A Fairytale Christmas

He was also the most talented and dependable writer on her staff.

She knew she shouldn’t let him irritate her, but he had an annoying way of getting under her skin. That horrible half-grown beard and ponytail, those sly taunts designed to make her feel like a fraud, that cocky, go-to-hell attitude. He had the air of a man who bit off life in great, sloppy chunks and had no patience with those who were cautious and timid.

Like her.

Her visit to the city room earlier had been a disaster. She had gone down to mingle with the writers, perhaps become one of the gang. What a joke, thinking she could mingle. She came off like a cold fish every time. None of them seemed to realize she was simply shy. Least of all the insufferable Mr. Riley, who was anything but shy. He didn’t even know her. Had only seen her on one other occasion. So why did he seem to have it in for her?

Trying to dismiss thoughts of him, she removed her contact lenses and put them in her beaded evening bag, then leaned forward to peer at her slightly hazy image in the pink-tinted mirror. She should have fixed her lipstick before taking out the lenses.

Exhaling a sigh, she decided the world would have to face Madeleine Langston without fresh lipstick. She stepped from the powder room and into the white-lightning glare of a camera flash. Her smile was automatic as someone snapped her picture for the society pages; her conversation was fluent as she discussed her father’s legacy in publishing. None of the elegant company would ever guess how utterly awkward she felt.

Or how unbearably lonely. It was nearly Christmas, and she would be spending the holiday with her cat. It was too pathetic.

Once again, her errant thoughts wandered to Jack Riley. He wasn’t bored. At this moment, he was probably dressed in something scandalously tight, made of black leather, and careening on ice skates around the pond in Central Park.

* * *

Bored, that’s what he was.

Jack glared at the files on his desk. Derek and Brad owed him big this time. He had finished proofing their work for them. Their boring, pedestrian work. He himself hadn’t done a juicy story in weeks. What was wrong with Manhattan these days? Where was all the murder and mayhem when a guy needed it?

Jack locked his desk, turned off his computer and left the office, ducking under a dried-up sprig of mistletoe. In the long, gleaming corridor, he encountered one of the cleaning ladies.

“Working late again, Jack?” she called out.

He grinned and looked down at his well-lived-in sweats. “You won’t see me turning into a pumpkin yet, Cora.”

“Yeah, but have you checked your car lately?”

“A car? On my salary?” he asked. He’d long since sold his over-the-hill Mercury Marquis. Six years ago, he’d driven it to Manhattan from Muleshoe, Texas. He’d had nothing but a journalism degree from UT and a pocketful of dreams. “I’m taking the subway, sweetheart.”

“Be careful, Jack.”

He had cause to remember her admonition when, five minutes later, he turned down Lexington and saw two large thugs in the process of mugging a small, rotund man.

You’re a New Yorker now, pal, he told himself, even as he broke into a run toward the shadowy figures. You’re supposed to look the other way. But deep inside his Texas-born-and-bred chest beat the heart of a man who despised violence and injustice.

His size-twelve feet carried him swiftly over the littered, frozen street. One lowlife had the little man shoved up against the rough brick wall of a building. The other groped inside the victim’s pockets.

Jack launched himself into a body slam. Stringy hair slapped him in the face. The breath left his target in a whoosh. Curling his fist into the back of a leather collar, Jack sent the man sprawling into a mound of midwinter slush. He fell easily—probably weak from being strung out on drugs—and crashed into a heap of damp cardboard boxes.

A fist smashed into Jack’s stomach. His mercilessly conditioned muscles tightened at the contact. Even as he grunted, more in annoyance than pain, he clipped his assailant on the jaw with a lightning uppercut. The man howled and fled, clutching his face. His oily companion dragged himself up.

Jack stood ready, his feet planted, his body taut and his nerves alive with the dark hum of adrenaline. The mugger sized him up for about three seconds, then stumbled off after his companion.

Jack started to pursue them. But one glance at the pale, sweating face of the victim stopped him.

He was a munchkin man, impeccably dressed in a topcoat, holding a brass-headed cane. He had a neatly clipped mustache and goatee. His hands, clutching the cane, shook.

“Are you hurt?” Jack asked. He stooped and retrieved an expensive-looking hat, handing it to the man.

“N-no. Just shaken.” The man produced a silk handkerchief, using it to mop his forehead. He put the hat on. “Thanks.”

In the foggy glow of a streetlamp, Jack inspected the ashen, heavily jowled face. “You sure? You want me to call a doctor or something?”

“No. I’ll just go back to the shop and call a cab. I’ve got a truck, but I don’t feel like driving tonight.” The man looked at Jack and suddenly seemed to remember himself. “Listen to me. The man saves my life and I don’t even introduce myself.” He stuck out a gloved hand. “Harry Fodgother.”

“John Patrick Riley. Call me Jack.” He instantly placed the little man. Back when he was first starting out at the paper, he’d done a stint as a copy editor. Fodgother’s name had appeared frequently in the society column: The Donald Dazzled the Dames in His Exclusive Harry Fodgother Tux…. “You’re the tailor, right?”

Harry’s features pinched with mock disdain. “Gentlemen’s clothier, if you please.” He laughed. “I call myself that, I get to charge double.”

He extracted a wad of keys from his pocket and opened a heavy steel door marked Deliveries. Jack followed him, passing through a large room filled with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, dress dummies and drafting tables. The walls boasted photos of Who’s Who types sporting Fodgother’s creations.

When they entered the shop, Jack’s feet sank two inches into the plush carpet. The showroom was done in leather, brass and hunter green, like a gentlemen’s English bar, complete with hunting scenes on the walls. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in sight. He suspected the ready-to-wears were tucked into the antique armoires, chests and highboys.

“Nice place,” he remarked.

“Indeed.” Harry switched on a green-shaded banker’s lamp on a desk and picked up the phone. “There’s an icebox under the counter there. Have a beer.”

Jack opened a beer for himself and one for Harry while Fodgother called for a cab. When he hung up, Jack asked, “Aren’t you going to report this to the police?”

Fodgother shook his head. “They were just a couple of dopers. I didn’t really get a look at them. You came along before they took anything except my pride. Police would take all night and …” His voice trailed off as Jack drew something out of his pocket.

“Damn,” Jack said, frowning. “I thought I threw this away.” Actually, he had thrown the invitation away, but on impulse he had rescued the card. Maybe to show his mother, who always wanted to hear about his highfalutin’ New York City friends. She never could get it into her head that he didn’t hobnob with John F. Kennedy, Jr., on a regular basis.

He came out from behind the counter and handed Harry a beer.

“You were working late,” Jack observed. “Cheers.”

“I work all through the season.” He lifted his beer bottle. “Mazel tov.”

Jack grinned and took a sip. “Same to you.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“Texas, but my accent’s fading fast unless I think about it.”

Harry picked up the cream stock card. He read it quickly, then slapped his forehead. “An invitation from Madeleine Langston! How on earth did you come by this?”

Jack took another slug of beer. “She’s my boss. Otherwise known as the bitch goddess.”

“Gorgeous, though. She used to go out with one of my 46-Regulars.”

Jack chuckled, picturing Madeleine Langston accompanied by an empty suit. Then his amusement faded as the empty suit changed into an image of himself. Sheesh. He was losing his mind. He was one sick puppy. He wanted her.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t smitten with her.” Harry pointed his cane at Jack. “I was young once, too.”

“She’s a snow queen,” Jack protested. “Cruella De Vil. I’d have better luck with an ice sculpture.”