A Good Girl for Christmas

Rachel’s stiletto flashed in the sparkling light of the room, the train of her dress trailing behind her like a plume of smoke. Her red mouth curled into a feline grin as she lifted a hand, rings roped and looped around every finger.

“I'm looking for Mr. Claus,” she said, as she approached the bar, “where is he?”

The bartender looked her up and down before leaning an elbow on the counter. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing looking for the boss? Let me treat you to a drink. What'll it be?"

Rachel's smile widened, fiendish. She was not unaccustomed to attention, but she was here on a mission that involved Mr. Claus. And while the bartender was certainly attractive with his curly black afro, and dark brown eyes, she could not allow herself to be distracted. She did, however, accept his proposal for a drink. She needed it to steel her nerves.

"Whiskey on the rocks, please, doll," she said, crossing her arms on the counter and leaning forward so her cleavage strained against the front of her dress. The lacy edge of her bralette peeked from the scandalously low neckline.

"Why are you looking for Mr. Claus," the bartender asked again, placing the whiskey in front of her.

The air in the club smelled strongly of peppermint; she liked it. Lifting her glass, she swirled the whiskey as she answered. "I heard he's the man you see when you've been a good girl."

"You've been a good girl?" the bartender asked doubtfully.

Rachel laughed. "Don't judge me, I'm sure worse than the likes of me have stepped foot in this club," she said.

"Yet none quite so beautiful," said a deep, smoky voice behind her.

She turned to accost the stranger and her mouth dropped open.

Beautiful was not a word she would typically use to describe a man - her standards and taste demanded more effort than the average man put into his appearance, but this delectable stranger surpassed them all. His hair was dark, salt and pepper, with a full beard and mustache. There was a tattoo collar around his throat and below that, broad shoulders deliciously hidden behind a silk button down, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, and freshly pressed slacks.

A tiny gold hoop hung from his left earlobe, and staring at him, she had the strangest desire to take it between her teeth and pull it.

"Mr. Claus," she said, "The tabloids don't do you justice. You are even more handsome in person." She extended a hand, bangles tinkling gracefully against her slender wrist. "Rachel North."

"Rachel," he repeated, a spark leaping into his blue eyes. They were that hypnotic shade of turquoise that she used to be obsessed with. His hand engulfed hers as he shook it, and she relished the fact that his hands were warm and rough: working hands.

"What brings you here searching for me?" He glanced up at the bartender, who had been hovering. The bartender quickly moved off to the other side of the bar, furiously scrubbing the counter.

"I heard you give people what they want for Christmas," she said, "if you've been good. And I think that I have been very good this year."

"Have you?" His tone was as warm as the whiskey against her body, and his gaze was like a sensual stroke as he absorbed the plunging neckline of her dress, the cleavage with a touch of gold glitter, the wickedly scarlet gown with its high slit up against her right hip, the train of the dress and her tallest stilettos. She looked magnificent, and had worked very hard for this result, knowing she would get only one opportunity and did not want to waste it.

"And what would you like for Christmas?" he asked.

"Make me your wife and I'll make you the happiest man in the world."