Poles Apart (4 page)

Who was this dark-haired beauty? Where
was she from? ‘No Name’ and ‘Nowhere’ didn’t help Niklas one bit, intriguing
and humorous as they were.

He’d try again. “So, No, I don’t
recognize that Nowhere accent of yours. It’s like nothing I’ve ever come
across. Very different. Not quite Australian. Won’t you tell me where you’re
from and who you are?”

“Never mind who I am, Nick. What I want
to know is who exactly you are.”

She knows my name? And what does she
mean by ‘who exactly I am’?

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

She opened the red journal she carried.
“Let’s see…I believe your real name is
Joulupukki
? Is that true?”

“Ha-ha-ha. I get it. You’re interviewing
Santa?”

“Yes.” She tipped her chin upward. “If
you don’t object. I am the last person. They cut the queue after me.”

“Sure. Why not?” He leaned closer to see
what she was writing and spotted the sketches on the opposite page. “Those are
really good. Did you draw them?”

“I did.” She moved her hand, covering
her artwork. Extending a finger, she tapped the page. “
Joulupukki
?”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No, a writer. A novelist.”

“Ah. And what kind of novels do you
write, Miss No Name from Nowhere?”

She gave a sigh, soft enough not to be
rude, loud enough for him to hear. “Mr. Claus, this is
my
interview, so
if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions.
Joulupukki
? Please.”

“Ha-ha-ha, yes.
Joulupukki
is my
real name...in Finland. Elsewhere in the English-speaking world I’m simply
known as Father Christmas or Santa.”

“Oh.”

Niklas watched the blush rise from her
neck until it reached her cheeks. “Is it too hot in here for you?”

Giving her head a quick shake, she
lowered her gaze to the journal and scanned her notes. Choosing her next
question, no doubt.

“Rovaniemi—it’s your home?”

“No. Rovaniemi is where I have my
office. My home is in Korvatunturi, north-east of this town.”

“I see.” She scribbled down the name,
not getting the spelling quite right.

Niklas leaned closer.
“K-o-r-v-a-t-u-n-t-u-r-i.”

She corrected as he spelled, then
rewrote the word, scratching out her first attempt.

“And your workshops? Where your elves
make all the toys for...Christmas? Where are those located?”

“Is this a spy novel? You’re certainly
digging into sensitive territory.”

Niklas waited for a response as she
tapped the notebook with her pen.

Finally she looked up. “Romance.”

Romance? As long as she kept her questions
to Santa, his reindeer, and elves, she’d get the information she needed. Move
them to matters of love and he was in big trouble.

“Your workshops...?”

“Ah, yes. They are also in Korvatunturi.
But nobody can go there because all the secrets of Christmas can be found
there.” He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice. “Do you know why
Santa can hear all the children of the world so well?”

She shook her head, slower this time.
Niklas watched mesmerized as long, dark tresses swept a contrast over her cream
jersey.

You’re staring.

He shifted in his chair and slid his
hands further down the armrests, wrapping his fingers around the wooden end. He
ventured a gaze into those pale blue pools, swallowing hard. “Because Korvatunturi
is shaped like two ears. The name actually means ‘ear fell’.”

“So you wouldn’t take me there if I
wanted to discover the secrets of Christmas?”

“No, no, no. It is not possible. It’s a
very secret place. But if you like, I could share
the
secret of
Christmas with you sometime.”

What are you doing? Flirting?

Of course he wasn’t. He was making an
opening to evangelize, that’s all.

Right...

Her eyes twinkled as she raised her
brows. “The secret of Christmas? I’d like that. Perhaps we could set up time
outside this venue to talk further. Soon. That very question is integral to my
plot, and I only have a few weeks here to write this story.” She tapped the pen
against her notebook again. “I really don’t have the time to stand in these
queues.”

Mila stretched, releasing a long groan.
She glanced up at Niklas through lowered eyes, and he patted her. “You want to
go home, girl. Yes. It’s been a long day, I know.” He turned back to his
interviewer. “I hate to be rude, but I do need to take them home. She’s
pregnant and looking for the warmth of her own bed.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to
take up this much of your time. Would you mind if I asked you one last
question?”

“Not at all.”

She smiled, clearly satisfied with how
this was going. “You’re reported to be a very popular man. How many letters do
you receive in a year?”

“Around five to seven hundred thousand
from about one hundred and sixty countries.”

The look on her face as she jotted down
the figure and some notes told Niklas she was suitably impressed. She closed
her journal.

Niklas rose as she did.

Bending down in front of Mila and Risto,
she gave them each a good scratch. “Nice dogs.” She pushed herself up and
stared at Niklas. “Does Santa have a cell phone, so I can call to make
arrangements for us to continue this conversation? Out of office hours, of
course.”

He’d have to give her his personal
number. For the next few weeks his usual ‘Niklas
Toivonen’ wouldn’t do. Maybe just a
long ‘Helloooo’?

He slid the pen from her grasp and
lifted her hand. “Do you mind?”

“No.”

He wrote on top,
+36703112599 Nick
,
and then handed back the pen, unable to pull his gaze from hers.

The first to look away, she slipped her
hand from his fingers. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Claus.”

Niklas raised his hands. “No Christmas
wish on Santa’s knee before you leave?”

For a moment her eyes narrowed. “I’ll
pass on the knee. As for the wish, how about a completed novel by New Year’s
Day?”

“I can do that. Books are one of the top
requests Santa receives. But, I am disappointed—most requests come to me when
the person’s on my knee. What about a hug, then? Santa always gets lots and
lots of hugs.” Was he really resorting to shameless begging?

A smile touched her lips. “Good night,
Mr. Claus.” Shaking her head, she exited his office leaving him alone and at
the mercy of a number penned on her skin.

“Remember to be good,” he called after
her before sinking back into the large chair. The urge to see this woman again
overwhelmed him. However, unless she called, he’d never know who she was or
where she came from.

Perhaps he needed to make a Christmas
wish of his own. But although he was the son of the man the world knew as Santa
Claus, Niklas rather put his faith in prayer.

Dear Lord...

Interesting.
Sarah
could’ve sworn Santa had flirted with her. Maybe that was just his way—probably
meant nothing by it. Then again, the man behind all that fluff and fur wasn’t
old by any means.
Wonder if there’s a Mrs. Claus?

As Sarah turned her little rental onto
the snowy road, her stomach growled. She’d barely eaten lunch. Not much to like
about airplane food.
Should’ve asked Santa where to buy groceries.
Perhaps there’d be an all-night convenience store at the gas station where she
had to collect her cabin keys. She’d planned on doing a little shopping this
afternoon, not spending her time waiting to see the man in red. And if her muse
played along as Sarah suspected it might, she’d not see the light of day for a
while. She chuckled. With only an hour or two’s daylight in Lapland now, she
wouldn’t see the light of day anyway.

Contending once again with the snow and
concentrating hard to stay on the opposite side of the road, Sarah inched the
Micra toward the hazy glow of the gas station’s neon lights beckoning up ahead.

Sarah slowed the car and veered to the
right. She’d barely made the turn when a black Range Rover whizzed past her
left. She started, not expecting anyone that side. Or so close. Such a maniac,
and on these icy roads.
Impatient imbecile.
It’s not as if she drove
like an old lady. Not really. He could’ve waited until she’d fully turned
before scaring the last touch of color from her. Now she’d really blend into
her surroundings.

Her stomach gave a loud cheer when she spotted
the small convenience store at the gas station. Open. She’d have food tonight,
and for the next few days. She didn’t need much—she rarely ate when on a
writing roll. Being indoors all day, she wouldn’t expend much energy either.
Sarah couldn’t see herself venturing outside for more than a few minutes in
these temperatures. And if the excitement buzzing inside her head for this
story would continue for the next eighty thousand words, she’d be in front of
her laptop for most of her time in Lapland. Already she had a hero—Nick, with
the gorgeous blue eyes—which is a whole lot more than she’d left home with two
days ago.

Title: Blue Eyed Santa.
Meh.
Not sure. Maybe.

A half hour later, Toivonen No. 1 keys
in hand and stocked with supplies—some instant meals, cereal, tinned food, and
the all-important coffee for writers and milestone treats—she ventured back
onto the road and headed for her log house in the woods. She hoped.

Sarah had no problem finding the cabins.
One turn to her left and straight down the road. Leaving her luggage and
groceries in the car, she slipped the laptop bag over her shoulder and trudged
toward the postcard perfect cabin, sinking knee-deep with each labored step.
The porch light bathed the surrounds in a soft glow.

Standing on the porch, she looked back
at the trail she’d left in the snow. The distance had seemed farther from the
car to the cabin while she’d pushed her way through the snow.

She tried the key in the front door,
only to find the cabin unlocked. Frowning, she mumbled, “And I had to fetch the
keys, why?” The owner could’ve left them inside for her.

Pushing open the door, Sarah stepped
inside.

Warmth filled the single room. How
thoughtful, someone had started a fire. Good. She knew nothing about making
fires, and the notion that she’d have to do that for the next three weeks or
possibly freeze never entered her mind when she’d clicked ‘book’. Then again,
not much had entered her mind on Thursday afternoon. She may just need to live
in her onesie, socks, slippers, jacket, beanie and any other thick, thermal, or
bulky item of clothing.

The cabin appeared smaller than the
photos on the website, but it offered all she needed. The table standing in
front of the large window would suffice as a desk. Would the view be as awesome
as her Table Mountain muse?

Sarah set the laptop bag down on the
table, unzipped her jacket and pulled off her hat, scarf and gloves, placing
the woolen trio beside the bag. Removing her laptop, she pushed the power cable
into her European adaptor. Thank heavens the guy at the AA asked if she had an
adaptor when she’d gone for her international driver’s license. She would’ve
been stuck here with a dead computer. Guess there’s always the old fashioned
way of writing—with pen and paper. She shivered. Heaven forbid.

Sliding into a chair, Sarah powered up
the laptop. It eased to life.

“Hey, baby, I’ve missed you.” Somewhere
over the middle of Africa the battery had died. In Paris and Helsinki, she’d
barely had enough time to make it to her next flight, let alone charge her
laptop.

She stretched out a yawn before opening
her untitled manuscript. It still held nothing except ‘Untitled by Sarah Jones.
Chapter 1.’ Sarah backspaced the first word and typed in ‘Falling for Santa.’ Yay,
she had a title, and it seemed perfect. Especially when she thought of those
piercing blue eyes hiding behind thin spectacles. As much as she’d love to
start writing tonight, sleep beckoned. Over thirty hours had passed since she’d
waved goodbye to Hannah, Grant, and her nephews at Cape Town International
Airport.

Sarah glanced around, taking in the cozy
couch on the other side of the room for the first time, the ladder leading
upstairs to what she assumed was the bedroom, and the little kitchenette to the
right of the fireplace.

Wonder where they’ve put the Wi-Fi login
details and password. Hope I don’t need to contact the owner.
If she couldn’t find it, she’d email him from her smartphone, but only after
she’d gone to the bathroom and collected her suitcase and groceries from the
car. She didn’t relish the thought of lugging all that through the snow. Times
like these she wished she had a man at her side. But she’d coped through far
worse on her own. And survived.

Steering her thoughts away from tough
times and back to her tasks at hand, Sarah stepped into the kitchen. Could she
even call it that? One-spot-cooking for sure. While she was on that spot, she
might as well heat water for a hot drink. Too late to make a pot of filter
coffee—she’d settle for instant. By the time she fetched her groceries, the water
would at least have boiled.

Grabbing a pot on the shelf above the
sink, Sarah filled it half with water and fired up the gas stove. She turned
and eyed the smoked glass door on the left side of the kitchenette. What could
be in there?

As she opened the door, dry heat rushed
to greet her. She ventured inside the small room with its raised wooden
seating—a single seat on either side of the steps. Somewhere she’d read that
Finns had this strange love of the sauna. Who could blame them? If she lived in
this frozen world, she’d also look to escape to a hot climate—even if that
could only be found in a tiny wooden room.

A showerhead peeked out from the wall on
her right. At least she’d found where to bathe. But where was the toilet? No
way would it be upstairs. That only left one place.

Outside.

Groan.

Perhaps she’d better rethink that
coffee.

As she walked past the stove, Sarah
turned off the gas. Grabbing her hat, gloves and scarf, she pulled them on,
thankful she hadn’t removed her jacket and boots. She zipped up the jacket and
headed for the door, retrieving her car key from the table on the way. She
slipped the key ring around her finger. If she dropped this in the snow, she’d
never find it until summer.

Already toasty from the fire and the scant
time in the sauna, she didn’t relish the thought of stepping outside into the
cold. Taking a deep breath, she whipped open the door, the action shadowed by a
loud scream as she staggered backward. The snowy surrounds dampened her echo.
She’d heard the stories about Bigfoot, Yeti, The Abominable Snowman—whatever
you want to call him—but she never knew he wore blue snow pants and a red
jacket.

Sarah reached out and grabbed the
closest thing she could to protect herself, raising the log above her head. “W—who
are you? Wh—what do you want?”

He held up his hands, eyes wide. “Whoa.
Take it easy.”

Even in the dim light, she couldn’t miss
the Yeti’s gorgeous smile.

“Put that down.” He thrust out a gloved
hand, then pulled it back and yanked the glove off. He tried the handshake
again. “Niklas Toivonen. The owner.”

Sarah blinked then eased the log back
onto the woodpile. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be standing
there.” Especially not filling the entire doorway. Nicely.

Taking his hand, she greeted him with a
laugh. “Sarah Jones.”

He chuckled. “I know. Your booking... I
wanted to welcome you, see if you need anything.” He glanced at her hand and
the key dangling from her gloved finger. “I’m interrupting? You’re going
somewhere?”

“Only to the car to get my suitcase and
groceries.”

Niklas reached for the key and slid it
from her finger. “Let me help you. Stay here. It’s cold out.”

“But—”

He’d already disappeared around the
corner. How did he move so fast?

Sarah shut the door, keeping the cold outside
where it belonged. She slipped out of her protective clothing and hung
everything on the coat hook beside the door. Her gloves landed on the wooden
staircase, while her boots claimed the corner of the floor beneath her jacket
and snow pants. No sense in keeping all that on for now. She’d ask her landlord
where the little room was and save herself floundering in the dark to find it
later.

Kneeling beside the fireplace, she
stared through the glass door of the cast-iron box containing the glowing coals.
She’d need to stoke that fire, get more logs onto those coals. Reaching for the
latch, Sarah wrapped her fingers around it. Hot metal seared her skin. With a
loud yell, she pulled back her hand, her fingers instantly seeking the coolness
of her mouth.

Cold water. She’d seen Hannah shove
Matthew’s hand under cold water when he’d burned his fingers playing with a
candle at dinner last week.

Inside the kitchen, Sarah filled the
sink and plunged her hand beneath the cool liquid to soothe the throbbing. She
fought back her tears. Some escaped. Ones of frustration, exhaustion, and pain.
By morning her thumb and index finger would be blistered for sure. That was all
she needed. Typing would be difficult.

The front door banged open.

“Hellooo.”

“I—I’m in here.” How long did she need
to keep her fingers under? Hannah had kept Matthew’s hand dunked for several
minutes.

Niklas and the grocery bags blocked the
entire doorway into the kitchen. Were the openings narrow and low, or was he
really that broad-shouldered and tall?

His gaze held hers for a moment before
breaking away to her submerged hand. “What happened?” Setting the packets down
in the corner, he scurried to her side.

Sarah swiped away another stray tear.
“St—stupid me. I tried to open the fireplace without a cloth. Didn’t realize
how hot the handle would be.”

Taking her hand, he examined her red
fingers.

The phone number penned on her skin
beckoned. She should call Santa, use a Christmas wish. How many did she get, or
was it only the genie in the lamp who limited his wishes?
Don’t let me get
blisters, please.

Sarah’s gaze drifted from her injuries
to the hands examining hers. They looked...familiar? She stared at his profile.
If he’d only turn and look at her.

“Have we met before?”

He glanced up, and then returned his
attention to her hand. “Niklas Toivonen and Sarah Jones? No.”

Lapland men probably had similar
features. After all, striking blue eyes are common amongst Scandinavians.
Still, those hands, those eyes...

What about Sarah Jones and Santa? Have
they met? Are you my secret Santa, Niklas Toivonen?

Couldn’t be. If he was, what reason
would he have to pretend not to have met earlier?

He grabbed a dishtowel and dried Sarah’s
hand. “I don’t suppose you packed a first aid kit?”

She shook her head then clung to his
arm. “I don’t feel so good.”

He helped her to the couch before
returning to the kitchen. Sarah curled up on the soft cushions and closed her
eyes to the pain.

“Here, keep your hand submerged.” Niklas
moved her hand into the bowl of water he’d filled and placed on the floor
beside her. “I’ll fetch some salve from my house, but first, let me revive the
fire before it dies.” He disappeared into the kitchen again, emerging armed
with an oven glove. Why hadn’t she done that?

Sarah peered over her arm that dangled
off the edge of the couch. “You live close by?”

Niklas glanced back and smiled. “Right
next door.” Returning his attention to the logs, he shoved three inside the
fireplace, sending sparks flying upward as they fell. He pushed to his feet and
in two steps was at the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sinking lower into the couch as she
waited, hand throbbing, Sarah steered her thoughts to her writing—it would take
the edge off the pain.
Alternative title: Secret Santa.
Whoever Niklas
Toivonen and Santa Claus were, Sarah would use them both to fuel her muse that
had finally come to life.