Santa Viking (11 page)

She blinked at him. “It must be the Christmas Curse.”

He shook his head vehemently. “No, it’s a Christmas Miracle.”

She was a fruitcake, all right
 . . .
sweet and nutty
 . . .

“Are you still cold?” Erik asked the shivering woman next to him as he pulled out onto the highway. Lord, how he wanted to stop the car and take her in his arms, but he didn’t have the right
 . . .
yet.
She already appeared scared to death of him. Instead, he turned up the heat.

Jessie—that was the name of the woman he loved, Jessica Jones
 . . .
she’d just told him so—shook her head and bit her bottom lip in concentration. She was probably planning another heist. Perhaps a cathouse this time, he thought with a chuckle.
God, I love her.

Or maybe she was having second thoughts about their killer kiss.

Uh-oh.
No, he wouldn’t let himself think that. Now that he’d found a woman he could love, after all these years, he wouldn’t let her go. She would love him. He was determined.

But he was nervous, too, and that was something new for him. For the past five years, ever since Ginny died, he’d had more women than he could handle. But he hadn’t cared about a single one of them.

Now that he did care, would he be rejected?

Erik clenched the steering wheel tighter. He had to believe that everything would work out all right. God didn’t hand out miracles and then yank them away. Nope, all he needed was a little time.

Erik considered his next move as he drove back to the Piggly Jiggly parking lot. Jessie insisted she had to get the van and return to Clara’s House, mission unaccomplished. Alone.

Hah!
Not if I have anything to do with it.

He could barely see through the wildly swinging windshield wipers which couldn’t keep pace with the falling snow. It would be a white Christmas this year, after all, if this blizzard kept up. He’d already tried using the storm as an excuse to keep Jessie with him, but she’d refused adamantly, pointing out that the van had snow tires.

Luckily they’d been able to find the handcuff key under the back seat floor mat, after some amusing calisthenics necessitated by their bound wrists. Amusing to him, at least. In the close confines, with all her squirming, he’d gotten a real good idea of what kind of body his Santa babe hid under her suit—tall, curvy, not too lean. Perfect.

So now he and Jessie sat unattached for the first time in hours. And Erik felt as if a mile separated them, not three feet.

He reached over and twined his fingers with hers.

Startled, she glanced first at their linked hands, then at him, questioning. He hoped she got the silent message he was unable to speak out loud, just yet.

Fear flashed through her wide doe-brown eyes for a moment—of what, he wasn’t sure—but he suspected she was about to pull away.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Jessie,” he said, his voice husky. “I won’t hurt you.”

“But I might hurt you,” she said in a voice laden with regret. “I’m cursed. And it’s Christmas. I don’t stand a chance. Neither do you. You’ll be better off when you’re rid of me.”

He squeezed her hand. “Maybe the trick is to replace your Christmas bad luck with good luck. You know that saying ‘When someone hands you a bag of bones, make soup.’”

“Don’t you mean lemons, and lemonade?”

He scowled at her interruption and went on. “Treat our meeting as a miracle instead of a curse
 . . .
oh, hell, I’m not very good with this kind of stuff. I have all these thoughts and feelings inside, but they just don’t come out right.” He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I’m not very good with words.”

She squeezed his hand back, and he thought his heart would explode with happiness. “You’re doing just fine,” she assured him.

“I still say we should go to my place. It’s only fifteen minutes from here. You could warm up, and—”

“No, I’ve got to get back. Sister Clara will be frantic.”

“Sister? I thought she was your aunt.”

“I call her aunt, everyone who lives at Clara’s House does,” she said, waving her free hand dismissively. He was holding on to her other hand for dear life.

He frowned. “You live at Clara’s House? An orphanage?”

“No. Of course not. But I used to. Besides, it’s not really an orphanage. It’s sort of a foster home for incorrigible kids.”

Now, that was a revelation. Jessie had been an orphan, and incorrigible. His lips twitched with humor. He could understand the incorrigible part. “You mean juvenile delinquents?”

“They don’t call them JDs anymore. Politically incorrect.” She smiled at him shyly, and Erik could hardly speak over the lump in his throat. Who would have thought that he’d fall in love so quick, so hard?

“What do you do for a living, Jessie?” he asked finally when he got his emotions under control.

She regarded him mischievously, giving him her full attention now. “So you’re finally convinced I’m not a nun?”

“Babe, nuns don’t tongue kiss,” he replied and winked at her.

He could see a blush bloom on her cheeks. Still, she gave him a slick comeback. “Kissed a lot of nuns, have you?”

How lucky could a guy be? A gorgeous redhead. And a sense of humor, too. He was going to light a few thank-you candles the next time he went to church.

He released her hand and wagged a finger at her. “You’re changing the subject. What do you do for a living, besides burglary?” Then he immediately took her hand again. He wondered idly what she’d do if he tried to pull her over onto his lap. Or stopped the car to kiss her again
 . . .
and again
 . . .
and again. And unbuckled her belt, and
 . . .
oh, brother!
About 50,000 of his testosterone cells were revving up for the start signal.

“I didn’t rob
 . . .
oh, never mind,” she said huffily. “I don’t suppose you’d buy Avon Lady?”

“Hell, why not? You’ve hit me with Santa, nun, and gun moll so far. There isn’t anything else you could do that would surprise me.”
Except maybe jump onto my lap, uninvited.
Yeah!
I should be so lucky.

“I’m a wedding caterer.”

“Say that again.”

“I bake spectacular wedding cakes
 . . .
the best almond creme, ten-tier cake in the country. And I supply gourmet food for wedding receptions.”

“Here in Philly?”

“No. I’m from Chicago.”

Whoa! Red flag! That posed some logistical problems. Long-distance dating and all that. Well, no problem! He’d skip the dating and get right down to the serious stuff.
Hmmm.
I wonder how long I can wait before I propose?
Oops!
First, I
’
ve got to tell her I love her.
Then I can ask her to marry me and move to Philly.
Betcha I could do that all in one shot.
Yep, that
’
s what I
’
ll do.
I love you, let
’
s tie the knot, wild sex, wedding.
Or maybe I could reverse the order.
Oh, yeah!
Wild sex, I love you, wild sex, let
’
s tie the knot, wild sex, wedding, wild sex.
Whatever. He could barely wait.

“Why are you grinning?” she asked.

“You don’t want to know, sweetheart,” he chuckled.
Yet.

“If you’re remotely considering sinking your teeth into my neck and sucking blood, forget it. I have a twentieth-degree black belt in karate.”

He shook his head like a shaggy dog to clear it. Sometimes her train of thought confused him. Then he understood. She was associating him with that movie
Interview With the Vampire
. All this Brad Pitt, Kevin Costner, Viking crap was starting to confuse even him. And, yes, he probably had been ogling her as if he’d like to suck a few body parts, except his preference would be a bit lower than her throat.

“You’re smirking again.”

“I don’t smirk. That was a lascivious smile.”

“Looked like a smirk to me.”

Then he thought of something else, and he hooted at her, “So, you do think I resemble Brad Pitt.”

“Well, maybe a younger version,” she conceded with a sniff. “But definitely a Viking. I knew that right off.”

He lifted their laced fingers to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. He couldn’t help himself.

Instead of resisting, she sighed. That’s all. Just a sigh.

The 50,000 testosterone cells split and multiplied into an orgy of anticipation. He didn’t think he could wait another five minutes before kissing her again.

But then, still another thought occurred to him, and his heart began to race with anxiety. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Almost, but not quite.”

“Almost? Almost? What do you mean ‘almost’?” His chest constricted so tightly he could scarcely breathe.

“I got jilted two weeks ago by my fiancé Burton Richards the Third. Burt and I were engaged for a year, but he just discovered that the bonus I got from a celebrity catering job wasn’t quite as large as he’d anticipated.”

Erik let out a whoosh of relief. “That’s too bad
 . . .
about you and Burp,” he said sweetly. He felt like pumping his fist in the air with the victory sign.

“Burt,” she corrected, then shrugged. “It’s just as well. I didn’t like him much toward the end anyhow. He played golf a lot,” she confided.

Erik made a note never to play golf again.

“I should have known better, of course, knowing as I do that all men are scumbags.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You wouldn’t believe how many men—engaged and married men—hit on me even as I’m making preparations for their weddings. The louses! One bridegroom even cornered me at his reception, offering me a quickie.”

I
’
ve got a lot of backup work to do.

“Well, I’ve learned my lesson from Burt. I’m never getting married now.”

Yep, lots of backup work.

“Maybe I’ll become a nun.”

Over my dead body.

“So, how about you?” Jessica asked. “Are you married?”

How could she ask that question so calmly, as if she couldn’t care less either way? Erik decided she was just playing it cool. Her heart was probably doing a high-speed tap dance, just like his.

“No, not anymore,” he said, and was astonished that the usual pain didn’t accompany that statement.

“Divorce?”

He shook his head. “Ginny died five years ago of cancer.” And with those words, a door slammed shut on Erik’s past. Oh, it wasn’t as if he’d ever forget Ginny. How could he? They’d been sweethearts since junior high. But she was dead, and somehow, someway, his new, fantastic feelings for Jessie suddenly gave him permission to go on living
 . . .
not just in meaningless one-night stands, but with a forever kind of commitment.

“Oh, Erik, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“That’s okay. She’s been gone a long time. Anyhow, tell me why you’re here.”

“Clara’s House is in the Poconos, and—”

“The Poconos! The Poconos! That’s two hours from here. What were you doing in Philly at midnight?”

“I had to go to Aunt Clara’s ‘mother house’ in the city. Clara’s a former nun. Even though she’s no longer a nun, she still has ties to her religious order. Anyhow, after I’d completed my errand, the sisters talked me into playing Santa following their Christmas recital. On the way back, I decided to
handle
Aunt Clara’s problem at the Piggly Jiggly.”

It should have made sense. It didn’t. “I meant, what are you doing so far away from Chicago to begin with?”

“Oh. I came here two days ago when I got an SOS call from Aunt Clara. She broke her leg, and she needed my help to keep her foster home together through the holidays.”