Dead and Loving It

Thanks to my husband, who amuses the kids when I'm on deadline and thinks it's swell when I ignore the family for days to finish a story. (Hmm. That could be more a reflection on me than him, but never mind.)

Thanks also to my editor, Cindy, who asked me, when I was trying to figure out what to write for this collection, “How is George doing?”

Asked and answered, bay-bee!

Santa Claws

Monster Love

There's No Such Thing as a Werewolf

A Fiend in Need

A
lec Kilcurt, laird of Kilcurt Holding and the most powerful werewolf in Europe, stomped through the snow and slush and wished he were anywhere, anywhere but here.

He stopped and stood obediently with the rest of the herd, waiting for the light to change. Snow was spitting down on him with malice he could almost feel. It did nothing for his mood. He disliked leaving his home for any reason, but being called to America to pay homage to The Wonderful Child was a bit much.

And now he was shamed; his duty had never seemed a chore before. He admired and respected the pack leaders, Michael and Jeannie Wyndham. Michael was a good man and a fine leader; his wife was a crack shot cutie; and their baby, Lara, was adorable. Because the cooing, drooling infant was likely to be his next pack leader, Alec's presence—the presence of every country's werewolf head—had been required for both political and practical reasons. The pack was some three hundred thousand werewolves strong; unity was both a desire and a necessity.

Unfortunately, visiting the Wyndhams in their happy home just exacerbated his own loneliness. He'd been searching for a mate for years, but had…how did the humans put it? Never found the right girl. He thought it was funny that human women complained their men didn't commit. An unattached werewolf male was likely to want to move in after the first date. What was a man, after all, without a mate, without cubs?

Nothing, that's what. Meeting baby Lara, aka The Wonderful Child, was a great relief; pack leaders without heirs made everyone nervous. Seeing Michael's happiness, on the other hand, was a torture.

Now his duty was done, and thank God. His plane left Boston tonight, and nothing was keeping him from it.

Faugh!
More snow! And not likely to be much better, even when he got home. Really, there was nothing to look forward to until spring. Others of his kind might enjoy romping through the slush on all fours, but here was one furry laird who hated getting his feet wet.

And Boston! Gray, drizzly, dreary Boston, which smelled like damp wool and exhaust. He felt like pulling his scarf over his nose to muffle the smells of

(peaches, ripe peaches)

unwashed masses and

(peaches)

He stopped suddenly and felt a one-two punch as the couple walking behind him slammed into his back. He barely felt it; he hardly heard their complaints. He spun, pushed past them, and walked back, nostrils flaring, trying to catch that elusive

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

intoxicating

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

utterly wonderful scent.

He stiffened, not unlike a dog on point. There. The street corner. Red suit trimmed with white. White-gloved hand shaking that annoying bell. Belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly. The glorious smell was coming from Santa Claus.

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

He charged across the street without looking, ignoring the blaring horns, the shriek of airbrakes. The closer he got, the better Santa smelled.

jangleJANGLEjan—

“Jeez, there's no rush,” Santa said in a startled contralto, pulling down her beard to squint up at him. Her eyes were the color of Godiva milk chocolate. Her cheeks were blooded, kissed by the wind. Her nose was snub. Adorable. He felt like kissing it. “I mean, the bucket and I aren't going anywhere.”

“Nuh,” he said, or something like it.

“You really should forget that whole ‘pedestrians have the right of way' attitude when you're in this town…errr…everything okay?”

He had been looming over her, drinking her in. Now he jerked back. “Fine. Everything's fine. Have dinner with me.”

“It's ten o'clock in the morning.” She blinked up at him. A stray snowflake spiraled down, landed on her nose, and melted.

“Then lunch.”

The woman looked down at herself, as if making sure that, yes, she was dressed in the least-flattering outfit a woman could wear. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked at last.

“Never better.” It was the truth. This was rapidly turning into the best day ever. He had visions of spending the rest of the day rolling around on Egyptian cotton sheets with Santa. “Lunch.”

She peered at him with adorable suspicion. “Is that a question? Is this your first day out of the institution?”

Right, right, she was human. Be polite.
“Lunch. Please. Now.”

She burst out laughing, putting a hand on her large belly to keep from falling into the street. As if he'd let that happen. “I'm sorry,” she gasped, “but the absurdity of this…you…and…it just hit me all at once.” She cut her gaze away from his to smile at the woman who had just tucked a dollar into her bucket. “Merry Christmas, ma'am, and thank you.”

Now that he was no longer gazing into her eyes, he felt much colder and realized his feet were wet.
Faugh!

“I can't have lunch now,” she said kindly, looking back at him. “I can't leave my spot until noon.”

“Not even if you made lots of money before then?”

“Not even if the
real
Santa came along to relieve me.”

“Noon, then.”

“Well. All right.” She smiled up at him with timid liking. “You'll be sorry. Wait until you see me out of this Santa outfit.” The spasm of lust nearly toppled him into the gutter. “I'm not at all cute,” she finished with charming idiocy.

“Noon,” he said again and then pulled his roll from his coat pocket. He plucked the money clip off the wad and dropped the eight thousand dollars or so into her bucket. “I'll be back.”

“If that was Monopoly money,” she hollered after him, “lunch is
off
!”