Early holiday season query:

If you’re doing a radio show with Santa and discover, after jokingly sitting on his lap, that the North Pole is more than a geographic location . . . well, just how far down in hell will you go if you lay Santa? On the upside, he said I’d been a very good girl. On the downside, however, he only comes once a year.

Chapter 3

Helloo? Anybody home?” Tanzy’s voice echoed down the central hallway and up the massive winding staircase as she let herself into Harrington House, a High Victorian Queen Anne with all the appropriate turrets, towers, and excessive ornamentation that was popular in the late eighteen hundreds, when the house was built.

Millicent was quite proud of Big Harry, as Tanzy called it when Millicent wasn’t around. It was one of the few houses that had survived the great earthquake and fire after the turn of the twentieth century. Fitting, Tanzy thought with a smile, seeing as her great-aunt, a pillar of society, was somewhat of an architectural treasure herself, still sturdy and erect, facing a new century with nary a lapse in strength or conviction.

She quickly punched in the security code so the alarm wouldn’t go off. Millicent treasured her heritage, but was also quite the techno-geek, enjoying all the latest gadgets. Tanzy sighed as she searched for the new pressure-sensitive light pad Millicent had raved about over Thanksgiving.

“Hello?”

Her own voice echoed back. So, where was this Riley person anyway? No one had answered her call earlier, so she’d simply planned on arriving around six and hoping for the best where dinner was concerned. Of course, it was closer to seven now, but her early morning Single Santa radio show had turned into a late afternooner with Single Santa. Single at Christmas she might be, but that didn’t mean she had to jingle her own bells.

She sniffed the air, but no heavenly scents were wafting down the hall. Apparently she’d missed dinner. She tugged her cell phone out of her purse as she nudged her overnight bag with her toe, scooting it to the base of the stairs. She stroked her hand over the highly polished newel post. How many times had she slid down that banister, she wondered, still tempted every time she set foot in the place. It would be a little rough at the moment, what with the fresh pine garland woven with berries and other assorted stuff Tanzy had never learned the names of. It was barely December, but Millicent prided herself on her holiday décor. She always had a crew in the day after Thanksgiving, which had been the last time Tanzy had been here, bailing out early that morning as the first flotilla of vans and trucks had pulled up out front.

They’d done a masterful job as always, she noted, finally finding the pressure pad. Faux gas lamps sprang to life, softly illuminating the front parlor. She’d take her bags up later; first she wanted to see this year’s pageant of excess. Humming “Jingle Bells” under her breath, she wandered the length of the room. Every year she assumed Millicent couldn’t outdo herself. Why, she had no idea, as her aunt always accomplished what she set out to do.

Tanzy punched the speed dial code on her phone for Hunan Palace, then leaned down to inspect the intricate white iris ikebana arrangement on the sideboard. Each room, including the powder rooms, would have its own holiday theme, complete with coordinated color scheme and tastefully accessorized tree. It was enough to make Martha Stewart multiorgasmic.

Apparently the front parlor had been tagged Deluge of Doves or something, given the countless delicate little white birds flitting amongst the bows of the slender Douglas fir. The color scheme for this room was a blinding, yet ever-so-tasteful winter white. Even the rug and furniture had been replaced or re-covered. Millicent was nothing if not a slave to detail.

“Hunan Palace. May I take your order?”

Tanzy fingered one softly feathered dove and spoke without even having to think. “Kung Pao Chicken, as hot as you can make it, two spring rolls, extra rice. Delivered please.” She gave directions, then tucked the phone away as she continued to wander the length of the front room. She made it to the center, then stopped dead and stared straight up, completely awed. The chandelier had been transformed, each crystal drop having been painstakingly replaced with hundreds of intricately cut crystal snowflakes.

“Well, damn. You da man, Aunt Millie,” she declared reverently.

“I thought no one dared call her anything but Millicent,” came a startlingly deep voice from the doorway. “That is, when they aren’t addressing her as Ms. Harrington, or Madame H.”

Tanzy spun around to find a tallish, somewhat lean man standing just inside the arched entrance to the room. Rangy, she thought, was a better term to describe him. Although somehow that didn’t quite suit the rest of the image. Rangy indicated a certain edginess. This man was more . . . generic. Generic charcoal-gray suit, made of generic cloth, styled in a generic cut, not ill-fitting, but not tailored, either. Nice enough black leather shoes, sturdy yet manly. Tanzy had always held that a man could be judged by the thickness of his soles. The thinner the soles, the thinner the character.

Average soles, she noted, with just a hint of thickness. Interesting. Hair was styled in Generic Barbershop. Dark, not wavy, not overly straight, worn just a fraction too long. Somehow it looked more bookish than rakish on him. Although that might have been due to the thick, wire-rimmed glasses. All in all, not bad, really. For a sheep.

Well, except for that voice. Definite high wolf quotient on the voice. Maybe he should think about radio. Or phone sex.

She looked back up at the chandelier, hiding her amusement. “I’m Tanzy, Millicent’s grandniece, and I only call her Millie when she’s three thousand miles away.” She glanced back at him, surprised to find he’d closed the distance between them. Stealth quotient moderate to above average, she thought. She’d have to remember that. She stuck her hand out. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I assume you’re the infamous Riley?”

He didn’t react to the attribute, but simply delivered a perfunctory, somewhat cool-handed shake, barely grasping her fingers. Not the kind of grip that pinned a woman to the bed. Ah well.

“Riley Parrish,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to greet you at the door.”

He offered no other excuse and Tanzy didn’t ask for one. She didn’t need a watchdog, companion, or a hovering pseudo-host. Apparently he didn’t aspire to be any of those things, either. Perfect. They should get along just fine. “I wasn’t sure about dinner, so I ordered in Chinese. I’ll be glad to share.” She paused, gave him a not-so-innocent half smile. “That is, if you can handle the heat.”

Not so much as a flicker of testosterone.

“Helen left several dishes prepared,” he said. “I missed your message—”

“I didn’t leave one.”

He merely nodded. “So I thought I’d wait until your arrival to arrange dinner.”

She wished she could see his eyes, but the reflection of the illuminated snowflakes danced across the lenses of his glasses, completely obliterating her view of what lay behind them. Not that she held out any remaining hope. She supposed she should be thankful for the ear candy he provided every time he spoke. “Don’t go to any trouble. I’m happy with takeout. Besides, I sort of got behind schedule this afternoon. If you’re not going to join me, I’ll just take it upstairs and have a working dinner.”

There was a small pause as he studied her from behind his shield of snowflakes. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the tiniest spike of tension crept between them. Then he inclined his head slightly and said, “As you wish. I have work of my own to keep me occupied.” He turned, escaping any further inspection on her part. “I’ll leave a light on in the kitchens for you in case you need or want anything later. I’m seven on your phone pad if you need me, otherwise I’ll bid you good night.”

Bid you good night? Who said stuff like that? He was beyond the total sheep. He was the sheepmaster, the guy who taught other sheep how to embrace their inner sheepness. He was thirty, thirty-five max. Couldn’t you at least leave me something fun to play with for Christmas, Aunt Millie? His aloofness wasn’t even tempting.

“Have a good one, Riley,” she called to his retreating generic form. She couldn’t even make out his backside beneath the slack fit of his jacket. “I’ve got an early call in the morning, so I’ll be quiet when I let myself out.”

He paused beneath the archway. “Early call?” How anyone with a voice like that could make a question sound so completely lifeless was beyond her. Zero intensity with this guy.

“I’ve got to tape this thing for the Barbara Bradley Show. They screwed up the schedule again, so I’m on early. I’ve got a few other things after that, but I’ll be back by dinner if you want to give one of Helen’s mystery dishes a whirl.” She had no earthly idea why she’d added that last part, but Millicent had asked her to be here and the least she could do was play nice.

“That would be fine. I’ll have it ready by six.”

“Six it is.”

He nodded and left.

“Boy, can I get the hot dates or what?” she asked the doves clinging to a spray of what looked like sugarplums. The doves stared vacantly back at her. “Might as well get used to that look,” she muttered, since she’d probably be seeing it across the table for the next couple of weeks.

Riley Parrish stood beneath the stinging spray of the shower and attempted to honestly assess his début performance. When Millicent had hired him for this detail, she’d been very specific about not falling under Tanzy’s “spell.” Apparently her grandniece attracted men like an open flower attracted bees. Or Santa attracted elves, he thought with a wry smile. Millicent had made it clear she wanted him to be vigilant, yet maintain a certain distance.

Riley hadn’t really thought that would be a problem. He was a professional first and always. But Millicent had pressed, saying if push came to shove in this situation, she didn’t want emotional issues clouding the waters. He’d been on the job for less than a week and he still wasn’t convinced there even was a situation, but he’d already wasted his breath explaining that a few emails hardly constituted a serious threat. Millicent had paid the retainer plus expenses anyway.

So, in his professional capacity as both her personal protection and private investigator, he’d done some digging on one Tanzanita Harrington—and just what the hell kind of name was that anyway?—and learned that she was well educated, self-employed, had good business savvy, and confidence out the wazoo, was aggressive both professionally and personally, and was a minor media celebrity . . . and a man-eater, by all indications. More like a Venus Flytrap—emphasis on the word flytrap—than a flower. But he wasn’t threatened by any of it. Intrigued maybe.

That latter part had been uppermost in his mind when he’d read her column this afternoon while parked at the end of the ninth-floor hallway at the Four Seasons. Killing time while she got her holly jolly ho ho’s off. He had to admit that since beginning this job and reading archives of her columns, he had come to enjoy her biweekly diatribes on the single life. He found her brash, in-your-face style refreshingly candid. He admired people who didn’t feel the need to apologize for their opinions. Even if he didn’t completely agree with hers.

It was when he’d read her comment on the wolf versus sheep theory she was developing that he’d hit on a solution that would reassure Millicent . . . and make his job easier. Or at the very least, more entertaining. And he was a firm believer in enjoying his work.

Finnian Parrish, his father, business partner, and general pain in the ass, would think his idea was nuts. Which was expressly why he hadn’t shared it with him. Riley had gotten them the job, hadn’t he? How he ran it was his business. Not that Finn would ever even know. He was on another job, in Santa Rosa. Riley would likely have this wrapped up before Finn got back into town.

Besides, how better to go unnoticed on Tanzy’s radar than to become a sheep? Of course, he hadn’t really intended to do more than be wallpaper this evening. Unnoticed, background material, human white noise. Then she’d gone and flashed those expressive green eyes at him—which hadn’t looked nearly so interesting on the tapes he’d viewed of her talk-show spots—and he’d found himself saying things like “bid you good night.” Just to tweak her.

He flipped off the water, picturing that deflated look that had crossed her face when he’d limply shaken the tips of her fingers. Not wolfish enough for you, sweetheart? Grinning, he grabbed a towel and rubbed himself dry. Yeah, this assignment wasn’t going to be particularly challenging, but it was likely to last a little while. At least until he could convince Millicent that her grandniece wasn’t in any direct danger. So why not have a little harmless fun with it?

Besides, it would fill the Parrish coffers and get his dad off his back. Who was he kidding? He shook the water from his hair. Finn resided on his son’s back, always had, ever since Riley had been named starting running back in junior high.

Riley limped a little as he strolled to the small office that was part of his suite of rooms—cushy assignment, but hey, it was the holidays, he deserved to treat himself, right?—and flipped on the laptop monitor. Between the damp Bay Area weather and all the recent surveillance, his knee was giving him fits. It was at times like this that he thought maybe his dad had the right idea after all about taking their business venture south, to warmer, more soothing climes, but he’d be the last to admit it.

After cashing in just about everything he owned to get his dad’s business out of hock, Riley figured they’d do things his way for a while. And with this job coming on the heels of the Waterston job, they were finally getting somewhere. He figured Millicent would be good for at least a handful of referrals.

Still, the little daggers of pain reminded him to check online stats after he was done working. The Pioneers had a shot at the postseason this year, even though, in Riley’s opinion, Coach Schilling had been nuts to take the draft pick over grabbing Harrison when he became a free agent. But then, Riley was only a washed-up former player, so what the hell did he know? He’d been gone from the team as long as he’d been on it, having only four years in the pros before blowing out his knee in a collision on a punt return. Not enough to bank a serious nest egg, or get an on-air job announcing, much less a coaching position. Maybe at the college level, but his dad had needed him then and . . . well, here he still was.

A split screen popped up on the laptop monitor, showing views from all the security cameras and dragging his attention back to the matter at hand. Millicent had been nothing if not prompt in making the slight adjustments he’d recommended, things she should have done anyway, regardless of her grandniece being in residence. Actually, he’d been pleasantly surprised at how cutting edge her existing system had been.

He smiled, shaking his head once again at his luck. Who knew tailing Old Man Waterston’s wife would lead to a recommendation for this job. Waterston was a frequent skybox guest of Pioneer owner Monk Williams and considered himself something of a football aficionado despite never having played the game himself. Riley had always thought him something of a blowhard, but hadn’t exactly walked away when Waterston had called him up on business. A job was a job, after all.

He’d gotten some nice shots of Mitzi Waterston and her tennis instructor doing more than improving her topspin lob. It wasn’t his fault that Mitzi had hired her own investigator and nailed her husband in a similar “educational” situation. Riley wasn’t judge or jury, just the hired help. Thankfully, Howard agreed. Riley’s work had kept Mitzi from taking the randy old coot for everything he had. They’d settled out of court, if not out of the papers. The media had had a field day with it.

But Riley had gotten paid. And a job rec. All in all, not a bad day’s work.

In fact, he could get used to working for the monde riche. Sure they could be eccentric, self-important, demanding pains in the asses, but then he worked with his father, who was all of that and more. Besides, the rich not only paid well, even more important, they paid on time. Although, to be honest, he’d taken this job as much because he liked the grande dame as he had to keep Parrish Securities’ income incoming.

He pictured Tanzy’s amused expression when she’d discovered the snowflake chandelier. Apparently the grandniece thought Millicent was something else, too. A point in her favor, he thought as he scanned the monitor, seeing nothing out of order, indoors or out.

Comfortably naked, he sat at the desk, rubbing his knee as he flipped up another, smaller laptop. This was his own, personal unit. He typed in the code to unlock it, then logged on to his ISP. “Come on, Ernie, have something for me here, pal.” A couple of clicks later, he was whistling appreciatively beneath his breath. “I owe you, man.” But then, that wasn’t surprising. Ernie always came through, and Riley didn’t mind paying the going rate.

He was one of many connections Riley had made during his years with the Sacramento Pioneers. It was amazing what people did for a living, postfootball. In this case, Ernie was actually the father of the Pioneers’ star place kicker, a retired agent who’d specialized in computer fraud, now in private consulting. Riley privately consulted him all the time.

“So,” he said, highlighting the latest email, “let’s see what SoulM8 is whining about tonight.” He read the note, then added it to the file he’d already created. They’d started two weeks before Thanksgiving and had kept up a fairly regular pace of one after every column. Until today, when SoulM8 sent two. Still, despite the change-up, which was a flag of sorts, nothing he’d said was anything new. And not particularly threatening despite the somewhat obsessive tone.

Most celebrities got hit on by their fair share of whack-jobs. Millicent had only zoned in on this bozo because of an offhand comment by Tanzy, who apparently didn’t normally share this part of her celebrity with her great-aunt. Wonder what Millicent would think about Baaaahed Boy’s rather sexually explicit note, he thought with a grin.

But he’d explained all that, too. Ms. Harrington said she had “a feeling” about this one. Riley couldn’t really fault the old dame. Tanzy was the only family she was close to, and, at her age, she was allowed to be overprotective. Though God strike him dead if his own father ever caught wind of that particular sentiment.

And if the time came when there was a distinct shift in more than just the email pattern, he’d zip the emails into a file and shoot them to another associate for analysis. Ernie was working on tracing the accounts of the sender, as he changed them often and always with bogus information, but they both agreed it was likely he worked for the service provider, which gave him greater access for spamming. Sort of like a sparky working for the fire department.

Yawning deeply, Riley decided against getting geared up over his old team and their current standings and signed off. He checked down the hall to the double-door entrance to Tanzy’s rooms. No light beneath the door. All appeared quiet. Good. Time for one last round of the lower floors, then it was lights out for him. In a bed designed by angels, he thought with an appreciative sigh. He definitely had to consider taking on more work of this nature.

No more two A.M. surveillance crap in the dead of winter, waiting for some dumb bastard to leave his mistress’s company-owned-and-paid-for shack-up because he thought his country club wife was too stupid to notice the smell of White Orchid on his dry-cleaned shirts. No baby-sitting bratty local talent, sitting outside their thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suites, sucking down cold room-service coffee, while the spoiled inhabitants of said room were having wild, orgiastic groupie sex. Nope, he’d kiss that all good-bye in a heartbeat. Of course, working for high society wasn’t always going to be like working for the Harringtons, or Howie Waterston, for that matter. But hell, just how bad could it be?

Of course, if his dad had his way, they’d be sitting in Scottsdale, Arizona, right now, preferably on the edge of some golf course. Yeah, Riley thought, pulling on a pair of sweats, where I could be doing all the work and Dad could be perfecting his five iron. He pushed away the edges of guilt that always threatened when he thought about what should have been his dad’s golden retirement years . . . all financed by his only son’s long and celebrated pro football career.

Finn shouldn’t have banked on him, he told himself for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time, it didn’t make him feel any better.

Riley shoved the fake glasses on and pulled on the flannel robe he’d bought as part of his “sheep” look as well. He should have gone for the slippers, too, he thought, as his toes grew colder by the second on the marble flooring of the foyer.

He checked the lower rooms, still amazed, even though he’d been through them all already, at the very rich flights of fancy that filled them all. He even had a fully decorated tree in his bathroom, for Christ’s sake.

He’d just pressed the lights off when he heard the scuff of slippers on the stairs. He could have stepped through the arched doorway and announced his presence, probably should have. It would have startled her, but there was no reason to remain hidden. And yet he did anyway. After all, he’d been tailing her all day, that’s what he was paid to do. Just following orders.

He moved silently around the landing in time to see her duck down the hallway to the kitchens, in the rear of the house. However, when he didn’t use this latest opportunity to step into the room on the pretext of getting a glass of warm milk—that’s what sheep drank, right?—he supposed it might not entirely be Millicent’s keep-your-distance instructions that held him back in the hallway shadows.

Tanzy stood in front of the massive WWE-size fridge he’d lusted after from the moment he saw it. The interior light silhouetted her jersey-clad frame. Niners, he noted, with a silent snort. Ever since Montana left, they’d been nothing but a bunch of benchwarming wannabes.

Oblivious to his mental trash talk, she studied the deep shelves, the contents of which probably rivaled Wolfgang Puck’s personal fridge. Riley thought of his fridge and wondered, if he had a unit like this one, which did everything but deliver cold beer on tap from the door handle—and he wasn’t too sure it didn’t—would he still only have one half-empty box of Chinese carryout and two bottles of Miller inside it? Of course, if it did have the beer tap, who cared?

But right at the moment, his attention was more on what stood in front of it. Between his research and surveillance, he’d seen her dressed in everything from her fashionably hip daytime talk-show wardrobe to her young-heiress-social-set slinky stuff. So why in the hell the ratty old football jersey—team alliance notwithstanding—was the thing that got his attention, he had no idea. Probably because it was the only label he could identify on sight. Haute NFL.

She closed the door, empty-handed, and scuffed back out to the hallway. He sank farther into the shadows and slowed his breath as she passed within a foot of him. So, his covert mission had gained him a couple of new insights after all, he thought, letting his breath out in a quiet whoosh when she reached the staircase.

One: She was pretty damn picky about midnight snacks.

Two: She smelled pretty damn good.

And three: He bet she tasted better than anything inside that monster refrigerator.

He was still trying to erase that last one as he paused outside her door. One quick turn of the handle and he could talk her out of that jersey and show her all about his inner wolf.

“Be the sheep,” he muttered as he slipped into his room and crawled into bed. He groaned as he sank deeply into the cloud masquerading as a mattress and reconsidered the value of gaining impossible wealth. Eighteenth-hole housing and golden retirement years aside, he’d be a happy man if he could only have this bed and the fridge downstairs.

Yet it wasn’t feather down or the joys of beer on tap that chased after him into dreamland. “Baaahh. Humbug.”