Isn’t your title supposed to be completely different? Like Alec Kilcurt, laird of Toll House? Or something?”

He laughed. “Something. But my family does things a little differently. Too bad...I like the idea of being laird of chocolate chips.”

The waiter came, refreshed their drinks, and put down the two dozen oysters she’d ordered. She pulled her hand away, not without major reluctance. Since she figured this was her first and last date with the man, she’d ordered recklessly. He’d probably flip out when the bill came. Probably spent all his money on clothes and, given his trim waistline, only ate porridge once a day.

Wrong again. He nodded approvingly at the ridiculous size of her appetizer. He was leaning back in his chair, studying her. He had, if it was possible, gotten even better looking since morning. The expensive coat was off, revealing a splendid build showcased to perfection in a dark gray suit. His brogue, she noticed, came and went, depending on the topic of conversation.

“You haven’t lived inScotland your entire life,” she observed, sucking down her second daiquiri. Normally not a big drinker, she felt the need for booze today.

“No. My family often had business on Cape Cod, so I spent a lot of time inMassachusetts . And I went to Harvard for graduate school. I’ve probably lived inAmerica as many years as I’ve lived inScotland .”

Titled, gorgeous, rich, smart. Was she on Candid Camera, or what? “That makes sense...I noticed your accent comes and goes. I mean, sometimes it’s really faint, and sometimes it’s pretty heavy.”

“It’s heavy,” he replied, “when I’m tired. Or angry. Or...excited.”

“Okay, that’sit ,” she said, slamming her glass down. “Whoare you? What do you want with me? I made $18,000 last year. I’m poor, plain, cursed with child-bearing hips—and ass—and I’m prospect-less. What the hell are you doing with me?”

His eyes went narrow. “I’ll have to find the people who convinced you of such things. And have a long chat with them.”

“Answer the question, Groundskeeper Willie, or I’m out of here.”

He looked puzzled at her pop culture reference, but shrugged and answered easily enough. “I’m planning to spend the day getting you into my bed. And I’m thinking about marrying you.That’s what I’m doing with you, my charming little chocolate treat.”

She felt her mouth pop open. Felt her face get red. If this was a joke, it was a pretty mean one. If he was serious, he was out of his fucking mind. She seized on the one thing she could safely question. “Chocolate treat?”

“Your eyes are the color of really good chocolate...Godiva milk, I think. And your hair looks like fudge sauce. Rich and dark. It contrasts nicely with your pale, pale skin. Your rosy cheeks are the...cherry on top.”

She downed the rest of her drink in two monster gulps.

Chapter Four

“I’m sorry,” she groaned. Sweaty strands of hair were clinging limply to her face and temples.

“It’s all right, lass.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t fret. I’ve been puked on before.”

She groaned again, this time in complete humiliation. She hadn’t thrown up near him. Hadn’t thrown up around him. Had actually barfedon him. Onhim !

“You promised to kill me,” she reminded him hoarsely. The elevator doors slid open and he scooped her easily into his arms, and carried her down the hallway. “Don’t forget.”

His chest rumbled as he choked down a laugh. “Now, I didna promise to kill you, sweetheart. Just to take you up to my room so you c’n get your strength back.”

“I’ll be all right once I get off my feet,” she lied. Death was coming for her! She could feel its icy grip on the back of her neck. Or was that the ice from her third—fourth?—daiquiri? “Just need to get off my feet,” she said again.

“Sweetie, you’re off them.”

“Oh, shut up, what do you know?” she said crossly, getting more and more dizzy as the ceiling tiles raced by. “And slow down. And kill me!”

“Usually ladies wait until the second date before begging me for death,” he said, straight-faced. He paused outside a door, shifted his weight, and somehow managed to produce the card key, unlock the door, and sweep her inside without putting her down.

Two hotel maids and a woman in a red business suit were waiting for them. Giselle had a vague memory of the woman in red examining her while the sound of running water went on and on in the next room. She kept fuzzing...that was the only way to describe it. One moment things would be crystal-clear—too sharp, too loud—and the next she could barely hear them for their mumbling. It was annoying, and she told them so. Repeatedly.

“—lukewarm bath make all the difference—”

“—just got so sick, it’s verra worrisome—”

“—mild food poisoning—”

“—she’ll be okay in no—”

“—close to your Change for it to be a problem?”

“—canceled my flight earlier, so she can—”

“—push fluids—”

She reached up blindly. What’s-his-name

(Alec? Alex?)

caught her hand, held it tightly. “What is it, sweetie? D’you want something to drink?”

“No, I want you to STOP YELLING! How can I quietly expire if you keep screaming?”

“We’ll try t’keep it down.”

“An’ don’t humor me, either,” she mumbled. “Oh, now, what’s this happy crappy?” Because now she was being undressed and helped off the bed. “Look, stop this! Isn’t there an ice bucket or a hammer or something in here? All you have to do is hit me in the headreallyhard and my problems will be over.”

“You’ll feel better in twenty-four hours!” the woman in red screamed.

“Jesus, do I have to get out the hand puppets so you people understand? Not so loud! And I’ll be dead,dead in twenty-four hours, thank you very much, and—where are we going?”

The bathroom. Specifically, the bathtub. She started to protest that a change of temperature in her state would kill her, but the lukewarm water felt so blissful she stopped in mid-squawk.

And that was all. For a very long time.

* * * * *

Giselle woke up and knew two things at once: 1) she would burst if she didn’t get to a bathroom within seconds, and 2) she was ravenous.

She stumbled through the darkness into the bathroom, availed herself of the facilities for what felt like half a day, and brushed her teeth with the new tooth brush she found on the counter.

While she swished and gargled and spat, the day’s humiliating events came back to her. Working the bell, meeting Alec, being wined and dined—and God, he’d beenflirting with her!—then throwing up on him (groan) and the table tipping away from her.

Everything after that was, as they say, a blur. Mercifully so. She wondered where Alec was. She wondered whereshe was.

She stepped back into the hotel room—Alec’s hotel room—and stole to the window. She saw an astonishing view of the New England Aquarium and, beyond that,Boston harbor. It was very late; after midnight, but well before dawn; the sky was utterly black but there was little traffic moving. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">