your name is—”
“Nicki. Nicki Holliday,” she repeated.
“Yes. Well, we have very strict criteria for our Santa Clauses and you’ve obviously failed to meet—”
“What do you mean,” she nearly wailed. “I’ve done everything right. I’m happy, I’m jolly. I have the best ‘ho, ho, ho’ in the entire Santa Claus fleet.” For a split second she was certain she saw the corner of his mouth start to twitch. “I do. You can ask anybody. Here. Let me demonstrate—”
Jared raised a hand, effectively stopping her. “No. Please don’t,” he said curtly. “It’s late, and this has not been a holly-jolly, ho-ho-ho day.”
Nicki stared at him. “No kidding? Well, getting fired sure dampens my Christmas spirit, too.”
“Miss, um, Holliday—” He suddenly snorted, as if the significance of her surname struck him. “Gillette’s is the largest department store in southern Indiana. Our clients expect certain things—”
“Like?”
“Like a Mr. Santa Claus, not a Mrs.”
He’d fired her because she was a woman? Nicki started shaking, knowing there was nothing she could do about that. “I’ve done everything possible to present a plausible image of Santa to your customers and their children,” she implored. “None of them finds me lacking. None of the children even suspect.”
He chuckled, and his dark gaze nailed her. “Miss Holliday, look at yourself. Your eyes may twinkle and, with a little makeup, you might have a nose like a cherry. But I really doubt—really—that your belly’s going to jiggle like a bowlful of jelly.”
Heat prickled across the back of her neck. “Padding,” she retorted, “lots of it.”
Nicki thought she saw a flicker of amusement hover behind his eyes. Then his attitude changed—abruptly.
“No,” he said firmly, picking up the letter he’d been reading at her untimely entrance. “Santa Clauses are jolly old grandpas with wrinkled skin and bushy eyebrows. They are not young women who have to gird themselves with padding and lower their voices two octaves.”
“If you’d just give me a chance—”
“This matter is not open to discussion. Period. Being a Santa Claus for Gillette’s is out of the question, so forget it. I’m sure you can see yourself out—especially since you did such a fine job of seeing yourself in.”
Nicki’s cheeks flamed and her hands shook. “You can’t fire me because I’m a woman,” she finally managed to blurt.
His head lifted, lionlike. His dark eyes glittered and his features were taut, as if he were ready to go in for the kill. “Like hell I can’t.”
Nicki caught her breath.
“Now get out of my office.”
She thought she was going to die right then and there. Just fade away into oblivion under the merciless gaze of Jared Gillette. Then it occurred to her: what did she have to lose? “I—I…really didn’t mean to impose on you or your time,” she said. Lacing her fingers together, she held them taut against her middle. She couldn’t give up, not now. “Keeping this job is really important to me, Mr. Gillette, and I’m sure if you checked my track record…you’d see….” She let the rest go unsaid.
He sat back. For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was glaring at her or considering her suggestion. Then his gaze drifted down to her trembling hands.
Dammit! Why’d he have to notice? Couldn’t he let her writhe in agony without giving her one of those looks? Frustration set in, making her eyelids burn and her vision grow watery. Nicki feared that if she blinked, a tear would dribble from the corner of her eye.
“Okay. Look,” he said in exasperation, thwacking the papers beside him. “If you want to be an elf, you can be an elf. You’re about the right size anyway.”
“I…” She hesitated, very much aware he was making a concession. “No. It has to be the Santa Claus job.”
He pulled back, as if appalled she’d have the audacity to insist.
“Impossible. This time around, Santa Claus is definitely gender based. If you want to come back at Easter and be a bunny….”
“That’s four months away,” Nicki protested, taking a step toward him. “And right now I’m doing my absolute best to be realistic and genuine. Parents love me, children flock to me. There hasn’t been one complaint—not one—and if you’d only stop by to watch me, and see how I relate to the kids—”
“Miss Holliday. I don’t have time for that. It’s an elf or nothing.”
Deflation oozed through Nicki, numbing her mind and every logical argument. As her eyes shuttered closed, imagining the debt and the dilemma she was in, she glimpsed Jared Gillette. The man was heartless, with eyes like flint and misplaced conviction where compassion should be. Forget the good looks, he was Scrooge incarnate. “It won’t do,” she said flatly, “I can’t be an elf.”
“Fine. We don’t need you. Pick up your check in the office. If you change your mind, then—”
“No,” Nicki interrupted, “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Miss Holliday. I don’t care how complicated it is. The choice is yours, do as you wish. Now, if there’s nothing else, get out of my office and close the door behind you. I have work to do.”
Nicki stared at him, then she turned and fled.
All in all, it had been an interesting day, Jared mused, closing Nicki Holliday’s personnel file. His morning hadn’t gotten off to a particularly good start. A new employee had unwittingly brought out a cart of the most sought-after doll in Christmas history and caused a near riot in the toy department. Later, one shopper had had an allergic reaction to fragrances in the cosmetics department and the paramedics had rushed in the front doors with a stretcher. Aside from the three “lost” children and one wandering Alzheimer’s patient, they’d also caught three shoplifters.
And then there had been Nicki Holliday…the woman who had pretty effectively, according to this file, passed herself off as Santa Claus.
He had to admit that her eyes had twinkled. In fact, she had the bluest, most fascinating eyes he’d ever seen. He could imagine a youngster leaning into her, confiding their deepest, innermost desires.
If eyes were the windows to the soul, her gaze had offered up nothing but blind trust. He’d looked into her eyes for but a moment and nearly forgotten who he was and what his intentions were. It had taken all he had to remind himself—and her—he had a job to do.
Nicki Holliday was a pretty woman. Her cheeks were plump, with identical dimples that took on a life of their own, playing peek-a-boo with him during their entire conversation. Her hair—brilliant, shiny shades of nutmeg, cinnamon, and ginger—actually reminded him of the Christmas potpourri in Gillette’s Home for the Holidays section. Funny. She reminded him of the strangest things. Of comforting things.
He
