A Fairytale Christmas. Susan Wiggs

      She brought a French-manicured fingernail to her full lower lip and held it there just for a moment in case of the unlikely event that she had not gotten his attention. She eyed the lopsided miniature Christmas tree; clearly it was as alien to her as moon rock.

      If she was waiting for him to stand and remove his cap, she would miss her party tonight.

      “The waste-management finance scandal?” she inquired. Her upper-crust East Coast accent rang with the tones of generations of selective breeding and years at Marymount and Vassar.

      Jack gave her his most crooked, irritating smile and stroked the week-old bristle on his chin. “Why don’t you hurry up and hire a managing editor to ride herd over us wayward boys?”

      “This is my paper, Mr. Riley, and I’ll ‘ride herd’ over whomever I please.”

      “Sounds kinky, Miz Langston,” he muttered. Leaning forward, he jerked a file from the stack under his feet and held it out to her.

      Platinum-and-pearl rings flashed as she opened the file. An empty potato-chip bag drifted to the floor. She made an admirable effort to ignore it. Her gaze snapped over the typed copy.

      She gave the barest of nods, then said, “And the school, er, health controversy?”

      Jack chuckled. “You mean the debate about whether or not we should hand out rubbers to high schoolers?” He savored the delicate coral blush on her cheeks. “Yeah, it’s ready.” Keeping his gaze trained on the boss lady, he tapped on his keyboard. The printer beside his desk ejected a copy of the story.

      Her refined nostrils flared subtly. “Mr. Riley, how has such a charming man managed to live so long without sustaining serious bodily injury?”

      He grinned and toyed with the short, curly ponytail at the nape of his neck. “Guess I’m just quick on my feet, sweetheart.”

      Her look of disdain would have done Katharine Hepburn proud. “I see.” She took the hard copy, still warm from the printer, and added it to her stack.

      To his relief, she turned her ice-dagger gaze on Brad and Derek. “What about you gentlemen? Have you made your deadlines, for a change?”

      They stared at her like a pair of dieters eyeing a box of Godiva chocolates. Idiots, thought Jack. He knew they had a standing bet to see who could get her into bed first. As if either one had a chance. Who would want to, except maybe a polar explorer with a suit that could withstand subzero temperatures?

      Jack Riley, that’s who, he thought in self-disgust. She was everything he should despise in a woman, but perversely, he found her the sexiest thing he had ever seen. He wanted her. Bad. Wanted to melt the ice around her with his own heat.

      “Sure thing, Miss Langston,” Brad said, looking like the soul of efficiency.

      “Yep,” Derek agreed.

      “Excellent.” Madeleine turned to go. Before Jack could get comfortable again, she pivoted back, her three-hundred-dollar shoes clicking on the linoleum floor. “Oh, and gentlemen? Will I see you at the Dakota tonight?”

      “Of course,” Derek and Brad said in unison. Their cashmere sweaters and Top-Siders personified the ersatz newsroom-clone look. They would be swell in their tuxes. Just swell.

      Madeleine Langston’s gaze fixed on Jack. Damn, she was a good-looking woman. What a waste of a great set of j—

      “Well?” she asked, interrupting his thought. “Are you coming?”

      Jack decided it was too easy to take advantage of her choice of words, so he relented. “Naw,” he said, laughing with his eyes at her look of relief. “I’ve got a date with the Urban Animals.”

      She raised a pruned eyebrow. “Urban Animals?”

      “A group of punked-up ice skaters in Central Park.”

      “Oh. You’ll be missed.”

      Jack could contain his laughter no longer. God, she was a pain in the ass. Only their second face-to-face meeting and they were already in hate. He loved to razz her. “You know,” he said, “I might just be able to tear myself away….”

      Her wide, beautiful eyes flashed a message of distress. For an ice goddess, she was a damned poor liar, and her habit of blushing made her seem almost human.

      “Don’t worry, Princess,” he said consolingly, dropping the invitation into the overflowing wastebasket beside his desk. “Prince Charming has other plans.”

       Chapter Two

      Wearing the perfect dress, Madeleine Langston stood in the perfect suite in the Dakota. In the center of the room stood a perfect designer Christmas tree. She heard the perfect strains of the swing band, watched the perfect poise of the guests and nibbled one of the perfect hors d’oeuvres.

      “Madeleine, darling!” William Wornich, the gossip columnist of the Courier, leaned forward to kiss the air beside her cheek. “Wonderful party. It’s perfect, a perfect fairy-tale ball.”

      “Thank you, William. Isn’t it just?”

      Acrid smoke from his cigar made her eyes smart. Damn. She would have to take her contacts out, and she was practically blind without them.

      Unrepentant, Wornich stood back and held her at arm’s length. “And that dress! Too cunning. Wherever did you get it?”

      She gave him a practiced smile. “Darling, you’d never believe it if I told you.” It had been her grandmother’s: a vintage 1940s affair of black silk taffeta set off with cascades of bugle beads at the shoulders and hem. The perfect dancing dress. The problem was, there was no one here with whom she wanted to dance.

      Oh, Daddy. The thought of him came unbidden, as evocative as the spice of wassail or the scent of pine boughs. The lavish apartment in the Dakota had belonged to him, and next week it would be sold. It was strange being back here, strange seeing the people he had known. He himself had planned the party, months in advance, never knowing he wouldn’t be around to play the host.

      There was one advantage to being back at the apartment that was full of achingly sweet memories. Having the party here meant she could leave. She could escape.

      “Madeleine, dear,” Wornich said with a sly wink and a fresh puff of smoke, “I must ask you. I know you’re hosting this in memory of your father, but what’s the real purpose of the party? Husband hunting?”

      She was so inured to the question that she didn’t bother to take offense. After Daddy’s death, everyone had expected her to find a husband who could take over the helm of the Courier. Or a tycoon who would buy her out.

      Madeleine had chosen a completely different route. She had demanded that the board of trustees appoint her publisher. Lately she had worked herself into exhaustion as managing editor. No one could figure out why.

      Madeleine Langston knew why. She had to find a way to define herself, to look in the mirror and see a person who did things. Important things. Useful things. Things that made her human.

      “Don’t be foolish, William,” she said breezily, blinking away smoke. “All the men I meet are either after my money, my status, or they’re scared to death of me.”

      “All of them, darling?”

      “All of them.”

      As William flitted off to alight amongst a group of book critics, Madeleine ducked into the powder room to remove her contacts. The cigar smoke had made them unbearable. No matter. Her nearsightedness would just serve to blur the dullness of the company.

      She stared into the mirror and thought about her exchange with William Wornich.