Free The Saint by Melanie Jackson Page A

reached for the ringer, planning to shut it off,then realized that it was Kris’s phone and that he might want to use it.
    â€œYour agent?” Kris asked politely, sipping his after-dinner coffee. Outside, on the deck, bees droned lazily, happy in their early evening bacchanalia, drunk on foxglove and columbine nectar.
    â€œHow did you guess?” Adora asked, forcing her scowl to disappear. She’d have to get plastic surgery for the frown lines if she didn’t stop letting Ben get to her.
    â€œPennywyse mentioned that he is . . . forceful. And very concerned about you. He has been calling hourly since seven a.m.”
    It figured that Ben had somehow found the right number. Where there was a will and all that.
    â€œConcerned? Not exactly. Ben has barbed wire where his heart should be, and a two-inch thick skull. He also has a conversational style a bit like death by a thousand paper cuts.” Adora sighed and then admitted: “That isn’t true. Well, not all the time. Just when he’s been drinking. But he’s very nosy even when he’s sober. Once in a while you have to post giant No Trespassing signs. And sometimes—when he’s being selectively illiterate about the signs—you have to pepper him with buckshot to get him to pay attention. Still, I want you to know that nothing private will be passed along. I can be discreet.”
    Hearing what she had just said, Adora frowned. What was she doing, mentioning something so personal about her agent to a client? How unlike her! But there was something about Kris that made her spill her guts even when she knew better.
    Pennywyse stuck his head in the door. He didn’t say anything but somehow still managed to convey a message to Kris. He walked with catlike stealth to the French doors, closed them and twitched the drapes into place. He didn’t seem to like light or fresh air.
    â€œYour luggage has arrived. It’s in the second bedroom,” Kris said suddenly. He had sent someone to retrieve her clothes, sparing her the necessity of another trip in the plane. Ah—to be so wealthy! The idea that someone else might go to her home and pack for her had been a little shocking, but Adora had looked deep into Kris’s eyes and then surrendered her house keys without protest—or even any real worry.
    There isn’t anything there worth stealing anyway
, she’d explained to a sputtering Joy, who was less happy with her acquiescence.
    â€œThank you. I appreciate everyone’s kindness,” Adora said to Kris. She wasn’t sure if she felt guilty for being the recipient of so much effort from his staff, but she was definitely delighted that she hadn’t had to fly home again. Instead, she had stayed at the hotel, skimming the rather amazing and impossible file Kris supplied, and had enjoyed a fabulous late lunch of roasted eggplant soup and
steak au poivre
with her new employer, who’d managed to squeeze in a meal with her between meetings.
    Over the repast, Adora finally decided she had an angle on what Kris was doing. He was constructing a new identity. For some reason, he wanted the world to believe that he was Santa Claus,
but not the commercial Santa they all thought they knew.
It was a crazy thing to do, beyond all normal eccentricity. And it would be expensive too. She cringed just thinking of the cost of free toys for the world. But philanthropists were notoriously eccentric.
    Joy had argued with her assumptions, naturally.
    Even now, Adora admitted that there were some problems with her theory—angles she hadn’t entirely worked out—but she liked it better than believing this man really was . . .
    A fruitcake with a double helping of nuts?
her inner voice asked.
    No—but confused. Maybe on medication
.
    Why don’t you ask him, and find out what
he
thinks about your theory?
Joy suggested.
I bet he’ll tell you the truth. As he knows it
.
    Fine. I will. Right