Brian adjusted the red stocking cap, trying to cover his dark brown hair.
He'd bought the costume on a whim a few years ago with the intention to play Santa for his sister's children. Due to unfortunate circumstances, it had never been used. The cheap red suit came with an itchy white beard, but no wig. His own black rubber boots, which he used to wade through concrete, completed the look.
Leaving the hat askew, he stepped back and studied his reflection. He needed a haircut. His costume was "one size fits all" and poorly made. The fuzzy white cuffs of the jacket didn't reach his wrists, the pants were too baggy, and the black plastic belt gaped at his waist. He looked like Homeless Santa.
He grabbed a pillow from the mattress on the floor and stuffed it under his jacket, fashioning a jolly paunch. There, that was better. As he headed outside, he picked up the bag of gifts and put the Dear Santa letter in his front pocket.
At 9:00 a.m., the sun was already blazing. It was going to be a hot Christmas in Oceanside, California. There wasn't a cloud in the perfect blue sky. Brian had spent most of the morning on his surfboard, and the waves were in fine form. He might go back later for an afternoon session.
His pulse kicked up a notch as he approached the house next door. He hardly knew his neighbors and wasn't sure what they would think of his getup. The single mom who lived there had never even spoken to him, and her daughters were quiet as mice.
If the girls hadn't left a letter in Brian's mailbox last week, he wouldn't have considered buying them gifts. When he found the envelope, addressed to the North Pole, he'd opened it to investigate. At first he'd assumed that the girls had mistaken his mailbox for their own, because the two were side by side. Then he read the letter and realized that they hadn't wanted their mother to see it.
The girls had penned the note to Santa in simple words and neat sentences. Judging by her careful signature, Mandy was the older daughter. Her sister, Alyssa, had scrawled her name at the bottom of the page in pink crayon. They asked for a couple of moderately priced toys that "Mommy can't buy this year."
Brian could easily afford the extra gifts; he had very few family members to shop for. But the last item on the list was something that no one could deliver -- not even Santa. He'd been touched by the request and felt a powerful compulsion to make his neighbors' holiday a little brighter.
Cold sweat beaded his forehead. His back and shoulders throbbed as he clung to the nylon rope. But he schooled himself to absolute stillness, knowing even the slightest shift could move a prong on the grappling hook, drawing the royal guards' attention to him. Behind him, a cool breeze swept down the slopes of the Pyrenees Mountains, the slow, rhythmic clanking of cowbells tightening his nerves.
"You're not seriously going to smoke that." The man's voice came from the wall walk above.
"Why not?" a second man asked. His voice had a belligerent edge. "It's not going to kill anyone."
Except Rafe.
"The hell it won't," the first guard said. "You heard the boss. Anyone who screws up tonight gets fired." "Yeah, yeah."
Rafe's heart galloped against his rib cage. He'd be dead if he didn't move. Now. In a few precious seconds, the searchlight would pass, illuminating him like a dark bug splayed on a silver wall.
But cigarette smoke wisped past. More crucial seconds ticked down. Rafe gritted his teeth, his biceps trembling, every survival instinct screaming at him to go. But he couldn't move, couldn't even change positions to relieve the pressure on his now-numb hands.
"Hombre. Would you come on?" the first guard said, echoing Rafe's thoughts. "The next rotation's about to catch up."
"Fine." Disgust tinged the smoker's voice. A glowing cigarette butt streaked over the wall, barely missing Rafe's head. The guards finally pushed away from the ledge, the thud of their receding footsteps fading into the night.
Rafe eased out a breath, but forced himself to wait, counting off several vital heartbeats in case they circled back. Then he powered up the rope in a surge of adrenaline, glad he'd kept up the brutal workouts that enabled him to make this climb even though he'd retired from a life of crime. Until now.
He reached the medieval battlement and paused again. Stiii ciear. His arms aching, the desperate need to hurry flogging his brain, he hoisted himself over the edge. Then he yanked up the rope, pulled the grappling hook from the wall, and ducked -- just as the searchlight skimmed overhead.
Too damned close.
His heart pounding, that addictive rush of danger streaming through his veins, he crawled to the ancient watchtower, careful to keep his head under the light's wide range. Then he coiled the rope and tucked it against the wall for his descent. The high-powered beam swept back over the cylindrical tower, past a planked oak door dotted with iron studs.
Now. He leaped up and sprinted to the door. Skidding to a stop, he whipped the lock-pick gun from his back pocket, inserted a tension wrench into the lock and applied the gun. A series of sharp, rapid clicks rent the air.
The lock gave way.
Rafe squeezed through the door, careful not to let the hinges creak, into the darkened alcove that adjoined the diplomat's room. At this height he didn't worry about triggering an alarm. No one got past the armed guards, surveillance cameras and intrusion detection devices on the castle's lower floors -- except a third-generation master thief like him.
But he wasn't out of danger yet. He had to find the historic signet ring and get back down that wall -- before the reception ended and the American returned to his room.
Flicking on his penlight, he padded across the antique rug to the Baroque-style bureau. He checked the drawers, peeked behind the huge gilded paintings on the medieval wall. No ring. No hidden safe. He turned toward the bedroom.
A soft, feminine laugh stopped him cold.
His pulse drummed hard. He snapped his gaze to the closed velvet drapes dividing the two rooms. The diplomat had come back early -- and he wasn't alone.
Rafe frowned, debating his options, but he didn't have a choice. He had to get that ring tonight. The diplomat was scheduled to present it to Pais Vell's king in the morning. And if that happened, Rafe's bargain with the police chief would be void.
His nerves ratcheting higher, every sense hyperalert, he crept to the floor-length drapes and nudged the edge aside. The cool, musty room was shrouded in darkness -- only the faint, golden haze from a bedside lamp penetrated the gloom. Rafe zeroed in on the couple standing across from him on the opposite side of the bed. The woman had her back to him, and the mellow light gilded her naked curves.
No, not naked, he amended, his mouth quirking up in regret. But her back was bare, her gown plunging so low on her hips he could easily imagine the rest.
He allowed his gaze to linger, taking a long, leisurely slide down the sensuous sweep of her spine to the riveting contours of her hips. He couldn't fault the diplomat's taste -- or haste. The woman was flawless, at least from the rear. She had sleek, honeyed skin, and centerfold-worthy curves. She wore her dark hair up, exposing the tempting nape of her neck. Loose tendrils danced in the light.
And given the rapt expression on the balding diplomat's face, her front side was better yet.
But Rafe didn't have time to ogle the diplomat's escort. Dragging his attention back to the room, he scanned the wingback chairs hulking in the shadows, the imposing Louis XIV armoire with its carved doors hanging ajar. That ring had to be within reach. But how could he get past the bed to search?
Whistling the tune to "Jingle Bells," he knocked on the front door. "Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas," he called out, preparing to leave the wrapped presents on the stoop. Before he had a chance, the door swung open.
Mandy and Alyssa stood there in red dresses, their dark hair shining. Twin expressions of wonder lit up their well-scrubbed faces.
"Santa," the younger girl breathed, fooled by his outfit.
Brian winked at her. "Have you girls been good this year?"
The both nodded dutifully, eyes wide.
He reached into his bag, finding a present for Alyssa. She jumped up and down, delighted to receive it. Mandy, who was at least five, probably knew he wasn't the "real" Santa. But she accepted the second gift with a shy smile, examining his ill-fitting suit. If she found it lacking, she didn't say.
"We have cookies for you! My mommy made them."
Brian glanced around, wondering where she was. "Okay."
Mandy raced into another room, coming back with a loaded plate.
"Thanks," he said, grabbing a bell-shaped cookie off the top. He didn't have much of a sweet tooth, and these confections looked almost too pretty to eat, with silver accents and delicate icing. But they tasted like a dream, light and almondy. "Mmm."
He was about to wish them a Merry Christmas and take his leave, along with a handful of those delicious cookies, when the girls' mother appeared. The moment she stepped on the scene, the cookie lodged in his throat.
She was wearing a short towel, secured over her breasts. Her skin was wet, her dark hair dripping on her bare shoulders.
Brian did a double take, startled by her near-nudity. He couldn't help noticing that she had a great figure. He'd never registered that before, but he'd never seen quite so much of her. She always wore shapeless clothes and big sunglasses.
"What are you doing?" she gasped, staring at him. She had frantic blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
Brian tried to chew the bite of cookie, which had turned to sawdust in his mouth.
"You opened the door to a stranger?" she asked the girls.
Mandy set aside the cookies, appearing stricken. "Go to your room," she said, clutching the towel in a white-knuckled grip. "Both of you!"
"Can we keep the presents?" Alyssa asked.
"No!"
They ran away, little faces crumpled in dismay.
Brian managed to swallow. "I'm sorry. I had no idea this would be a problem --"
"Get out," she said, pointing her finger. Although her stance was strong and self-assured, her lips trembled, betraying her fear.
He retreated in surprise, unaware that he'd stepped over the threshold. "I'm sorry," he said again, tugging the fake beard down his chin. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Brian Cosgrove, from next door."
Her gaze darted from him to the half-opened presents on the floor. "Have you visited my children before?"
Brian was so astounded by her question that he almost didn't catch its meaning. Was she implying that he wanted to harm her daughters? His stomach curled in revulsion. "No," he said, shaken by the charge. "Hell, no."
"Then how could you know what they wanted for Christmas?"
He reached into his front pocket, bringing out the Dear Santa letter. "They left this in my mailbox."
She took the note from him and scanned it, her mouth thin.
It was on the tip of his tongue to explain that he thought he was doing her a kindness. His only impression of her before now was that of an overworked parent. He'd watched her leave the house early in the morning and trudge home late. Her girls had sad eyes. Intuition, and the Dear Santa letter, told him they were struggling.
He'd also studied his own reflection in the mirror often enough to know what a wounded soul looked like.