Baby, It's Cold Outside (6 page)

Or he could tell her the truth. Speak of the thing he never, ever spoke about. Talk to the woman who’d judged him just a few short hours ago and found him wanting.

Except now he was looking at the situation through different eyes and knew that yes, he
had
been wanting. Facing his past was the only way he was ever going to change that. Plus, this time, he knew that Ellie wasn’t going to judge, just as he hadn’t judged her. She was going to listen. Maybe she would tell him what she thought, in that direct English way of hers, but she’d listen first.

“I hated living at home. Dad used to drink and Mom was always ‘walking into doors.’ There wasn’t a single day without a fight.” Even the memories put a lump in his throat. “I didn’t want that kind of life—or that kind of relationship—for me.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand briefly. “I’m sorry. Have things between them gotten any better now you’re older?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see them.”

“Not ever?”

She looked shocked. Not surprisingly, given how close she was to her family and the love that showed in her face when she spoke of them.

Not all families were like his.

And he didn’t want her to think that he was all bad. “I speak to them sometimes. I never forget birthdays or Christmas gifts.”

“You just don’t want to go back there.” She sounded understanding rather than judgmental.

“It’s not just my parents.” He sighed. “I have three older sisters. They all made the same mistakes as my parents, and they’re all divorced now. My sisters, I mean. My oldest sister did it twice. I’ll never understand why she thought she could change either of them.”

“You can’t change someone else. And the only person who can change you is
you
,” she said. “You have to want to change, and your head’s got to be in the right place before you can even try it, or it won’t work.”

“Exactly. I didn’t want to be like them. So I hitched a ride east when I was sixteen. I found myself a job, worked my way up.”

“To being the second in command at one of the biggest PR agencies in Philadelphia. That’s pretty good going.”

He shrugged. “Because I was focused on my career. I wanted it badly enough to make it happen.”

“But?”

Funny how she’d homed in what he wasn’t saying. What he’d been thinking ever since he’d walked into the hospice that afternoon and his life had turned unexpectedly upside down. “But what you were saying about the only person who can change you is you—that’s true. Today was a test.”

She frowned. “How?”

“My boss is retiring next year. He’s looking at who’s going to replace him.”

“But you’re second in command. Aren’t you the obvious choice?”

“Maybe.” That’s what Mitch had thought. Until his boss had dropped the bombshell. “But C.J. thinks I don’t have a heart. That’s why he asked me to be Santa. To prove that I do.”

“Do you think you passed?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know.” He spread his hands. “But I do know it’s changed me. Today’s made me realize that C.J.’s right. Focusing on business all the time is only half the story. Those kids made me feel—well, humble. I’ve stayed separate from people in the past, because I don’t want to make my family’s mistakes. But it doesn’t have to be like that. There’s another way.”

“If you choose to take it.”

“I’ve never believed in all that love-at-first-sight business, but I do know you make me feel different. Like nobody else has made me feel. I want to
be
different. I can’t give you any guarantees but, yes, I want to give this a try.” He reached over to tangle his fingers with hers. “With you.”

“I said I wasn’t going to get involved again. I was going to work out what I wanted to do with my life, then focus on my career.” She looked at him. “I’ve never, ever gone to bed with someone without knowing them for months—and I’ve not even known you a whole day! But you’ve taught me something. That it’s okay to take a risk.” She held his gaze. “Betty’s not going to be that mobile for a while. I’ll need to stay here to help out until she’s fit again. As you said, there are no guarantees. It might work. It might not. But the only way we’ll find out is to give it a try.”

“So will you give me a chance?”

She smiled at him. “Yes.”

“Which,” he said, “kind of makes me your Christmas present, Ellie Brown.”

She grinned. “One I’m certainly going to enjoy unwrapping. Merry Christmas, Santa. And I might just be wearing your Christmas stocking…”

About the Author

Kate Hardy is an award-winning author of over 50 books for Harlequin and is thrilled to be writing now for Indulgence. She lives in Norwich in the east of England with her husband, two children, springer spaniel, and too many books to count. She’s a bit of a nerd who loves cinema, the theatre, history and cooking (which is why she has to go to the gym five times a week!), and adores anything Italian.

’Tis the Season to

Love Shopping

Heidi Rice

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Heidi Rice. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Liz Pelletier

Cover design by Libby Murphy

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition November 2012

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Gucci, Disney Channel, Lucky Charms, Reese’s Pieces, Hershey, Baby Ruth, Lego, Skype, Vanity Fair, Disneyland, YouTube, Cornell, Bollinger.

To Aimee, Amy, and Kate, my fabulous fellow Flirtettes, let’s do this again sometime, ladies!

Chapter One

Why did Christmas always have to be such a colossal pain in the arse?

Kate Braithwaite hurried along Fifth Avenue, the clatter of her boots on the sidewalk barely audible above the sleeting rain which, like everything else in her recently adopted city, was so much bigger and brasher than what she was used to in England. She dumped her ruined umbrella in a bin.

Shivering under her sodden coat, she tried to figure out where exactly she’d gone wrong with Christmas this year.

Knowing she would be alone on the day itself, she’d planned accordingly: she’d arranged a Skype chat with Benedict for two o’clock on the dot to account for the time difference between Manhattan and London; she’d forked out thirty dollars for a gourmet turkey dinner for one from Sinclair’s luxury food hall; and she’d stocked up on a demi-bottle of Bollinger and a couple of cheesy movies to while away her evening. She’d even bought a real miniature blue spruce a week ago and decorated it with baubles and snowflake lights to keep her spirits up. She’d been so enchanted with the result, she hadn’t even returned it to the flower store on Lexington when the needles began to drop off two days later.

And all for what?

So she could still feel sad and desperate and miserably alone on the big day, her thirty-dollar gourmet turkey dinner sitting forlornly in the fridge because she couldn’t bring herself to eat it.

She swiped the wet hair off her forehead and concentrated on the twinkle of lights a block ahead that outlined the art deco frontage of Sinclair’s, shining like an oasis through the gloom.

Work
.

Warmth chased away some of the chill at the thought of her well-ordered desk in her well-ordered office on the sixth floor of the stately department store. She picked up the pace as icy water seeped under her collar and dripped down her back.

Opening the e-mail from Benedict over breakfast this morning had been her first mistake. A subject line marked “Sorry” should have been a warning to her. But she’d assumed it would be a message about rearranging their Skype chat—not a message to cancel it all together, followed by a two-thousand-word dissertation on the untenable nature of long-distance relationships.

Kate’s bottom lip quivered. She bit into it. Trust Benedict to dump her via e-mail on Christmas morning and then add insult to injury by patronizing her to death while doing it. Absorbing the festive finery of Sinclair’s window displays as she rushed past, Kate pushed aside the image of Benedict and the less-than-sexy frown of concentration he always wore whenever they made love.

However bad his timing, perhaps Benedict had been right to end their relationship. They’d been apart for six months—ever since she’d relocated to Manhattan from London after being contacted by a prestigious head-hunting firm—and she hadn’t missed him as much as she thought she would.

She turned into the sheltered alleyway at the back of the store, her boots echoing a little eerily on the rutted paving stones before she reached the metal security door of the staff entrance.

A sense of calm and purpose settled over her as she pressed the button on the intercom. Maybe it was a little sad and pathetic to be coming into work on Christmas Day because she couldn’t quite face her empty apartment. But so what? Work had always been what grounded and sustained her, and she had an invaluable opportunity to start working on her pitch for next month’s PR forum while the store was blessedly quiet.

Charles, the store’s chief of security, answered on the second ring. “Oh my, Ms. Braithwaite, what happened?” he clucked as she stepped out of the rain. “You want me to get you a towel?”

“Don’t worry, Charles, I’ll be fine. I have some dry clothes in my office.” Or at least she hoped she did.

“What you doing here on Christmas Day, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She did mind a little bit, but pasted on a smile regardless. Americans had a habit of asking what they wanted to know and didn’t tend to see it as rude. So she wouldn’t either. That said, she didn’t plan to give Charles the real reason she’d walked six blocks in a freezing monsoon.

“I thought I’d take the opportunity to work uninterrupted, while there are no distractions.”

Charles’s warm brown eyes crinkled around the edges as he sent her a curious smile. “Well, it sure is quiet today. But you don’t want to stay too long, Ms. Braithwaite. Weatherman says the blizzard’s gonna hit soon.”

Ah yes, the mythical blizzard that the hysterical local weathermen had been banging on about for weeks.

“Don’t worry, Charles, I’m sure I’ll be fine. My apartment’s only six blocks from…”

“Six blocks is a mighty long way in a blizzard,” Charles interrupted in an ominous tone. “I already told Mr. Ryder he should light out before it gets dark, so I’ll say the same to you.”

“Mr. Ryder?” she asked confused. She didn’t know anyone on the staff by that name—or anyone else who was sad enough to be at work on Christmas Day.

“Mr. Ryder Sinclair,” Charles clarified. “He flew into JFK an hour ago. He called to say he’s stopping by to pick up a last-minute Christmas gift.”

“Oh, all right.” Of course, Mr. Ryder would be Lachlan Sinclair’s prodigal playboy son, named on the store’s website and letterhead as a “company director”—and whom every member of the female staff appeared to have a crush on—but whom Kate herself had never actually met.

Because apparently Ryder Sinclair’s definition of a “company director’s” job involved drawing a six-figure salary from the landmark department store that had been in his family for three generations and then disappearing for months on end on some mysterious undisclosed business. And getting photographed by paparazzi in his spare time with a parade of anorexic models, pinheaded actresses, and underdressed rock chicks surgically attached to his arm.

His impromptu shopping trip today neatly confirmed all Kate’s suspicions about the man. How irresponsible did you have to be to be buying a last-minute Christmas gift
on
Christmas Day? And how exactly did Mr. Ryder plan to pay for his gift, she wondered resentfully, given that all the tills were currently closed?

A gush of air from the loading bay made her shudder, all the reminder she needed that she was soaking wet. “I better go, Charles,” she said, deciding that Ryder Sinclair’s ethical turpitude and lack of foresight weren’t her problem—because unless she was extremely unlucky, she would be highly unlikely to bump into him. There were five floors of gift opportunities at Sinclair’s, and she was making a beeline straight to her office on sixth next to the toy department. Knowing the sort of woman Sinclair appeared to prefer, he’d probably be heading for lingerie on third. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on the weather from my office window and head out if it worsens.”

After she reached her office, she stripped off her wet coat, sopping tights, drenched boots, and decidedly damp woolen shift dress and stood shivering in her matching bra and knickers. As she searched frantically for the gym wear she could have sworn she left there a week ago, Kate realized her colossally crappy Christmas had just gotten worse.

Chapter Two

What the hell difference is there between the Festive Fairy Princess and Santa’s Seasonal Sprite anyway?

Ryder Sinclair frowned at the virtually identical dolls in their glittery green-and-gold packaging and tried to make an informed decision. After five agonizing minutes of study, the only appreciable difference he could see was that the Seasonal Sprite seemed to have a good millimeter of extra cleavage. And he was pretty sure Gully wouldn’t notice that, because she was eight for chrissake—and a girl.

He flipped one of the boxes over to read the lurid scarlet lettering on the back, but instead of describing the doll’s virtues, it listed her whole damn life story—including the fact that she was head elf in Santa’s workshop.

Turning the box again, he stared at the doll’s mind-boggling cleavage barely covered by her miniature green elf dress.