His voice had cracked on the he, which did not improve his temper. Neither did the shouts of dismay from the waiting children and their weary mothers. With a curt beckoning motion for Santa to follow, Matt stormed across the crowded floor, heading for his office.
Matthew Blanchard did not tolerate mistakes easily. He particularly did not like someone else messing up his carefully executed preparations. Someone had made a big mistake this time, and heads were going to roll.
If it had been any other time but Christmas, he might have held on to his temper. But then, if it had been any other time but Christmas, there wouldn’t have been a miniature Santa in high heels to bother him. And he wouldn’t have had to worry about disappointing Lucy.
Normally Matt could handle the ups and downs of being a single father. There were even times when he managed to convince himself that things were better that way, and that he had a more satisfying relationship with his five-year-old daughter without a mother to divide Lucy’s attention. Until Christmas.
Christmas, somehow, was different. Christmas was the time for families, whole families, kids with both parents, and especially a mother to bake cookies and wrap gifts and write Christmas cards and go shopping with…especially the shopping.
Yes, Christmas was definitely a bad time of year for a single father. Matt looked forward to the entire season with a kind of gnawing anxiety that grew worse as Christmas Day drew closer. He was therefore in no mood to deal with the kind of debacle he’d just witnessed.
He reached the door of his office, doing his best to cool his temper. He had to wait quite some time for Santa to catch up with him, which wasn’t terribly surprising. The pants of the bright red costume were crumpled above the dainty shoes like elephant skin. They dragged on the floor behind, severely hampering the figure inside.
Finally Santa stood silently in front of his desk. And what a sorry picture he made, Matt thought in disgust. The white fur hem of the red coat reached almost to the ankles, and the sleeves dangled dismally, completely obliterating any sign of hands.
Matt glared at the sea green eyes peeking out at him from behind the cloud of white cotton-ball hair and fuzzy beard. The wary expression in those eyes satisfied Matt. Santa had every reason to be wary. Matt could feel his temper gathering momentum like storm clouds across an angry sea.
He raked his gaze up and down the short, bulging figure, which, judging by the lumps and bumps, had been created by a lousy job of padding. “I seem to remember,” he said carefully, “that when I hired you, you were around five feet ten, weighing somewhere around two hundred pounds, with a voice that sounded like a marine sergeant.”
The voice that answered him was nothing like a marine sergeant’s. It reminded him more of a mermaid, for some reason, though he couldn’t imagine for the life of him what a mermaid would actually sound like.
“That was my brother, Tom Latimer, Mr. Blancbard. I’m Sherrie Latimer.”
“Really.” He struggled with his temper for a moment before continuing in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm. “Then perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me where your brother might be? In the hospital, I presume? I will accept no other excuse for this ridiculous charade.”
“Er…Tom is in Mexico, Mr. Blanchard. He told me he’d informed you of the new arrangements.”
“Mexico,” Matt echoed, through gritted teeth. “How nice for him. And no, he did not inform me of his plans. Had he done so, I would have ordered him in here on the double, threatening to sue the pants off him for breach of contract if he didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blanchard, but—”
“Sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry, Miss Latimer. As no doubt you are aware, I happen to own the biggest department store in Westmill, Oregon. Hundreds of children look forward every year to visiting Santa, bringing their parents with them to shop in my store. I spend a great deal of money making sure they are not disappointed.”
He knew his voice was rising, but he couldn’t seem to control it. Before Santa had time to say anything he continued at a near roar. “My Christmas display gets more ambitious and more damn expensive every year. But it’s something the children, and their parents, have come to expect from a prestigious store like Blanchard’s.”
Warming up now, he paused for breath. Sherrie Latimer opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. “Therefore, I am entitled to feel a tad put out if the centerpiece of this ambitious and, I might add, outrageously expensive display, the focal point of this spectacular display…the jolly old gentleman of Christmas himself…turns out to be a sawed-off substitute in high heels!”
“Excuse me?” The substitute Santa’s voice had garnered considerable strength.
Matt watched, fascinated in spite of himself, as a small, delicate hand wriggled out from the bottom of a sleeve and swept up to Santa’s head. Grabbing the hat, the hand tugged it off, taking with it most of the white hair.
A mass of amber curls spilled onto the padded shoulders of the suit. The hand let go of the hat, and tugged at the mustache and beard. A sharp “Ouch!” accompanied the gesture. Then the voice spoke again, as clear and as cool as a Christmas bell.
“You have absolutely no excuse for speaking to me in that disgraceful tone of voice. I am not some disobedient child you can intimidate with your insults. I am a grown woman, and as such, I demand a certain amount of respect.”
Matt peered at the flushed face in front of him. Wisps of white cotton clung to the curls at the forehead and over one ear. The mustache had left a thin wisp of white above the most attractive mouth he’d ever seen, and still more clung to the determined, slightly pointed chin. In spite of his temper, Matt felt an insane urge to smile.
He might have smiled, if he hadn’t been shocked to realize that this was no inept teenager, as he’d first imagined, standing in front of him with that rebellious scowl on her face. “How old are you?” he demanded, without thinking.
“That, Mr. Blanchard, is an impertinent and totally irrelevant question. It’s enough for you to know that I am old enough to be spoken to in a civil manner.”
Aware that she was right, he resorted to his gruffest tone. “My apologies, Miss Latimer. And since you are, as you say, a responsible adult, perhaps you will enlighten me as to why your brother felt it perfectly all right to run off to Mexico for a last-minute vacation and leave a…woman…to play the part of Santa Claus.”
Behind the wisps of cotton he saw two delicate eyebrows arch. “You have something against women, Mr. Blanchard? I do believe that comes under the category of discrimination.”
Matt buried his face in his hands, raking his hair with his fingers. “Oh, give me a break.” He slowly let out his breath, then added heavily, “No, I do not have anything against women. What I do have a thing against is a Santa Claus who…” He paused once more, searching for a more diplomatic way to say what was on the tip of his tongue.
The toe of one shoe lifted up and down on the thick carpet. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and gritted his teeth. “Miss Latimer. I ask you to be honest when you answer this question. Describe to me your idea of Santa Claus as if you were a child who still believed in him.”
She was silent for so long he wondered if she was refusing to answer. Then, in a slightly less belligerent voice, she said, “I admit, I’m not as tall as most Santas, but I am sitting down almost all of the time. With the padding and the beard, the children can’t really tell the difference.”
“Until you open your mouth,” Matt said darkly.
“I lower my voice.”
She had spoken the words an octave deeper, which merely made her sound as if she had a bad cold. There was no way in hell that voice could be mistaken for a man’s.
“The point, Miss Latimer,” Matt said, as patiently as he could manage