Wyndham 04 - Santa Claws.pdf - Mary Janice Davidson - renee2010

SANTA CLAWS

A Wyndham werewolf story

For Giselle McKenzie. If not for her, this would have been a very different story.

C hapter O ne

Alec Kilcurt, laird of Kilcurt Holding and the most powerful werewolf in Europe, stomped through the snow and slush and

wished he were anywhere, anywhere but here.

He stopped and stood obediently with the rest of the herd, waiting for the light to change. Snow was spitting down on him with

malice he could almost feel. It did nothing for his mood. He disliked leaving his home for any reason, but being called to America to

pay homage to The Wonderful Child was a bit much.

And now he was shamed; his duty had never seemed a chore before. He admired and respected the pack leaders, Michael

and Jeannie Wyndham. Michael was a good man and a fine leader; his wife was a crack shot cutie and baby Lara was adorable.

Since the cooing, drooling infant was likely to be his next pack leader, Alec’s presence—the presence of every country’s werewolf

head—had been required for both political and practical reasons. The pack was some 300,000 werewolves strong; unity was both

a desire and a necessity.

Unfortunately, visiting the Wyndhams in their happy home just exacerbated his own loneliness. He’d been searching for a mate

for years, but had...how did the humans put it? Never found the right girl. He thought it was funny that human women complained

their men didn’t commit. An unattached werewolf male was likely to want to move in after the first date. What was a man, after all,

without a mate, without cubs?

Nothing, that’s what. Meeting baby Lara was a great relief; pack leaders without heirs made everyone nervous. Seeing

Michael’s happiness, on the other hand, was a torture.

Now his duty was done, and thank God. His plane left Boston tonight, and nothing was keeping him from it.

Faugh! More snow! And not likely to be much better, even when he got home. Really, there was nothing to look forward to

until spring. Others of his kind might enjoy romping through the slush on all fours, but here was one furry laird who hated getting his

feet wet.

And Boston! Grey, drizzly, dreary Boston, which smelled like damp wool and exhaust. He felt like pulling his scarf over his

nose to muffle the smells of

(peaches, ripe peaches)

unwashed masses and

(peaches)

He stopped suddenly, and felt a one-two punch as the couple walking behind him slammed into his back. He barely felt it.

Hardly heard their complaints. He spun, pushed past them. Walked back, nostrils flaring, trying to catch that elusive

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

intoxicating

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

utterly wonderful scent.

He stiffened, not unlike a dog on point. There. The street corner. Red suit trimmed with white. White gloved hand shaking that

annoying bell. Belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly. The glorious smell was coming from Santa Claus.

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

He charged across the street without looking, ignoring the blaring horns, the shriek of airbrakes. The closer he got, the better

Santa smelled.

JangleJANGLEjan—

“Jeez, there’s no rush,” Santa said in a startled contralto, pulling down her beard to squint up at him. Her eyes were the color

of Godiva milk chocolate. Her cheeks were blooded, kissed by the wind. Her nose was snub. Adorable. He felt like kissing it. “I

mean, the bucket and I aren’t going anywhere.”

“Nuh,” he said, or something like it.

“You really should forget that whole ‘pedestrians have the right of way’ attitude when you’re in this town...errr...everything

okay?”

He had been looming over her, drinking her in. Now he jerked back. “Fine, everything’s fine. Have dinner with me.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.” She blinked up at him. A stray snowflake spiraled down, landed on her nose. Melted.

“Then lunch.”

The woman looked down at herself, as if making sure that, yes, she was dressed in the least flattering outfit a woman could

wear. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked at last.

“Never better.” It was the truth. This was rapidly turning into the best day ever. He had visions of spending the rest of the day

rolling around on Egyptian cotton sheets with Santa. “Lunch.”

She peered at him with adorable suspicion. “Is that a question? Is this your first day out of the institution?”

Right, right, she was human. Be polite. “Lunch. Please. Now.”

She burst out laughing, putting a hand on her large belly to keep from falling into the street. As if he ’d let that happen. “I’m

sorry,” she gasped, “but the absurdity of this...you...and...it just hit me all at once.” She cut her gaze away from his to smile at the

woman who had just tucked a dollar into her bucket. “Merry Christmas, ma’am, and thank you.”

Now that he was no longer gazing into her eyes, he felt much colder and realized his feet were wet. Faugh!

“I can’t have lunch now,” she said kindly, looking back at him. “I can’t leave my spot until noon.”

“Not even if you made lots of money before then?”

“Not even if the real Santa came along to relieve me.”

“Noon, then.”

“Well. All right.” She smiled up at him with timid liking. “You’ll be sorry. Wait until you see me out of this Santa outfit.” The

spasm of lust nearly toppled him into the gutter. “I’m not at all cute,” she finished with charming idiocy.

“Noon,” he said again, then pulled his roll from his coat pocket. He plucked the money clip off the wad, and dropped the eight

thousand dollars or so into her bucket. “I’ll be back.”

“If that was Monopoly money,” she hollered after him, “lunch is off !”

C hapter T wo

Giselle Smith watched the visitor from the planet Hunk stride away. When he’d rushed up to her, she had nearly dropped her

bell. There she was, jangling for charity, and then Hunk Man was right there . She couldn’t believe the speed at which he’d moved.

His hair was a deep, true auburn. His eyes were a funny kind of brown, so light they were nearly gold. His nose was a blade

and his mouth—oooh, his mouth! A girl could stare at it and think...oh, all sorts of things. He was tall, too; she had to crane her

neck to look at him. Over six feet, for sure. Shoulders like a swimmer. Knee-length black wool coat, probably worth a grand at

least. Black gloves covering big hands; the guy looked like he could palm a basketball, no problem.

He had come charging across the street to, of all things, ask her to lunch. And to give her thousands—thousands!—of dollars.

Her, Giselle Smith. Boring brown hair, dirt-colored eyes. Too short, and definitely too heavy. The most interesting thing about

her was her name. Which people always got wrong anyway.

Obviously a serial killer, she thought sadly. Well, we’ll have lunch in a public place where I can scream my head off if he starts

sharpening his knives.

It was too bad. He was really something. What the hell could a guy like that want from a nobody like her?

* * * * *

Alec watched the woman (he was still angry at himself for not getting her name...or giving his, for that matter) from halfway down

the block. His spot was excellent: he could see her perfectly and, better, he was downwind.

He thought about their conversation and cursed himself again. He’d babbled like a moron, ordered her to lunch, stared at her

like she was Little Red Riding Hood. Yes, like Little Red...hmmmmm.

He wrenched his mind from that delectable mental image

(the better to eat you with, my dear. eat you all...up!)

and concentrated on thinking about what an idiot he had been. It was a miracle the woman had said yes. It was a miracle she

hadn’t hit him over the head with her bell. He had to be very careful at lunch; it was imperative she not spook. He thanked God he

was weeks away from his Change; if he’d caught her scent any closer to the full moon, he’d have scared the pants off her. Literally.

God, she was so adorable , look at her, shaking her little bell for all she was worth. Many people stopped (pulled in, no doubt,

by her allure) and threw money in her bucket. As they should! They should give her gold bullion, they should lay roses at her feet,

they—

Wyndham 04 - Santa Claws.pdf

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