Snug In His Bed Read online

  SNUG IN HIS BED

  New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author

  RHONDA RUSSELL

  Text Copyright © 2017 Rhonda Russell

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by Firefly Press

  No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Your respect and support of the author is appreciated.

  All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are used fictionally and without intent of slander. Any resemblance to actual people are purely coincidental.

  More from Rhonda Russell

  Men Out of Uniform Series

  The Player, #1

  Major Perfect, #2

  The Maverick, #3

  The Loner, #4

  The Hell-Raiser, #5

  Letters From Home, #6

  The Soldier, #7

  The Rebel, #8

  4-Book Romance Omnibus

  Love You More

  Bless Her Heart Series

  The Future Widows' Club, #1

  Hard Lemonade, #2

  Disenchanted: A Witchy Business Novella

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT RHONDA RUSSELL

  PROLOGUE

  Called on the braided rug again, Damon Claus thought, taking another smooth drag from the cigarette in his mouth. Another year, another Christmas, another ass-chewing. He blew a couple of blue-tinged smoke rings and smiled when they magically morphed into a pert pair of breasts.

  “Stop that,” his brother admonished from his arm chair positioned in front of the toasty fire. “The elves might see.”

  Screw those little do-gooding bastards, Damon thought. He’d always hated them. It was bad enough being the brother to the most famous holiday figure in all of mankind—the big SC himself, Santa Claus—but constantly having the elves and their “commitment to the cause” rammed down his throat his entire life had created a bitter sense of resentment Damon was hard pressed to shake. He leaned against the mantle and idly rearranged the nutcrackers into lewd positions.

  Muttering under his breath, Santa set his hot cocoa aside and lumbered up from his poofy chair. “Oh, for the love of mistletoe,” his brother grumbled. He disentangled the little figurines and bent them upright again. “Damon, this has gone on long enough. You’re a Claus—you’re going to have to start acting like one. Let me bring you into the business,” he implored for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’ll put you in charge of the stables. You’ve always had a way with animals.”

  Damon snorted. A stable boy? A token post? He thought not. “Sorry, Tubs,” Damon told him. “Not interested.”

  Santa’s usual jolly face took a serious turn. “I figured as much. The only thing you seem to be interested in is thumbing your nose at family tradition and wreaking havoc during our busiest season. Christmas cheer has already taken a huge hit due to the rampant commercialism of our holiday, but your seem to delight in finding new ways to make people miserable. Stripping the ornaments from the tree in Times Square, busting up that Christmas parade—“

  Damon grinned, remembering fondly. That had been some of his best work.

  “Not to mention impersonating me and handing out condoms at FAO Schwarz.”

  “I was promoting safe sex,” Damon argued, blinking innocently. He spied The List from the corner of his eye on the edge of his brother’s desk and a new plan took hold. “What was the harm in that?”

  Rather than respond, Santa merely looked heavenward as though summoning patience from a divine source. “I’m asking you, as my brother, not Santa Claus, to please, please, please refrain from your usual antics this year. According to the latest polls, more adults feel like Christmas is a burden than a joy and the number of children who don’t believe in me anymore is depressingly low.” Santa sighed, his giant belly threatening to pop the sash of his robe. He snagged a sugar cookie from a nearby tray. “Now more than ever, I really need you to behave.”

  Behave, Damon thought. Not truly be a part, not genuinely help. Just behave, he thought bitterly. It had always been this way. As the firstborn boy Santa had inherited the primo Christmas position within the Claus family—the CEO, if you will—and Damon had always been cast as the bad seed. He’d misbehaved as a child to garner attention, then had fallen permanently into the role.

  And, truthfully, he rather liked it.

  He strolled over to the Christmas tree, smoothly slipping The List beneath his coat en route, and pretended to admire the newest ornament, a small snow globe featuring another picturesque Christmas scene. Pairing up a few of the Naughty’s with the Nicey’s ought to stir up a little fun, he thought, eager to put his mischief to work.

  “What do you say, Damon? Can you do it? Can you be good?”

  Sure, Damon thought. He could be good…at being bad.

  CHAPTER 1

  Viv Foster, lamentably, had always had a talent for getting into trouble.

  In grade school she’d spent more time in the corner than at her desk, usually for talking, or for being out of her seat. Or for accidentally setting a small fire with her magnifying glass. She winced. That little experiment had been a trifle too successful.

  Her high school career had been punctuated with glaring stares from exasperated teachers and the occasional trip to detention, but nothing too extraordinarily terrible.

  Though she’d made more than a few visits to the principal’s office, she’d never been expelled. Throughout college and into her adult years, she’d always managed to hold onto her tongue--or her temper, whichever the case may be--and straddle that fine line between civilized, mature woman and out-of-control, screaming harpy.

  Unfortunately, she’d tripped over the line recently and had landed herself in the one place she never expected to be.

  Court.

  “I still can’t believe you attacked Santa Claus,” Minna Waverly, her attorney and long-time friend leaned over and said as they stood before the judge.

  Viv smothered an irritated sigh. “Oh, for pity’s sake, I didn’t attack Santa Claus. I cold-cocked a mall Santa for copping a feel. There’s a difference.”

  And the arrogant bastard had it coming if you asked her. Honestly, the guy had been giving her The Stare for the past week, whistling and making inappropriate little comments and gestures every time she’d had the misfortune of crossing his path.

  And the hell of it was, she’d purposely avoided it.

  Last week she’d actually saw him coming toward her down the main mall avenue and she’d made an abrupt detour through one of the larger department stores with an exit to the parking lot--acres of freezing asphalt away from where she’d left her bloody car--in order to miss him.

  To her utter shock and irritation, he’d been leaning against the very door she’d planned to go through, though how he’d gotten there ahead of her was a total mystery.

  Damned Christmas season, Viv thought. If she wasn’t so strapped for cash she wouldn’t have taken a second job as an “elf” at the gift wrapping station, but her brood of nieces and nephews, not to mention all of her other relatives, expected a gift come Christmas Eve and she had too much pride to poormouth and say she couldn’t afford it this year, and enough sense to avoid racking up a lot of debt on her for-emergencies-only credit card. She’d spent too many years wearing hand-me-down clothes and eating noodles to ever forget the value of a dollar.

  Regardless o
f all the hype, there was no such thing as free money--money had to be earned.

  Furthermore, she was absolutely determined to give herself a gift that had been two years in the making this Christmas--a trip to London. A little thrill whipped through her at the thought. Clotted cream and scones, Big Ben and the Thames. She loved Brit-coms and was the ultimate Anglophile. She desperately wanted to go. To breathe English air.

  Her web-design business was going well and was gradually building thanks to happy clients and word-of-mouth advertising, but like a lot of other businesses not directly related to retail, it tended to take a hit during the holidays. Like her, too many people were buckling down to cover the looming expense of Christmas and other things--like a new site or redesign--were getting pushed to a later date.

  Come February she’d have more business than she could handle. Until then, she’d simply have to make do and at the moment, making do meant wrapping gifts in the Wrap It Up kiosk in Jackson, Mississippi’s Magnolia Blossom Mall.

  She rolled her eyes and glared at the attorney who represented Mr. Touchy-Feely--he couldn’t be bothered to show up himself--and silently wished she could avoid Christmas altogether. While most other people carried around happy snow globe memories of their Christmases growing up, Viv’s had been radically different.

  The year she’d turned eight, her father had decided that Christmas morning was the best time to pack up and leave his family. As a child, all Viv had seen were her parents arguing and her father going away as a result.

  Naturally, she’d blamed her mother.

  As an adult, she could see things with a mature eye and, looking back on that Christmas morning, remembering her mother helping her set up her Easy Bake Oven despite the fact that her husband had just left her for another woman, Viv never failed to be in complete awe of her mom. She’d put her children first and her own heartbreak second and had tried to make things as normal for them as possible. That took a strength of character she wasn’t altogether certain she possessed.

  Three years later she’d seen her father in a toy store with a toddler in tow, one who was the spitting image of her dad. It’s funny the things you notice, Viv thought now. The boy had been wearing a denim conductor’s hat and his overall straps had been twisted. They’d been picking out a new train set, happy and oblivious to her stunned stare. Too much pride and too little courage had prevented her from approaching the pair, but she often wondered about that little boy. Her baby brother, she thought with a pang of regret. She’d wanted to know that little boy and felt like a part of her life was incomplete because she hadn’t been able to.

  Though she imagined her mother was aware of her father’s new family, Viv had never mentioned seeing them to her or anyone else. Why? She wasn’t altogether certain. In the days immediately following the incident, she’d come close to mentioning it to her older sister, but for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, had kept it to herself.

  While she had grieved the loss of her father who’d literally vanished from their lives that Christmas morning, she had to admit that never knowing that little boy seemed like the greater tragedy.

  “All right. Let’s get this over with,” the judge intoned in a boring drawl from the bench. “My lunch is getting cold.” He perused the documents in front of him. “Assault, eh?”

  He smirked then, and there was something strangely familiar about him. A prickle of unease nicked her heart. Viv frowned and studied him more closely. Impossibly, he bore a marked resemblance to Damon Klaus, the very mall Santa who had landed her in this unfortunate predicament. She blinked, equally stunned and unsure.

  He smiled and winked at her.

  Viv gasped and nudged Minna. Holy shit. “Minna, that’s him,” she hissed frantically, panic and disbelief kicking her heart-rate into stroke level. But how could-- This wasn’t possible-- Oh, Lord. She was doomed. She’d end up in jail in one of those ghastly orange jumpsuits, the reluctant love interest of a big girl named Pansy. She shuddered, revolted and horrified.

  “Him, who?” Minna asked, seemingly confused.

  “Him, as in the mall Santa,” Viv told her, a cold sweat breaking out across her shoulders.

  Minna’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

  Viv knew the vein in her forehead was throbbing. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “It can’t be him,” her friend argued. She glanced at the judge and a speculative gleam entered her gaze. “Though I have to admit I’ve never seen this guy before.”

  Oh, Lord help her. Her knees went weak. “What am I going to do?”

  “It’s not him,” Minna insisted. “You assaulted Damon Klaus. This is judge Nick Moroz. He’s new,” she conceded. “But he can’t be both men.”

  It was a sound argument, but Viv couldn’t shake the sensation that the two men were actually one in the same. Striking physical appearance aside, they both had the same grin, a bit wicked and disconcertingly attractive.

  Managing to appear both uninterested and amused, Judge Moroz asked for her plea.

  “Not guilty,” Minna said with a brisk nod.

  He quirked an indolent brow. “Really? I’ve got a sworn statement here from a Mr. Jimmy Hall, head of mall security, who says he personally witnessed the attack on Mr. Klaus.”

  Attack? They made her sound like a mad woman. “What Mr. Hall didn’t witness was Mr. Klaus grabbing my ass,” Viv said, her temper flaring. Honestly, this was all such an utter joke.

  Minna grabbed her arm and squeezed a warning. “What my client means to say is that she was provoked, your honor. Mr. Klaus sexually harassed her.”

  He propped his chin into his hand and gave Viv another one of those inane smiles. “Really? Did she file a complaint?”

  “No, sir,” Minna replied, a bit uncomfortably. “She preferred to handle the matter herself.”

  “Vigilante justice, eh?” He tsked. “We can’t have that, now can we?”

  “I’d hardly call it vigilante justice, your honor. She was merely defending herself against an unwanted advance.”

  “I beg to differ. She wasn’t defending herself at all. She was giving retribution.” His gaze zeroed in on Viv’s. “And that’s not for her to decide. That’s up to the court. Or more specifically me.”

  “But your honor--“

  “Enough Ms. Waverly,” he said, perusing the paperwork in front of him. “I’ve made my decision. Given the evidence here I have no choice but to find Ms. Foster guilty of the charge against her. We can’t have women walking about the city clobbering every man who makes a harmless pass at her. It’s unseemly.”

  Harmless pass? Viv thought. The cretin had grabbed her ass. It wasn’t as if he’d merely smiled at her. This was total bullshit. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but stopped when Minna’s fingernails dug into her arm. “Don’t,” her friend whispered, giving her head an almost imperceptible shake.

  “Justice should be left to those who have the power to dispense it.” He looked up at Viv and grinned. “I’m sentencing you to forty hours of community service at Bailey’s Tree Farm. That should put you more in a proper Christmas spirit.”

  A tree farm? she thought, reeling. He couldn’t be serious. She didn’t know how to chop down those trees, much less possess the strength to drag them out of the forest and onto someone’s freaking car. She had little hands and she hated being cold. This couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake.

  Bailey’s Farm wasn’t completely unknown to her though--her mother faithfully bought her tree from there every year and had always made a grand outing of it with her children when they’d been at home. Unbidden, Viv had a startlingly clear image of a tall skinny boy with dark brown hair and pale grey eyes.

  “Hopefully a little bit of Christmas spirit will rub off on you there and will make you think twice before assaulting another especially friendly young man.” He rubbed his jaw as though it still hurt. “See my clerk and she’ll get you squared away.” He banged his gavel with particular relish. “Next case.�
�

  Minna quickly gathered her things and nudged Viv from behind the desk. “Let’s go.”

  “But--“ Guilty. Sentenced to a tree farm. By the very jerk who’d grabbed her ass in the first place, she was certain of it.

  “I’m sorry,” Minna said, herding her to the back of the courtroom and out the door as Viv dug in her heels and glared at the so-called judge. She knew it was him. How? That part was a little illusive, but she didn’t doubt it all the same.

  With another one of those smug smiles, he twinkled his fingers at her.

  “We can appeal right? You can get me out of this, can’t you?”

  Minna shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She grimaced and gave her head a puzzled shake. “He’d made up his mind before we ever came into the court room.”

  “That’s because he’s Damon Klaus. Or his twin brother. Or something.”

  “Be that as it may, you’re stuck, Viv. At this point I think you’re better off just doing the community service and letting this go.”

  “Have you ever heard of anybody getting sentenced to community service at a tree farm?” she asked incredulously. Was he on crack? What sort of punishment was that, aside from being completely bizarre?

  Minna accepted Viv’s paperwork from the clerk, then started down the long hall which led out to the parking lot. “You can’t possibly tell me you’d rather put on an orange vest and pick up trash from the side of the road than work at a tree farm?” she said, quirking a deliberate brow.

  “Well, no,” Viv admitted. “Not when you put it that way.” Still...she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been seriously played.

  Minna’s steps slowed and an even slower grin Viv didn’t altogether trust spread over her friend’s lips. “In fact, there are definitely worse ways to pay your debt to society than getting to work forty hours with Hank Bailey.”

  She frowned. “Sorry?”