DETECTIVE MARK SANTORI had investigated a number of
bizarre criminal cases in his six years as a Chicago cop,
so not much surprised him. There'd been, for instance, the
bank robber who'd hidden all his stolen money in his oven.
He'd then gotten drunk, forgotten about the cash, burned
it up and set his building on fire. One thing Mark had
learned from that experience was that the red dye packs
banks stuck into stolen money to mark it so crooks
couldn't use it morphed into a number of interesting
shades in intense heat. And, judging by the way the dye-
spattered perp had been wailing when they'd taken him into
custody, those suckers stung when they exploded in your
face.
That had been a stand-out experience with the stupid
criminals investigated by the anti crime division of the
Chicago P.D., of which he was a member. But it certainly
hadn't been his only one.
There'd been the purse-snatcher who'd had the crap beaten
out of him by a couple of female impersonators leaving the
Hidey Hole Club. The guy who'd tried to rob a liquor store
using a plastic kiddie baseball bat and ended up getting
his head split open by the owner's real one. The stupid
bastard who'd nearly drowned in a barrel full of pickle
juice — he'd hidden in it so he could rob a grocery store
after hours. Not to mention the moron who'd broken into a
home improvement warehouse and had tried to make his
getaway on a stolen riding mower that went about two miles
a day.
But this...well, this was pretty bad even for pathetic,
scum-sucking criminals. A ring of costumed Santas were
stealing anything they could get their hands on during the
so-called season of giving. Not that the holidays had ever
given Mark much more than a whole lot of heartburn. Still,
sticky-fingered Santas lifting the sugarplums right outta
the stockings of homeless kids were pretty goddamn low,
even to a Christmas-hating hard-ass like him.
"I had intended to send a uniform over to that women's
shelter to keep them calm until you got there to take the
statements," his lieutenant said as he prepared to leave
the 10th district police station of Chicago, where he
worked. "But this damn cold weather has caused some power
outages and I needed extra traffic control."
"It's okay," Mark muttered, already wondering how to deal
with a bunch of pissed-off social workers who'd been
cooling their heels for a couple of hours. His notes
showed the initial call from a women's shelter about the
theft of some charity money by a costumed Santa Claus had
come in before lunch.
"You have any leads yet?" Lieutenant Shaker asked.
"Not much. Harriet's gone back to Riley's to meet with
some of the seasonal employees." Riley's was a department
store that had been robbed a few days earlier and Mark's
partner, Harriet Styles, was working that angle a little
more.
If the robbery had occurred at Bloomingdale's, Mark might
have done it. He'd have done just about anything to try to
get a glimpse of the dark-haired seductress he'd kissed in
the women's dressing room last Friday.
Mark hadn't been able to get the woman out of his mind in
the week since they'd shared that hot, sexy encounter.
He'd thought about her, wondered about her, dreamed about
her.
Stumbling into her arms had — as he'd told her — felt like
something out of a movie. Only, on the big screen, he
would've at least found out the woman's name, if not her
phone number, address and favorite sexual position.
But nuh-uh. He had nothing to go on when it came to the
woman's identity. Zero. Zilch.
Much like the Santa crime spree. "You really think this
kids fund ripoff is connected to the others?" Shaker asked.
Mark nodded, his cop intuition still pinging, the way it
had this morning when he'd first heard about the robbery
at the shelter. "Yeah. This thing has escalated beyond
pinching a few pennies from the bell-ringers on the street
corners." Mark shook his head in disgust as he grabbed his
jacket off the back of his chair. "I'll get over there
now, I just had to take care of the Banner deposition this
morning."
Shaker, a graying fifty year old, raised a questioning
brow. Mark knew what his boss was asking. "I nailed it.
We're airtight on that case." He was set to testify in the
trial of a slimy local businessman who'd been selling
stolen goods rather than imported ones. Which was why he
was late going out to the women and children's shelter to
get statements about the theft of the shelter's holiday
fund.
Disgusting. As if the holidays weren't bad enough, now
even needy kids were being ripped off.
Frankly, as far as Mark was concerned, the holiday season
was the absolute worst time of year to be on the job.
Every December, crime went way up as desperate people with
no money tried to do their gift shopping without visiting
the cash register. Beat cops were exhausted from working
second jobs as security guards for the high-end stores on
Michigan Avenue. City officials were jumping up and down
screaming about overtime pay even as they hosted pricy
parties for the rich and spoiled. And lots of lonely
people took swan dives off the balconies of their
penthouses rather than toast in the New Year with only
Pansy the poodle for company.
Christmas was second only to Valentine's Day in terms of
holidays exploited by retailers to make more and more
money. At least Valentine's Day turned people into sappy
flower-buying Romeos for only a couple of days. The
Christmas season now seemed to start in September right
after the stores got rid of all the back-to-school junk.
And it lasted until the final blue and orange polka-dotted
tie had been returned in mid-January.
Yep, the holidays were always trouble, and this year, with
the jelly-bellied burglars, things were a lot worse.
Heading to his unmarked car as he zipped his leather
jacket against the bone-chilling December wind — a
reminder that winter had come early this year — he
consoled himself with the knowledge that criminals always
eventually betrayed their stupidity. Hopefully this latest
crime, which had targeted the most helpless of victims,
would give him just the information he needed to nail the
scumbags.
And hopefully the shelter workers weren't going to lynch
him for taking three hours to show up at the crime scene.
GETTING RIPPED OFF by Santa Claus was one lousy way to
start the month of December.
As an avowed Christmas hater, Noelle Bradenton had already
begun to prepare herself for the general cheer, goodwill
and onslaught of commercials for CDs containing a thousand
of the most popular holiday songs ever recorded. She'd
been happily ignoring the garland and decorations going up
in the front office of the women and children's shelter
where she worked.
Good-meaning invitations from friends had been ever so
politely rejected. Secret Santa plans had been ever so
nicely refused. She had actually been walking around with
a smile on her face, rather than her usual dismay that the
most god-awful time of the year had rolled around again.
Up until this morning, when she'd realized the costumed
Santa who'd come in to extend some holiday cheer to the
scared kids in the shelter had robbed them, she'd really
been looking forward to December 25. Because for the first
time in her life, Noelle was going to spend the holiday
season doing what she wanted to do.
While working her heart out to ensure a good holiday for
the mothers and kids currently housed here — as well as
some former tenants the shelter had helped get started in
their new lives — she'd been secretly planning her own
dream holiday, her own perfect Christmas. It had included
no snow. No Santa. No frustrated shoppers elbowing their
way down the crowded sidewalks on the miracle mile. No
enraged husbands stalking their terrified wives and lonely
children.
Just the sun. Sand. Rum laden drinks that contained
neither egg nor nog. And if all went as planned, a hunky
cabana boy or bleach-blonde surfer dude whose name she
wouldn't even know, but whose body would become very
familiar.
Oh, Lord, please let there be a hunky cabana boy or sun-
kissed surfer. Because ever since last Friday, when she'd
been in the arms of a gorgeous stranger in a
Bloomingdale's dressing room, Noelle had been walking
around in a constant state of arousal.
She'd been thinking about him — the man who'd kissed her,
then disappeared without a word — during every waking hour
since that day. And she'd dreamed about him — fanta-sized
about him — every single night.
Noelle needed sex. Needed to touch and be touched, to take
and be taken. It had been almost a year since her
engagement had fallen apart. A year since she'd had a man
inside her. And, being honest about her ex, several years
since she'd had really good sex, with a great man inside
her. Or maybe that had just been in her dreams, too.
But now she was finished dreaming. She wanted physical
pleasure and fulfillment. Wanted it badly.
So, fabulous, uncomplicated sex with a hot-as-sin man
she'd never have to see again was what she'd decided to
give herself for Christmas. The encounter with the
stranger last Friday had sparked the idea. His kiss — and
her response — had made her realize she didn't have to be
celibate just because she wouldn't trust a man to shovel
her sidewalk these days.
Erotic sex with a nameless, anonymous stranger had been
the perfect solution. There'd be no repercussions. No
heartbreak. No taking chances and leaving herself open for
any soul-crushing betrayals. Short-term and
uncommitted...that was about all her tattered heart would
let her go for at this point in her life.
Her vacation had sounded like the ideal opportunity for
blameless, unforgettable sex. She'd have been far away, in
a steamy country that was probably full of men dying to
make a lonely female traveler's fantasies come true. In a
place as exotic and beautiful as St. Lucia — the Caribbean
island she was supposed to fly off to on Christmas night —
she'd felt certain she'd meet someone who could make her
feel like a sexual, sensual woman again. Noelle hadn't
even been sure that woman existed anymore. Until a
stranger had proved she did a week ago in a small, public
dressing room.
Maybe a black-haired surfer guy. Yes. Dark hair and green
eyes. Sun, sand and beach. Heat. Passion. Desire.
Or...not. "So long, St. Lucia," she murmured as reality
sunk back in. And so long, sexy stranger.
Reality really sucked sometimes, because her vacation was
suddenly looking more and more unlikely. Now that a fat
pig in a red suit had absconded with all the Give A Kid A
Christmas money the shelter had collected throughout the
year, she didn't think any vacation was in her immediate
future. Or food or rent money, for that matter. Because
she was not going to let this robbery ruin one of the most
important events this place offered, even if she had to
pay for some of it herself.
The Give A Kid A Christmas program wasn't simply about
buying some Barbie dolls and board games for needy kids.
It was more about giving a true Christmas experience to
children — and their moms — who might never have had one.
It offered them a glimpse of the normal, happy family
lives they could look forward to at the end of their long
struggle for independence. Not fighting, abuse, addiction
and rage, like many of them had experienced.
From the tree and decorations, to the toys, to the cookies
to the pretty velvet Christmas dresses and the big turkey
dinner, the program covered it all. And they didn't merely
help the women and children currently living here, in the
shelter, but also out in the community. A lot of them.
She couldn't let it be taken away from them. She wouldn't
let it be.
"We'll replace as much as we can with a plea for donations
from nearby businesses," she said to Casey Miller, who
worked with her at the shelter, and who'd been with Noelle
when she'd discovered they'd been robbed. Swallowing hard,
she added, "As for the rest, well, I have some money I've
been saving. I can pitch in."
"Oh, honey, tell me you're not giving up your dream
vacation," Casey said, looking distraught. The skinny, red-
haired caseworker knew how Noelle had been planning to
spend her holiday season. "Isn't it all paid for already?
Won't you lose your money?"
"I can pay a penalty and use the airline ticket another
time." The thought cheered her up. The next one made her
frown. "I will lose the hotel deposit, but thankfully they
only required half up front. With what I'd saved to pay
the rest, plus the meal and spending money I've been
hoarding, I could make a dent in what we lost today." She
didn't know who she was trying harder to convince —
herself or Casey. Clearing her throat and nodding, she
insisted, "I'd just be postponing my vacation. I'll go in
the spring."
"In the spring, Chicago won't be full of singing elves
whose mouths you long to tape shut, jingle bells you want
to fling into the river and jolly Santas you'd like to run
over with a lawnmower."
Casey was one of the few people who knew how Noelle really
felt about Christmas. Nobody else at work was in on that
secret, because the last thing she wanted was to make the
holiday less special for the kids and their moms who
already had so little happiness in their lives.
"A semi truck would be better for one certain Santa,"
Noelle said, still shaking her head in disgust at this
morning's events. "How on earth did Alice let herself get
suckered into letting that guy use the phone in the
office — and leaving him alone to do it — when she knew
the money was hidden there in the bottom of the desk
drawer? And how did he find it so fast? It's almost like
he knew we'd cashed out the account so we could go do the
big shopping trip at that discount warehouse this weekend."