Mistletoe Over Manhattan

dropping needles all over the table? That the best man she'd ever known was Carter Compton, who waited there for her now with his possessions scattered over every flat surface? And that she'd had to give up a lot of herself to get to this point in her life? She hadn't merely veered, she'd spun and twisted and thrashed and…

'Taxi!' Waving wildly, she shouted the word so vehemently that a cab half a block away, a cab which, furthermore, had an Off Duty sign flashing on its roof, changed its trajectory and screeched to a halt with the door handle directly ahead of her outstretched hand.

She found Carter hunched in front of the sitting room television set, his shoulders moving along with the Northwestern quarterback's, shouting words of encouragement to his favorite team. He was wearing black jeans with a black turtleneck and looked absolutely heavenly. The jeans hugged his thighs and the heavy muscles there flexed as his shoulders moved, his biceps rose and fell, his teeth clenched and relaxed. Scattered around him were the sofa pillows, a newspaper, a soft drink can, an open bag of microwave-popcorn, the remote control, his shoes, his overshoes, his scarf, gloves, overcoat-

There was some hope for him. He'd apparently brought just one coat with him to New York. She smiled.

'Hey,' he said when he caught sight of her. 'We're only behind fourteen points. It's a moral victory!'

Football hadn't been on her family's weekend schedule. Her father preferred war movies. Her mother wouldn't attend or watch anything she didn't consider to be culturally uplifting and therefore worth an efficient woman's time. Macon played football on the computer occasionally. Stepping toward Carter, intending to join him, perhaps attack and distract him, even learn about football if that was what it took, she saw that the tiny Christmas tree was circled with a string of old-fashioned bubble lights. Her heart pounded with something that went deeper than desire-honest affection.

She slid onto the sofa beside him, dropping her Saks bag to the floor. 'Come on, baby, light my tree,' she sang.

'Just a minute, just a minute… Defense!' he shouted, nearly sending her sailing off the cushion. 'Sorry,' he said immediately. 'What did you say?'

'It can wait,' she said, snuggling back in beside him and wishing she knew how to purr.

He'd had a haircut. He'd bought shaving cream and lights for their Christmas tree. She was in love.

They celebrated Northwestern's moral victory with a bottle of champagne. They made love on the sofa, sitting up, Mallory straddling him, enveloping him, her body and her heart zinging with lust and love and an overwhelming desire to be with him forever. Her clothes, she observed later, were scattered from the kitchen, where the lovemaking had begun, to the front door, where Carter's football-throwing arm had propelled her new red lace bra. The new black suit from Bergdorf's was mainly wool with a smidgen of Lycra and the wrinkles steamed out beautifully while they lay together in a bubble bath.

Mallory felt it was pure good luck that her bathroom was equipped with a bathtub and a separate shower, European-style. Carter had resisted the notion of bathing in the tub, insisting that real men didn't take bubble baths, that he'd never had a bubble bath and wasn't about to start now, but once she was ensconced in the tub, hidden by bubbles except for her toes, which she wriggled enticingly at him, he changed his mind. They could call it her bubble bath, he said. He was just visiting.

He rinsed her hair with the leftover champagne. The bath led them inevitably back to bed. Dinner was pate, cheese, crusty Italian bread, fruit and Napoleons from room service. While they ate, they watched the Christmas episode of Carter's favorite network series, a police drama.

It was a heartwarming story about a passerby finding a young couple and their new baby huddled in a Dumpster under a streetlamp near the police station. Three top-ranked mounted police rode their horses to the scene, bearing an envelope filled with cash contributed by the guys at the station, a basket of baby powders, oils and diapers and a gift certificate for a week's stay in a motel in New Jersey. The plot was a timeworn one, but the emotional level was high and Mallory couldn't help shedding a tear or two.

They were cuddled together on the sofa, Mallory in a short black nightgown, Carter in preppy plaid boxers, when he said, 'As you were saying…'

She raised her head from his shoulder. 'When?'

He held her a little tighter. 'Last night when you bopped into my room. You said you'd had an idea that might work with Phoebe and her plaintiffs.'

She sighed, sinking down on his chest. 'I can't imagine I ever had an idea. Oh, wait, it's coming back.'

It had been a crazy, pop-psychology idea she'd dreamed up as an excuse to seduce Carter in her new pink gown and robe, but she could hardly tell him that. 'I was just thinking that everybody wants something really badly. Like, for example, we know from his testimony that Kevin Knightson wants to break into show business, and McGregor Ross wants her daughter to be a child model.'

'She ought to be prepping the kid for college,' Carter said.

'I know,' Mallory said, 'but she doesn't want what you and I would want.' She paused, feeling somewhat embarrassed. 'I mean what you would want or I would want.'

'I get your point.'

'Once upon a time,' Mallory went on, relieved that he hadn't read anything possessive into her words, 'the plaintiffs seemed satisfied to have themselves and their bathrooms back to normal. Phoebe convinced them they wanted more.'

'Money.'

'Yes, and everybody wants money, but I'm suggesting we try to find out what they want more than money.'

'Hmm,' Carter said.

Mallory persisted. 'There's probably something you want more than money, right?'

Right. I want to settle this case just to hear you tell me I'm a brilliant lawyer.

And that you'd like nothing more than to add a brilliant lawyer to your life, maybe even have a brilliant kid or two.

Okay, I know I'm not brilliant, but I am smarter than people imagine, and I really hope I never get another call like that call from Bill Decker, because I want to lose the Casanova image and settle down with…

A jolt of electricity ran through Carter's body, but it was more like a security alarm than the electricity Mallory generated in him. These were serious thoughts. Maybe too serious for a man who'd seen a woman change from good old Mallory to the object of his desire in the course of an extremely tense week.

'It's not a bad idea,' Mallory was saying, 'but I don't have the faintest idea how to implement it. We can't get Kevin a role on Broadway. I don't know any Broadway producers or directors. Do you?' She yawned.

He smiled into her hair. Even without the yawn he would have known she was getting sleepy. She wasn't usually such a chatterbox. 'We take it one step at a time,' he said. 'First we find out what they want.'

'How?'

'Ask them.'

'What a great idea.' Her eyes drooped, and then she said, 'Our tree needs more ornaments.'

'We'll buy some tomorrow.'

'I'll buy some. You bought the lights.'

'You don't think we can charge it all to our expense accounts?'

'No.'

'I was afraid you'd feel that way,' Carter said.

'And so do you.'

She was right. He'd never cheat on an expense account. But how did she know that?

'We should call Bill before we leave this morning,' Mallory said on Monday. She was wearing one of those longish skirts with the jacket that matched her eyes, and Carter got hot all over remembering the sheer tank she'd worn underneath the week before. Tonight when they got home, he'd get her out of the jacket fast, explore her through that tank top. He growled. 'What?'

'Ah. Right. Call Bill. We can run your idea by him, see if he thinks we can do something with it.'

But a half hour later, Mallory said, 'He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, did he?'

'He doesn't have your imagination. I'm still adding that question to my spiel-'What do you really want?' We can see if a pattern emerges, something we can work with.'