A Fairytale Christmas (2 page)

There was one advantage to being back at the apartment that was full of achingly sweet memories. Having the party here meant she could leave. She could escape.

“Madeleine, dear,” Wornich said with a sly wink and a fresh puff of smoke, “I must ask you. I know you’re hosting this in memory of your father, but what’s the real purpose of the party? Husband hunting?”

She was so inured to the question that she didn’t bother to take offense. After Daddy’s death, everyone had expected her to find a husband who could take over the helm of the
Courier
. Or a tycoon who would buy her out.

Madeleine had chosen a completely different route. She had demanded that the board of trustees appoint her publisher. Lately she had worked herself into exhaustion as managing editor. No one could figure out why.

Madeleine Langston knew why. She had to find a way to define herself, to look in the mirror and see a person who did things. Important things. Useful things. Things that made her human.

“Don’t be foolish, William,” she said breezily, blinking away smoke. “All the men I meet are either after my money, my status, or they’re scared to death of me.”

“All of them, darling?”

“All of them.”

As William flitted off to alight amongst a group of
book critics, Madeleine ducked into the powder room to remove her contacts. The cigar smoke had made them unbearable. No matter. Her nearsightedness would just serve to blur the dullness of the company.

She stared into the mirror and thought about her exchange with William Wornich.

“All of them, darling?”

“All of them.”

She finally admitted to herself that there was one exception—Jack Riley.

The thought of him brought a shiver of disgust to Madeleine. Although she barely knew him, she was already certain that Jack Riley was everything she detested in a man. He was crude, unkempt, irreverent and arrogant.

He was also the most talented and dependable writer on her staff.

She knew she shouldn’t let him irritate her, but he had an annoying way of getting under her skin. That horrible half-grown beard and ponytail, those sly taunts designed to make her feel like a fraud, that cocky, go-to-hell attitude. He had the air of a man who bit off life in great, sloppy chunks and had no patience with those who were cautious and timid.

Like her.

Her visit to the city room earlier had been a disaster. She had gone down to mingle with the writers, perhaps become one of the gang. What a joke, thinking she could mingle. She came off like a cold fish every time. None of them seemed to realize she was simply shy. Least of all the insufferable Mr. Riley, who was anything
but
shy. He didn’t even know her. Had only seen her on one other occasion. So why did he seem to have it in for her?

Trying to dismiss thoughts of him, she removed her contact lenses and put them in her beaded evening bag,
then leaned forward to peer at her slightly hazy image in the pink-tinted mirror. She should have fixed her lipstick before taking out the lenses.

Exhaling a sigh, she decided the world would have to face Madeleine Langston without fresh lipstick. She stepped from the powder room and into the white-lightning glare of a camera flash. Her smile was automatic as someone snapped her picture for the society pages; her conversation was fluent as she discussed her father’s legacy in publishing. None of the elegant company would ever guess how utterly awkward she felt.

Or how unbearably lonely. It was nearly Christmas, and she would be spending the holiday with her cat. It was too pathetic.

Once again, her errant thoughts wandered to Jack Riley. He wasn’t bored. At this moment, he was probably dressed in something scandalously tight, made of black leather, and careening on ice skates around the pond in Central Park.

* * *

Bored, that’s what he was.

Jack glared at the files on his desk. Derek and Brad owed him big this time. He had finished proofing their work for them. Their boring, pedestrian work. He himself hadn’t done a juicy story in weeks. What was wrong with Manhattan these days? Where was all the murder and mayhem when a guy needed it?

Jack locked his desk, turned off his computer and left the office, ducking under a dried-up sprig of mistletoe. In the long, gleaming corridor, he encountered one of the cleaning ladies.

“Working late again, Jack?” she called out.

He grinned and looked down at his well-lived-in
sweats. “You won’t see me turning into a pumpkin yet, Cora.”

“Yeah, but have you checked your car lately?”

“A car? On my salary?” he asked. He’d long since sold his over-the-hill Mercury Marquis. Six years ago, he’d driven it to Manhattan from Muleshoe, Texas. He’d had nothing but a journalism degree from UT and a pocketful of dreams. “I’m taking the subway, sweetheart.”

“Be careful, Jack.”

He had cause to remember her admonition when, five minutes later, he turned down Lexington and saw two large thugs in the process of mugging a small, rotund man.

You’re a New Yorker now, pal
, he told himself, even as he broke into a run toward the shadowy figures.
You’re supposed to look the other way
. But deep inside his Texas-born-and-bred chest beat the heart of a man who despised violence and injustice.

His size-twelve feet carried him swiftly over the littered, frozen street. One lowlife had the little man shoved up against the rough brick wall of a building. The other groped inside the victim’s pockets.

Jack launched himself into a body slam. Stringy hair slapped him in the face. The breath left his target in a whoosh. Curling his fist into the back of a leather collar, Jack sent the man sprawling into a mound of midwinter slush. He fell easily—probably weak from being strung out on drugs—and crashed into a heap of damp cardboard boxes.

A fist smashed into Jack’s stomach. His mercilessly conditioned muscles tightened at the contact. Even as he grunted, more in annoyance than pain, he clipped his assailant on the jaw with a lightning uppercut. The man
howled and fled, clutching his face. His oily companion dragged himself up.

Jack stood ready, his feet planted, his body taut and his nerves alive with the dark hum of adrenaline. The mugger sized him up for about three seconds, then stumbled off after his companion.

Jack started to pursue them. But one glance at the pale, sweating face of the victim stopped him.

He was a munchkin man, impeccably dressed in a topcoat, holding a brass-headed cane. He had a neatly clipped mustache and goatee. His hands, clutching the cane, shook.

“Are you hurt?” Jack asked. He stooped and retrieved an expensive-looking hat, handing it to the man.

“N-no. Just shaken.” The man produced a silk handkerchief, using it to mop his forehead. He put the hat on. “Thanks.”

In the foggy glow of a streetlamp, Jack inspected the ashen, heavily jowled face. “You sure? You want me to call a doctor or something?”

“No. I’ll just go back to the shop and call a cab. I’ve got a truck, but I don’t feel like driving tonight.” The man looked at Jack and suddenly seemed to remember himself. “Listen to me. The man saves my life and I don’t even introduce myself.” He stuck out a gloved hand. “Harry Fodgother.”

“John Patrick Riley. Call me Jack.” He instantly placed the little man. Back when he was first starting out at the paper, he’d done a stint as a copy editor. Fodgother’s name had appeared frequently in the society column: The Donald Dazzled the Dames in His Exclusive Harry Fodgother Tux…. “You’re the tailor, right?”

Harry’s features pinched with mock disdain. “Gentlemen’s
clothier, if you please.” He laughed. “I call myself that, I get to charge double.”

He extracted a wad of keys from his pocket and opened a heavy steel door marked Deliveries. Jack followed him, passing through a large room filled with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, dress dummies and drafting tables. The walls boasted photos of Who’s Who types sporting Fodgother’s creations.

When they entered the shop, Jack’s feet sank two inches into the plush carpet. The showroom was done in leather, brass and hunter green, like a gentlemen’s English bar, complete with hunting scenes on the walls. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in sight. He suspected the ready-to-wears were tucked into the antique armoires, chests and highboys.

“Nice place,” he remarked.

“Indeed.” Harry switched on a green-shaded banker’s lamp on a desk and picked up the phone. “There’s an icebox under the counter there. Have a beer.”

Jack opened a beer for himself and one for Harry while Fodgother called for a cab. When he hung up, Jack asked, “Aren’t you going to report this to the police?”

Fodgother shook his head. “They were just a couple of dopers. I didn’t really get a look at them. You came along before they took anything except my pride. Police would take all night and …” His voice trailed off as Jack drew something out of his pocket.

“Damn,” Jack said, frowning. “I thought I threw this away.” Actually, he
had
thrown the invitation away, but on impulse he had rescued the card. Maybe to show his mother, who always wanted to hear about his highfalutin’ New York City friends. She never could get it into her head that he didn’t hobnob with John F. Kennedy, Jr., on a regular basis.

He came out from behind the counter and handed Harry a beer.

“You were working late,” Jack observed. “Cheers.”

“I work all through the season.” He lifted his beer bottle. “Mazel tov.”

Jack grinned and took a sip. “Same to you.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“Texas, but my accent’s fading fast unless I think about it.”

Harry picked up the cream stock card. He read it quickly, then slapped his forehead. “An invitation from Madeleine Langston! How on earth did you 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

M
adeleine 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.