The Saint (14 page)

A ferocious downpour began at midnight, alarming because it was out of season and because she shouldn't have been able to hear it so clearly through the thick walls that guarded her. Pushing aside the covers and going to the chattering window, Adora was puzzled and then alarmed to see that the rain fell only on their building. The streets beyond looked dry in the glow of the streetlights, and the line of demarcation was clear even through the blurred glass.

Her ghostly refection in the window frowned back at Adora. This was impossible. Was she dreaming? There had been movement in the darkness. Something sly. She peered out sharply, but now there was nothing. Just rain, just wind—black and cold, beating at the French doors, they demanded she let them in so that they could ravage her with chilly fingers.

Unable to explain why, Adora was suddenly filled head to toe with mortal dread. It was not concern of an unexplained weather phenomenon; she had seen enough strange natural disasters and meteorological anomalies to no longer be amazed by Mother Nature's seeming schizophrenia. No, this was an atavistic fear of something out there in the night, a fear that told the hare to flee before the hound, to run for its life because danger was coming swiftly.

“Don't open the door!” a voice behind her said urgently. It sounded like Kris.

Adora looked down, surprised and appalled to find her hand resting on the door latch. Unable to help herself, she ignored Kris's words and watched her fingers depress the handle.

Wind tore the French doors from her grasp, then reached for her with vicious fingers.

Adora cried out, terrified that she would be carried onto the balcony and flung off, then swept to the coast and out to sea. But in an instant Kris was there, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her back from the killing wind. He murmured words in a strange language, soothing her.

He closed the door, and Adora willingly fainted.

When she woke again, it was seven in the morning and the sun was shining. Shade dappled her wall and urged her to leave the comfort of her bed. Like the old TV ad used to say: It was just another perfect day in Paradise. There wasn't the slightest trace of the storm—except perhaps inside her body. She felt . . . waterlogged. Like she had nearly drowned. And her thoughts were confused, as if a cyclone had blown through them.

What might have happened if Kris had not pulled her back in time?

He
had
pulled her back in time, hadn't he? It seemed that she remembered this, but her recollection was hazy. Could it have been a dream?

She stumbled to the doors and threw them wide. Stepping out onto the balcony, she looked over the edge. The hotel swimming pool was below. Hundreds of ragged mimosa blossoms littered its surface. Others were captured in the pool boy's net, which he dragged to and fro.

So, it had rained. There were also bruises on her arms in the shape of a man's hands.

Too tired to care, Adora got back into bed and pulled the covers over her head. She fell into an uneasy sleep and her brain, with Joy's help, soon forgot most of her nightmare.

Somewhat heavy-eyed because she had been woken by exuberant birds on her balcony, Adora wandered into the hotel library a little after eight. Kris, looking bright-eyed and cheerful, was at work writing a letter longhand. He didn't seem to care for computers, leaving cyber-business to Pennywyse. Adora understood this. The damn things were always breaking down on her and losing files. She herself preferred to take notes in longhand. Luddites of the world unite!

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” Kris asked, and he smiled warmly before going back to his letter.

“Good morning.” It wasn't yet all that good, but Adora lived in hope. Coffee sometimes improved her outlook.

She stared hard at Kris's bent head, not wanting anything to do with the thoughts in her mind but unable to escape them. Scrutiny didn't help. The more she looked, the more she liked. Kris was wonderful—absolutely gorgeous. Almost . . .

Inhumanly beautiful?
her inner voice suggested.

Adora swallowed but didn't correct Joy. She had learned from numerous bloody battles with her inner voice that if you couldn't win an engagement, it was wisest to back off and look for a battle you could.

Fine. So she might be a little attracted Kris. But that wasn't so bad, was it? It was just magnetism. It wasn't like she had wandered into quicksand.

No?

Well, maybe it was a little like that. But she could still breathe and think . . . and escape, if she wanted. It wasn't as if she had fallen in a snake pit and needed to be rescued from a giant pit viper.

Isn't it?

Of course not! Hell, she
wanted
to be in love—or at
least lust—didn't she? As long as the guy wasn't an asshole.

Or insa—

Shut up! What a Johnny-One-Note,
she hissed at Joy.
And he isn't insane. He just has different ways of seeing things. And I'm not in love—just attracted,
she clarified.

Uh-huh.

Still, this attraction was hardly ideal. How could she be objective about a book, dig for the truth, when she was so sympathetic—okay,
fascinated
— with its subject? Even if they never slept together, she could never be unbiased, and therefore might get led astray by his wilder imaginings. The critics would crucify her. Assuming there was anything left after an editor tried to “fix” things.

Worse, what
was
she going to do about Kris in the flesh? Her fingers actually itched to touch him. Could she flirt gently to see if he responded? Sneak up on him when he wasn't paying attention and move in for a fast kiss?

Why be subtle? Go right for a direct fondling with an indecent proposition.

Adora snorted. Yeah, like she'd ever walk up and fondle anyone, let alone Kris. It wasn't the kind of thing she would do. For God's sake—he was her employer. And she had rules.

And he's Santa Claus. Let's not forget that,
Joy laughed.

Okay, that too.

And he's a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

I'm not listening, Joy. If you don't have anything new to say, go away.

Fine, but you know I'm right. Get involved at your own peril.

Peril? Adora almost snorted. Still . . .

Her brows knit as she watched Kris study the report on his desk, apparently oblivious to her.

How could he ignore the tension in the room? He liked her, didn't he? She'd read the signs. He was definitely attracted, and old-fashioned enough to probably want to do the chasing himself.

So, why was he waiting for her to say something, for her to start the dance? Didn't he want to relieve some of the pressure building between them?

Maybe he felt like she did: that this was something important. That it was something that shouldn't be rushed or treated cavalierly. And maybe he was as concerned about the book being compromised as she was.

Or maybe he's too busy being Santa Claus to notice you. You know, making his lists and checking them twice?

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Adora exhaled again, counting slowly to ten.
Joy, I mean it. Go away. I have to work now.

“This must be a tough dilemma you're contemplating,” Kris said, glancing up and smiling in ready sympathy. “I've seen men marching off to war who haven't looked half so grim.”

“You have no idea,” Adora muttered, returning her gaze to the bulging file Pennywyse had supplied. The diverse and unorganized information wasn't helping her get to know Kris, and there was so much of it to read, much of it in stilted English. She couldn't quite repress another sigh. “Beginnings are always hard.”

“Well, let's not rush into work this morning,” Kris said suddenly, and he reached for the phone. “I'll have Morrison bring the Silver Cloud around— you'll love that—and we'll go out to the farmers' market. There's nothing quite like starting your morning with fresh croissants and raspberries.”

Adora didn't need her arm twisted. She happily put the file aside, keeping only a small notebook.

“Give me just a minute. I need to get my purse,” she said. And a hat, and to put on some sunscreen. The late morning sunlight would be harsh. At that moment she desperately wanted to go out with Kris in the light of day. Perhaps the sunlight would reveal something new to her.

“Don't rush. I need to send for Mugshottz. He fusses if I go out without him. Poor fellow, he sees goblin assassins under every bush.”

“Then by all means, let's have him along,” Adora said agreeably—but she was less than pleased. Her fantasy of a day out with Kris didn't include a bodyguard.

“Look!” she said a little while later; pointing out the car window at the small billboard on the side of the city bus. The ad was for a new documentary about Saint Nicholas. She murmured: “ ‘Funding for this program is supplied by the Bishop S. Nicholas Foundation, and from contributors like you. . . .' This is part of your PR campaign?”

“Yes. It will air Thanksgiving weekend. It doesn't tell my whole story—just the parts about Bishop Nicholas.”

“I'd like to see it, if I may,” she said. Maybe the director had managed to put some order to the chaos of Kris's life—even if only for the last several hundred years. If she could borrow his files . . .

“Of course. I'll arrange it as soon as the final cuts are made,” Kris agreed.

The car rolled to a stop at the end of the parking lot, and Mugshottz leaped out to get the door. He could move quickly when the impulse was on him, and Adora found it a bit unnerving to see him hovering like a dark angel. But it wasn't for long; Kris was there immediately, offering his hand, helping her out of the car and guiding her toward the largest market she'd ever seen.

“Will the car be okay?” she asked. She loved old cars, and Kris's were particularly wonderful. She had supposedly inherited the fixation from her paternal grandfather, whose car collection had been added to Harrah's Car Museum in Reno. While she was too practical and poor to keep an automobile that needed constant care and whose replacement parts were scarcer than human donor organs, that didn't prevent her from enjoying Kris's.

“Morrison will watch it,” he assured her. “Come on. You have to see things before they get picked over.”

“Wow. What a sight!” Adora stared gleefully at the carnival of colors under the acres of gay-striped awnings. There were pyramids of citrus, tomatoes and grapes. Other tables held crates of cherries and berries of blue and purple, scarlet and pink. It would be at least another month before they had this kind of produce on the coast.

Flowers abounded, sweetening the air with soft scents of flox and hyacinth and lilac. Everything glistened, washed clean by the rain, and the hues were so vivid and shiny that everything might have been covered with fresh paint.

Most seductive of all were the loaves of bread and pastries stacked like cord wood, and the smell of roasting coffee beans that slyly wrapped about her. Buoying up the scents that floated toward them— come hither, they called. Come hither and eat! Adora's stomach rumbled loudly.

“Where would you like to begin?” Kris asked.

“Coffee, strawberries—and cinnamon rolls,” she answered promptly.

“That sounds perfect. Can you manage the coffee if I get the rest?”

“Definitely,” Adora agreed. “There are still some vacant tables under those umbrellas. Let's meet there.”

Kris nodded and started for the bakers' tables. Mugshottz followed at a distance, his face hidden under a hat and his body enveloped in a large coat. A few people stared at the troll-cross, and all gave him wide berth, but no one seemed particularly alarmed.

They all met up a few minutes later at one of the small picnic tables. Though she was still uncomfortable with the crossbreed, Adora forced herself to smile at Mugshottz as she handed him a coffee. “I didn't know how you took it,” she said, “so I brought some sugars and a packet of creamer.”

“Thanks, but I take it black,” Mugshottz answered.

The tall cup completely disappeared in his massive and scarred hands. His forearms had also been to the wars, and they were a tapestry of interlaced marks that looked for all the world like they had come from a chisel. Adora thought about asking what had caused them, but she held her tongue. It was beyond the scope of her book, and anyway, she wouldn't care to discuss her own less visible scars. There was no reason to suppose that Mugshottz would be any more enthused than she.

The bodyguard regarded her for a moment out of his flat stony eyes; then, perhaps sensing her discomfort at the attention, retreated about five feet and started scanning the crowd.

Kris spoke up. “Sit on this side. There's more shade. Forgive my speaking plainly, but you've clearly been ill, and I don't think the sun agrees with you.” He pushed a basket of strawberries her way. “Eat up. They're good for you. Lots of vitamins.”

Adora blinked at his commanding tone but answered without heat.

“I look like reheated tuna casserole, don't I? It's some exotic virus, they think, though they've never been sure what kind. The sun makes it worse,” she added, for some reason unoffended by the personal observation. Maybe it was because she had been doing a lot of prying into Kris's life, and this exchange of information seemed fair. And maybe she just liked the attention. Still, her next words were harder. “It's worrying, because my dad died of some undiagnosed viral disease. Only, he was more affected than I am. He got weaker and weaker and . . . well, his immune system just failed. He died very quickly. From first episode to last, it was only three months.”

“When was this? What precisely happened?” Maybe it was the sun, but a nimbus surrounded Kris's hair, reminding her of Renaissance paintings of saints and angels. She wanted desperately to touch him. Or maybe she wanted desperately to not answer his questions about her father, and was building a normal phenomenon into something unworldly to avoid that.