A Fairytale Christmas by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online Page A

herself couldn’t suppress a smile. It
was
funny, thinking of him dashing down to the parking garage wearing only one shoe in the middle of winter.
    She hoped he froze to death.
    She prayed he would come back to her.
    “Working hard, Miz Langston?” asked a sarcastic voice.
    That voice. In it, she heard an echo of— Then she looked up and the bubble burst. Agitated, she regarded Jack Riley in all his disreputable splendor. Battered Yankees cap. Five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning. Eyes piercing from behind thick lenses. A sweatshirt with the slogan I Put the FUN in DysFUNctional.
    For no apparent reason, she felt her face flush scarlet. “I didn’t hear you knock, Mr. Riley.”
    “I didn’t knock.” One side of his mouth lifted in a taunting smile as his attention wandered to the desk. “Didn’t know there was anything to interrupt.”
    Mortified, she moved to snatch the society-page photo from her desk. He slapped his hand down on the paper.
    He stood close to the desk, his weather-beaten blue jeans snaring her unwilling attention for a moment before she forced herself to glare up at him. Against her will, she felt a primal pulse of excitement. He did, she conceded, exude a certain caveman charm.
    “Madeleine,” he said in a voice as rich and suggestive as a proposition.
    “Yes?” She was flustered. He had teased her on Friday, but this felt more like a come-on. He had never called her Madeleine before.
    He leaned forward, his posture aggressive and suggestive all at once. She braced herself. “What is it, Mr. Riley?”
    “I want you—” he moistened his lips, and she gasped “—to take me off the sewage bribery story and give it to Derek or Brad.”
    “No,” she said, plummeting to earth, hating him for his manner. “You’re the best reporter for that story.”
You’re the best I have, damn you
.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, putting his other hand on the surface of the desk and leaning closer still. “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. I’m not doing the sewage story.”
    “And perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, either,” she snapped. “You’re doing the story. It’s not optional.”
    “Wanna bet?”
    “You’d lose.”
    “Oh, I’m shaking,” he said. “What, you’re going to fire me?”
    She hesitated. She knew the
Trib
or the
Times
would snap him up in a minute. She wondered why he hadn’t defected to a larger paper long before.
    Hating herself for playing his game, she said, “Suppose you tell me exactly why you’re refusing that story.”
    “I don’t have time. I’ve got another story to write.” He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes seemed to grow harder and colder behind the lenses. “It’s about the Santiago Youth Center in Brooklyn. The place is being closed down because its funding got yanked.”
    He watched her so closely that she wondered if the revelation was supposed to mean something to her. “We’re a Manhattan paper,” she said simply. Idiotically.
    “You,” he said with quiet conviction, “are one hell of a piece of work, Miz Langston.” He glanced down at the paper on the desk. “But what can I expect from a woman who turns to mush over a guy in a tux and cowboy boots?”
    She shot to her feet. “Maybe you could learn a few things about personal grooming and manners, Mr. Riley.”
    He threw back his head and guffawed so loudly that people in the outer offices craned their necks to stare. And then he simply left.

Chapter Seven
    I t was nearing quitting time when Madeleine finally screwed up enough courage to go down to the city room. She ducked into the ladies’ room and stood there alone for a long time, staring at herself in the mirror.
    She looked the same as she always had. Every hair in place. Subtle makeup, a faint sheen of gloss on her lips. Small, trim figure. Suit by Armani, soft angora sweater, understated pearls.
    And, as always, something was missing.
    That was why she loved the photo of her and John.