Santa Viking (12 page)

“I don’t understand.”

“Aunt Clara operates a group program under state regulations. If they found out she was incapacitated, they’d withdraw her funding and split up these kids quick as spit. She was especially concerned about them missing Christmas together. Not that it’s going to be much of a Christmas now.” Her expression drooped dolefully.

“Because you weren’t able to get any money?” he concluded, finally understanding.

“Yep. I would have been all right if Julio hadn’t ripped me off this afternoon, but now
 . . . 
”

He cursed under his breath.

“Julio stole all the money Aunt Clara had for Christmas gifts, as well. It’s going to be a mighty bleak holiday for those kids.” She straightened her shoulders with resolution. “But they’re used to disappointment. They’ll survive. We
 . . .
I mean
they
 . . .
always do.”

There was a world of hidden meaning in Jessie’s words. How many disappointments had she had as a child? As an orphan? How many bleak holidays?

Well, he’d be damned if she’d have another.

“This is the turnoff for the Piggly Jiggly,” Jessie reminded him. “Just a few more minutes, and you’ll be rid of me.”

Warning buzzers went off in Erik’s head. He had to think fast. How could he keep Jessie with him? Time. He needed time.

“Duck!” he shouted.

She jerked her head toward him in surprise. “What?”

“Hurry, get down on the floor. The parking lot is loaded with cops. Frank must have reported your heist to every precinct from here to New Jersey.”

Jessie dropped down into a curled-up ball in the cramped floor space, and he threw the two pillows they’d taken from their bellies on top of her. Then he surveyed the deserted parking lot with a wide grin.

“Whatever you do, don’t lift your head, or your butt is gonna land in jail.”
And a very nice butt, it is, too,
he noted, glancing down at her.

“Oh, geez, oh, geez! What am I going to do now?”

“I guess I’ll just have to drive you to Clara’s House,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “No, no
 . . .
don’t worry about inconveniencing me. It’s the least I can do for those poor orphans.” He patted the pillow over her upraised behind, barely stifling the chuckle of satisfaction that rippled through him.

“But what about the van?” she groaned. “Can you turn down the heater? I’m melting here. Oh, good grief, maybe I should just turn myself in, beg for mercy.”

“Nope,” he said in a rush, “you can’t do that. Philly cops are notorious for being hard-nosed. Mercy isn’t in their vocabulary. They’d probably put you in a cell with
 . . .
Mafia hitmen or something. Do a strip search
 . . .
naked, body cavities, delousing, the works.”

She groaned again.

“You can come back and get the van after Christmas,” he advised. Interpreting her silence for assent, he added, “Is there anything you need from the van? Maybe I could slip in unnoticed.”

“I don’t know. I can’t think here. It’s about five hundred degrees under this blower. Yeah, you’d better get the boxes.”

“Boxes? What boxes? How many boxes?”

“About fifty.”

Fifty?
he mouthed silently. “What’s in them?”

“Fruitcakes.”

Santa needed to fill his sack
 . . .
at the local convenience store
 . . . 
?

An hour later, Jessica sat in the car in front of an all-night Uni-Mart convenience store, sulking. “I still don’t see the harm in my going inside. I promised Aunt Clara to bring back bread and milk. Criminey, don’t you think you’re being a mite overcautious?”

“Nope, you can’t be too careful,” Erik said. “Lots of these convenience stores have police radios behind the counter. There might be an all-points bulletin out for you.”

“Sixty miles away from Philly?” she scoffed.

“Just sit tight, toots,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “I’m perfectly capable of buying bread and milk.” He peered down with disgust at the bills and change she’d shoved with stubborn pride into his hands. “Even thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents’ worth.”

“Don’t spend it all on bread and milk, you fool. Buy some peanut butter and jelly, too. I’ve got to make this money stretch till Tuesday, the day after Christmas. Then I should be able to call my bank.”

“Just how many kids are at this house?”

“Four
 . . .
five when Julio is there.”

“How old are they?”

“Eleven to fourteen. Julio’s the oldest.”

“Let me get this straight. You expect kids that age, who suck up food like human vacuums, to live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the next two days? Over Christmas?”

“And fruitcake. Don’t forget the fruitcake.”

“How could I?” he said with a moan. Despite their both protesting that they hated fruitcake, they were so hungry they’d polished off half of a three-pound ring so far. “Whatever possessed those nuns to send fifty fruitcakes?”

“They had a fund-raiser that fell through. I guess they sold less than they expected.”

“Exactly how many of those lead sinkers do they have left?”

“Five hundred.”

His mouth dropped open in amazement. Then he burst out laughing. “Tell me a little something about these kids.”

“Well, Julio you already know about. He’s fourteen, half Puerto Rican, half black, and street smart to the nth degree. He’s been arrested for everything from grand theft auto to dealing marijuana. You’d like him, though. He could charm the socks off a snake.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“Darlene is next. She’s thirteen, going on thirty. Sexy as hell and headed straight for a life of prostitution if someone doesn’t help her soon.” She laughed. “Yesterday she pierced her own navel, and she tried to talk me into doing the same.”

“Did you?”

She cast him a rueful glance. “Hardly. Robbing porno shops is as adventuresome as I get.”

He grinned. “Who’s next?”

“Henry is thirteen, too. The next Bill Gates, or so he thinks. He knows everything there is to know about computers. In fact, you’ll soon know what he wants for Christmas—the latest iPad and a computer that does everything but reinvent the Internet—not that he’ll get such pricey items, unless there’s a real Santa Claus.”

“He doesn’t sound too incorrigible. What’s he done?”

“Credit card fraud. Illegal hacking. The last scam he pulled off netted him ten thousand dollars. Not bad for a thirteen-year-old, huh?”

“Is your Aunt Clara a saint or what? No sane person would take on all these hopeless cases.”

“They’re not hopeless,” Jessie asserted defensively. “All they need is help.”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Go on.”

“Kajeeta is twelve. Poor thing. She’s
 . . .
well, she’s overweight, but she has this dream of becoming a singer and dancer, like Fancy Nancy. No one has the heart to tell her it’s probably a hopeless dream. Anyhow, Kajeeta refuses to go to school. The other kids make fun of her. She’s continually being called into court by school probation officers. Foster parents don’t want her, too much trouble.”

He nodded. Sounded like a great bunch of kids so far.

“Then there’s Willie. He’s eleven.” She smiled. “His orange hair and freckles will fool you. He’s a compulsive shoplifter. And he’s going through this Ninja phase right now.”

He raised a brow.

“He does karate moves
 . . .
all the time. Seems like he can’t even go to the bathroom without Kung Fuing along the way.” She stared out the window, deep in thought. Then she seemed to shake herself back to the present. “We’re wasting time here. Am I going into the store or are you?”

“I am. But how about soda and snack food for the kids?” he suggested.

She raised her chin. “I can’t waste money on junk food. We’ll get by. Just buy four loaves of bread, four gallons of milk, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly,” she said inflexibly, “or I’ll do it myself.”

He gave her a condemning glare and slammed out of the car, storming into the store. He’d left the wipers on, so she was able to watch him through the well-lit store window, even through the blinding snow. He said something to the teenage girl behind the counter, and she smiled up at him as if God had just walked into her store. Or Mr. Hottie Viking.

She couldn’t blame the girl. Jessica felt all warm and fuzzy inside when she looked at him herself. Actually, she’d felt more like hot, hot, hot, especially when he’d kissed her. No one,
no one
had ever made her feel like that.

This night was probably just a lark for him. He was humoring some crazy woman who’d pulled a loaded gun in a supermarket, kidnapped him, then tried to rob a porno shop.

She groaned aloud. It sounded awful when she played it back in her mind. Heck, it
was
awful. Her brain really must have splintered apart to have tried such foolish stunts. But she was desperate. How was she ever going to provide a Christmas for those kids who depended on her? In a way, she was letting them down, just like so many adults had let her down as a child when she was shifted from one foster home to another
 . . .
until she’d found Aunt Clara.

Well, enough maudlin thoughts. Her Viking savior was returning, loaded down with two grocery bags in each arm. She leaned over to press the automatic rear door release.

Even that short walk from the front door of the Uni-Mart to the rear of the car resulted in his being covered with snow. To her surprise, he didn’t immediately enter the car, though. He went back in the store twice more, returning with six more grocery bags.

When he finally slid into the front seat, she lit into him. “I told you to buy four things. What’s in all those bags?”

“My stuff,” he said, latching his seat belt and backing out of the lot. His jaw squared mulishly.

“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

“Snack stuff. Food I can eat while all the rest of you are scarfing down fruitcake.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You aren’t going to be at Clara’s House long enough to see anyone eat fruitcake. You’re turning right around after you drop me off and going home.”

He slanted her one of those “wanna bet?” looks, but said nothing.

“Erik?” she persisted.

He sucked in a deep breath and glowered at her as he drove along the deserted highway. It must be three A.M. by now. “Jessie, you can’t possibly think I’m going to return tonight. I’m exhausted. We’re in the middle of a blizzard. Do you want me to have an accident?”

“No, but
 . . . 
” Little alarm bells were ringing all through her body. She wasn’t sure how much exposure she could take to this guy, how long she could resist the attraction.

“Surely your Aunt Clara has a sofa or something where I can crash for the night.” He fluttered those feather-duster lashes at her. It was a ploy he’d probably perfected over the years to suck in susceptible women
 . . .
like her.

She immediately felt guilty for her lack of charity, especially since Erik had gone out of his way to help her. And it wasn’t as if Clara’s House didn’t have plenty of room. The old gingerbread Victorian had three stories and about eight bedrooms. “Oh, all right. But just for one night.”

She could have sworn he murmured under his breath, “That’s all I need.” But when she scrutinized him closer, he stared straight ahead. Innocent as a cobra. Or a blood-sucking vampire.