A St. Martin's Christmas Anthology
with
Patricia Ryan's novella Santa, Baby
Sometimes being naughty is far more satisfying than being nice—and the best lovers know that desire is a gift to enjoy together. Four of today's hottest romance authors are gathered here with stories designed to arouse your imagination, titillate your senses—and leave you breathless.
In "Santa, Baby," Patricia Ryan surprises a cynical P.I, who meets the kind of woman he never wanted—until she takes him on a journey of rapturous pleasure.
Also including novellas by:
Kathryn Smith
Carly Phillips
Sherrilyn Kenyon
"'Santa Baby' is a heartwarming story for the holiday season with a clever plot twist concerning Kat. Usually the hero has the deep, dark secrets so it's a refreshing and pleasant change for the plot to switch ideas around. Ms. Ryan has also managed to write multiple layers in Jack and his emotions, with the added benefit of getting the reader to want to 'root' for Jack when things get tough. 'Santa, Baby' is a lighthearted, fast-paced treat for the holiday, or any day."
--The Romance Journal
"'I want you to steal my husband's girlfriend from him' has got to be the opening line of the year....With its clever twists and interesting take on the issues of trust and fidelity, 'Santa, Baby' made me look forward to Patricia Ryan's full-length books."
--All About Romance
"I love how they fall in love, and I shed a tear or two at the happy ending....One of the best I've read this year." --Everything Romantic
"I want you to steal my husband's girlfriend from him."
Jack O'Leary, lazing back in his squeaky old leather swivel chair, his blue-jeaned legs braced on the battered Steelcase desk that took up about a third of what passed for his office, stilled. He looked up from the snow globe he'd been absently toying with while Celeste Worth growled on about the lying, cheating bastard she couldn't afford to divorce because of the pre-nup from hell.
It was a variation on a theme that was all too familiar to Jack, two-thirds of whose private investigations involved the extramarital hijinks of his clients' husbands. He'd sat through more than his share of hysterics, rage and--oh, man, the worst--quiet weeping by any number of Wronged Wives.
Madame Celeste had actually been a good deal more composed than most when he'd first broken the news to her. It had been three or four weeks ago, right before Thanksgiving, that he'd called her into the office to show her the results of his brief but productive inquiry into the illicit frolics of one Preston Wrigley Worth III. She'd skimmed the report with refreshing stoicism, glanced coolly at the 8x10 glossies, written him a check and left. He'd been relieved to have gotten off so easily...until half an hour ago, when she'd shown up without an appointment, bulled her way past Grady in the outer office, planted herself on the other side of the desk and launched into an anti-Preston diatribe that was notable only for its unoriginality.
Until she came to the part about Jack stealing Preston's girlfriend from him.
"Come again?" Reaching out, Jack set the snow globe down on his desk. Within it, a swarm of little white flakes drifted and swirled around a three-dimensional representation of Santa crawling into a rooftop chimney, a bulging sack thrown over his shoulder.
"You heard me." Celeste flipped open a monogrammed cigarette case, slid a black Balkan Sobranie between her collagen-plumped, frosted coral lips, and regarded him with an air of listless expectation.
Taking his time, Jack lowered his feet to the floor and rummaged in his middle desk drawer for the book of matches he'd snagged from that topless joint on Seventh Avenue last weekend. He'd gone there to check out the owner, whose wife had suspected him of dallying with the dancers. He'd lingered long after confirming those suspicions because--and this was the pathetic part, and the reason he'd ended up tying one on that night, which he almost never did anymore--it was the first time he'd seen a woman naked, or just about, since...
Damn, had it really been a year? Sure enough; it was last December that Jessica had given him the heave-ho. He took the diamond engagement ring he'd meant to give her on Christmas Eve back to Tiffany's, then ripped down all the pine swags and wreaths she'd tacked up around the apartment and stuffed them down the incinerator.
Ho ho ho.
Celeste studied him through contacts the color of green Lifesavers as he leaned forward to light her cigarette. He managed not to stare back despite his morbid fascination with the results of an overzealous facelift, which made her look like one of those Eyeliner Barbies from the fifties as reflected in a fun house mirror.
Spewing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, Madame extracted from her faux leopard-print handbag a carefully scissored little newspaper clipping, which she handed across the desk to him. "I placed this ad in the personals section of the Village Voice two weeks ago."
Jack snapped on his desk lamp and held the clipping under its smoke-hazed corona of light:
WANTED: SEDUCTIVE, SELF-ASSURED MALE to take my husband's girlfriend from him. She is an attractive blonde in her early thirties who enjoys travel, fine dining and the theater. Generous reward. Photo required.
He looked up. "You've got to be kidding."
Celeste took another drag on the cigarette, her hard green gaze fixed on him as she exhaled. "I'm not actually much of a kidder, Jack."
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