Mistletoe Over Manhattan

'Uh…' Kevin said. 'There was the five hundred from the Boat Show, two-fifty from the Toy Fair…' He muttered away to himself for several minutes and finally announced a sum that wouldn't have covered Mallory's monthly mortgage payment.

'And what are you earning at your current job?'

'Um…' Kevin's eyes shifted away before he stammered out a number.

'So you're actually earning more now than you were before the alleged unfortunate incident with the dye?' Carter's staccato delivery made even Mallory flinch.

'But I might have gotten that part,' Kevin insisted, 'if I hadn't-'

Now Carter was both asking questions and writing on the pad. Apparently finished writing, he flicked the pad with his thumb and middle finger, propelling it with such force that it slid past Mallory and halfway down the polished table. The court reporter's clicking slowed. Phoebe's and Kevin's gazes followed the pad, and the cameraman appeared to be zooming in on it. Mallory retrieved it, her face heating up with both anger and embarrassment. But she couldn't keep herself from glancing down at the words Carter had written.

Then how do you know each other?

None of your business, she wrote, and shoved the pad an inch toward Carter.

Damned sure is. He's a witness in a case I have a vested interest in winning. Without a break in his questioning, Carter centered an elbow on the pad and slid it to his left.

Settling! she wrote below his elbow. You hope!

'Perhaps this would be a good time for a break,' Phoebe said acidly. 'The two of you can discuss your problem verbally rather than by flying paper airplanes at each other.'

'Fine,' Carter said.

'Fine,' Mallory said.

They glared at each other while Phoebe, Kevin, the cameraman and the court reporter retired, presumably, to restrooms and voice-mail messages.

'So?' Carter said, fire flashing from his eyes.

'It's a two-degrees-of-separation thing,' Mallory said.

'What does that mean?'

'He doesn't know me. I know somebody who knows him, that's all. Information about him came up in an unrelated conversation. It's pure coincidence.'

Carter stared at her for a long moment, then appeared to be calming down a little. 'I wondered. He acted funny when he came in.'

'There's no way he could know me,' Mallory insisted. Unless Richard mentioned my name to him, or Maybelle did. But that wouldn't be ethical of them, would it? The telltale heat rose in her face again.

Carter was watching her closely. 'Will knowing him keep you from doing your job right?'

'Of course not.' It just may keep me from getting my image right, that's all.

'You're sure.'

'Absolutely.'

'Okay,' he growled. 'Guess I overreacted. Phoebe!' he yelled through the closed door. 'We're ready to resume.'

It occurred to Mallory that he must have grown up in a very large house, where the people he needed to talk to were at great distances from him. Someday she'd ask him.

Damn it, he didnt like Mallory having secrets. Mallory-type-people weren't supposed to have secrets. They were open, honest people, people you could depend on. Depend on for what?

Well, for one hundred percent commitment to this case. For one hundred percent commitment to him, at least while they were working on this case. She wasn't supposed to be running around at night with God knew who to God knew where.

Of course, from her point of view it might look as if he were running around at night. But at least he'd told her who he was running around with. He wasn't keeping any secrets from her.

Well, one secret. That she was turning him on in a very unprofessional way and didn't even seem to be trying to.

He'd find out whom she was going out with. And how much she cared about him. He'd get started tonight. Damned if she was going to keep any secrets from him.

'Nice weather,' Carter commented as they walked back to the hotel after wringing every last scrap of potential testimony out of Kevin Knightson.

'Very,' Mallory said. The sky was inky and it was snowing, but Fifth Avenue was as bright as high noon with its vivid storefronts, lighted trees and glowing streetlamps. A huge, wet snowflake landed with a splat directly on her nose and melted at once. She started fishing for a tissue. Snow fell into her open handbag. The tissue was wet by the time she got it to her nose. Before she could use it, she slid sideways on the icy sidewalk. Carter, who'd been watching her futile exercise in nose-wiping, grabbed her around the shoulders.

For a second she stood absolutely still, leaning into him. It felt so warm. She felt so protected. She wanted to turn her face up to his and tempt him to lick the melted snowflake off her nose. She wished they could travel that way forever, through rain, snow, sleet and hail, over hills and deep into valleys, forge streams, swim rivers.

In that state of near-bliss, she did turn her face up to his, and what she said was, 'I need snow boots.'

Instead of licking the snowflake off her nose, he dropped his arm.

Her thudding heart seemed to drop to the pit of her stomach. One word-the right word-and he might have hugged her all the way back to the hotel. The hug might have led to a kiss- and then she wouldn't need Maybelle or the red jacket, wouldn't need anything, in fact, for the rest of her life except occasional room service. And a checkbook for keeping her bills paid promptly.

There I go again.

She was limp and sodden when they finally reached the suite. As they began to peel off dripping coats, scarves and gloves, she reflected that if this weather kept up, she would have to give up on black cashmere and switch to her microfiber trenchcoat that folded, like her robe, into one of its own pockets. Then she could buy a pair of those clear plastic shoes that Velcroed over her own shoes. No need to buy snow boots. She had sturdy, waterproof ones at home, and the plastic things were so cheap she could leave them behind when they left New York. As all these practical thoughts went through her mind, she was aware of the one thought that kept pushing itself to the forefront, that she desperately wished she had thought of something less practical to say to Carter.

'Do you have a date tonight?' he asked her in a sort of growly voice.

It was the first thing he'd said since she slipped on the ice and it startled her. 'Uh, yes.' In an hour, she'd be seeing Maybelle again, with a new awareness of how much help she actually needed.

'Are you going like that?'

She glanced down at the red jacket, the shell beneath it, her sedate knee-length skirt and heard, instead of her mother's voice, the voice of a devil whispering seductively to her. She smiled sweetly at Carter. 'No, I was planning to freshen up a bit.'

He seemed strangely relieved. 'Here's your other jacket,' he said, handing her the cleaning bag. 'Freshen up and we can have a drink together before we go out. I have things to talk over with you-ah, things about the depositions today.' He cleared his throat. 'Several things.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'I feel strung out enough to handle something strong. A margarita, that's what I want.' She took a step, then another, and decided to experiment with letting her hips swing ever so slightly when she walked.

Did the Soft 'N' Comfy company realize how hard it was to swing your hips in their ever-so-comfortable shoes?

No! She would not give up her shoes for Carter!

But in the bedroom, she slowly unbuttoned the red jacket, slipped the black shell over her head and stood still for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror. Her bra was black, but it wasn't lacy. She had another bra with her. It was white-also not lacy. She slipped off the black bra.

Next she took a good hard look at her skirt. It was a very nice skirt, well cut and modestly knee-length even after she'd rolled the waistband over. She made another roll in the waistband, and another. Now the skirt showed quite a bit more leg and didn't bulge too badly at the waist. After staring at the black jacket in the cleaning bag, she