Dear Santa

“C’mon,” she said gently, tugging the covers out from under Haley’s itty-bitty butt. “Time for sleep.”

Without protest, Haley squirmed underneath the covers, hugging Henry. “Will you be here when I wake up?” she asked, and Mia’s heart broke.

“Oh, honey…I wish I could, but I’ve got work to do in the city tomorrow. But I’ll be back soon.”

Wide eyes searched hers. “You promise?”

Damn. But then, what were the odds of her being creamed by a semi or offed by a trigger-happy mugger or a flowerpot falling on her head within forty-eight hours of Justine’s death? So Mia sucked in a huge breath that was equal parts prayer and willpower and said, “I promise, baby,” she said, then bent over to wrap the little girl in her arms. “Big squeezies. No—biiiig squeezies!” she said again, and Haley strung her tiny arms around Mia’s neck and hugged her for all she was worth. Then they rubbed noses and Mia laid her down again and gave her about twenty kisses before finally tearing herself away.

As she stood, however, she mouthed, “Your turn,” at Grant. Who, after a moment’s panicked eye-lock, moved toward the bed…only to pivot back to Mia with a weird mixture of sorrow and relief on his face.

“She’s already asleep,” he whispered, and Mia thought, You wanna bet?

Grant trailed her down the stairs, thinking about God knew what, Mia thinking that as much as she hated—hated—leaving Haley, she could not wait to blow this joint. Preferably while her guard was still firmly in place. But when she zeroed in on the curvy-legged table in the foyer where Etta had parked her stuff, Grant said behind her, “Don’t go yet. Please.”

She owed this man nothing. Not her time, and certainly not her emotional energy. That particular “on” switch had been disabled a long, long time ago. So more fool she for whatever it was that derailed her, made her turn back. Provoked an actual flicker of sympathy at the vulnerability in those icy eyes.

“I really have to get back—”

“Ten minutes,” he said, and she sighed and dumped everything back on the table, then tromped back across the foyer, past the Jackson Pollock dominating the east wall, underneath the opera-house-size crystal chandelier suspended from the twenty-foot ceiling, over the Persian rug larger than her first apartment.

Money, money, money…

Grant stood aside to let her enter the office, gesturing for her to sit. Anywhere, apparently. At least a half dozen chairs begged for the privilege, mostly contemporary leather numbers in rich browns and tans, a tweedy club chair or two for variety. Funny, she would have expected lots of chrome and glass, assorted shades of black.

An open stainless steel casket, maybe, discretely placed in a far corner.

Mia briefly shut her eyes, picturing nuns the world over sighing in dismay. However, the only alternative to the grossly inappropriate flashes of black humor that overtook her whenever she was majorly stressed was grief-induced catatonia. And anyway, she could have sworn the casket comment had been in Justine’s voice, accompanied by a burst of laughter and a lifted glass of Chablis.

Shoving aside an image of Justine as Mia last remembered her—runway beautiful and pulsing with energy, her eyes sparkling with mischief as they tromped down Madison Avenue arm-in-arm on a spur-of-the-moment shopping spree—Mia flopped down in one of the leather chairs. Still, the image, and the truth, lurked at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to pounce.

Ten minutes, she thought, her jeans rough against her palms as she scraped them over her thighs. I can hang on for ten more minutes—

“Were you able to eat before you came up?” Grant asked quietly, his brows slightly dipped. Mia shook her head. “Would you like something, then? A sandwich, at least—”

“No, I’m good.” Except she then realized her mouth felt like she’d been French-kissing a blow-dryer. “I could use some water, though.”

With a curt nod, Grant crossed to the small bar on the other side of the room, his loose-fitting black sweater (fine-gauge, she was guessing cashmere) and matching cords doing nothing to disguise the six-foot-plus package of solid, pulsing testosterone underneath. On paper, the man looked good. Okay, in person he looked good—all head-turning gorgeous with his dark hair and those eerie gray eyes, tall and fit and broad of shoulder, the way leading men used to look before somebody decided, for some inexplicable reason, that potent masculinity was overrated.

Add smart—investment whiz of the straw-in-to-gold variety—and insanely rich, and… Well. Mia supposed she could see the attraction. If one were into men whose beverage of choice was Type O Positive.

She shut her eyes again. Go straight to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars….

“Here you go.”

Jumping slightly, Mia opened her eyes again to see an über-masculine hand proffering a heavy, deeply etched glass and a parchment-colored cocktail napkin. “Thanks,” she muttered, gulping down half the glass as Grant—still standing, still watching her—took a measured sip of his own drink. Something ambery and undoubtedly potent. And even more undoubtedly expensive.

“Are you all right?” he asked, startling her enough to make her hand jerk, sloshing water over the edge of the glass.

“I’m fine,” she said, dabbing at her front with the napkin. She tried a smile, then thought, Why? “Although, to be frank, I don’t think it’s really hit yet.”

Grant lifted his drink to his lips, then, inexplicably, relieved her of the damp, crumpled napkin before striding back to the bar to dispose of it. “I assume you and Justine were still close?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” She waited out the twinge of hurt, of uncertainty. “It’s been a strange couple of years,” she said, fingering the glass’s rim. “Lots of changes for both of us. So we didn’t see each other as often as we used to. Before, you know, she married you. Especially once I left the firm.”

Another image blossomed in her mind’s eye, Justine hooting with unladylike laughter in the middle of the sidewalk, making strangers—in Manhattan!—smile. Deep inside, grief stirred and stretched. Not yet! Mia thought, swallowing it down. “But I’d never had a friend like Jus.” After a moment’s contemplation of her drink, she took a sip, then said, “Although I suppose that was due as much to timing and circumstance as anything. You know,” she continued at Grant’s speculative look, “both being the new kids at the firm at the same time, not to mention new to the city, neither of us having a sister…”

Her hand shook when she lifted the glass again. “But I always knew I could count on her. Trust her. And I can’t believe…” Her eyes filled. “I can’t believe she’s g-gone,” she whispered.

And the floodgates gave way.

Chapter Two

Grant’s stomach clenched as Mia’s hand slammed over her mouth, although not quickly enough to stifle either her moan or the torrent of tears that followed. Clearly horrified at breaking down in front of him, she struggled to her feet and stumbled to the other side of the room, although whether to get away from him or in some vain attempt to escape her own grief, he couldn’t say.

Her meltdown came as no surprise, although her having held it together as long, and as well, as she had, did. Apparently, Mia Vaccaro was made of sterner stuff than he’d given her credit for, based on the few times he’d been in her company after he married Justine…a thought which in turn provoked the faintest whiff of memory, a brief impression, an obvious misapprehension. Rebuffing it—as well as his usual antipathy to waterworks—he snatched a box of tissues off an end table and carried them over to her.

“You’ll make yourself ill,” he said, softly, behind her quaking back. She jumped slightly, then turned, snatching three tissues in quick succession from the box and glaring at him through swollen eyelids.

“So s-sorry,” Mia lobbed at him between sobs. “I d-don’t know any other w-way to cry! If it b-bothers you—” she swatted in his direction with the tissues “—go away!”

So he did. Only to return a moment later with her forsaken glass of water.

“I’m n-not finished yet,” she said, honking loudly into the tissues.

“I’m not rushing you. Come on, sit back down,” he said, and she actually let him lead her back to the chair to finish her cry. In short order the sobs turned to sniffles, the sniffles to shudders, and the shudders to a small, trembly, “Sorry.”

“Feel better?” he asked, picking up his drink from a small side table.

Mia blew her nose, tucked her arms against her midsection, then nodded.

He took a sip. “Now. Aren’t you glad that didn’t happen somewhere in the middle of I-95?” When she glared at him, he added, with extreme patience, “So sue me for guessing you were ready to blow.”

After a moment, Mia sucked in a breath and sat up straighter, scrubbing her palm over first one cheek, then another. “Point to you,” she said, then shivered. “God, I must look like hell.”

She did, actually. Justine’s tears had always been delicately executed, just enough to trickle down a flawlessly made-up cheek, to spike her eyelashes. No red-splotched cheeks or raccoon eyes, ever. “Now that you mention it, you might want to avoid mirrors for the next little while.”

“Boy, you really are a gem among men, aren’t you?” she muttered, then waved away the comment. “Rhetorical question, no response necessary.”

Grant looked at her for a moment, then walked back to his desk, gently swirling his drink in his glass. “You weren’t at all surprised when our marriage fell apart, were you?”

“Once I got to know you? No.”

“Know me?” Unaccountably irritated, Grant let his gaze drift back to the splotchy, puffy-eyed woman still quietly hiccupping in his favorite leather chair, one foot now tucked up underneath her backside. “How often have we been in the same room, Mia? A half-dozen times?”

“Often enough to confirm what I’d already suspected—that you and Justine weren’t a good fit. But let’s clear something up right now,” she said, her brow pinched. “I didn’t take some sadistic pleasure in your marriage breaking up. It wasn’t about me being right, it was about my best friend being happy. If she’d been able to find that happiness with you, I would have been the first person to toast the two of you on your fiftieth wedding anniversary. But how we feel about each other is neither here nor there.” Her expression softened. “The only thing that matters now is getting Haley through this.”

Grant eyed her steadily for a moment before silently setting the glass on the desk. Facing her once more, he folded his arms across his chest. “Haley talks about you a great deal.”

“We’re best buds,” she said quietly. “There’ve been nannies, of course. And Jus had her in preschool during the day. But the three of us would hang out…” Her voice broke; after a couple of deep breaths, she continued. “And I’d sit for her from time to time, when Jus had to work late.” At Grant’s frown, she rolled her eyes. “She was on the fast track to becoming partner, Grant, she couldn’t exactly clock out at five on the dot every night. As anyone struggling for purchase in a huge law firm knows all too well.” He thought he saw a slight shudder before she continued. “Although Jus did take work home with her as much as she could, to do after Haley was in bed. Your daughter wasn’t neglected, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Clearly,” he said softly, even as he thought, At least, not by her mother. “Still. That was a lot to ask of you.”

Mia’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t ask, I volunteered. I love kids and I’m crazy about the squirt. And the nannies…well. They came and went. Even if I didn’t see Haley that often, at least I was some sort of constant in her life. After her mother, I mean. And anyway—”

Grant noted her pointed exclusion of him from that equation.

“Considering everything Justine did for me…” Her eyes filled again, but she held up one hand, sucking in a steadying breath. “Babysitting was the least I could do to return the f-favor—”

At the wobbly last word, Grant plucked the box of tissues off the desk, but she shook her head. Then her words sank in. “What favor?”

“Okay, maybe ‘favor’ isn’t the right word. Support, then. When I walked out on my law career to start my party-planning business, not only was Jus one of the very few people who didn’t seem to think I’d lost it, she even got on the horn and called everybody she knew, lining up more work for me than I could have ever found on my own.” She almost laughed. “In some ways, she seemed more determined to see me succeed than I did. And then…”

“What?” he prompted when she hesitated.

Mia screwed up her mouth, as though trying to decide how much to say. “Around the time of your divorce, my fiancé broke up with me. You met him once, he was out here for dinner. Anyway, it was a few weeks before our wedding. I was a mess. But even though Jus was still dealing with the aftereffects of her own…stuff, there she was, literally and figuratively holding my hand through one of the worst periods of my life.”

Totally unaware that Grant’s drink had turned to vinegar in his stomach, Mia unfolded her legs, stretching the previously trapped foot in front of her and wiggling it. “She’d call or e-mail me to ask how I was doing, suggest we go shopping or to the movies, or go to the museum or zoo with Haley…ouch! Damn, my foot fell asleep!”

Leaning over to rub the prickles away, her long hair tumbled free over her shoulders, framing her much-less-swollen face with exuberant, shiny waves. A moment later, she lifted her eyes to his, only to frown. “Is something wrong?”

With a sharp shake of his head, Grant abruptly returned to the window, unable to look at that trusting, loyal face a moment longer. He’d known, of course, from the moment he’d answered her call, heard the concern in her voice, that somehow, amazingly, Justine had managed to keep her betrayal under wraps. Otherwise, he seriously doubted even someone as wide-eyed as Mia would have continued babysitting for her best friend’s daughter. Still, to hear it confirmed…

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, willing the words to quash the anger flaring inside him, “I didn’t marry Justine expecting it to fail. I may be a risk taker in my professional life, but I’ve always erred on the side of caution about all things personal. So when things fell apart, I was definitely…disappointed.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he heard behind him. Inhaling deeply, he spared her an almost-smile.

“No response necessary,” he said, then returned his attention outside. “I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do about me. From your standpoint, I made someone you cared about very unhappy. All I can say, in my own defense, is that it wasn’t intentional. Although I do shoulder the blame for believing that Justine more clearly understood what she was getting when she married me. That I’ve never been a fun-and-games kind of guy.”

“There’s an understatement,” he heard Mia mutter.

Grant turned, his mouth set, his gaze unwavering. Why he felt compelled to make this woman understand, he had no idea. Perhaps because Justine hadn’t understood. But Justine had been his wife. Mia was…

Mia was very likely the only person who could help him bridge the canyonesque gap between him and his daughter.

“I can’t help my nature, Mia. Even as a child, excessive shows of emotion made me cringe. However, I never promised Justine anything I couldn’t, and didn’t, deliver. That she still wanted more from me than I could give her…” He blew out a breath. “The marriage was a mistake. Or rather, the mistake was in my thinking I could somehow make a marriage work simply because getting married, starting a family, is what men my age, in my position, do.” He paused. “A mistake I won’t make again, believe me.”

“Yeah, well,” she said finally, getting up, hanging on to the back of the chair as she hobbled around it, “I could’ve told both of you that at the beginning and saved everyone a lot of grief.”

“Except then there wouldn’t be Haley.”

Her “oh, please” gaze slammed into his. Her eyes were a strange shade of green, he realized, almost an olive. “And wouldn’t that make your life a whole lot easier.”

At her direct hit, heat surged up his neck. Irritated—with himself, with her, with the whole damn mess—he turned to spare her the satisfaction of his discomfiture. “Hard as this may be to believe,” he said stiffly, “I do care about my daughter. About what happens to her. I always have. But I’ve never been comfortable around children.”

“Including your own.”

He hesitated, then said, “Especially my own. I seriously doubt we’ll ever have the same sort of relationship she had with her mother. I’m simply not made that way.”

“And I have zip tolerance for people who act like their kids are some kind of food they sampled once and decided they didn’t care for! For crying out loud, Grant—have you even tried? You took Haley twice a month. If that—”

“Because neither Justine nor I wished to disrupt her routine any more than necessary!” he said, the excuse lame even to his own ears. “She often had playdates and birthday parties on the weekends—”

“Which you decided were more important than continuing her relationship with her father.”

“That wasn’t solely my decision, Mia.”

Mia opened her mouth, only to press it tightly closed again. He guessed that as much as she’d dearly love to refute his statement, he doubted she could. Not if she’d been privy, as a close friend would have been, to Justine’s fabricating some excuse or other to keep Haley with her on one of Grant’s weekends.

Her eyes narrowed, but not enough to block what might have been the beginnings of doubt. “But you didn’t exactly fight Justine on it, did you?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Guilty as charged.”

“Why not?”

And if he had a chance in hell of getting her to agree to his plan, he had to lay all his cards on the table, no matter how bad his admission made him look.

“Because Haley was barely two when we separated. A two-year-old who adored her mother and screamed whenever I tried to pick her up. Of course I tried to close the gap between us—contrary to popular opinion, I’m not a monster. But unfortunately Haley’s appearance didn’t magically transform me into one of those men who gets all sappy in the presence of babies. I suppose I hoped… well, that as she got older, I could make up for lost time, somehow.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this! Did it ever occur to you that maybe Haley wasn’t going to wait until you were ready to be her father?”

“Every damn day since her birth,” Grant said through gritted teeth, as if willing the raw fear—that he was going to fail his own child—to stay locked up where it couldn’t do him, or Haley, any harm. “And it kills me, that there’s a little girl upstairs who didn’t ask for her mother to die and leave her with me as her father! That I’m the one who’s supposed to get her through this, only I have no earthly idea how to do that!”

“Who the hell does, Grant?” Mia said. “Who knows how to handle stuff like this until they have to?”

“But at least Haley likes you.”

Mia eyed him for a long moment, then sighed out a swear word, followed by, “I can’t stay, Grant.”

“Just for a few days. To help Haley through the transition.”

“I can’t,” she repeated. “I have a life. And a business to run.”

“I thought you said you loved her?”

Her eyes darkened. “Oh, you will not pull that emotional blackmail crap on me. Of course I love Haley. But she’s not my daughter, she’s yours. And whatever is or isn’t going on between you is not my problem to solve—”

“I’m not asking you to solve anything, damn it! I’m only asking you to help me solve it! And I would think, given Haley’s obvious affection for you, that you’d put her needs before whatever animosity you feel for me!”

Silence jangled between them for several seconds before she finally said, “I can’t get out of this party tomorrow night, it’s too big for my assistant to handle on her own. At least not on such short notice. But…” Long, blunt-nailed fingers dragged across her jaw for a moment before she crammed both hands into her jeans’ pockets. “But I’m free for a few days after that. I suppose I could come back up the day after tomorrow for a day or two.”

“Until after the funeral?” At her frown, Grant said, “Since Justine has no one else…”

“Right. Okay. Until after the funeral, then. But just so we’re clear? I’m only doing this for Haley. Not for you.”

“Fair enough.”

He followed her when she walked out of his office, watching silently as she gathered her things off the table in the foyer and shrugged into a boxy tweed jacket at complete odds with the sweatshirt. And he couldn’t resist wandering into the living room after she’d left to stand in front of one of the bay windows, listening to her peel rubber as she sped off, spitting gravel in her wake.

“Not exactly a prissy little thing, is she?” Etta said behind him.

He almost smiled. “No.” Then he added, “She’s coming back.”

“So I heard. But she’s right, you know. It’s not up to her to fix whatever’s wrong between you and Haley.”

The smile stretched slightly. “You’re not even the least bit repentant about eavesdropping, are you?”

“Hell, no,” she said, and tromped off, and Grant eventually went upstairs to check on his daughter. The light from the hallway spilled across her bed, illuminating the tiny child sleeping fitfully in it.

Grant slipped noiselessly into the room to stand over the bed, releasing a long, soundless breath. He couldn’t exactly grieve for Justine, but her death—the shock of it, the pointlessness—had still shaken him. More, in fact, than he’d at first realized. For what had happened—to her and between them—regret and genuine sorrow clawed at him, snarling and snapping. Once the truth sank in, Haley would miss her mother terribly.

As would Mia. Undeserved and misplaced though her loyalty to Justine may have been.

She doesn’t know.

Again, the words pelted him, leaving the sting of guilt in their wake. But it wasn’t his place to tell her. Relationship Neanderthal though he might be, even he couldn’t bring himself to disabuse Mia of her faith in Justine’s friendship. What would be the point? The woman was dead, her indiscretions—and betrayal—soon to be buried with her, God willing. Still, whatever his personal feelings about Mia, it had been no easy feat to tamp down the flash of anger on her behalf, that the woman she credited with getting her through the worst period of her life had actually been the very cause of her misery.

Oh, his ex-wife’s talents had been quite extraordinary, he thought bitterly as Haley thrashed in her sleep, sending the poor stuffed lion sailing overboard. Grant bent over to retrieve the toy, carefully setting it where she could reach it. Instantly, a little arm shot out, groping for her new friend; Grant edged the lion closer, smiling slightly when Haley pulled the floppy thing back into the safety of her arms, her thumb popping into her mouth as she relaxed.

Then his forehead knotted as his thoughts strayed back to his ex. As much as Justine’s infidelity had gouged his ego, at least it was understandable, given her obvious craving for more attention than Grant could give her. But to screw around with her best friend’s fiancé…?

And then to have the gall to console Mia in the aftermath?

Un-freaking-believable.

Almost as unbelievable as Mia’s naiveté. Weren’t women supposed to have some sort of radar about these things? Especially by their thirties? But then, how had the two women become such close friends to begin with? Considering how orderly and driven Justine had been, Mia—who’d given up a prime slot in one of Manhattan’s most prestigious law firms to become a party planner, for God’s sake—came across as downright flighty in comparison.