Desparately Seeking Santa

  Desperately Seeking Santa

  By

  Jane Beckenham

  Dedication

  To Santa Claus for making one day a year just perfect.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Desperately Seeking Santa by Jane Beckenham

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Publishing with a touch of Class! ™

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  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Copyright© 2008 Jane Beckenham

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-249-8

  Cover Artist: Brenda Porter

  Editor: Shaiha Williams

  Line Editor: WRFG

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  This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

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  comes with a touch of Class!

  Desperately Seeking Santa

  By

  Jane Beckenham

  Prologue

  He’d returned. Thankfully.

  Her body preened its thanks, arching from the downy folds of the bedcovers, aching for his touch, temptation overruling any coherent thought.

  This was her fantasy played out in the shadowy hours of pre-dawn. She welcomed him with open arms, an internal greed of sensual need cohabiting with the desperation of an addict for a fix.

  He was her fix. And she wanted him. Now!

  Each night proved the same. He came. He teased. And she desperately wanted him.

  She couldn’t see him clearly, the mists of fantasy versus reality obscuring him partly. But it was what he did to her that called to her.

  His kisses. His touch. His loving.

  It refueled her hope he would return.

  His hand caressed her breast, tipping her into a world of mindless pleasure.

  The staccato buzz seemed a mere whisper at first, slowly intensifying as it became an insistent call to her consciousness. He shifted from her arms and instantly a sense of bereavement washed across her nakedness, left cold and empty by his departure.

  “No. Please stay. Love me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I...”

  The acerbic jangle of her alarm sliced through her dream with a brutal thrust. She jolted upright, shocked by her traitorous body and mind.

  She’d been about to say she loved him. But how could she love a fantasy?

  Chapter One

  “Mrs. Santa’s pissed. The whole bottle this time. You’ve got to do it, Mandy. You’re the only staff I can let loose on those...”

  Mandy Brooks’ boss leveled his gaze on the raucous tide of children already beating a hasty path through lingerie, jewelry and the cosmetics counters with one destination in mind.

  Santa’s Grotto.

  He turned decidedly green as each sticky hand sideswiped the delicate lingerie in passing.

  Mandy knew the color well. In fact she was intimate with it right at this moment. Play Santa’s helper? Hell no.

  “You are joking, right? Me. Wear that!” With distaste clearly souring her mouth she picked up the infamous Mrs. Santa’s costume. Infamous because there was barely anything of it. “Lordy, if this was a fancy dress party, or some sleazy bar, I’d understand, but why subject kids to this?”

  “It was all they had left.” Fraser Maxwell’s tone took on a decided whine; a sound she’d come to recognize, and hate over the last eighteen months of working at Wentworths. Thank God he was leaving, sectioned off to another of the exclusive store’s outlets. The buzz was there was a new owner. Hence Maxwell didn’t want to look bad and she had to play Santa’s sidekick, Mrs. S.

  Damn it. Mandy hated Christmas. Everyone having fun. Spending far too much. Leaving.

  Shut that thought off, Brooks. Mandy clamped down her frustration. Shame she couldn’t do the same thing to her brain. But hell, it was the same every year. Every Christmas. Memories. Man, she hated them.

  You made them don’t forget.

  As if! She didn’t do Christmas. It was a time for family, fun and friends, and she had decided five long years ago the whole kit and caboodle was definitely overrated.

  That’s because Tate Sullivan dumped you.

  Did not. She’d been the dumpee, she argued silently.

  Yeah, but on Christmas Day. Not a good look, Brooks.

  She silenced the internal argument because right now she had a different problem. One look at Maxwell and his oversized belly protruding over a definitely too tight belt and she knew his suggestion was no joke. His sour face dared her to refuse.

  She tried a different tack. “But I’m the assistant manager.”

  “Exactly my point,” he reiterated. “Your job is to fix problems.”

  “And I can fix it by wearing this?” She dangled the offending skimpy number in front of her.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “For a way out,” she answered truthfully.

  Her boss offered her no hint of sympathy and mopped his sweaty brow with a once white handkerchief. “There isn’t, not if you want to stay employed at Wentworth’s,” he said destroying any remaining smidgen of hope .

  Bug eyed, Mandy realized she had been soundly roped into a corner. She didn’t like it. Oh, no siree, not one little bit, but what’s a career girl to do?

  Whatever it takes, Mandy Brooks. Whatever!

  “Thank goodness it only comes once a year,” she grumbled and sidestepped Maxwell.

  “Don’t forget your costume.”

  Mandy stilled. Damn. She’d hoped he’d forget it and she could have chosen something a tad more discernable.

  Wrong!

  She eyed the outfit with increasing distaste. “I’m not wearing...”

  “Oh, yes you are.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, time is money, your money, if you get my drift.”

  Oh she got it all right. She snatched the offending outfit from his chubby fist and stomped off to the ladies’ bathroom. She could have gone to the changing rooms, but there was no way on this earth she would change into Mrs. Santa’s outfit, something out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, in front of other shoppers.

  Ensconced in the ladies’ bathroom, Mandy shucked out of her suit. Her very expensive Armani suit. Okay, so it was a knock down, but it was Armani nevertheless.

  “And I have to replace it with this.” She held up the tasteless outfit between forefinger and thumb.

  The dress was short. Far too short.

  She yanked the zip down and slipped it over her head. The silk caressed her skin as it slid down her length.

  This...was...oh, my God, it virtually had no front. The neckline plunged low and the barely there boa feather covered...well, hell fire, absolutely zip. Nada.

  This was bad. Very, very bad.

  Minutes later, her body heated as fiery as the red dress she’d squeezed into, bad became worse as s
he spied herself in the mirror. She cursed, and hoped Maxwell had a rotten Christmas to boot.

  Dear Lord. She looked...provocative. Surely Mrs. Santa didn’t wear this. She should be covered from neck to knee. Lace. A hat.

  Hat. Hell. That wouldn’t cover what she needed to cover.

  A wave of discomfort sent a shimmy of goosebumps chasing up and down her spine. She leaned forward, resting against the washbasin and peered into the mirror as she tugged at an unruly golden tendril and brushed it from her face. Damn, she looked hot. Excited even. Alluring.

  Enough! She was Mrs. Santa, for God’s sake. Not some bimbo about to expose herself.

  Well, actually she was. And far too exposed, but she wanted to hold onto her new role of Assistant Manager of the state’s top retail chain. Besides, if she refused, Maxwell would enlighten the new boss she had let the store down.

  Snatching up her clothes, she shoved them into a store bag and with her gut churning exited the bathroom to the immediate accompaniment of wolf whistles.

  “Nice dress, Mandy.”

  Mandy’s eyes rolled skyward.

  “How about bending over a bit more? Come on.”

  Color scored a path up her neck to her cheeks. “Shut it, Clay. Go back to measuring inside legs.”

  To a unified crescendo of ‘ooohs’, she wound her way through Wentworth’s department store receiving more looks than what was comfortable. But it was the glance from a little old lady, her arms laden with Christmas shopping that did the damage. Mandy saw pity in her tired eyes. Humiliation complete, she walked on leaden legs, turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt.

  Santa’s grotto at twelve o’clock. Twenty feet ahead. Her gaze honed in on the elaborate fairyland bereft of Santa and hangers-on at the moment.

  Thank God. Her breath expunged in a heavy sigh. She had a reprieve.

  But that wasn’t to be.

  “Ouch. What the...”

  Mandy spun round. “You...pinched....” She expected to see one of the rambunctious children, but oh no, this was no kid; except probably the biggest kid of all.

  Tall. White haired. Bushy beard. And wearing a Santa mask, which in itself was kinda weird. No Santa she’d ever seen had worn a mask. It was one of those half masks, a bit like something out of Phantom of the Opera, but still all ruddy cheeks and shiny nose. “Good enough for a wino,” she grumbled, while absently rubbing her hand across her pinched silk-covered derriere.

  This definitely had the beginnings of a nightmare.

  Long hours guiding children towards Santa and soothing their fractured parents, had, by six p.m. worn Mandy to a frazzled and numb mishmash of bone and muscle with definitely not one iota of brain cell left. Thankfully the store emptied quickly, the concerned mutterings of parents about the imminent threat of snowfall hastening their departure.

  Time to go home.

  But for a few minutes she simply sat on the edge of Santa’s sleigh enjoying the silence. Not one sound. No children crying. No arguing parents over what to buy.

  Simply silence.

  Mandy’s eyes shuttered. It had been the day from hell, but it was over now.

  Christmas had arrived.

  Opening her eyes, her shock was instant.

  The store lights had dimmed. Dimmed? Her head jackknifed up to the ceiling, glowering at the lights. They weren’t meant to dim, not yet, not until... She glanced down at her watch. Six thirty.

  “It can’t be.” She shook her wrist, held her watch close to her ear, and then tapped the glass front with the tip of a glossed nail.

  Nothing.

  Not a tick, or a tock.

  Her watch had stopped, and obviously...some time ago...after closing time.

  After! “No! No!” Feet flying through Cosmetics and Jewelry, sidestepping the tease of lace and plunging necklines in Lingerie, she raced to the store’s grand front doors.

  Closed. Hard and fast. Security grilles in place. She rattled the long handles. Still closed. Every door bolted shut to the outside world.

  But I’m inside!

  “How could I...? Help. Help...” Her voice faded off to a whimper. “Get a grip,” she chastised herself. She needed a phone.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Santa? Mandy spun round on her spaghetti thin heels and came up against Santa. Hard against bone and flesh with no stuffing induced stomach.

  Santa still wore his mask though, along with the fake whiskers curling in white tendrils to half way down his chest. A tad over done in the whiskers department she thought, but hey, the kids had loved him. Eventually.

  She drew back, palms rubbing down the sides of her barely there dress. God, how she wished she had her suit on right now. Something decent. Protection. Her lips parted, and then stuck right back together. She inhaled. Calm. Control. Business first.

  “We’re stuck in, it seems. Security has closed the doors. We’ll have to ring and...” She dragged in a suddenly shaky breath, determined to squash the hysterics beginning to build in rapid response to her predicament.

  Santa offered a red silk shrug. “Can’t.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous. They’ll come as soon as I phone.”

  “And you are?”

  “Mandy Brooks.” She held out a hand to introduce herself, but pulled it right back. “The store’s assistant manager,” she snapped. “Now we need to get to the phones.”

  Santa leaned against a railing of silky teddies and thongs, all pink fluff and feathers along with black lace and faux fur. Mandy blinked several times. The guy didn’t move. The look on his face, humor and downright daring indicated he knew exactly what he leaned against. But still he stayed there. His arms crossed his chest, pulling the red suit across his broad shoulders. The fabric stretched and Mandy’s eyes widened. This was no weasely old man Santa and she wondered for the first time what lay beneath all that fake Santa stuff?

  “The phone lines are down,” he said, suddenly breaking into her heated thoughts.

  Mandy shook her head, tendrils falling loose across her face. It tickled and she roughly brushed it away, tucking it behind her ears.

  “Don’t do that.”

  Her hand stalled a strand of hair still between her thumb and forefinger. “Pardon?” Had she heard right, the guy’s voice was kinda muffled beneath all those whiskers.

  “I liked it like that.”

  Her brows puckered. Liked? Mandy snapped her thoughts closed. “The phone,” she prompted.

  “The phone lines are out. Must have hit the mobile phone tower too, because I can’t get a signal on my phone. The storm has struck so it looks like we’ll have to stay the night.”

  “You want to what?” Shocked, Mandy gaped at Santa. “Sleep here?” She took a quick inventory. Not a bed in sight. “You've got to be joking. Besides, it's Christmas Eve.”

  “Got anywhere else to go?”

  Her jaw dropped, but no words came out while a stain of heat scalded her cheeks. She didn't have anywhere else to go. No family. No life. Christmas as far as she was concerned was a non-event. But she wasn't about to admit that. She tucked her suddenly fidgeting hands behind her. “Don't you?” she questioned as a counter-defense.

  “Nope.”

  Desperation hiked up ten-fold. “But we're locked in, everyone's gone home. What'll we do?”

  “Told you. Sleep.”

  Mandy stared into the dimness all around them, expecting, praying a security guard would walk out of the increasing darkness. “"You can't sleep here. This is a department store.”

  “Sure I can. There's a bed, isn't there?” he said pointing towards the Santa grotto.

  “That's Santa's sleigh!”

  “Bed, sleigh, what's the difference?” He shrugged and his bushy white brows wiggled. “You're a mite picky for someone stuck in a department store, don’t ya think?” He strode towards the sleigh and without thinking she found herself following him. Santa was in full force tossing out presents...well boxes of various sizes and colors intended to
grant every child's desire. She side-stepped the elves’ mushroom stand.

  “Which side do you want?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, or are you thinking of sleeping on the floor?”

  Mandy eyed the store carpet. Covered in kids’ footprints, and a bunch of grunge she didn’t want to think about, it wasn’t a salubrious prospect. “It's too...small for two,” she said of the sleigh.

  “Could be cozy.” Santa tapped the garish red sleigh, stretched his arms skyward and offered a fake yawn. His padding slipped and he chuckled, a deep and velvety sound that slipped across her bare skin. It wasn’t what she expected. Not Santa sounding sexy. Unbuttoning his Santa jacket, he offered her another of his shrugs. “Well, have it your way.” And he climbed in.

  “I always thought Santa was a gentleman,” she steamed. “You could at least offer to sleep on the floor.”

  He reached for several empty Santa sacks to use as blankets. “I could, but I won't. Santa needs his rest. All that flying coming up, remember?” he smirked as he rolled over.

  Mandy shot him the evil eye, but he didn't budge and a hiss of breath escaped her lips. “Oh sheesh, what a crock.”

  The lights in the store dimmed to a mere shadow, the timer obviously about timed out. The store would be pitch dark in thirty seconds. She scrambled into the sleigh.

  “Not taking off your costume?” he asked.

  Mandy sniffed her disdain. “Could say the same for you, Santa,” she countered.

  “Hey I will if you will.”

  Damn it, that wasn’t what she had expected him to say. Or then again, perhaps it was.

  He winked, and her jaw dropped.

  Santa winked at her. Her heart did a flip-flop and the butterflies already doing a tango in her stomach upped their beat. Heat scalded her cheeks and damn it, she was hesitating, even considering his proposal.

  Dumb, Brooks!

  She needed to get out of here. “We really should phone security.”