A Fairytale Christmas. Сьюзен Виггс

come by this?”

      Jack took another slug of beer. “She’s my boss. Otherwise known as the bitch goddess.”

      “Gorgeous, though. She used to go out with one of my 46-Regulars.”

      Jack chuckled, picturing Madeleine Langston accompanied by an empty suit. Then his amusement faded as the empty suit changed into an image of himself. Sheesh. He was losing his mind. He was one sick puppy. He wanted her.

      “Don’t tell me you aren’t smitten with her.” Harry pointed his cane at Jack. “I was young once, too.”

      “She’s a snow queen,” Jack protested. “Cruella De Vil. I’d have better luck with an ice sculpture.”

      “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

      “I don’t even know her. Met her once, maybe twice. And believe me, the earth did not move.”

      “The Dakota,” Harry murmured. “That’s her late father’s annual party.” He shook his head sadly. “It’ll be her first year without him. Her last year for the party. Just think how that must make her feel.”

      Jack nearly gagged on his beer. Harry made him actually think of Madeleine as a person—someone with feelings, someone who could be hurt. He shouldn’t care. But he did.

      “She’s probably dancing holes in the rug,” he said.

      “She’s probably drinking too much and smiling too hard and wishing someone would rescue her.”

      “How would you know?” Jack asked, taking a swallow of beer.

      Harry pointed the tip of his cane at Jack’s chest. “I know. Trust me.”

      Pushy little squirt, Jack thought. Harry just kept staring at him. His scrutiny was so drawn out and intense that Jack’s ears heated. “I guess I don’t look much like your usual clients, right?”

      “I like a challenge. Maybe there’s a prince beneath those rags.” Twirling his cane, Harry walked in a slow circle around Jack, muttering numbers under his breath. “Jack Riley, I’m going to outfit you like you never dreamed. It’ll be like magic. You won’t know yourself.”

      “Er, I’m not really into clothes, Harry.”

      “Come on, haven’t you ever wanted to walk into a roomful of people and knock ’em dead?”

      “Only if they’re Republicans.”

      “Bah. You joke when you could go to this ball and meet the woman of your dreams.”

      Jack couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud.

      Harry pointed the cane again. “Let me do this for you. You saved my life.”

      “Actually, I’m more the down-home, beer-and-TV type, Harry.”

      “Miracles happen, my boy.”

      Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his Yankees jacket. “She’s not my type—”

      “I think you’re the type who likes to have fun. Who can’t stand the thought of a lonely lady at a party where everyone wants something from her.” Harry eyed the card meaningfully. He reached up and removed Jack’s glasses. “Drink your beer, cowboy. We’ve got work to do—and fast.”

      Hell, Jack decided in amused resignation, had no fury like a tailor—er, gentleman clothier—in the throes of gratitude.

       Chapter Three

      Madeleine caught herself squinting at the clock again. Ten-thirty. Two whole minutes had passed since she had last checked. She had smiled a hundred plastic smiles, murmured a hundred lame greetings and taken a hundred sips of her now lukewarm Dom Pérignon. The bubbly was starting to take its toll.

      She was, as always, graceful and cautious when tipsy. Objects took on a rather pleasant warm fuzziness. Watching a model in a dress that appeared to be constructed entirely of soda-can pull tabs, Madeleine repressed a tiny urge to giggle.

      The urge died when Britt Beckworth III started across the room toward her. Like a human Ken doll, he had a square jaw, comb-furrowed hair and an empty head.

      Madeleine sought shelter in the shadow of a stoneware Thorleifsson sculpture in the foyer. What was it about her, she wondered, that made her a virtual magnet for boring, self-seeking men? And catty, competitive women? Couldn’t she, for God’s sake, just have a friend?

      She saw no likely candidate in the room. Derek and Brad from the city room kept looking at her with gazes of hopeful lust—not quite the sentiment she wanted to inspire in men.

      She glanced longingly at the door. Her feet moved toward it without volition. Her thoughts were focused on the small red car made by an Italian manufacturer with an unpronounceable name. It was in the garage, gassed up and gleaming. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much champagne and ditched her contacts for the night, because she really wanted to get in the car and just drive. Fast and far. Until she came to a place where the name Madeleine Langston meant nothing.

      She wanted to do something wild and totally out of character. To lose control, for once in her life. Or even more intriguing, to surrender control to someone else, someone she could trust. Someone who would sweep her off her feet.

      I wish, she thought. I wish … She closed her eyes and tried to will away the yearning, but she couldn’t. She knew such things didn’t happen in real life, but still …

      Her hand closed around the doorknob. She was surprised to feel it turn from without, and she stepped back, marshaling her excuses. Too glad to see you, darling, but I simply must run, she rehearsed silently. We’ll do lunch.…

      The door opened.

      The excuses died in Madeleine’s throat. She stepped back and stared, suddenly certain beyond any doubt that she had died and gone to heaven.

      He stood well over six feet tall, even after he removed his black Stetson to reveal a wealth of glossy dark hair. “Hi, darlin’,” he said easily, handing her a familiar card. “This got me past the doorman. Will it get me past you?”

      “Not if I can help it,” Madeleine murmured before she could stop herself. Her awed gaze took in his beautifully groomed hair. Candlelight created russet highlights in the waves that spilled over the starched collar of his snowy shirt and sleekly cut jacket. The garment made a dark, enticing sculpture of his broad shoulders. He wore it open to reveal Florentine buttons down the minutely pleated front of his shirt and black dress slacks that hugged his narrow waist and hips. The toes of his black cowboy boots were narrow enough to stomp a roach in a corner of the Flatiron Building.