Jingle Spells (9 page)

Chapter 1

E
than Evergreen stared across the news desk at his nemesis, his archenemy, the perpetual thorn in his side, and couldn't decide if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her. Perhaps both, but in which order remained to be seen, he thought darkly.

“...and that is why it is
imperative
that children know there is no Santa Claus, that he's simply not real,” Lark DeWynter insisted passionately, her pale violet eyes glowing with conviction. “Lying to them to perpetuate an increasingly commercialized tradition isn't just reckless, it's detrimental.” She nodded once. “It devalues truth.”

Yes, but whose?
Ethan wanted to argue. It was the same tired old debate every year and had been for the past five. Santa wasn't real, children needed more honesty from their “moral instructors,” imagination based on lies was unhealthy.

Blah, blah, blah.

He heaved an internal sigh. No doubt had anyone but Lark been making the claim he'd have gotten exceedingly bored by now.

But it wasn't just anyone. It was
her
.

Her, with her pale pansy-colored eyes—not quite blue, not quite purple, but an intriguing shade in between that put him in mind of a rare arctic flower of a similar hue. They were a little wide-set, almost kittenish, and fringed with dark, sooty lashes. She had a wide forehead—
undoubtedly to house that diabolical little brain,
Ethan thought uncharitably—and delicate cheekbones, which narrowed into an adorably sharp chin. And the mouth that sat above that chin? Of its own volition, his broody gaze dropped there and lingered, sending an unwelcome strike of heat directly into his groin.

Positively carnal, that mouth.

Ripe, naturally rosy and full, with a perpetual upturn in the left corner that suggested she was always savoring a secret joke, one he often imagined was at his expense.

She shifted and cleared her throat, which had grown slightly pink.

Ethan's gaze bumped up and collided with hers, and he resisted the immediate urge to recoil at the strength of emotion that slammed into him as a result of that seemingly innocuous non-contact—happened every time he looked at her, damn her. He had caught the faintest flash of longing in those startled eyes before she had disguised it with sardonic contempt.

He arched a pointed brow, one that told her he knew better, and had the pleasure of watching her lovely jaw harden.
Close, but no cigar,
he thought. He knew he hadn't really rattled her until she ground her teeth.

In a strange twist of what could be only considered wicked, vengeful irony, they were wildly—unhappily, miserably, potentially lethally—attracted to one another.

“Any rebuttal to Ms. DeWynter's argument, Ethan?” the toothy talk show host, Mavis, asked. She'd propositioned him earlier, letting him know exactly what she'd like under her tree this Christmas. As if he'd never heard that one before.

Meh. Not interested.

He never was this time of year; he routinely went through a three-month dry spell. It wasn't just because of the stress of being the official face of Evergreen Industries, or because he was busy designing and bewitching ornaments to help add Christmas cheer. But this year held even more pressure. This year he was running Grinch Control, making sure that said Christmas cheer stayed at a high enough level to maintain the magic because her
damned
book—
The Christmas Lie
—had zoomed to the top of every equally
damned
bestseller list. Add in the fact that Santa and Mrs. Claus were in the throes of a marital crisis and his job had never been more challenging.
Leave it to Kris to forget their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary,
Ethan thought with an inward sigh.
Bad form, Bearded Wonder. Bad form.

No, much as it irritated and galled him to admit it...the sexual hiatus was because of her.

Because, after being around her, every other woman simply failed to capture his interest. For reasons that escaped him—penance for some unknown sin, possibly—Lark DeWynter utterly fascinated him. She was fire and ice, passionate but cool, with a razor-sharp wit and a mind so quick and fiendish he was often torn between being impressed, turned on and mildly terrified.

The rest of the time, he wasn't torn—he just felt all three simultaneously.

It was enough to drive any man insane.

Even more insane? He looked forward to it, looked forward to seeing her every year across the table.

And, of course, he'd offer a rebuttal. That's what he was here for, after all. Damage control. He smiled at Lark and assumed an expression indulgent enough to make her unusual eyes flash with irritation, then launched into his spiel. “Naturally, no one at Evergreen Industries is promoting dishonesty—”

She snorted.

Ethan upped the wattage on his grin. “Instead, we're in favor of indulging the imagination of children, of perpetuating a fantasy that feeds their creativity and builds family memories to last a lifetime.” He leaned forward in earnest. “Listen, the way we look at it, kids are going to have the rest of their lives to learn about truths—some of them less palatable than others—and, knowing that, I don't think that it's fair to rob children of what's ultimately a very small window of opportunity to—” he lifted his shoulders and smiled helplessly “—believe the unbelievable.”

“Aw, Ethan,” Mavis said, pressing a hand against her chest, seemingly overcome by emotion. “That's just beautiful. What a lovely sentiment.”

He heard it then, the faint grinding of enamel against enamel, and watched Lark's expression darken with fury. He grinned widely.

“Sentiment over truth?” Lark asked, her voice climbing, her eyes widening in outrage. “Really?”

Mavis purposely ignored Lark and looked at the camera. “I'm afraid that's all we've got time for today, folks. Stay tuned for
Cooking with Constance
. She's whipping up several tried-and-true holiday desserts over in the kitchen.”

Ethan waited for the all clear from the producer, then carefully plucked the microphone from his shirt and placed it on the desk. He could hear Lark grumbling under her breath.

“Despicable sentimental bullshit. ‘Believe the unbelievable,'” she mimicked scathingly, her sleek black brows winging up her forehead. “Sounds like a damned campaign slogan, not a valid argument.”

Mavis laid a bejeweled hand upon his arm and leaned in to better display her cleavage. “Brilliant as always, Ethan,” she said. “I'd love to hear more about those new ornaments you've designed for this holiday season.” She arched a hopeful brow. “Got time for a drink?”

From the corner of his eye he caught Lark's smirk, right before she turned on her heel and headed off. Ebony curls tumbled over her slim shoulders and the ruffled hem of her hooker red skirt fluttered with each seemingly exaggerated swing of her lush hips.

“Um, no, sorry,” he said, unreasonably annoyed by her hasty departure. They always had a second go at one another after these little on-camera feuds. “I've got to get back to Colorado.”

Before Mavis could respond, he pivoted and made his way unhurriedly across the studio to the double doors that opened into the hall. From there he bolted, eager to catch up with Lark.

“Thought you were going for a drink,” she drawled as he came up behind her.

“Look at that,” he said, hurrying forward to get the next door for her. God, she was gorgeous. Just stunning. “You're so sensitive to my presence you knew it was me before you could even see me. I must ping the hell out of your sonar.”

She snorted indelicately and shot him a look. “Don't flatter yourself. It's your cologne, fool. It's quite—” she wrinkled her nose distastefully “—distinctive.”

“I'm not wearing any cologne,” he lied. It was new, dammit, and he'd bought it with her in mind. He'd overheard her tell a makeup artist last year that she loved the smell of sandalwood.

That plump mouth curved into a provocative smile. “Right,” she said. “Just like you aren't wearing pants.”

He fell into step beside her. Why? Who the hell knew? “I am wearing pants,” he replied. “It's underwear that I'm not wearing,” he added, just to needle her.

She made a small choking sound and her gaze dropped to his crotch before darting back up again. “Why are you following me?”

“Who said I was following you? I'm leaving, same as you are.”

She stopped short and pointed to the ladies' room door. “I'm not leaving. I'm going to the bathroom.” She directed a red-tipped nail toward the other end of the hall. “If you'd wanted to leave, you should have gone in the other direction.” She frowned, feigning concern. “Do you need me to draw you a map?”

Bullshit. He didn't need a map any more than she'd been going to the ladies' room. He shook his head. “Not necessary,” he told her, then leaned casually against the wall. He pulled out his cell and began to idly scroll through his email. “I'll just wait for you and follow you out.”

“Surely you have better things to do.”

He looked up and smiled benignly. “I don't, actually.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might?” she asked tightly.

“Of course. But I hardly see how me following you outside is going to hold you up.” He'd work that bit out later. For now, it was just enough to be this close to her, to annoy the hell out of her, to make her feel half as irritated and out-of-control as he felt right now.

Or any other time he was around her, for that matter.

Clearly he'd lost his mind. And instinct, however misguided, told him she was the key to finding it.

Chapter 2

L
ark DeWynter braced her hands on either side of the sink, leaned forward and peered at her forehead. She was relieved to find that “Moron” wasn't written across it. She growled low in her throat, willed her rapidly beating heart to slow into some semblance of a normal rhythm.

“He's just a man,” she told herself as she stared into the mirror. “Just a man. There is absolutely nothing special about him. He's got the same parts as any other man.” She looked at herself, released a breath and whimpered, “Except that his parts are way more beautiful and compelling and hot and sexy than those of any other man I've met.”

The stall directly behind her opened, startling her, and her gaze met a pair of twinkling dark brown eyes set in an equally dark brown face. “Mmm-hmm.” The woman grunted knowingly. “That's the way of it, all right. The Curse of the Sparkly Penis.”

Lark choked. The curse of the
what
? “I'm sorry.”

The woman sidled forward and pumped the soap dispenser, then lathered her hands. “The Curse of the Sparkly Penis. Girl, you know what I'm talking about. There's always one, sometimes two or even three, if you're lucky,” she mused, her expression turning thoughtful. “And when a man has the sparkly penis, there's nothing a girl can do. She's powerless. Everything about him just shines a little bit more. Because he's got the Sparkly Penis, see?”

Though Lark had never seen Ethan's penis to know whether it was sparkly or not—she snickered at the thought—her imagination nonetheless conjured up images of his undoubtedly impressive penis bedazzled with rhinestones and jewels, a little Christmas wreath proudly hanging from the root.

A bark of laughter bubbled up in her throat, making the woman next to her join in until they were both nearly bent double, tears streaming down their faces.

“There you go,” the woman said, nodding approvingly, her gaze wise. “Next time that man's got you tied up in knots you just imagine him with a few rhinestones on his junk and you'll be right as rain, you hear me?” She mmm-hmm'ed. “Ain't nothing a few sparkles can't fix.”

Lark giggled again. “Indeed.”

A tentative knock sounded at the door. “Lark?”

Lark gasped and her new friend's eyes widened. “Is that him?” she hissed.

“Lark, is everything all right in there?” Ethan asked, anxiety tingeing his silky baritone. Heaven help her, the man had the
best
voice. Low and smooth with a soft rasp at the finish that put her in mind of tangled sheets and bare limbs, of candlelight and a whole hallelujah chorus of orgasms.

Oh, who the hell was she kidding?
He
did that to her.

Just him. Only him. Ever.

It was hardly fair to blame it solely on his voice, when everything about him made her want to forget that he was her biggest adversary. She knew that she was supposed to hate him, that she was a champion for all the confused children in the U.S., the ones like her who had suffered heartache and insecurity and been the target of countless jokes and ridicule for clinging firmly to Santa Claus delusions. But it was hard—so hard—because Ethan Evergreen did the one thing that no other man had ever been able to successfully do for any length of time.

He made her remember that she was a woman.

He made her belly ache with longing, her lips tingle with the anticipation of an imagined kiss. Her palms itched to touch his bare skin, to thread her fingers through that glorious dark chestnut hair, to run the pad of her thumb over the full, unbelievably sensual curve of his bottom lip. She wanted to lick, taste and suckle every beautifully proportioned inch of his body, but more importantly, she wanted him to do those same things to her.

On a rug. In front of a fire. In some remote cabin in the woods with no television, internet or cell phone reception.

Indefinitely.

“We're fine in here,” the woman called out to him.

After a long pause, he returned with, “Lark?”

Though secretly touched at his concern, Lark heaved a put-upon sigh, marched over to the door and pulled it open a crack. A beautiful, startlingly green eye stared at her.

“Ethan, for pity's sake, I'm in the ladies' room.” She arched an imperious brow. “How about a little privacy?”

The green eye narrowed suspiciously and tried to peer around her. “It sounds like you're having a party in there.”

Lark purposely shifted, obstructing his view. “So what if we are,” she said. She flicked her fingers at him impatiently. “Shoo.”

“Shoo? Really?”

“
Go
away
.” She shut the door once more, and leaned against it, pressing a palm to her forehead.

“Mercy, he sounds pretty.”

A wan smile curled her lips and she hung her head and laughed softly. “That's because he is.”

“Then what's the problem?”

Another weak laugh. “
The
problem implies that there's only one.”

“Chemistry is chemistry,” she said. “Problems have a way of sorting themselves out when we stop thinking with our heads and start listening to our bodies.”

That sounded awfully new age and open-minded, Lark thought. It also sounded like excellent advice...if it were in relation to anything other than Ethan Evergreen.

But him? Er, no. Her mind was constantly at war with her body when it came to him. Inside of her, self-preservation went toe-to-toe in a bare-knuckled brawl with lust—right now, self-preservation was holding its own, but it flagged every time she was around him. That's why she'd bolted the instant the interview had been over. Ordinarily she would have lingered and they would have exchanged a few more barbs, then gone for a drink where they would have continued to flirt under the guise of a heated debate—one that inevitably would have been punctuated by a little laughter and a lot of longing—and then she'd come to her senses and leave in a huff, and he'd smile because he'd realize she was just running scared. That was the trouble, in a nutshell, Lark thought. He knew too much about her. Instinctively. Sometimes when he looked at her she was utterly convinced he'd just opened up her head and taken a peek inside. It was unnerving. And slightly comforting, which she'd no doubt need to ask her therapist about, she thought with a frown. Why in the hell would she find that comforting? That sort of invasion of her mind? Her very thoughts?

Possibly because, in an odd sort of way, she thought he
got
her.

Singular, that. No one had ever gotten her, not even her parents. She'd been
that
child, the fragile one with the delusions of Santa Claus, with the hyper imagination that had animated ordinary Christmas decorations. Even now, almost twenty years later, a doctorate degree under her belt, she still fought the delusions.

Hell, just that morning she'd caught a glimpse of a wink from a nutcracker in a store window.

And then there was her snowman, Mr. Cool, who she'd snuck outside and rescued from the garbage bin all those years ago when her parents had purged all the ornaments and decorations from the house. For reasons that escaped her, she'd hung on to him, unable to let him go. A sentimental weakness, she supposed. She'd tried several times to toss him into the trash or put him in a donation box, but she could never make herself do it. He presently hung from an artificial ficus tree, a lone reminder of her past, both the good and the bad.

“Lark?” Ethan persisted.

She groaned and massaged the bridge of her nose.

Her new friend finished applying a fresh coat of lipstick. “He's persistent, isn't he?”

Yes, dammit. “Like a dog with a bone.”

She shot her a knowing look. “Then clip a leash on him, honey, and bring him to heel.”

Ha!
As if. She'd have about as much luck clipping a leash onto Ethan Evergreen as she would onto a rabid wolverine. And that's exactly what he would turn into if she landed that coveted slot on the
Ophelia Winslow Show
.

He'd
flip
.

Naturally, that thrilled her to her little toes. And sent the teensiest dart of panic into her chest. Ethan's family, steeped in Christmas tradition, had founded Gingerbread, Colorado—“Where Christmas is always in season!”—more than two hundred years before. His entire family worked for Evergreen Industries, as did many of the residents of Gingerbread. It wasn't merely a livelihood, it was a way of life. And she was threatening it.

The success of the book had brought plenty of media opportunities, but nothing as grand or potentially far-reaching as the
Ophelia Winslow Show
. The ultimate feather in her cap, it would be a game-changer. It would give her the opportunity to share her message with millions of dedicated viewers who considered Ophelia to be a virtual oracle on all things, from the best pair of women's pantyhose to the best facial cream on the market. Lark would learn this afternoon whether or not the show was a go and, with every second that ticked by, her anticipation and anxiety increased.

She shot a helpless look at the door and imagined the man on the other side of it—tall and gorgeous, with those unusually bright green eyes—and a snake of heat coiled in her middle, making her nipples tighten behind her bra, her muscles melt with desire. She closed her eyes tightly and beat back the urge to howl in frustration.

He
was not helping matters.

To hell with it,
Lark thought. She needed a drink.

She thanked her new friend for the advice, then squared her shoulders and exited the bathroom without sparing Ethan a single glance—the view from the corner of her eye was enough to make her pulse trip—and started down the hall.

“It's about time,” he said, naturally falling into step beside her. God, he smelled good. Lickable. “I was on the verge of sending in a search party.”

“You could have left.”

He chuckled. “And miss the pleasure of your company?” he drawled, the smart-ass. “Never.”

“Just out of curiosity, how long do you plan on following me?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Thinking of getting a restraining order?”

Lark felt her lips twitch. “No, but a Taser might be an option.”

He feigned a gasp and tsked under his breath. “Bodily injury? Really? You wound me.”

A laugh tickled the back of her throat and she rolled her eyes. “Please,” she said. “Only if your Arrogance Shield has failed.”

He pushed through the double doors, which led out into a small alley behind the studio. The smell of diesel fuel and garbage hung in the air—Eau de New York, she'd dubbed it, missing the scent of woodsmoke and cedar in her north Georgia home.

“Arrogance Shield? You've given me a superpower? Like a superhero?” He looked positively delighted, damn him, with that endearingly boyish grin. A deep dimple emerged in his right cheek, one that only made an appearance when he smiled with his whole face.

That dimple was downright dangerous, because it made her forget that he was the enemy, that she wasn't supposed to like him, much less want to tie him to her bed with tinsel and eat him up like a Christmas cookie.

“It was an insult,” she reminded him pointedly.

His grin widened. “Only if I take offense. And I don't. How about a drink, Chickadee? Got time for one more argument before you fly south?”

Chickadee? That was a new one. He'd called her everything from Sparrow to Crow over the years, good-naturedly needling her because of her “bird” name. He wasn't the only one—she'd been getting ribbed since grade school—so she was used to it.

“Might as well,” she said with a sigh. “I need to make sure my Bullshit Detector is up and running. Keep talking, would you?” She smiled sweetly. “You're my best diagnostic tool.”

He gave her a small bow. “I am ever at your service.”

Lark grinned up at him, charmed despite herself. “Yep. It's definitely working.”

She inwardly girded her loins, thinking only a magical chastity belt would provide the kind of superpower she'd need.

Heaven help her...