Naughty or Nice (2 page)

Besides, it wasn’t like she would break or take anything. She would just enter and rearrange everything. No harm done, or so her inebriated brain reasoned irrationally. Which was why she normally didn’t drink.

Samantha ignored the voice in her head that said this was wrong as she rifled through her purse until ...
Aha
! There it was. She pulled out a credit card, set her purse on the sidewalk, and started jimmying the lock like she’d done back in her college days when her roommate used to lock herself out of their apartment several times a week. Samantha had become pretty good at breaking in, not that she used those skills anymore. But if she was going to deck Mark’s balls--er, halls--this was t
he only way she could think of.

Tires squealed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder as the cabby tore off down the street, hands flailing out the window, and a string of curses ringing through the air like jingle bells.
Chicken
, she thought, then shrugged and got back to work. Squinting to focus her blurry eyes, she stuck her tongue between her teeth as she worked.

Yes! The door swung open, and a gust of frigid air followed her as she danced inside singing, “She’s making a fist, I mean, list. Checking it twa-twa-twice. La la la la who’s naughty or nice. Samantha Dar
ling has come to your toooown.”

Flicking on the lights, she dropped her purse and took off her coat. “You told me that y
ou lu-lu-loved me. You said ...what was it ...
oh, yeah, that I wa
s great. You made me...
how’d it go
...
oh, right, believe in forever. When, um, la la la you were a fake.”

She pulled the pins from her hair and shook out her curls. “Oh, you better watch o-u-t, man. That’s right, I hope that you cry. I so wanna see you pow-out. La la telling you why. Cuz you deserve everything that’s gonna happen, you jeeeeerk!” She fell into a fit of gi
ggles, thinking,
Damn I’m good
.

“A
l
righty, then.” She headed to the window display to survey the possibilities. An enormous artificial Christmas tree with expensive trimmings and loads of presents sat in the corner by a very real looking wood fireplace. She noticed a switch right above the mantel on the wall. When she flicked it on, to her delight, the gas fire lit, its warm glow reflecting off the silver and gold shimmery material of the stockings.

Samantha grudgingly admitted Mark had better taste than she remembered. Classy and expensive, not tacky as she had hoped, but he had no idea how to organize it all. Impressive but commercialized, cluttered and mismatched. He’d even added an authentic looking Santa who sat on a chair in the other corner.

Samantha hadn’t exactly planned ahead, though, so she would have to improvise with what she had on her. She could do this. They paid her big bucks to come up with creative ideas all the time. Of course, never under the influence of the All Powerful Peppermintini, but how hard could it be?

She spotted Mrs. Claus sitting on a chair beside Santa. “Bet you’ve been naughty a time or two just so Santa would spank you.” Samantha giggled, shaking her finger at Mrs. C. A bunch of little elves surrounded her, hard at work, and an idea began to form. She sang one more time for good measure, “Samantha Darlin
g has come to your tooooooown.”

Mark Monroe was going to wish he’d never met her by the time she got through with him. She couldn’t wait for him to see her handiwork. Who knew naughty could be so much fun?

**
*

Ugh! Being naughty was highly overrated, Samantha thought as she struggled to open her eyes, the blinding light making her killer headache worse. Peppermintinis might taste yummy going down, but they left a skunky taste in your mouth the next morning and sure packed a hell of a hangover punch.

She held on tighter to the man her arms were wound around, his facial hair tickling her cheek as she tried to go back to sleep. Wait a minute. Tall, Dark and Stuffy didn’t have a beard. She had a sinking sensation this wasn’t her bed, and she was no longer dreaming. Running her hands over what felt like genuine velvet, she thought,
Oh, boy
. This wasn’t a man, either. He was
too hard and not in a good way.

Samantha blinked her eyes open and lifted her pounding head to look straight into Santa’s eyes. She had crawled into his padded wooden lap, and now her stiff joints and sore butt were paying the price. Only she wasn’t wearing her clothes. She glanced down at her outfit and chewed her bottom lip. Oh, no. She was wearing Mrs. C’s outfit. Then that meant
...

Afraid to look but having no choice, Samantha glanced to the side and winced. Yup, just as she’d feared. Mrs. C wore Samantha’s clothes but not her suit. That would have been too easy. Nope, she’d dressed her up good in her underwear: black lace bra, matching thong, and garters to boot, as Mrs. C fixed her blank stare on Samantha while holding her martini glass in her hand like a well-earned trophy. Only Mrs. C was several sizes bigger than Samantha, so Samantha’s thong looked like string as it cu
t deeply into Mrs. C’s padding.

“Sorry, Mrs. C,” Samantha whispered, holding her head so it wouldn’t fall off. She glanced at the elves, who were hard at work, and repeated, “Lord, am I sooo sorry.” Samantha gulped, staring at her handiwork in horror. She’d undressed each one as well, making them look like a page right out of a twisted fairy tale: “Mrs. C a
nd the seven castrated freaks.”

Mental note: elfish manikins were not anatomically correct.

Samantha had positioned them in precarious poses, resembling The Village People gone wild. If they could sing, she somehow doubted they’d be singing, “Y.M.C.A. It’s fun to go to the Y.M.C.A-hay.” She had a suspicious feeling it would sound more like, “Squeeze, press and rub. We love our job as we squeeze, press and ru-hub.” Their jolly little faces grinned wide as they massaged parts of Mrs. C no elf s
hould
ever
be allowed to touch.

Good Lord, what
the hell had she been thinking?

Samantha groaned, wanting to crawl into a corner and die. She remembered sitting on Santa’s lap, pretending he was Mark, and lecturing him about what a no good hussy Mrs. C was. Damn peppermint poison, she thought when another thing struck her. If Mrs. C was wearing Samant
ha’s underwear, then that meant
...
my God, Samantha must be buck naked beneath all that fur, apparently, giving jolly ‘ole St. Nick--who looked
nothing
like hot St. Nicky--a lap dance h
e wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

“Merry Christmas, Big Guy,” she muttered and could have sworn his eyes twinkled. Her cheeks flooded with heat and they undoubtedly turned as rosy as his. She must have passed out before she had a chance to make her getaway last night, because the su
n shined bright in the sky now.

Mark would probably be here any moment to open the shop, and she did not want to be caught in this predicament when it happened. Samantha struggled not to throw up and held her throbbing head as she managed to climb off Santa’s lap without falling. When the room stopped spinning, she slowly turned around to peek out the window then gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth and blinking as though her eyelids were a string of flashing
Christmas lights stuck on high.

Oh! My! God!

She was
such
a moron. Apparently, dressing up Mrs. C like a hooker, the elves like the Chippendales, and giving Santa a lap dance hadn’t been enough while under the spell of the All Powerful Peppermintini. She’d strung a line of those damn festive Christmas condoms from one side to the other--no need for lights, those suckers glowed in the dark--and wrote ‘Merry Dickmas’ in bright red lipstick across the storefront window.

She wasn’t only going to jail; she was going to hell for sure. She shaded her eyes, blinking against the pain as she studied the shoppers outside the window. Shocked wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the slack jaws, gaping pie holes, and bugged-out eyes staring back at her.

“Merry Christmas,” Samantha said, as she clutched Mrs. C’s coat tighter, smiled weakly, and waved to all of ‘whatever-flipping-town’ she was in. Bet they hadn’t expected to see this lovely little display today, or anytime, for that matter.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph what was Mr. Snow thinking?” a middle-aged man with a top hat said as he made the sign of the cross and patted his gasping wife.

“Well, he won’t get my vote with a display like that.” A woman with a pointy nose stuck way up in the air tsked as she covered her daughter’s eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. Mrs. Claus has never looked so good if you ask me,” said a leering old coot with tobacco stained teeth. He wagged his brows and winked at Samantha.

Ewww!
she thought and wondered whom this Mr. Snow character was and what he could possibly have to do with Mark’s shop. Feeling like an idiot, she stood there with her bed-head hair and baggy Christmas digs, no doubt looking like the star of a really bad porn flick called, “Samantha Does Stowe’s Boutiques.” If
only she hadn’t fallen asleep.

She gnawed at her bottom lip and strove to find a way out of this mess, when a new spectator walked up to peek in the window. Samantha
gasped. Tall, Dark and Stuffy?
What on earth was he doing here?

Samantha couldn’t believe the same man from the bar last night, whom she’d made an ass of herself in front of, was standing outside of Mark’s store this morning. Of all the bizarre coincidences, she thought. His eyes landed on her and sprang wide, then they narrowed in a dangerous scary way as they roame
d around the storefront window.

Great. He truly must think she was certifiable.

“Interesting display, Mr. Snow,” another shopper said.

He
was Mr. Snow? This just kept getting better and better.

In the full light of day, he looked even more stunning than he had the night before and still oddly familiar. He had black slicked back
hair, black eyes, black clothes
...
and a black scowl to match. Not a pretty boy Ken doll attractive, but a brooding, macho, powerful kind of attractive with hard chiseled features more like Ken’s evil brother, the devil himself.

Samantha found it hard
to breathe just looking at him.

He stepped aside as a petite, silver-haired pit-bull of a woman pulled out a set of keys and charged forwar
d to slide the key in a lock
...
the same lock Samantha had jimmied the night before. Samantha frowned. Just peachy. He must work for Mark, along with Ms. Pit. Mr. Snow followed Ms. Pit inside, followed by half the town.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” Samantha managed to say to Ms. Pit, while taking a wobbly step back from Stuffy’s intimidating figure. Samantha was sure his after shave would normally smell lovely, but this morning it just made her stomach roll. She strangled Mrs. C’s duds as she clutched them tighter to keep him from seeing her unmentionables. Then she bit back a nervous snort. Like her unmentionables weren’t already exposed to the entire world as they covered Mrs. C’s pr
ivate parts instead of her own.

“Ya think,” Ms. Pit roared surprisingly loud for such a small woman, while Stuffy just stood there with a hard edge to his features and a curious look on his face.

Samantha grabbed her head and winced. “Not so loud, please.”

A light dawned in the small dynamo’s beady eyes. “Not feeling so clever this morning, are we?” she asked in an even louder voice. “Serves you right,” she added, flicking on all the bright lights she could find and opening the blinds fully.

Evil, evil woman! Samantha shook off a wave of nausea. “Where’s Mark?” she ground out and looked past them both, searching the growing crowd. “And where’s the hussy?”

Ms. Pit’s gaze followed hers. “
What are you blubbering about?”

“You know. Your bosses. The owners. Where are they? Because if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go before they get here.” Samantha stepped toward the door.

Tall, Dark and Stuffy, who looked far scarier than anything else right now, blocked her path and spoke for the first time. The deep timber of his voice sent chills throughout Samantha’s body that had nothing to do with the weather. “I’ll bet you would, but you aren’t going anywhere except jail.”

“J-Jail,” she squeaked, her eyes colliding with his, and she tried not to shiver. What say did he have? He was just an employee. If anyone had any pull at all, it would be Ms. Pitt, and Samantha had a feeling the woman didn’t like her one bit. Ignoring Scary, she tried to appeal to th
e feminine side of the pit-bull
...
if there was one. “If you know the owner, then you should understand. He’s a real as
s.”

Ms. Pit’s face turned the color of beets, and she puffed out her chest, looking ready to explode. Before she could answer, those dark intense eyes of Scary’s formed eerie slits yet still managed to look mesmerizing. “You don’t say.” He crossed his arms over his sculpted chest. “It just so happens I do know the owner. Quite well, in fact.”

“Oh. Sounds like you like the guy.” Probably because he
was
a guy, and well, Ms. Pitt had obviously embraced her “inner” guy. Samantha’s heart plummeted right down to her stilettos. “Guess there’s no chance you’d take my side then, huh.” She wrung her hands in Mrs. C’s threads.