“Shut up,” she snapped, motioning him into the car.
He slid behind the wheel. “Testy, are we?”
She scurried into the back seat, immediately positioning her gun with a bead on his unprotected skull, the whole time muttering about Jeffrey Dahmer and Freddie Kruger.
“How ’bout lowering the gun, darlin’? I’d hate to get my hair mussed.”
She started to comply.
That’s it, honey. Put my metal undershirt in your cross-hairs.
She changed her mind when she realized his back was pressed against the seat. “Just drive.”
He was easing the Bronco out of the parking lot when he saw a police car, bubblegum light flashing, pull in front of the Piggly Jiggly. The two officers who got out didn’t seem in any big hurry. They probably thought it was a routine shoplifting.
“Where to?” he asked, slanting the woman a glimpse over his shoulder. She was biting her bottom lip in concentration.
Those lips again.
“Just head down the highway. I have to think.”
That would be a refreshing change. “You could probably take off your disguise now,” he advised. He’d like to get a better look at her. All he’d been able to see thus far were high cheekbones, a light sprinkling of freckles over a slightly upturned nose, and big, big brown eyes. She was probably a redhead, if her eyebrows were any indication. He hoped she was ugly, so his wandering lust would come to a halt. Even so, he wondered what kind of body she hid under that Santa costume.
But then he immediately brought himself back to reality. Why the hell should I care? I know my personal life is going down the toilet lately, but this is the pits. I’m having impure thoughts about a nun with PMS?
“Geez, watch the road,” she shrieked as he almost drove onto the berm. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic. “And I’m not taking off my disguise . . . yet.”
Yet? “Why not?” he asked suspiciously.
“Pay attention and drive faster,” she commanded, ignoring his question. When they’d traveled a few miles, she told him to turn right onto a rural road. After a prolonged silence, she added, “So if you’re not a crook, how come you have a gun?”
“I’m a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard!” she exclaimed. “Like Kevin Costner?”
“Yep! Except that women say I favor Brad Pitt.” He cast a sidelong glance at her over his shoulder and jiggled his eyebrows. Women loved it when he did that.
“You are about the same age as Brad Pitt, I suppose.”
“Hey, I’m not that old. Brad Pitt must be close to fifty. I’m only thirty-five. How old are you?” Boy, see if I waste my eyebrow jiggle on you again!
“Thirty, and believe me, I feel pretty darn old sometimes.”
“Thirty? Old? No way! Back to me—” he said.
She made a rude sound of disgust and mimicked, “Back to me . . . ”
“What’s that snort supposed to mean?”
“Men. Everything always comes back to them. And I don’t snort.”
“Are you trying to say I’m vain?”
She snorted again, and it was a snort, no matter what she claimed.
“Just because I’m in my prime?”
“And because you think you look like Brad Pitt. A younger Brad Pitt.”
“You’ve got a real attitude problem, lady. Anyhow, it’s true, I have been told that I resemble Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.”
“More like that county singer Blake Shelton, back when he had a mullet.”
“I do not have a mullet.” Affronted, he gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. Now that he thought about it, he had noticed a few extra hairs in his brush lately. It took iron willpower not to touch his brow, just to check for a receding hairline.
He tilted the rear view mirror so he could see her face and noticed her smiling . . . at his expense. Was he that transparent? Or narcissistic? Probably.
“If you’re really a bodyguard, show me some proof. Do you even have a license for this firearm?” She pointed to his revolver which lay, outside his reach, on the far side of the back seat.
“Yeah, in the glove compartment.” He reached over slowly, making sure he didn’t make any abrupt moves that would surprise her “itchy thumb.” Pushing aside a set of handcuffs and a box of condoms, he picked up his wallet, tossing it back to her. He was hoping she’d drop the weapon when she reached to catch his wallet, but no such luck. She let it fall into her lap while her eyes focused on the glove compartment.
“Oh, God, are you a pervert?”
He grinned.
“A gun and handcuffs and a box of condoms! Boy, oh, boy, this is the worst Christmas Curse ever. The Midnight Ride with Paul the Pervert.”
“Call me crazy, but I can’t for the life of me see the connection between a gun, handcuffs, condoms, and perversion. Do you know many perverts who use condoms?”
“I don’t know any perverts at all.” She rifled through his wallet, checking his driver’s license, muttering, “Erik Thorsson.” Then, she hooted with glee, “I knew it. A Viking! First time I saw you, I thought: Viking. In fact, in my mind, I called you Thor.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, my grandmother came from Norway, but I wouldn’t really call myself a Viking.”
“Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve taken a Viking hostage! Why couldn’t I have picked out an accountant, or a bag boy?”
“It must be The Curse,” he offered.
He was kidding, but she nodded, “Yep! That must be it.” She smiled then, and it was a pretty smile, if he did say so himself, before adding, “Where’s your mighty hammer, Thor?”
“In the tool kit in the trunk.” Maybe if he kept her smiling, she would relax, and he could get himself out of this fix.
But, no, she was back to studying his wallet. He could see from the rear view mirror that she had pulled out his gun registration and his business card for Watchdogs, Inc. “So you really are a bodyguard, huh?”
“Damn straight.”
“For how long?”
“Five years.”
“What’d you do before that? CIA? Ha-ha-ha!” she mocked, leaning forward and picking up his handcuffs, examining them idly, even clipping one on her left wrist.
When he didn’t answer, she gasped. “Oh, great! Don’t tell me I’ve kidnapped a CIA agent.”
“Ex.”
“Golly gee! That makes me feel better.”
Then, before he could blink, she reached over the seat, locked his right wrist to her extended left, and pocketed the key.
“Sister, you are driving with your lights on dim.”
“I am not a nun.”
Cursing silently, he berated himself for his carelessness. Never underestimate the enemy. Never. How could he have forgotten that golden rule of the security business? His biggest mistake was treating this Santa/bimbo/nun like less than the threat she posed.
“So, Erik, do you know any Mafia?”
Her totally off-the-wall question floored him for a moment. “No, do you?”
“Uh-uh. But I need to find some bad guys to rob. Real quick.”
This Mother Teresa clone was not playing with a full deck. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to pull another robbery, and you’d like to target the mob.”
“I did not rob the Piggly Jiggly. I was just getting back my money. That’s not a robbery,” she declared vehemently. “I would never rob honest people, not that I think Piggly Jiggly is all that honest. But I need cash, desperately, and that means I’ve got to find some bad guys.”
He groaned. This was turning into the most bizarre nightmare. “Why do you need the money?”
She refused to answer.
“How much? I’ve got about fifty dollars in my wallet.”
She sniffed indignantly. “That would be robbery.”
He crossed his eyes with frustration. How do I reason with a lunatic?
“Besides, it’s not enough. I need about five hundred dollars. And, take my advice, you don’t
resemble Brad Pitt or Kevin Costner when you cross your eyes. If fact, you look downright homely.”
Don’t react. Be cool. She’s just a dumbbell pretend nun. What does she know about good-looking men? “We could stop at an ATM machine to get more money. My bank will let me take out three hundred dollars at a pop.”
“I told you I’m not going to steal from innocent people. If Julio hadn’t stolen my car and purse with all my credit cards, I wouldn’t have any problems at all. I could have cashed a .check or used my own ATM or Visa cards. Nope, I need bad guys.”
He shouldn’t ask. He really shouldn’t. “Who’s Julio?”
“Some teenage miscreant whose life won’t be worth beans when I get a hold of him.”
“Well, that explains everything. Listen, Ms. Claus, or Sister Claus . . . what’s your name, by the way?”
She hesitated for a long time, and Erik practically heard her devious mind whirring sluggishly.
“Tiffany,” she announced finally. “Tiffany Blake.”
He let out a hoot of laughter. “Sister Tiffany?”
“I told you, I’m not a nun.”
“Okay, Ti-fan-ny. Now that you’ve done your ‘Tiffany does Piggly Jiggly’ routine, what next?”
“Pull over here,” she said abruptly. “That’s where I’m going to pull my next job. Oh, this is perfect. Surely the people who run this place qualify as bad guys.”
Erik swerved into the parking lot with a screech of brakes and gaped at the flashing neon sign in front of a corrugated metal building: “Sam’s Smut Shop.” A handmade posterboard next to the red door listed a menu of “triple X-rated videos, sex toys, peep shows.” Then, “Body piercings and nude massages, by appointment.”
“You’re going to rob a porno palace?”
“Yep,” she said with a bright burst of enthusiasm. “Good idea, huh?”
Oh, Lord! “Do you think the Christmas Curse is contagious?”
Chapter Two
Tiffany does Philadelphia . . .
“Trust me, this is not a good idea,” Erik said, shutting off the car and turning in his seat to face her. “I don’t think you realize the seriousness of what you’re doing. Armed robbery is a felony.”
“Only if I get caught,” she boasted bravely. Prison? Me? The worst thing I’ve ever done is overcharge a customer for an almond creme wedding cake.
“Maybe you could convince a judge that the supermarket owed you thirty-nine ninety-five, if you hadn’t been carrying a loaded gun.”
“I didn’t know it was loaded.”
“You didn’t?”
“Of course not. I’m not an idiot. And stop looking at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Your eyes are crossing again. You’d better be careful, your face might freeze like that. Aunt Clara told us once about—”
“Aaarrrgh! Stop changing the subject.”
“Listen up, you lunkhead. I didn’t know the gun was loaded because Julio told me it was empty.”
“Julio again? Never mind.” He inhaled deeply. “The bottom line is that you haven’t done anything too serious yet, providing I don’t press charges against you for kidnapping, terroristic threats, auto theft, personal assault—”
“Don’t forget ‘loss of lottery ticket,’” she snickered. “And ‘hair and age insult.’”
He let out a whoosh of exasperation. “You . . . can’t . . . go . . . in . . . this . . . store . . . with . . . a . . . loaded . . . gun,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Okay, I’ll unload it.” She turned the gun over to see how that might be done. Every movement she made jerked his arm along with her, like a puppet, because of the handcuff.
“Stop!” he cried. “Geez, don’t ever point a gun in your face.”
“Oops.”
“Oops? Lady, you oughta be restrained for your own good.” Shaking his head incredulously, he then told her, step by step, how to release the remaining bullets.
There were none.
“Damn! You’ve been ordering me around like a fool with an empty weapon.”
“Whew! I don’t know about you, but I’m relieved. I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt anyone.”
“You’re smiling,” he accused. “You knew all along that there were no bullets in the gun, and you let me shiver.”
“Were you shivering? Good.” She beamed with supreme self-satisfaction. Put that in your macho pipe, Thor baby. “Remember when I shot at the Little Debbie cake rack and accidentally hit the Buzzy Burp Bears?”
He was gaping at her as if she’d flipped her lid. “You were aiming for Little Debbie?” he sputtered.
“Yeah. Anyhow, I actually shot twice, and only the first bullet came out. So, voilà, I knew the bullets were all gone.”
His face turned purple, and he made a sort of strangled sound deep in his throat. Finally he choked out, “You are a certifiable dingaling. Don’t you know that just because one bullet is missing in a chamber doesn’t mean the gun is empty? Have you ever heard of Russian roulette?”
“Oh, my God!” She started to shiver herself with aftershocks at what she might have done. “This is the Christmas Curse to beat all Christmas Curses.”
“You are dangerous. To yourself. Society. The world.”
Tell me something I don’t already know. “What’s done is done. You’re okay, I’m okay.” She shuddered suddenly. It was getting cold in the car. “Let’s move on here. Maybe I should have you park on the other side of the building while I go in,” she said, thinking out loud. She wasn’t going to let guilt override her plan.
“You’re not taking me with you?”
“Of course not.”
“Oh, please, please take me with you. Consider it a Christmas present.”
“Why?”
“Because I really want to see you rob a porno shop.”
“Wouldn’t you be considered an accomplice or something?”
“Probably ‘something.’”
“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“A little, but, hell, I’ve never met a robber-nun-Santa who was about to enter a den of iniquity.”
“I am not a nun.”
“Take me with you. Come on. You need someone to protect you from yourself. And you never know what kind of creeps are in these places.”
“Nope, I can’t do it,” she decided. “You’d call for help, or tackle me. How could I trust you?”
“I promise . . . on my mother’s grave.”
“Is your mother dead?” Her face softened with sympathy.
“No,” he confessed sheepishly, “but it’s the most solemn oath I could think of.” He studied her for a long moment. “I’d take odds that your mother is dead, though,” he remarked in a gentle voice.
Jessica cautioned herself once again not to reveal anything to the over-observant lout. And she didn’t want his pity or anyone else’s. “I think I should lock you in the trunk.”
That wiped the pity right off his face. “I don’t have a trunk.”
“Oh. Well, maybe I could duck-tape your mouth shut and your hands and legs together.”
Duck? “Bondage now? Wow! Who’s the pervert here?”
She made a tsking sound of disgust at his innuendo.
“Besides, I don’t have any duct tape handy. Are you going to rob a hardware store, as well as a supermarket, before you rip off the sex shop?”
“I did not rob a supermarket. Will you stop saying that?”
He just smiled infuriatingly. And, my oh my, he really did resemble Brad Pitt when he flashed that dazzling smile. A girl could be tempted, easily, into allowing him to plant those teeth on her neck and inhale about a gallon of blood. Like that Interview with the Vampire movie.
“Why are you licking your lips?” the Brad-Dracula asked, smirking knowingly.
If she had a stake handy, she would have whacked him a good one. She had to admit, though, that even when he smirked, he looked pretty darn good.
“You smell
nice,” he said irrelevantly, leaning closer and sniffing. “Is that Giorgio?”
“No, it’s Eau de Scared Silly.”
He sniffed a couple more times, and the brute looked sexy even when he sniffed. “Oh, I see. Sort of a designer ripoff of Eau de Stupid?”
“Probably,” she agreed.
In the end, Jessica had no choice but to let Erik accompany her after he practically swore a blood oath to behave, at least until they were back in the car. She didn’t trust Erik outside her sight, and the blood oath thing gave her the willies, but . . . well, there was another teensy problem. She’d been digging in both pockets of her Santa suit for the past five minutes and was unable to find the blasted handcuff key.
“You’re on your honor, Erik,” she pointed out. Do Vikings and movie star look-alikes have honor? “I’m accepting your word.”
“Right,” he said, and grasped her free right hand in his handcuffed right one, shaking. She felt the tingle of that warm touch up to her armpits. And other places, too. Oh, boy!
Then Erik jammed his beard and wig on, grinning at her the whole time. Lordy, there ought to be a law against men with killer grins like his.
“Hey, Tiffany, I just thought of something.” He chortled mischievously as she crawled clumsily over the gear shift area between the seats so she could slide out through the driver’s door with him. He didn’t help her at all, watching with delight as her rump hung up in the air for a long moment before she righted herself. “Do you think this counts as a first date for us?”
She mumbled a foul word under her breath in answer as they exited the car and began to walk toward the shop. Snow was beginning to come down steadily, and the temperature had turned decidedly colder.
“Today is December twenty-third,” the cad continued teasing. “You’ll probably want to write it in your diary. First date. Erik. Porno shop.”
This time she said the foul word out loud.
He laughed. “I could even clip off a lock of my hair for you to press between the pages.”
She yanked on his chain then, hard.
Maybe this was his second chance . . .
Erik had no intention of letting psycho Santa babe commit another robbery.