Rings on Her Fingers

Rings on Her Fingers

by

Susan Connell

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www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-158-4

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright 1994, 2011, 2012, 2014 by Susan Connell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Thank You.

For Kim & John, Georgia & Cliff and Annie & Sean

Chapter 1

Diamonds.

Eight, perfectly cut, dazzling beauties. And for a few stolen moments they were all hers. With a smile tugging at her lips, Gwen Mansfield adjusted the two-carat, pear-shaped stone on her second finger and sighed. If there was one thing she knew, it was quality jewelry. Wriggling her ring-laden fingers, she held them close to the colored lights and hummed along with the mall's Christmas music. Even the embarrassment of her four broken engagements couldn't dim her appreciation of the magical mix of fire and ice.

As her gaze drifted toward her white fur cuffs and her red velvet sleeves, she winced then rolled her eyes. Dressing in an elf costume for the entire holiday season was not the best way to rebuild her reputation. But she wasn't about to argue with Bixby and Mellon Jewelers. Spending several nights a week surrounded by their fine jewelry certainly beat flipping burgers to help pay for the upkeep of Scarborough Hall. She frowned, thinking about the bills from the carpenter, the electrician, and from that darned plumber. Picturing the growing list of creditors, she stiffened her fingers in protest.

She had managed to lose four fiancés, but she wasn't going to lose Scarborough Hall. Keeping the apartment house was her best chance to prove to herself and everyone else in King's Crossing that she could manage at least one part of her life without disaster. Furthermore, her tenants' faith in her was doing wonders for her self-esteem.

She pictured the once elegant mansion, its mullioned windows warmed with candlelight, its scars softened by the evening snow, and its eight tenants happily counting on her for a roof over their heads. Lord knew that, like her, the tenants would never be able to count on Brian Flanagan. The sooner she could buy his half of Scarborough Hall and obtain a renovation loan, the more secure all their lives would be. Until then she'd take a third job besides her freelance graphic-design work to pay the expenses, because nobody was taking Scarborough Hall from her. Absolutely nobody.

In a rush of renewed determination Gwen smacked both hands on the display case. Realizing her mistake too late, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as a one-carat, emerald-cut diamond flew off her finger. A sibilant curse escaped her lips as she watched the ring arc across the room then disappear into the jewelry store's Christmas tree.

Flipping the latch on the half door, she shoved it open and hurried onto the floor. Let it be under the tree, she prayed, holding her fists to her chin. Please, please, let it be under the tree, and I'll never, ever do another self-indulgent thing in my life.

Ting, ting, ting!

The bells on her elf slippers seemed to mock her plea. She didn't care, she told herself as she searched the upper branches. Nothing could be more embarrassing than calling Mrs. Bixby out of the back room to tell the old witch she'd just thrown away a three-thousand-dollar diamond.

Ting, ting, ting!

Dropping to her knees, she reached over the circling toy train and began searching through the miniature village laid out in front of the tree. No ring. Panic spiraled through her. She couldn't afford a new hot-water heater, so how in hell was she going to pay for a three-thousand-dollar diamond?

When you're done there, would you come play under my Christmas tree?

The voice, rich and baritone, came to her through the Christmas music, the ting, ting, ting! of her elf shoes, and her pounding heartbeat. Just what she needed, another man to humiliate her, and this one didn't have the grace to leave town first. Without turning, she said with admirable control, Sir, this elf doesn't make personal visits.

Even if I'm very, very good?

The voice was closer now, good-natured but insistent. While continuing her search, she answered impatiently. Bad or good, it doesn't matter. This elf is getting a headache. Please, go away.

And miss this? I don't think so.

The genuine amusement in his voice caused her to hesitate in her search and soften her tone. Look, I'm kind of busy. Why don't you get in line over there? Not bothering to raise her head, she pointed to a spot several yards out in the mall. Tell Santa what you want. He sounds as if he's in better spirits than I am.

As if on cue, Santa let out another string of ho-ho-hos, then punctuated the presentation with a loud hiccup.

Well, he does sound jolly.

Gwen twisted around for a cursory glance at the man whose attention was on center court. Snow-flakes were melting in his dark, wavy hair and on the shoulders of his topcoat. The burgundy scarf tucked inside his flipped-up collar accentuated the healthy color in his cheeks and contrasted perfectly with his eyes—big blue ones, with tiny crinkles at their corners that deepened when he began laughing. The sound made her insides flutter, her spirits lift, and her vow against self-indulgence a cruel joke. She wanted to laugh, too, but she held her breath instead.

From the thick dark lashes that rimmed his eyes down to the high-gloss shine on his shoes, everything about him chorused for her continuing attention. She gave it until all she had left to give was an inevitable sigh of wariness. Good-looking, obviously successful, and by the sound of his laughter, most likely a well-balanced, happy man. Mentally tagging him, Do Not Open Until Your Next Life, she then willed him to step into the crowd and disappear.

Leaning toward her, he rested his gloved hands on his knees and whispered, I think Santa's been dipping into the eggnog.

Pressing her lips together to suppress a giggle, Gwen hunched her shoulders and nodded in mute agreement. Whoever he was, his deadpan humor tickled her. Catching sight of her reflection in a tree ornament, she coughed sharply. Not that enjoying an errant moment with a handsome stranger should hold any significance for her. How could it, when he was dressed for a night at the opera, and she resembled a game-show hostess involved in a tacky skit?

Haven't found that ring yet? he asked, removing his gloves and shoving them in his pockets.

Pressing her fingers against her thighs, she stared at the other rings she was wearing and shook her head. Please don't be nice and offer to help. Just go away before anything humiliating can happen.

I think I saw it land under the branches. Here, let me help you.

As he lowered himself onto one knee his coat caught between her leg and his. Her sheer red panty hose did nothing to defuse the sensual shiver zipping up her thigh. Lord, if she kept on holding her breath this way, she was going to keel over on him.

Sorry, she murmured as their hands tangled in a clumsy attempt to push back his coat.

My fault, he said.

But it wasn't his fault or hers when their fingers curled together, locking tight like two pieces of a puzzle. A cleverly simple puzzle. When they tried pulling away, neither seemed willing to let go. During the struggle she took in an extra breath and with it his scent—a mix of musk and citrus and cool, clean male skin. At such close range she had no choice but to look at him again. The snowflakes had melted into a mantle of beads on his hair and shoulders, making him glisten under the tree lights. In the hazy distance the children were laughing again. The fairy-tale quality of the moment turned to pure, pulsing reality when their wandering gazes met and held.

When a different kind of awareness began, she let go of him, pulled off her elf cap, and shoved back her hair. She had to clear her head of those unexpected and therefore peculiar notions. I must find that ring, she announced loudly.

Okay, let's do it. He reached toward the toy train, but before he could touch anything she spoke again.

That's okay. I'll find it. She gestured impatiently with both hands. If he would simply go away...

But—

You don't have to help. I'll find it. Trying with all her might to ignore the tickling sensations of his trousers against her thigh, and the corresponding sensations in a more central part of her body, she reached past his hand and over the train set. "I have to find it."

Steve Stratton knew what he wanted for Christmas. A long-legged elf with an attitude.

The last time he felt so certain about a gift was three decades ago, and that was a ten-speed bicycle. Since then he had to be forced to the wall and made to mumble anything but clothes and, later, the name of the latest aftershave. But this year he knew, and it was only the day after Thanksgiving.

Smiling, he watched the elf with the upturned nose and big hazel eyes frantically sifting mounds of artificial snow through her fingers. With a frustrated growl, she sat back on her heels, pursed her full lips, and attempted to blow the snow from her other rings with quick puffs of air. After several enthusiastic tries, she flipped her hair away from her face and stuck out her hands.

Would you look at this stuff? I'll be searching through it until closing time.

He was looking, all right, but not at her hands. A cloud of hair the color of shiny chestnuts and warm brandy wreathed her animated expression.

From her guileless eyes to her squinched-up mouth, she pulled at something inside him until he wanted to laugh with joy. Crazy, unadulterated joy. He couldn't remember the last time anyone made him feel so damned good.

Glancing at the toy train, he kept a serious expression on his face. If you won't let me under the tree with you, would you allow me to give you a clue?

Please. If you see the ring, just tell me. I have enough mysteries in my life.

Now that she was looking at him, he couldn't tell whether it was the light reflecting off the glass display cases or tears of frustration gathering in her eyes. Considering the tenseness in her voice, he decided it was a combination of the two. Reaching into the coal car, he picked out the diamond ring. One less mystery, he said softly as he held it up between them.

Her cherry-red lips rounded in surprise as she reached for the ring. If he leaned forward he could turn that inviting circle into the tastier half of a kiss. Before he could act, her expression changed into a radiant smile that hit him in the solar plexus.

You saved my life, she said as she slipped the ring back on her finger.

Really?

After staring at it for a few seconds, she lifted her head. I know it sounds melodramatic, but... really. I mean, I could have lost my job.

That she cared so much about her work moved him. But her lack of superficiality moved him more. Who was this enchanting creature? He dipped his chin in mock seriousness as he read her name tag. Is Gwen your elf name?

Looking at him with renewed caution, she answered slowly. Y-e-s-s-s.

Well, Gwen, elfing sounds a lot more dangerous than it used to be. Rings flying through the air, the hazards of artificial snow... Swiping a hand over his wet hair, he mumbled, Thank heavens you know how to fill those Christmas stockings, he said, eyeing two of the most beautiful legs he'd ever seen.

Pardon me. Did you say something about Christmas stockings?

Hmmm?

Never mind, Mister...

Stratton. Steve Stratton, he said, standing and reaching into his coat pocket. I'm here to pick up— His words were interrupted by shrieks of laughter from the mall's center court.

Sounds like you were right about the eggnog, she said, straining for a look around him, then shaking her head. Santa's just spilled his sack of candy canes all over the steps.

As Gwen returned to straightening the village under the tree, a little girl broke through the crowd outside the jewelry store and rushed up to them. She pushed her glasses back up her nose then pointed at Gwen. You're an elf, right?

Part-time elf. Wednesday nights and alternate Saturdays I'm, uh, someone else, Gwen said, backing away from the tree on her knees.

Well, what's wrong with Santa? the little girl asked, her voice demanding immediate satisfaction.

Santa's not feeling well, she said, looking up at Steve. He urged her on with a you-can-do-it nod. He, uh...—she stopped and shrugged, before continuing—has an allergy.

Steve watched the child's expression turn from concern to healthy skepticism, her large brown eyes shifting toward Santa then back to Gwen. Really?

Shall we tell her the truth about Santa, Elf Gwen? Steve asked.

Her hazel eyes blinked furiously at him. Mr. Stratton, I don't think that's such a good idea.

Why not? he asked, pretending to ignore Gwen's yanking on the leg of his trousers. Looking down at the little girl, he slipped his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. Do you think you're big enough to handle the truth?

The little girl stepped forward. Sure. I'm six and a half years old.

Mr. Stratton!

Gwen was whacking his knee with both hands. The act was one of familiarity that bordered on intimacy, but he doubted she realized that fact. The truth was, he liked that she was unaware of it. And he liked knowing that her fury was based on protecting a child and not on a well-rehearsed tantrum just to get her way. He'd witnessed enough of that over the past two years to last his whole life.

Covering Gwen's hands with his, he held them against his leg as he smiled at the little girl. Lord, this elf was a walking advertisement for Bixby and Mellon's, he thought as he felt her rings pressing against his palm.

Mister, are you gonna tell me what's wrong with Santa?

No, he's not.

Yes, I am. Unfortunately, Santa has an allergy to eggnog.

Steve heard Gwen's quick intake of air, and then a strangled laugh as she withdrew her hands.

Well, is he gonna be better by Christmas?

If he stays away from eggnog, there shouldn't be a problem. Don't worry. I'll speak to Elf Gwen about this, he said, tilting his chin in her direction.

I'll take care of it, she said to the child.

Thanks, Elf Gwen. After flashing them both a smile with several teeth missing, she waved and started out of the store. I have to go tell my brother. Bye.

As the little girl rushed back into the