Читать книгу The Nanny And Her Scrooge - DeAnna Talcott - Страница 10

Dominique Holliday jammed the pink slip into her pocket and strode into the elevator, immediately punching the sixth floor button. This made no sense, none at all. She’d gotten nothing but glowing reports from her supervisor. There had to be a mistake. There had to be.

Ten minutes ago she’d tried to talk to Carol, her supervisor, but the woman had looked sheepish—even uncomfortable—and turned away saying, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do, Nicki. Really. I got in trouble for hiring you in the first place.”

A cold, hard jolt of reality sent a shiver down Nicki’s spine, rattling her composure. She’d stood in the employee dressing room, wondering what she could have possibly done wrong. She’d volunteered to work overtime…she’d even taken two split shifts. There had to be a reason, but because she was a temporary employee, she knew no one had to tell her why they were letting her go.

It occurred to her there was only one person who could strip the power from her supervisor and hand down such an ultimatum: Jared Gillette, president and owner of Gillette’s Department Store. She’d never met Mr. Gillette, but she’d heard the rumors claiming he was the “Little Napoleon” of retail, the tyrant who ruled with an iron hand. Salesclerks quaked in their shoes when they spoke of him, merchandise buyers broke out in a sweat at the mention of his name.

When the doors of the elevator opened to the plush executive offices, Nicki tamped down her trepidation and sternly reminded herself she didn’t have a choice. She had to face him. Her pocketbook demanded a little cash flow, her landlord demanded the rent.

The offices were empty. It was late, almost five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and because the store was located in downtown Winter Park, Gillette’s closed at six on the weekends.

Nicki’s trepidation grew. She felt uncomfortable for being there, as if she were trespassing.

The ominous door of Jared Gillette’s executive office stared her right in the face.

So how long could it take to get this straightened out? she asked herself. Three minutes? Five? Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she marched over to the mahogany door, and raised her fist, poised to do battle. With her knuckles, she rapped three times on the satin finish.

“Yes? Come in,” a deep, no-nonsense voice invited.

Nicki practically fell over backward with nerves. She grabbed the handle to steady herself, and the solid wood door rattled in its frame.

Her composure was shredded, but there was only one thing left to do: enter the chamber of horrors and have her say. She’d beg, plead, or bargain if she had to; she had to have that job.

Pushing the door a little too hard, Nicki stumbled into Jared Gillette’s office. She swayed, tugged on the hem of her sweater, and tried to make her feet cooperate. When she looked up, it was into the most perceptive, deepest, darkest eyes she’d ever seen. For a split second, when Jared Gillette’s inquisitive gaze collided with hers, she couldn’t tear herself away. Something needy and profound spiraled right down into the pit of her soul.

He was younger than she’d imagined—maybe thirty-five—and far too handsome. His hair was as shiny and polished as onyx, and his wide forehead and high cheekbones appeared sculpted of alabaster. His mouth was full, and his nose was straight and wide. Impeccably dressed in a dark, pin-striped suit, Jared Gillette’s scarlet tie was perfectly knotted between the points of a crisp white collar. At his wrists, gold cuff links winked at her.

Nicki imperceptibly closed her eyes and shook herself, as if she could fling his disturbing features from being imprinted on her memory.

“Mr. Gillette…” she began unsteadily, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

“Yes,” he confirmed sharply, setting aside a sheaf of papers, “I am. And you would be?”

“Dominique Holliday. I—I work for Gillette’s Department Store…or at least I did until an hour ago.” Nicki fumbled in her pocket, to find the termination letter. She extended the crumpled paper in his direction. “I’ve tried to talk to my supervisor, but she says there’s nothing she can do…so I thought, maybe you could—”

He scowled at her, waiting.

A feeling of helplessness surged through Nicki. “Look,” she said defiantly, “I was hired two weeks ago by Carol Whitman as a Santa Claus because she knew I could work with kids, and I’ve bent over backward to do my job. I’m the best Santa Claus on the floor, and I don’t understand this. Not at all.”

“Oh,” was all he said. The pause was positively pregnant. “You’re the one.”

“You fired me?” she asked, her voice rising with disbelief. “You don’t even know me.”

“Miss—” he brazenly skimmed her length “—whatever your name is—”

“Nicki. Nicki Holliday,” she repeated.

“Yes. Well, we have very strict criteria for our Santa Clauses and you’ve obviously failed to meet—”

“What do you mean,” she nearly wailed. “I’ve done everything right. I’m happy, I’m jolly. I have the best ‘ho, ho, ho’ in the entire Santa Claus fleet.” For a split second she was certain she saw the corner of his mouth start to twitch. “I do. You can ask anybody. Here. Let me demonstrate—”

Jared raised a hand, effectively stopping her. “No. Please don’t,” he said curtly. “It’s late, and this has not been a holly-jolly, ho-ho-ho day.”

Nicki stared at him. “No kidding? Well, getting fired sure dampens my Christmas spirit, too.”

“Miss, um, Holliday—” He suddenly snorted, as if the significance of her surname struck him. “Gillette’s is the largest department store in southern Indiana. Our clients expect certain things—”

“Like?”

“Like a Mr. Santa Claus, not a Mrs.”

He’d fired her because she was a woman? Nicki started shaking, knowing there was nothing she could do about that. “I’ve done everything possible to present a plausible image of Santa to your customers and their children,” she implored. “None of them finds me lacking. None of the children even suspect.”

He chuckled, and his dark gaze nailed her. “Miss Holliday, look at yourself. Your eyes may twinkle and, with a little makeup, you might have a nose like a cherry. But I really doubt—really—that your belly’s going to jiggle like a bowlful of jelly.”

Heat prickled across the back of her neck. “Padding,” she retorted, “lots of it.”

Nicki thought she saw a flicker of amusement hover behind his eyes. Then his attitude changed—abruptly.

“No,” he said firmly, picking up the letter he’d been reading at her untimely entrance. “Santa Clauses are jolly old grandpas with wrinkled skin and bushy eyebrows. They are not young women who have to gird themselves with padding and lower their voices two octaves.”

“If you’d just give me a chance—”

“This matter is not open to discussion. Period. Being a Santa Claus for Gillette’s is out of the question, so forget it. I’m sure you can see yourself out—especially since you did such a fine job of seeing yourself in.”

Nicki’s cheeks flamed and her hands shook. “You can’t fire me because I’m a woman,” she finally managed to blurt.

His head lifted, lionlike. His dark eyes glittered and his features were taut, as if he were ready to go in for the kill. “Like hell I can’t.”

Nicki caught her breath.

“Now get out of my office.”

She thought she was going to die right then and there. Just fade away into oblivion under the merciless gaze of Jared Gillette. Then it occurred to her: what did she have to lose? “I—I…really didn’t mean to impose on you or your time,” she said. Lacing her fingers together, she held them taut against her middle. She couldn’t give up, not now. “Keeping this job is really important to me, Mr. Gillette, and I’m sure if you checked my track record…you’d see….” She let the rest go unsaid.

He sat back. For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was glaring at her or considering her suggestion. Then his gaze drifted down to her trembling hands.

Dammit! Why’d he have to notice? Couldn’t he let her writhe in agony without giving her one of those looks? Frustration set in, making her eyelids burn and her vision grow watery. Nicki feared that if she blinked, a tear would dribble from the corner of her eye.

“Okay. Look,” he said in exasperation, thwacking the papers beside him. “If you want to be an elf, you can be an elf. You’re about the right size anyway.”

“I…” She hesitated, very much aware he was making a concession. “No. It has to be the Santa Claus job.”

He pulled back, as if appalled she’d have the audacity to insist.

“Impossible. This time around, Santa Claus is definitely gender based. If you want to come back at Easter and be a bunny….”

“That’s four months away,” Nicki protested, taking a step toward him. “And right now I’m doing my absolute best to be realistic and genuine. Parents love me, children flock to me. There hasn’t been one complaint—not one—and if you’d only stop by to watch me, and see how I relate to the kids—”

“Miss Holliday. I don’t have time for that. It’s an elf or nothing.”

Deflation oozed through Nicki, numbing her mind and every logical argument. As her eyes shuttered closed, imagining the debt and the dilemma she was in, she glimpsed Jared Gillette. The man was heartless, with eyes like flint and misplaced conviction where compassion should be. Forget the good looks, he was Scrooge incarnate. “It won’t do,” she said flatly, “I can’t be an elf.”

“Fine. We don’t need you. Pick up your check in the office. If you change your mind, then—”

“No,” Nicki interrupted, “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Miss Holliday. I don’t care how complicated it is. The choice is yours, do as you wish. Now, if there’s nothing else, get out of my office and close the door behind you. I have work to do.”

Nicki stared at him, then she turned and fled.

All in all, it had been an interesting day, Jared mused, closing Nicki Holliday’s personnel file. His morning hadn’t gotten off to a particularly good start. A new employee had unwittingly brought out a cart of the most sought-after doll in Christmas history and caused a near riot in the toy department. Later, one shopper had had an allergic reaction to fragrances in the cosmetics department and the paramedics had rushed in the front doors with a stretcher. Aside from the three “lost” children and one wandering Alzheimer’s patient, they’d also caught three shoplifters.

And then there had been Nicki Holliday…the woman who had pretty effectively, according to this file, passed herself off as Santa Claus.

He had to admit that her eyes had twinkled. In fact, she had the bluest, most fascinating eyes he’d ever seen. He could imagine a youngster leaning into her, confiding their deepest, innermost desires.

If eyes were the windows to the soul, her gaze had offered up nothing but blind trust. He’d looked into her eyes for but a moment and nearly forgotten who he was and what his intentions were. It had taken all he had to remind himself—and her—he had a job to do.

Nicki Holliday was a pretty woman. Her cheeks were plump, with identical dimples that took on a life of their own, playing peek-a-boo with him during their entire conversation. Her hair—brilliant, shiny shades of nutmeg, cinnamon, and ginger—actually reminded him of the Christmas potpourri in Gillette’s Home for the Holidays section. Funny. She reminded him of the strangest things. Of comforting things.

He wondered, vaguely, if the gray Santa wig and beard could convincingly cover her short, tousled dark hair, or age her peaches-and-cream complexion. Probably not. She had an ethereal quality, one that would just shine through the costume and makeup anyway.

So? What did it matter? There was no way he was having a female—any female—play the part of Santa Claus.

Some things simply were. Santa Claus was a man, not a woman. He had a great big belly, not a size six waist. He wore a red costume and sported a white beard, and he didn’t have to lower his voice to fool anybody. Those were the things his customers had come to expect. It was a given, and he intended to give them what they wanted.

He, Jared Gillette, a mere businessman in middle America, was not about to trifle with tradition. Santa Claus was a legendary hero, idolized by young and old alike. Jared refused to take any kind of creative license with something of those proportions.

Still…he had experienced a glimmer of regret when he witnessed Nicki’s disappointment. If it was just the job….

He shook his head, staunchly reminding himself he had made the right decision, even if her file had verified that she’d been a virtual hit with both parents and kids. Too bad. Some things were simply not meant to be.

Glancing at the clock, he realized everyone had gone home, and he would be closing up the store again. Just him and security. Just as usual.

Pulling on his overcoat, he walked over to the window. The street traffic was almost nonexistent. It had started snowing again and, if the frost on the window was any indication, the temperature had dropped drastically. Grabbing his briefcase, he headed for the elevator, estimating there’d be just enough time to run home to change.

On the first floor in the subdued lighting of the empty store, Joe, the old codger of a security guard, nodded and held open the front door. “You workin’ late again, boss?”

“It’s Christmas,” Jared explained unnecessarily, never breaking his stride.

“I know, I know. Busiest time of the year.” Joe propped the door open with his shoulder, and hitched up the pants on his blue uniform.

Pausing on the sidewalk, Jared yanked his collar up against the bitter cold. He hadn’t gone twenty paces in the direction of the parking ramp when he saw her—Nicki Holliday—standing at the bus stop, her back against the wind. In a light summer-weight jacket, she shivered, both hands jammed into her pockets.

For a moment it occurred to him that he should nod and just keep walking. Then she looked up and saw him. Their gazes caught and held. Jared’s brisk pace imperceptibly slowed. Something about the way she stood there, all alone, with snow dusting her hair, twisted his heart. “Miss Holliday? You’re still here?”

She nodded, hunching her shoulders. “I guess I stayed too long in your office. I missed my bus.”

He pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. “The seven o’clock bus isn’t scheduled for at least another forty minutes. If it comes at all. Weekends are kind of hit or miss.”

“Okay, well—” Nicki’s teeth chattered “—thanks for the warning. I’ll figure out something.”

She didn’t say one word about their run-in, and that in itself was unsettling. Jared took one step past her, thought better of it, and turned on his heel. “Listen, why don’t I give you a ride home?”

“Oh, no. Forget that. I’m fine.”

“Fine? You’re practically blue.”

The wind gusted, plastering the thin satin jacket against Nicki’s shoulders. “No, it’s okay.” She tried to smile. “Hey, I’m Santa Claus. I’ve called the North Pole and they’ve assured me I’ll have a sleigh gliding by momentarily. I’ll grab a little milk and cookies at the diner down the street and wait. If they’re late, it’s because Donder’s probably acting up again. He does that.”

He didn’t reply, only stared at her, vaguely wondering if she even had a home to go to. Maybe she was a nutcase.

“Ho, ho, ho,” she feebly joked, “then off I’ll go. Into my sleigh, and over the snow.”

With an inexplicable surge of impatience, Jared dismissed her rhyme and looked over her shoulder, down the street. Every storefront was dark, and the diner she mentioned was a good two blocks away. “Look. It’s dark, it’s cold, and you’re half frozen. If you start telling me you actually live at the North Pole, I’m going to think you’re delirious to boot.”

She laughed, a tinkly little sound that reverberated through the darkness. “Okay. I can assure you I’m not delirious, and I don’t live at the North Pole. What you just witnessed is my kid-appeal. I wanted to wedge it in while I had your full attention.”

She was making references to the ill-fated job, and Jared pursed his lips, choosing to ignore them. “Miss Holliday, I insist on driving you home.”

“No. That’s okay.”

“Do you realize,” he asked, “that I’m trying to do you a favor? Perhaps because I feel somewhat responsible for you missing your ride.”

She stopped shivering and gazed at him, with liquid, clear blue eyes, as if she were shocked he admitted any culpability at all. “Why? Because you altered the Santa ‘clause’ of my job?”

He didn’t reply. “Come on,” he ordered, “my car’s right inside the parking garage.”

She stayed rooted to the spot.

He turned back, lifting his eyebrows with the unspoken question.

“I don’t want to put you out,” she said.

It struck him how there was not a hint of malice in her voice. He’d expected it, guessed he even deserved it. She stood there, looking a little forlorn, her hair all tousled, her cheeks chapped from the bitter wind, and simply met his gaze. Yet there wasn’t a bit of recrimination in her features.

This woman, ephemeral as the snow, was unsettling. She preyed on his protective instincts, making him want to toss a warm coat around her shoulders and press a hot chocolate into her hand. Even in this bitter cold, he’d rather idle with her on a street corner than leave her here.

“You aren’t putting me out,” he said too softly, aware the wind pulled at his words and carried them away. He hesitated, raised his voice, and assumed the stance of a dictator. “You’re either going to come with me, or I’m going to stay here with you, until I’m sure you’re on that bus.”

“If it doesn’t come at all, you’re in for a long wait.”

“Come on,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his car keys. “Let’s go.”

Without any pretense or further objection, she lowered her head into the wind and followed him.

It was a mere fifty feet to his Lincoln, the doors were unlocked and the engine running before they entered the parking ramp. Thank God for remote control. He could get a little heat into her, get another color other than blue onto her lips.

“Thank you,” she said humbly as he held the door for her.

“It isn’t a courtesy,” he snapped. “Your fingers are probably too frozen to open the door.”

She slipped into the passenger seat, then proved his point by fumbling with the seat belt. Snagging it from her, he righted the buckle, and offered it back, intending to make it manageable. Their fingertips brushed; a ping of electricity ricocheted up his arm.

Startled, they both pulled back.

Jared straightened and, still looking at her, hung an elbow on the top of the car door. “Miss Holliday, can you tell me something? Why can’t you just be an elf and make this easier on me? I know what you’re trying to do. Really. And it’s not going to work. I promise you, it’s not going to work. I deal with people like you every day of the week—and guess what?—I’m the grinch who eats them up and spits them out.”