Sugar And Spice (39 page)

“I don’t think that would go over so well.” Natalie grinned. “Text his cell. I’ll do it from mine, yours, Tim’s…that way he doesn’t guess who it is.”

Angie draped an arm around Natalie’s shoulders. “Your brilliance is what makes you such a great friend.”

Natalie thought of Jake, picturing him at the shelter, reading to the children. She’d started out wanting him for his looks, for the way he sent a thrill down her spine, but ended up wanting him for the way he’d been so tender, so sweet with the children. Seeing that other side of him hadn’t dampened her desire; if anything, the event had quadrupled her want.

Caring about him, however, added a complication she hadn’t considered. Natalie had no intentions of taking this beyond Christmas. Being involved with Jake would only give her an excuse to stay here longer, instead of conquering her fears and moving on to a more meaningful job.

But until then, she wouldn’t mind having a little fun under the mistletoe.

She took Angie’s cell phone, flipped through the office directory until she came across the cell listings for management—the only one listed was Jake, since Brad never wanted to be bothered outside of these walls—and began to type.

Hope U liked Ur gift & if U have the time for a little fun, I have the ideas that will put a real jingle in your stocking. In 11 days, let’s meet and greet. ;-)

She signed it, as she had the note, with “SpiceGirl.”

“Well done,” Angie said. “A little sexy, a little mysterious. Now watch what happens.”

The two of them rose and crossed to the communal coffeepot, keeping an eye on Jake the entire time they poured drinks they didn’t need. Natalie saw him flip open his phone, read the message, smile a little—causing her heart to do backflips—then look around, as if wondering where that had come from.

“You’re right,” Natalie said. “I’d be crazy to give up just because Dena inserted her breasts into the deal.

Now, if I can get my mouth to cooperate, I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re smart, you won’t use your mouth for talking to Jake Lyons,” Angie said, a devilish gleam in her eyes. “Believe me, you can get your point across in many other ways.”

Natalie laughed. “You are a bad influence. A smart one, but still, very, very bad.”

Angie blew on her fingers. “We all have our talents.”

Jake had spent three hours with Dena on Saturday night, eating a dinner he didn’t like at an overpriced restaurant, waiting for some hint that she was his Secret Santa, as Brad had claimed. Because whoever his mysterious gifter was, she had him intrigued.

More intrigued than he’d been in a long time. Friday’s gift, the second in the Twelve Days, had been a set of Mozart bookends, a sign his secret someone knew he listened to classical music in his office. He’d read the attached letter so many times, he’d practically memorized it.

Dear Jake,

According to the song, today I should be giving you two French hens, something I don’t think you’d appreciate, unless they had good typing skills.

Did you know the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was first published in 1780? Although the twelve days are an English tradition, the French created the music, using the dozen items to symbolize biblical events.

Enough trivia. We can save those kinds of conversations for afterward, when we’re cuddled up together, killing time until we can make your jingle bells rise again. I’d love to show you exactly how merry a Christmas night can be.

The letter went on, detailing several methods of ringing in the holidays. Some in a closet, a kitchen and one in a place even he hadn’t thought of. His sender had an imagination all right.

One he wanted to try out.

Then, later that day, another text message, just as cryptic and fun as the one on Thursday. He’d texted back, asking for more hints, and all he’d gotten in reply was “you already know me; just open your eyes and come find me.”

So he’d done that, going up to Dena’s desk at the end of the day. She’d readily accepted the invitation, saying something about what had taken him so long to notice her. He’d had a flash of doubt, but Brad sent him a huge thumbs-up, and Jake made dinner reservations.

During dinner, he’d asked Dena what books she liked to read, and she’d answered “Vogue.”

He’d brought up the concept of good leaders and she’d cited Mary Kay as someone who had changed America.

He’d tried to talk about music, but she’d gotten sidetracked in a lengthy soliloquy about her favorite Menudo song.

By the time the crème brûlée arrived, Jake knew his Secret Santa couldn’t possibly be Dena. But then, she’d gone and thrown a monkey wrench into everything.

“You know, Jake,” Dena said, laying a hand on his, “I really appreciate you asking me out. Things have been tough for me this year. After my boyfriend left me, I thought my love life was over, heck, my whole life. I felt so…lonely, worthless.” A tear glistened in her eye. “But now, you’ve given me hope.” She smiled, squeezed his palm. “You’ve restored my faith in men. I just have to hope”—at this, she’d sighed—“that you aren’t another one of those eat-and-leave kind of guys. Well, most of them stay through dessert, if you know what I mean, but then they’re gone. I just couldn’t handle another broken heart.”

He’d cringed inwardly, knowing he had intended to sign his name to the bill and get the hell out of there. He and Dena had nothing in common, even though she was the kind of woman he usually chose.

Lately, he found he wanted more. Less crème brûlée and more honey-baked ham.

The problem—he wasn’t so sure he had the commitment gene. He’d started with becoming more responsible within the family business. Taking on the whole wife and family thing, however, was another story.

The word story brought up a mental image of Natalie, reading to the children. That was what he wanted, a little of that…certainty.

Dena sat across from him, giving him the wide doelike eyes. She was everything he’d always wanted—before he’d come to work at Lyons. “Dena, I—”

“Oh please don’t break up with me. Not now. Let’s just pretend we have another date for…next Tuesday. Okay?”

“Uh—”

“Good!” she’d said, overriding any objections before Jake could voice them. He’d ended up leaving it at that. A woman like Dena, who dated men in the office like some people went through drive-throughs, would undoubtedly be on to someone else before the week was out.

Now, as the office began to pick up tempo on Monday morning, Jake did no work, instead holding that day’s letter, his thumb tracing over the neat script of his name on the envelope. Day five and he wasn’t a whole lot closer to knowing who his Secret Santa could be. He’d eliminated Dena, but that still left Angela; Natalie; the new girl…Janie, he thought her name was; and Shelly, who pretty much kept to herself and her cubicle, seeming to be a lot happier with numbers than humans.

The gift attached to today’s letter had been on his desk when he’d come in this morning, as neatly wrapped as the one before, with another letter dangling from the bow. In the box had been a file organization system, one of those kinds that sat on his desk and corralled his paperwork into neatness.

The gift had been thoughtful, practical. But it was the letter that had him the most intrigued.

Dear Jake,

I came across a quote today and thought of not only you, but also myself.

“Life is so full of meaning and of purpose, so full of beauty—beneath its covering—that you will find that earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage, then to claim it: that is all!”—Fra Giovanni Giocondo Ironically, although the quote is attributed to Giocondo, experts think it was actually written by the son of a novelist. A secret hidden behind a pearl. Sounds very much like what we are doing here. Secrets and pearls…but will you find me to be a pearl at the end? Or just the shucked shell of an oyster?

Have you ever been afraid to claim what you want? I have been, and still am, every day of my life. I know what I want…but going after it is another story. It’s like I’m afraid that if I do it, I’ll jump into a pool and forget how to swim.

So I’ve tacked that quote over my mirror at home, so I see it every day and remember that courage is all I need. Well, that and a kiss from you ;-). But that will have to wait until we get to Day Twelve.

The wait seems impossibly long. But as they say, anticipation is half the fun.

SpiceGirl

He looked up. Through the glass walls that surrounded him, he didn’t see a single guilty-looking person whom he could pinpoint as the letter’s John Hancock. From the conversation he’d had with Dena, where none of the words consisted of more than two syllables, he doubted even more that she had written this.

Jake fiddled with the organizer for a few minutes, sorting the files, setting them to rights and creating a clear working space on his desk. He moved the clock in front of it, then sat back and enjoyed the newly cleared space. For a few minutes, Jake fiddled with some work but accomplished very little, too busy wondering about the identity of SpiceGirl.

There were fourteen women on this floor of Lyons Corp., half of whom he could rule out. Velma, who had been married for fifty years and served as guardian of Brad. Coco, the temp, who had made her preferences known when she started dating Kitty, who worked in the mail room.

He didn’t know much about the other women, but he knew enough that a good chunk of them were married or nearing retirement. Or both.

That left Angela, Dena, Natalie and a couple of other women with whom he hadn’t exchanged more than three words in the last five months.

Once again, he looked out at the office but saw no one but Dena looking his way. She smiled and waved, then winked. Could it be Dena?

He considered Natalie, then rejected the idea. Surely she would have given off some clue that her alter ego was SpiceGirl. The thought of Natalie created an odd craving in his gut.

He picked up the receiver and punched in an extension he’d already memorized. A melodious hello greeted him a second later, sending a smile across his face. “Miss Harris,” he said, trying to keep things businesslike, to keep those dreams he’d had last night to himself, where they couldn’t do any damage in the workplace, “could you bring me the file on Wharton? They’re an old client, maybe five, six years back. It might be hard to track down.”

“Certainly,” she said, then disconnected. He popped back in his chair, watched her rise, skirt the gray cubicle wall, then stride across the office toward the file room at the back. Too fast for him to see if she’d found his gift today as interesting as the one before.

He waited, drumming his fingers on his desk. Five minutes passed. Ten.

As he got up and headed in the same direction, he told himself it was only because he was in a hurry for the Wharton information. That it wasn’t because he’d been thinking about the identity of his Secret Santa, and also about Natalie Harris and her stammered shyness, all weekend long. That he hadn’t spent far too much time in a department store, selecting gifts for Natalie, wanting only to see her smile again.

He entered the file room. The door shut behind him, closing him and Natalie into the cramped space that housed hundreds of files in stacked lateral cabinets. At one end, he saw Natalie, knees bent, searching through a drawer.

“Miss Harris?”

She popped up so fast, her knee banged against the drawer, sending the metal winging back into the cabinet with a slam. She spun around, a slight flush filling her face. “Y-y-you startled m-m-me.”

“Sorry.” He moved forward, his gaze sweeping over her slim frame, accentuated by a straight black skirt and a V-neck red sweater decorated with beaded ornaments—which had him thinking about a whole other kind of ornamentation on her chest. “Are you okay?”

“Sh-sh-sure.”

“Let me check your knee, just in case.” Before she could protest, he bent down, placed his palm against the reddened skin on her kneecap and feigned doctor. “Looks good to me.”

Actually, it looked more than good. Her entire leg, from ankle on up, looked good enough to eat. He hadn’t been thinking broken bones or displaced kneecaps when he’d been down there. He’d been thinking about running his hand up her leg, under that pencil-thin skirt and—

“Th-th-thank you.”

“Sure,” Jake said, rising before he did something stupid, like act on his thoughts. “Did you, ah, find the file?”

She nodded. Her green eyes met his, clear, direct and unabashed.

Jake inhaled. What the hell had he wanted that file for anyway? He had no idea. He couldn’t have told the time, the date or the address of the building, not while Natalie Harris’s bright emerald eyes were watching his with such intensity.

Before he could think better of it, Jake stepped forward, the small room closing in, seeming to tighten the circle around them even more. He lifted his hand, brushed back her hair. Dangling from her ears were twin silver snowflakes.

She’d worn them. The thought that Natalie had liked his second gift too sent an odd thrill through Jake’s chest. “Nice earrings,” he said.

“Th-th-thanks.” Her voice may have faltered, but her gaze never did.

They stood there, still as statues, his hand still caught in the tendrils of her hair, aware, so very aware of her every breath, of the scent of peaches and cream. His gaze locked with hers, building the heat between them, arcing the temperature upward two degrees, three, maybe even five. His hand strayed down from her earlobe to her jaw, thumb tracing the outline of her lower lip. Natalie parted her lips, took in a sharp, fast breath.

Want surged within him, crashing past the sensible roadblocks he’d put into place earlier. In an instant, his mouth was on hers, a flame of desire ignited by a knee and a file drawer and a pair of eyes that were more vibrant and deep than the Atlantic. She tasted sweet beneath his lips, like honey melting into tea.

The scent of peaches whispered under his nose, telling Jake that for a Secret Santa, he was currently two and oh.

And what an oh it was, he thought, as he brought her closer to him, the kiss deepening, his tongue sliding into her mouth in invitation and then hers, no longer tied up by words, slipping along his in a dance that had Jake considering the merits of the nearest flat surface.