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“This isn’t a leprechaun’s outfit, you moron. I’m supposed to be one of Santa’s Little Helpers,” she said, not even attempting to hold back the condescension this time.
The stupid man had scared the life out of her, not to mention demolished six hours of work in a single second by knocking over the Festive Fun Palace of Christmas Dolls, and he kept checking out her boobs. It was too much.
“Oh yeah?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, making it very clear he was having an absolute ball at her expense.
“When did Santa start hiring lap dancers?”
That did it.
Kate felt the tips of her ears ignite as her temper exploded. “You son of a…” She shoved him hard in the chest. He toppled off her as a deep rumbling laugh choked out.
She jumped up, and he rolled onto his knees, still bent over and laughing.
“That’s disgusting,” she said, so furious she wanted to throttle him.
“Now, Katherine.” He got slowly to his feet, and she had an uncomfortable realization of how tall he was as he towered over her. “Don’t get in a snit. It wasn’t that bad.” A couple more laughs choked out as his eyes, alight with amusement, lifted to her face.
She stood stiffly, desperately self-conscious not only about the preposterous outfit, but also about his use of her given name and the disarming smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth.
He lifted a finger and brushed it down her cheek. “You look real cute when you’re disgusted.”
She jerked away from the live-wire touch, mortified by the husky timbre of his voice and the way it shimmered over her nerve endings.
He coughed. And finally stopped laughing. Then raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry I jumped you. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here on Christmas Day—and I’m still edgy after two months in country.”
In country? What country was he talking about?
He held out one large hand. “Let’s shake on it and forget it ever happened.”
She glanced down at his peace offering, and although she’d rather not have to touch him again, she decided it would probably be best not to make a scene. The sooner she got away from this man, the better.
Keeping one hand firmly holding the bodice of the dress together, she reached out with the other.
Long fingers wrapped around her hand, rough calluses rubbing against her palm, and the shimmer of awareness arrowed down.
She yanked her hand back, deciding the calluses probably came from all the weight lifting he obviously did in the gym. “Charles said you were here to buy a last-minute Christmas gift. Did you find what you wanted?” she inquired with chilly politeness, in the vain hope that his gaze would stop flicking to her cleavage.
He looked over his shoulder at the wreckage of the Festive Fun Palace. “Not exactly.”
“What were you after?” Maybe if she solved his gift-purchasing problem he’d leave. “Perhaps I can help you?”
“I doubt it,” he said wearily, all amusement gone now as he raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to find the perfect Christmas doll.”
It was only then that she noticed the bruised smudges under his eyes and the thin lines of exhaustion around those sensual lips.
“Who’s it for?” she asked as a wave of sympathy crested, but was quickly quashed. The flight home from the resort had probably been a red-eye.
He sent her a questioning look, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced by her offer of help, then said evasively: “A very special lady.”
“You date women who like dolls?” she said, failing to control the sneer as it occurred to her the bimbos he dated had probably been dolls in a former life.
His brows lifted fractionally, then fused into a sharp frown, and the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Is there a problem with that?”
“No,” she said, getting the sneer under control, just. Far be it from her to insult him—or his reincarnated bimbos. “Not at all, we have a lot of adult customers who like to collect,” she added in
her best client-friendly voice as something pinched under her breastbone that felt suspiciously like envy.
