Naughty St. Nick (2 page)

Vixen sighed. The cozy, warmly lit bakery was usually the perfect place for writing. Jenny let her take a table by one of the picture windows that looked out on the pretty, pine-tree lined square, not minding how long Vixen stayed. Once upon a time, that would have been hours per visit. Back in the day when she’d had enthusiasm for her stories, along with witty and heartwarming tales to tell.

She’d been writing children’s Christmas books most of her life. She’d published her first one at the age of twelve, and had put out a book a year after that, with her grandfather’s help. She’d never struggled for material the way she did nowadays. Being around her robust, white-haired and rosy-cheeked granddad had made her imagination run wild with holiday possibilities and adventures. But since he’d passed, she simply couldn’t get her muse to come out and play.

Closing the electronic file and shutting down her laptop, she polished off her iced tea and was just about to call it a day when Jenny slid into the seat opposite her.

“Hey,” she said, flashing a pearly white smile. “You hear about Nick and the boys getting smashed at Yule Tide’s?”

Vixen shook her head. “You know the extensive effort I put into avoiding the grapevine.” No easy feat in such a small community. But it’d pretty much become a necessity for Vixen after high school. Right around the time Nick had opened shop in his parents’ backyard and spent most of his time working on sleighs. When he wasn’t burning down the rumor mill, that was. His reputation for satisfying the ladies preceded him. And there seemed to be an endless bevy of beauties more than willing to keep his bed warm.

Fighting a grimace, Vixen reminded herself that it didn’t matter who Nick slept with or dated. Not that he really dated. Apparently, he liked quick romps and clean breaks.

“Well,” Jenny continued, despite the bunching of Vixen’s shoulders at the mere mention of Nick—and the restless feeling that ensued. “Rudy’s back in town. So he, Kris and Nick did it up right to celebrate. I actually had to drive them all home, they were so lit.”

“That was nice of you.” She eyed her friend speculatively. “But...why are you telling
me
this?”

Jenny gave her a conspiratorial look and said in a low voice, “I’m pretty sure Nick won’t remember—and he’d totally kill me if he knew I spilled to you—but when I helped him to his room, he went on and on about you, Vixen. Saying crazy stuff about how your granddad made him swear he wouldn’t flirt with you, but how he’d give up other women if you’d go on just one date with him. Let him prove how into you he is. And he sounded
so
sincere!” She fanned herself with a hand and added, “Well, it was just about the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.” She seemed to give this some thought, dropped her hand and shrugged. “You know. In that stupid-drunk sort of way.”

“Yeah,” Vixen concurred in a dry tone. “That’s so romantic coming from a guy who’s hammered.” She feigned disinterest, as always. Though her stomach fluttered.

“If you haven’t noticed,” Jenny continued. “And I’m sure you haven’t—because you’re not around much anymore—Nick hasn’t exactly been playing the field these days. If you know what I mean.” She wagged her brows.

“Jenny, that is hugely irrelevant to me.”
Then why do you sound so intrigued
? She cleared her throat and shot for nonchalance. “It’s really none of my business what Nick does.”

“Oh?” Now, Jenny crooked a brow. “Because I haven’t exactly seen
you
on anyone’s arm. Like, ever.”

“I have a lot going on. I don’t have time to be on anyone’s arm. And it certainly would never be Nick’s.”

“Hmm.” Jenny stood. “So I guess I’ve only imagined those sideway glances the two of you steal, when you think no one’s watching.” She winked. Then wandered off to clean tables.

Vixen stared after her a moment, her mind shifting into overdrive.

What on Earth was Jenny talking about? Nick...give up other women? Yeah, right. That’d be the day Christmas cheer returned to North Pole.

Nick was steel and the vast majority of single women within a two-hundred mile radius were magnets that snapped to him. An inevitable pull even Vixen felt. The precise reason she kept to herself. Much,
much
safer that way. She couldn’t afford to take a chance on anyone—
especially
the ultra-hot and all-too-charming Nick Santos.

Vixen feared ending up like her mother—smitten at a young age, deeply involved in a three-month romance, left pregnant and raising a daughter on her own, while Vixen’s father disappeared to parts unknown, never to be heard from again.

Her mother had not outwardly lamented the difficult scenario, but Vixen had caught her, on occasion, losing herself to a sad or dismal moment that had brought tears to her mom’s eyes. And which had broken Vixen’s heart.

Thus, she’d learned to play it safe and sane. Definitely, the smart thing to do.

Yet, that intrigue Jenny had sparked still crawled through her veins, despite Vixen’s best efforts to shake it off.

What the hell did Nick Santos want with
her?

* * *

No need for a double-take. It was all coming back to him now.

Nick knew the dream had been real. The
person
had been real. The conversation had been real.
Very
real.

He’d been given explicit instructions and he knew what he was supposed to do. As crazy as it was to his rational mind, he had no choice but to face the inevitable. The evidence sat in his backyard, awaiting his attention.

Some cocktail he’d had last night. He wondered how Kris and Rudy fared in the light of day. Had they experienced the same wacky effects of the Christmas Bomb? He remembered now that was what Carol Winters, the bartender, had called it.

Yeah, he’d been bombed all right.

Now he was curious to know if he was the only one who’d gotten “the visit.” Was it possible that his friends had had their own run-in with the decidedly unhappy man in the red suit? Or was he the only North Pole resident on the Naughty List?

Still mindful of the painful beats pounding in his head, he made his way to the backyard. The sundial hanging on the outside wall of his workshop read a balmy seventy-eight degrees. In the middle of December. Just one more reason the usually Christmas-y town of North Pole had lost its...well...Christmas-y appeal.

He inspected the sleigh from every angle, shocked disbelief warring with the fact that he really and truly had the ultimate ride sitting on his lawn. Even the Batmobile wasn’t this cool.

So, Santa wanted Nick to pimp his sleigh. How utterly mind-blowing. But then again... For a renowned sleigh designer and mechanic, wasn’t that just about the highest testament to his talent?

Sliding onto the heavily padded, suede-covered, high-backed bench seat, he ran a hand over the burl wood dashboard. The elves had certainly invested some serious time in, and attention to, the intricate and polished woodwork. It’d be a damn shame to hack into this baby in order to make the modern-day modifications requested. At the same time, Nick felt a surge of excitement over the unexpected prospect.

Not that he could put this particular project on his resume—not even the once-believers of Christmas miracles in this town would buy his story—but still...

As he assessed the blank canvas he had to work with, his hand slid over the only knob on the dash. He pulled on it, discovering a glove compartment. He chuckled. Maybe this was where Santa stashed his barf bag after all those cookies and glasses of milk.

Yet, what Nick found inside the compartment was a sealed envelope with his name written across the front, old-fashion calligraphy style.

Another surprise loomed on the horizon?

He retrieved the envelope, tore it open and just about had a second snit-fit.

Son of a gun
.

Had that threesome he’d thought of earlier generated a one-way ticket to hell, or what?
Seemed as though redemption for his naughty misdeeds was what Santa had in mind.
That
was what he expected of Nick?

If this wasn’t some sort of elaborate hoax—and he was almost certain it wasn’t—then he was in for one “Sorry, Charlie” holiday season. Nick didn’t do
mea culpa
well, everyone knew it.

But something told him he was resigned to taking this crazy-ass situation for what it was. An inescapable reality, particularly when Nick pulled out several newspaper articles featuring sleighs in need of repair and ones in various degrees of debilitation that had broken down during traditional holiday rides on starry, starry nights.

Nick frowned at the blatant reminder he’d received a number of calls over the past few years for pro bono work on such sleighs. Mostly from owners who hadn’t purchased his expensive, warranty-backed models, but cheap knockoffs. The manufacturers had long since gone out of business, so the sleigh owners had turned to Nick for help. And he’d turned them down.

Freebies didn’t pay the mortgage, and since sales on custom jobs had taken a drastic dive south, he simply couldn’t afford to give his time away.

On the other hand... Nick’s frown turned to a scowl. He did have a nicely padded savings account he could dip into if need be. Not to mention, he had plenty of time on his hands because of the economic downturn and the significant decrease in orders, so why the hell
hadn’t
he serviced those cheapskate models?

He didn’t have an answer to that question. But it did occur to him that, had he taken on some of the special-needs cases, he might have set himself up for when the economy rebounded. If he’d built a reputation for servicing his competitors’ models, then wouldn’t he be in the position to continue working on said models when the purse strings loosened up a bit and the owners could actually compensate him for his time?

Admittedly, he’d never been a genius on the business end of his career. He was a designer and someone who liked to tinker with things. Though, apparently, the kind of tinkering he’d been doing lately rubbed the Big Guy raw.

And now it was time to atone for his sinful ways?

He collected the note card and news articles and took them into the house. In addition to hopping up the sleigh, in Santa’s hand-written message he’d tasked Nick with fixing the town’s Christmas bling. The lights along the town square had burned out over the years and no one had replaced them.

The municipal budget hadn’t even allowed for the annual tree-lighting ceremony this season. How pathetic was that? A town known worldwide for celebrating Christmas year-round couldn’t even spring for the cookies, hot chocolate and cinnamon sticks that were always served when the residents of North Pole gathered in the square and
oohed
and
ahhed
over the thousands of strands of lights hanging on all the trees and—most importantly—the 20-foot spruce in the center of the square.

Hmm
. Now he was beginning to see things a bit clearer. Santa wanted Nick to bring Christmas back to North Pole. And, if he succeeded, his misbehavior would be exonerated, his record expunged. Not a bad deal, really. Besides, it was high time
this
North Pole got its Christmas groove-on.

Miraculously, all of this helped to alleviate Nick’s headache and he no longer felt compelled to give himself a lobotomy. Rather, he took a shower, dressed, then went out to his workshop.

He had a hellacious project in store for him and there were only twelve days ‘til Christmas. Could he get it all done in time to bring back the woefully missed holiday bang for which North Pole was famous? Or was their dismal predicament simply a sign of the changing times?

And...could Nick really accept the latter a season longer?

Chapter Three

Nick sauntered into the bakery the next evening while Vixen tried, yet again, to conjure a bit of creativity with a draft synopsis.

He looked disheveled, sexily unkempt. More so than usual. His sandy-brown hair stuck out all over his head, as though he’d raked his hands through it numerous times. He wore a black v-necked T-shirt with
Yeah, I Can Fix It
scrawled across his rigid pectoral ledge. The material conformed to his hard muscles, the short sleeves straining against rock-hard biceps, the hem only halfway, haphazardly tucked into Levi’s that sported grease stains and sawdust.

Christ, the man could roll out of bed from a wild weekend and still look sinfully delicious.

Of course, Vixen wouldn’t know this first hand. But given how incredibly gorgeous Naughty Nick was, she considered it an easy call to make.

He was a six-foot-two-inch hunk of a man with chiseled features, mischievous hazel eyes and a strong jawline covered by two days’ worth of stubble that gave him a sexy edge. Raw intensity mixed with irresistible charm and oozed from his every pore. A lethal combination.

He chatted with Jenny for a few minutes as she manned the counter. Then Nick slid his gaze toward the small dining room and jerked his chin in Vixen’s direction, a casual greeting.

She averted her gaze.

For one thing, Nick was a thousand times out of her league. He had a reputation for
knowing
things... Things women like Vixen White didn’t speculate or fantasize about. She’d heard enough dreamy, lustful sighs over Nick to not only last a lifetime, but to convince her he’d be sadly disappointed if he ever got his hands on her.

Not that he ever would.

Where had that thought come from, anyway?

Darn that Jenny Bells for planting seeds in her head, telling her Nick had rambled on about her in his drunken state.

Honestly, Vixen had walked away from more than her fair share of water-cooler gossip about Nick—his talented hands and tongue...his scintillating bedroom talk...the wicked ways he could so easily bring a woman to orgasm—to know she shouldn’t let him occupy a second of her thoughts. The two of them were
not
simpatico. Never had been, never would be.

She kept all those voices, thoughts and the clawing curiosity from her mind. She didn’t need to waste her time thinking about Nick. In fact, she figured it was best to pretend he didn’t even exist.