Not Just For Christmas. Debbie Macomber

it this time.”

      Claire picked up the beret, hearing the screen door squeak once again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mitch set another crate on the ground. Determined to show him the same amount of indifference he was showing her, she tossed the beret high into the air. Only her throw was a little off and she had to walk backward as it fluttered toward the ground. She skidded on a crushed tin can, lost her balance, and landed against something hard and warm.

      Mitch.

      He braced his large hands on her hips to steady her. “You okay?”

      She gulped in a deep breath, well aware of his long fingers spanning her waist. Her back was against his bare chest and she inhaled a musky aroma that was all male. “I’m fine.”

      He let go of her, then bent down to pick up the beret. “Here you go, Mary.”

      “Claire,” she breathed through dry lips.

      “Whatever.”

      2

      AN HOUR LATER, CLAIRE forced both the photo shoot and Mitch Malone completely out of her mind. Excitement fluttered in her chest as she climbed out of a taxi at Central Park West, then waited while the driver retrieved her bags from the trunk. The Willoughby towered in front of her, a high-rise apartment building with art deco trim on the facade.

      Her godmother, Petra Gerard, lived here and Claire couldn’t wait to see her again. But first she had to get past the young man who sat sprawled on a lawn chair inside the glass-enclosed foyer of the building. He wore baggy blue polka dot swimming trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and green-tinted zinc oxide on his narrow aquiline nose.

      As she dragged her suitcases through the heavy plate glass door, he didn’t even look up. Just sat there humming to the music emanating from the boom box, his skinny feet soaking in a blue plastic wading pool.

      She paused to catch her breath as the Beach Boys began singing about “California Girls.”

      “If you don’t give me the password,” the man said, his head propped on the lawn chair with a rolled-up orange beach towel. “I will be forced to stop you with the Venetian death grip.”

      “And you are?” Her gaze fell on his pale, hairless chest. Then she noticed the tattoo on his upper left bicep. It looked like a small schnauzer.

      “I’m Franco Rossi. Aspiring actor, black belt in karate and judo, and temporary doorman.” He slid his sunglasses up on top of his head, then followed her gaze to his arm. “It’s Toto. The tattoo, not the password. I happen to be a big fan of The Wizard Of Oz.”

      “Oh,” she said, wondering if he was mentally stable.

      He smiled, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

      “I’m from Indiana.”

      “Same difference.”

      Claire set both her suitcases on the polished marble floor. “I’m here to see Petra Gerard. She’s expecting me.”

      “Ah, Petra.” Franco smiled. “She’s one of my favorite tenants. A little absentminded, though.”

      That was putting it mildly. Petra always blamed her total inattention to detail on her muse. A former art professor at Penleigh, Claire’s godmother had been one of Marcus Dellafield’s best friends and a frequent visitor to their home. Bubbly and a little eccentric, Petra had more energy than many women half her age. She’d retired from teaching at sixty and moved to Manhattan, embarking on a very lucrative second career as a sculptress.

      “Could you please let her know I’m here. My name is Claire Dellafield.”

      “Love to, Claire,” Franco purred, “if you can front me the airfare to Bermuda. Petra left a week ago and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.”

      Claire’s heart sunk to her toes. “Bermuda?”

      He swished his toes in the pool water. “She’s competing in the senior division of the Ms. Universe fitness pageant. Knowing Petra, she’ll probably come home with the title.”

      Claire shook her head. “Petra can’t be in Bermuda. She’s supposed to introduce me to a Mr. McLain. I’m subletting his apartment for the summer.”

      He sighed. “You and everyone else in this city. There’s already a crowd up there waiting for the auction.”

      “Auction?”

      “Petra should have filled you in on all the juicy details, but she probably believed Tavish when he promised not to do it anymore.” Franco leaned forward and lowered his voice to a furtive whisper, even though they were alone in the foyer. “Tavish McLain auctions off his place every summer. Last year a blond ballerina and a Madonna clone battled over it. The ballerina even offered an incentive package, if you know what I mean. Tavish has a thing for blondes, so he enjoyed every minute of it.”

      Claire leaned against the plate glass door, vaguely aware that the faint odor of the Dumpster still clung to her clothes. With Petra out of the country, she didn’t have anywhere else to go and certainly not enough money to spend the summer in a New York City hotel room. She wondered if camping in Central Park would be any more dangerous than pitching a tent on the African savannah.

      Franco waved her away. “You’re blocking my sun. I’m trying to get a tan here.”

      Then he groaned as another woman walked purposefully toward the building. “Here comes another one. How am I supposed to relax with people streaming in and out of here all day?”

      Claire glanced at the woman who entered the foyer. She looked nice. And blond. Just McLain’s type—unless Claire got to him first. She turned back to Franco. “I need to see Tavish McLain. Immediately.”

      “Password!”

      “Can you give me a hint?”

      “I’m waaaaaiiiiting,” Franco crooned.

      “Toto,” the blonde ventured, her gaze on Franco’s arm.

      “Close but no cigar.” Then he burst into the opening stanza of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” before collecting himself. “Are you here for the apartment?”

      “Yes,” they replied simultaneously.

      “This is McLain’s day of glory,” Franco declared. “The day he lives the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year dreaming of. He is surrounded by women.”

      “We’d like to join them,” the blonde said.

      Franco leaned closer to them and whispered, “You might try naming the actor who played the cowardly lion.”

      Claire exchanged glances with the blonde, then they both blurted, “Bert Lahr.”

      “Excellent,” Franco replied with a grin.

      “Bert Lahr is the password, then?” the blonde asked.

      “No. But I like the fact that you’re both Wizard of Oz movie buffs, so you may pass.”

      Claire turned back to Franco as the blonde pressed the elevator button. “Now how about giving me a hint to win over McLain?”

      Franco shrugged. “Like I said, he’s into blondes. But maybe you could show a little cleavage, wiggle your hips and see what happens.”

      Claire glanced down at her tank top. Mitch Malone hadn’t seemed too impressed with her cleavage. Not that she should care about the opinion of a total stranger. A street-smart tough who probably treated women like toys. Definitely not her type.

      Not by a long shot.

      A loud ding announced the elevator’s arrival, breaking her reverie. She grabbed her suitcases and headed for the elevator, the blonde helping her heave the biggest one inside.

      “Thanks,” Claire said,