Santa Viking (8 page)

“Really. My parents died in an automobile accident on December twentieth when I was ten. The following yule season, I was in the foster home from hell. I broke my leg on Christmas Eve when I was twenty.”

“Coincidences.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how about the time my dog Fred impregnated a pedigree poodle at that fancy private kennel five years ago, even though he was fixed? That curse cost me a thousand dollars in legal fines.”

“Apparently Fred’s fix-job leaked.” His blue eyes twinkled with humor.

She sliced him a sneer of disgust. “I will never forget my Christmas-party blind date last year with the guy who arrived wearing a plaid hunting cap with ear flaps. The wheels of his pickup truck were so high I had a nosebleed for a week.”

“I once had a blind date with a girl who had tattoos on three-fourths of her body,” he contributed. “Does that qualify as a curse?”

“Quit stalling,” she ordered, realizing that he was trying to keep her talking until the police arrived. Even though she knew her bullets were gone, her hand still shook when she raised the gun in a threatening manner.

He said a foul word under his breath as his eyes darted to her trembling fingers. She could practically see the gears grinding in his chauvinistic brain. He was probably worrying about her panicking, or her fingers slipping.

Raising his arms above his head, he surrendered. “All right, all right, take it easy, babe. I’m all yours.” It was a real Kodak moment.

Actually, there was probably a security camera filming it for posterity. But she couldn’t think about that now. With the barrel of her pistol pressed into the back of the guy’s neck, she pushed him forward through the doors, yelling over her shoulder, “If anyone follows me, this creep is dead. Do you hear me?”

The creep looked at her over his shoulder and said, “Ho, ho, ho!”

Even Vikings get caught sometimes
 . . .

At first, Erik Thorsson had been amused by Dirty Harriet. But not anymore. He walked compliantly out of the grocery store, his arms upraised, a gun crammed into his nape, but he was really,
really
pissed. It was humiliating for a man of his background to be kidnapped by a dingbat Santa.

And he just knew that the six o’clock news tomorrow was going to have a stillframe from the security tape of Santa being taken hostage by Santa. The news media would make him the laughing stock of the country.

Erik could have taken the woman down in a flash
 . . .
in the beginning
 . . .
before she’d started ripping out bullets. Hell, he was a bodyguard. And he was wearing a bulletproof vest, having just come off of an assignment. It was his job to disarm potential political assassins or crazy celebrity fans. He’d been trained in the CIA and had done very well these past five years, thank you very much, operating his own private bodyguard business, “Watchdogs, Inc.”

But the worst danger in the security business was a looney-bird. And if a woman—who might, indeed, be a nun—dressed as Santa Claus, wielding a forty-five, ranting about Christmas Curses and robbing a supermarket for thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents wasn’t a looney-bird, he didn’t know what was.

It was all his sister’s fault, and he was going to tell her so, too
 . . .
if
he was alive after tonight. He’d already rented the Santa outfit for his gig protecting Fancy Nancy, the hottest young rock star, at her concert today at the Wells Fargo Center in Philly. Fancy Nancy was being called the female Justin Beiber. After the concert, Ellie had talked him into playing the jolly ol’ fellow for her third graders’ Christmas party. It had seemed reasonable to zip on over to the elementary school where Ellie taught, and it had been fun, too.

Later they’d gone out for pizza and she’d berated him ad nauseam about the dismal state of his personal life. Too many women—“bimbos” was her exact word. No commitments. “How long are you going to mourn Ginny? She’s been dead five years.”

Then she started in on his biological clock ticking away with no children in sight. “Men don’t have biological clocks,” he’d pointed out.

“And you’ve got dirty laundry up the wazoo,” she’d added. Okay, she had a point about the laundry that had been stacked roof high in the back seat of his car before he hit the Laundromat tonight. And, yeah, for months now, he’d been just buying new packages of briefs and socks whenever he ran out. God bless Walmart! And who said T-shirts couldn’t be turned inside out in an emergency?

On and on, Ellie had ranted. So, she was responsible for his present predicament. If not for her nagging, he never would have come out at midnight to do his laundry and meet Ms. Psycho Santa.

“Where to, babe?” he asked with a sigh of resignation. “Where’d you park the sled?”

Ms. Santa hesitated, glancing toward a van hidden around the side of the mall behind a Dumpster. Emblazoned across its sides was the logo Clara’s House.
Hell, she must be a for-real nun, like that Frank character said.

He immediately made a mental revision in his strategy. Taking the perp down at the first opportunity had been his original plan. He’d been unconcerned about whether the weird woman got hurt in the process.

But he couldn’t in good conscience risk taking out a nun. His sister would never forgive him. The news media would have a field day. His business would be shot to hell.

Besides, she was kinda cute.

“Where’s your car?” she asked, biting her full bottom lip—a nervous habit he’d noticed right from the start, which only called attention to her puffy, very kissable mouth. “The van’s too easy to follow. And stop jerking around so much. I don’t want to shoot you accidentally.”

“How about not-so-accidentally?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Man, oh, man, she reminded him of one of those “Magic Eye” pictures. Once you saw the hidden image, you couldn’t stop looking at it. Her Angelina Jolie lips were like that. Now that his splintering brain registered how sensual her lips were, they drew his eyes like a magnet.
Maybe I inhaled too many bleach fumes tonight.

“My
car’s over here,” he said, chastising himself silently for his wandering mind as he indicated a metallic gray Bronco across the empty parking lot, “but, listen, I left all my clothes in the dryer over at the Suds ’n Duds.” He pointed to the Laundromat down a little ways in the strip mall. “That’s why I was in the supermarket. I needed quarters for the machine, and that slimeball assistant manager at the supermarket wouldn’t give me any change unless I bought something. So I got a lottery ticket. Hey, I left my ticket back on the floor. Maybe I’m a millionaire. We should go back and check.” He was deliberately babbling away in hopes of diverting her attention so he could grab for the piece.

“Forget the clothes and the lottery ticket, buddy. This is more important.” She walked him over to the car with the forty-five still imbedded in his neck, too high for his lead corset to protect him.

“I hope you’ve got the safety clip on that gun,” he said.

“What’s a safety clip?”

He moaned.

“Don’t worry, I’m being careful.”

“Yeah, like you were careful with those farting bears.”

“Oh, you are so crude. They were
burping
bears.”

“Well, that’s better, of course. Did anyone ever tell you that you have incredible lips?”

She blinked at him as a current of electricity seemed to ricochet between them. “Oooh, you are smooth. And the answer is yes. My Christmas Curse eleven years ago.”

“Huh?”

“Larry the Lizard told me I had a sexy mouth. That was just before he slept with my best friend, Alice.”

“I wouldn’t sleep with your best friend,” he vowed. “I’d rather—”

“Get serious.” They were on the driver’s side of the car. “Now, slowly, I want you to take out your keys and open the front and back doors.” When he did as ordered, she told him to get in the driver’s seat. “I’ll sit behind you where I can aim my gun right at your head.”

“Puh-leeze!” Erik frowned.
This is not good.
He’d been hoping she would sit in the passenger seat where he could more easily grab for the weapon
 . . .
or his own rod on the floor under the driver’s seat.

“What’s that thing?”

Oh, damn!
Her eyes had homed in on the tip of his revolver peeking out like a beacon.

“Move back,” she demanded, training her firearm on his face while she leaned down and picked up his gun gingerly between a thumb and forefinger. For a moment, he saw fear flash in her eyes. “Are you a crook or something?”

He couldn’t help grinning. “You mean like you?”

“No, not like me, you jerk. I mean a real crook. A bank robber, or a rapist, or a murderer.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a bad guy. Well
 . . .
uh
 . . .
I’m not all that good, either, but—”

“Shut up,” she snapped, motioning him into the car.

He slid behind the wheel. “Testy, are we?”

She scurried into the back seat, immediately positioning her gun with a bead on his unprotected skull, the whole time muttering about Jeffrey Dahmer and Freddie Kruger.

“How ’bout lowering the gun, darlin’? I’d hate to get my hair mussed.”

She started to comply.

That
’
s it, honey.
Put my metal undershirt in your cross-hairs.

She changed her mind when she realized his back was pressed against the seat. “Just drive.”

He was easing the Bronco out of the parking lot when he saw a police car, bubblegum light flashing, pull in front of the Piggly Jiggly. The two officers who got out didn’t seem in any big hurry. They probably thought it was a routine shoplifting.

“Where to?” he asked, slanting the woman a glimpse over his shoulder. She was biting her bottom lip in concentration.

Those lips again.

“Just head down the highway. I have to think.”

That would be a refreshing change.
“You could probably take off your disguise now,” he advised. He’d like to get a better look at her. All he’d been able to see thus far were high cheekbones, a light sprinkling of freckles over a slightly upturned nose, and big, big brown eyes. She was probably a redhead, if her eyebrows were any indication. He hoped she was ugly, so his wandering lust would come to a halt. Even so, he wondered what kind of body she hid under that Santa costume.

But then he immediately brought himself back to reality.
Why the hell should I care? I know my personal life is going down the toilet lately, but this is the pits. I
’
m having impure thoughts about a nun with PMS?

“Geez, watch the road,” she shrieked as he almost drove onto the berm. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic. “And I’m not taking off my disguise
 . . .
yet.”

Yet?
“Why not?” he asked suspiciously.

“Pay attention and drive faster,” she commanded, ignoring his question. When they’d traveled a few miles, she told him to turn right onto a rural road. After a prolonged silence, she added, “So if you’re not a crook, how come you have a gun?”

“I’m a bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard!” she exclaimed. “Like Kevin Costner?”

“Yep! Except that women say I favor Brad Pitt.” He cast a sidelong glance at her over his shoulder and jiggled his eyebrows. Women loved it when he did that.

“You are about the same age as Brad Pitt, I suppose.”

“Hey, I’m not
that
old. Brad Pitt must be close to fifty. I’m only thirty-five. How old are you?”
Boy, see if I waste my eyebrow jiggle on you again!

“Thirty, and believe me, I feel pretty darn old sometimes.”

“Thirty? Old? No way! Back to me—” he said.

She made a rude sound of disgust and mimicked, “Back to me
 . . . 
”

“What’s that snort supposed to mean?”

“Men. Everything always comes back to them. And I don’t snort.”

“Are you trying to say I’m vain?”