His curiosity satisfied, he tried to slip away unnoticed, but she caught sight of him before he could make his escape.
“Good morning, Mr. Blanchard!” she called out, with a slight smile playing around her mouth, as if she knew his heart rate had jumped to jogging level.
He mumbled an answering greeting, then watched her trip lightly over to the elevators. He had to stop this, he thought desperately. She was, after all, one of his employees. He made it a rule never to fraternize with the help.
Not that he wanted to socialize with her, he hastily assured himself as he strode over to the escalator. For one thing, she was too young. For another, he rather suspected that Miss Latimer had very definite ideas on any given subject—ideas that were likely to clash with his own.
She appeared to be the kind of young lady who would have no qualms opposing his views rather strongly if she were so inclined. And if there was one thing Matt hated, it was an argument.
More often than not he gave in, sacrificing his own convictions rather than argue, which had been part of the problem with his ex-wife. If he hadn’t been so indulgent with Caroline, if he’d insisted that she behave like a responsible adult instead of condoning her selfish, immature behavior, he might have saved the marriage. Though he rather doubted it.
He was pretty sure that Caroline had never really loved him. Her head had been turned by the big bucks. She’d seen the furs, designer fashions and jewelry that Blanchard’s carried and she was like the kids in the toy department. She wanted it all. Until Lucy had come along and put an end to her freedom. Then she hadn’t wanted either of them.
Well, he told himself as he rode the crowded escalator to the next floor, he was through with that kind of commitment. Never again. He’d learned a tough lesson. He’d made a mistake and he wasn’t about to repeat it. That settled, he resolved to put Miss Latimer and her delectable figure right out of his mind.
Upstairs in the private employees’ lounge, Sherrie’s bones ached as she dressed in the Mrs. Claus outfit. She adjusted the wig and the glasses and scowled at her image in the mirror. If this was how she would look when she got old, she thought, there wasn’t a lot to look forward to.
She was about to leave for her first stint in Santa’s chair when the door of the lounge opened. The impeccable, heavily perfumed creature who entered eyed her up and down with amusement.
“God,” she muttered, “if I had to spend longer than five minutes in that outfit I’d quit.”
“It’s not exactly my favorite way to dress,” Sherrie said, smiling. “Actually I’m doing it as a favor for my brother. He was supposed to be Santa.”
The woman nodded. “So I heard. One of the stockmen told me about the last-minute change. Actually you look pretty good. Definitely an improvement on some of the Santas we’ve had. How’s things going down there?”
“Exhausting,” Sherrie admitted. “But I enjoy meeting all the children.”
The woman leaned closer to the mirror and patted her immaculate blond hair. Opening the small black purse she carried, she took out a lipstick and touched up her lips.
“My name’s Beryl Robbins,” she said, slipping the gold case back into her purse. “I’m the head buyer here. We’ll probably bump into each other now and again. If you want to know anything about this place, just ask me. There isn’t much that gets by me.”
Sherrie could well believe that. The woman’s sharp brown eyes under the mascara-laden lashes were never still. “I’m Sherrie,” she murmured, “and I’ll keep it in mind.” She slipped out of the door then, before Beryl Robbins could begin probing into her private life.
Down on the fifth floor, the children were already lined up, waiting impatiently for Mrs. Claus to arrive. A small cheer went up as Sherrie took her seat and beckoned to the first little girl in line.
The child’s mother held on to the small hand, and seemed determined to do all the talking. It took several moments of diplomatic persuasion before Sherrie could talk to the child herself.
Watching from a discreet distance, Matt felt a small stab of satisfaction. The Mrs. Claus idea seemed to be working out quite well, in spite of the diminutive size of the woman inside the padding. In fact, it amazed him to see her hauling all those kids up onto her lap. He’d expected her to come crying to him at the end of her first day to say she couldn’t handle the job.
He felt a little more comfortable now that she was dressed as Mrs. Claus again. It seemed to put a respectable distance between them. After all, who would have the urge to date Santa’s wife? Highly inappropriate, to say the least.
After studying the application form he’d had his newest employee fill out, Matt had learned little more about Sherrie Latimer. She was twenty-seven, single and a college graduate. She’d listed her present address as the same as her brother’s, which, now that he came to think about it, was a bit odd, since she’d told Matt that she was merely spending the holidays with Tom Latimer.
Remembering the misty-eyed expression he’d noticed when he’d mentioned her holiday plans, Matt wondered if she’d had some kind of trouble. He quickly reminded himself that it was none of his business.
As long as Sherrie Latimer did a good job for him, her private life was her own concern. The position was only temporary anyway. Once the Christmas season was over, he would probably never set eyes on Sherrie Latimer again.
To his dismay, the thought gave him a definite twinge of regret. He turned his back on Mrs. Claus and headed toward the crowded toy department. He wasn’t about to let himself get distracted by a ditzy, pint-size angel of mercy who let her heart rule her head.
Any other woman with an atom of sense would have told her brother to find himself another Santa. But obviously she wasn’t like other women. She’d given up her vacation and taken on a mammoth task so that her brother could go chasing all over Mexico on his own errand of mercy, as she’d put it.
He would have admired that, if he hadn’t been convinced that women like Sherrie Latimer were a danger to self-respecting, confirmed single fathers, who should know better than to spend their mornings wondering if a certain woman tasted as good as she looked.
Seated on her red velvet throne, Sherrie was having her own troubles. One little girl, desperate to go to the bathroom, was determined not to lose her place in line. Unfortunately the wait proved too long, and Sherrie’s lap was decidedly damp after the child had scrambled down.
The next small boy demanded that Santa bring him a space gun for Christmas.
“I’ll be sure to tell Santa what you would like just as soon as I get back to the North Pole,” Sherrie said, reaching for a candy cane.
“I don’t want to wait till Christmas,” the boy announced, scowling at her, “I want it now.”
Sherrie tried to curb her flash of irritation. “Well, I’m afraid you can’t have it now. Santa doesn’t deliver the toys until Christmas Eve. But you can have a candy cane now.”
“Don’t want a candy cane.” The boy snatched it from her hand and threw it on the floor. “I want a space gun and I want it now.”
“Then I guess you’re going to be disappointed,” Sherrie said, easing the child off her lap.
The boy stared at her for a second, then opened his mouth and let out a shrill scream. Sherrie looked around in vain for the child’s mother, but apparently the woman had taken advantage of the respite from her rebellious child and dashed off to shop.
Sherrie’s efforts to calm the child were fruitless. Still yelling, the boy rushed over to the reindeer and, using both fists, began pounding one of them on the head.