Light the Holiday Fires

Light the Holiday Fires By Kristin York Light the Holiday Fires By Kristin York A Newsite Web Services Book Publishe...

Author: York Kristin

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Light the Holiday Fires By

Kristin York

Light the Holiday Fires By

Kristin York A Newsite Web Services Book Published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved. Copyright 2008 © by Kristin York This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission of the author or Newsite Web Services, LLC Published by Newsite Web Services, LLC P.O. Box 1286, Loganville, Georgia 30052 USA [email protected] disciplineanddesire.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ringing in the New: 2004 Chapter One Chapter Two Ringing in the New: 2005 Rainbow’s End Trick or Treat The Young Mrs. Claus The Christmas Wish

1 14 29 45 61 77 95

Ringing in the New 2004

Chapter One

Arin Newbury should have been happy. Her latest book—a fantasy of pirates, magic and romance—was well on its way to becoming a best seller. Her boyfriend—the C.E.O. of Raddison Books—had presented to her, on Christmas Day, the keys to a brand new van. Her children, seventeen-year-old Shelby and Matt, fourteen, had finally accepted Wesley Raddison as a part of their lives, and the four of them had spent a relaxing Christmas holiday together. She had nearly everything she wanted in life, but less than a week after Christmas, suspicion and disappointment had her feeling irritable and depressed. Arin wanted to appreciate the fully loaded mini van that Wesley had given her, but it wasn’t the Christmas present she’d been expecting. Rather, after seventeen months of exclusive dating and numerous conversations about what each of them wanted in a marriage partner, she’d expected something different—the kind of something that was far more personal, and came nestled in a small, velvet box. Arin had honestly believed that Wes was going to propose, and her disappointment, coupled with his plans for New Year’s Eve, had given birth to suspicion. She’d been questioning her feelings and

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his every word since Christmas morning, and she kept reaching the same conclusion. Wesley was seeing someone new, and he was flying home on the 29th so he could spend New Year’s Eve with his new flame. "Can you blame him?" Arin asked of her mirror self as she put on her make-up. "Look at you. You’re forty-two, for heaven’s sake, and he could just as easily have a couple of twenty-one year olds with rock hard bodies and absolutely no hang-ups about extra-marital sex. Did you really think he would choose you? " Tears blurred her vision. Yes, she really had believed Wesley loved her, that he wanted to marry her; and her belief had led her to make the one mistake she’d sworn never to repeat. Arin had trusted a man. She’d allowed herself to fall in love, and now Wesley was breaking her heart just as her ex-husband had more than a decade ago. "You’re smarter and stronger now," she told her reflection. "You don’t need a man in your life." After spending extra time on her hair and makeup, Arin was grimly determined to face the situation head on. Today, she would return the van keys and send Wesley Raddison on his way. ______________ Wesley left his hotel room early, eager to see Arin. Finally, after months of preparation, the big day had arrived. Winning Arin’s trust had been difficult, convincing her children that he was good husband material even more so, but every excruciating night spent apart from the woman he loved would be worth it now, if only she said yes to his proposal. After checking his coat pockets to make sure that he had everything he needed, Wesley picked

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up his suitcase and took the elevator down to the lobby. The desk clerk waved him through the check out process. "I have everything I need," she said, smiling. "Good luck tonight. I hope to hear good news the next time I see you." Wesley couldn’t hide the grin that spread across his face. "Thanks, Tess. Remember, not a word to anyone until after we’re gone. Okay?" "Don’t worry," the young woman replied. "I can keep a secret." The drive to Arin’s house was blessedly short, but as he pulled into the driveway, it occurred to Wesley that not bursting right out with the truth was going to be an exercise in patience. He wanted so much to sweep Arin off her feet and carry her straight to the airport, but he’d spent too much time planning this day to blow all the surprises in one fell swoop. "Calm down," he chided himself as he waited for her to answer the door. "Stick to the plan. You’ll be glad you did." Arin answered the door, looking as gorgeous as usual. There was enough natural curl in her golden blonde hair that she had no need to lacquer it with hairspray in order to obtain the attractively disheveled look of soft waves curling about her face. The slight disarray, coupled with her fathomless brown eyes, had an amazing effect on Wesley. Whenever she looked up at him, he could not help but picture her beneath him, her hands fisted in the sheets or moving urgently over his back as the moment of passion washed over her. "Good morning, sweetheart." Wesley shut the door behind them, and quickly reached for her. He wrapped both arms around her, and was surprised that Arin didn’t wind her arms about his neck and urge his lips to hers for a kiss. Troubled by her lack

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of affection, he stepped back and held her out at arms length. "What’s the matter, baby? Is something wrong?" "No. Everything’s fine." Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a light kiss on the cheek. Her smile was over bright and less than convincing, especially when he glimpsed a flash of sorrow in her eyes. "Are you all packed and ready to head home?" Wesley immediately noticed the acidity with which Arin asked her question. "So that’s what this is about," he mused to himself. To her, he replied, "Yes, though I wish I didn’t have to go. You know I wouldn’t leave so soon if it wasn’t something truly important. Right?" "Sure. I understand." The pouting woman maneuvered her way out of his arms and, with a wave of her hand, dismissed the conversation. "You’re a busy man. I know that, and I wouldn’t dream of keeping you away from your all-important work." Wesley watched silently as Arin stalked through the living room and into her kitchen. Normally, he would have warned her to watch her tone, but he wanted everything to be perfect today. Besides, she was obviously upset about his choice to fly "home" before New Year’s Day. He would allow her a little leeway—for now. Arin walked away from Wesley, surprised that he didn’t comment on her sarcasm. He was a patient, loving man—but he was also an oldfashioned guy. She’d learned early on in their relationship that he wasn’t one to tolerate certain behaviors, and being sarcastic was one of the things that got her into trouble. That Wesley let her comment go without so much as a warning was, to

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her way of thinking, further proof that he no longer cared for her. Two years ago, Arin would never have imagined that she’d interpret a lack of scolding as a bad thing; but Wesley was different from every other man she’d ever known. He had never once been unkind, but on the day of her first television interview, her self-derogatory comments concerning wrinkles and fat had earned her several sharp swats on the bottom. It was the first time she’d been spanked, as an adult. "That’s enough," Wesley had admonished while she stared up at him, her hands wandering back to soothe her stinging flesh. "You will not cut yourself down, young lady. Understand?" Entirely too stunned to speak, she’d only nodded before slipping into the bathroom to change her clothes. Several hours and a successful television interview later, she’d still been too embarrassed to bring up the subject of that impromptu spanking. Wesley, however, had no such problem; and as soon as they returned to her hotel room, he pulled Arin into his lap and explained, gently but firmly, how he felt about her put downs. "You’re a beautiful, intelligent, talented lady, Arin, and I don’t like to hear you ragging on yourself. You do it all the time." When she opened her mouth to protest, he laid his finger against her lips. "It’s true, sweetheart. Every time I pick you up, you apologize for the way your hair looks, or not having time to put on all your make-up, or how you look in your jeans. Am I right?" When a response was required of her, Arin found she could not argue. "Yes, I guess so, and I’m sorry. You must think me the most insecure, stupid—."

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He silenced her again, this time with a tender kiss. "I think nothing of the sort. In fact, I think you’re strong and gorgeous and the kind of woman I want in my life. But people who talk badly about themselves invite others to do the same, and I cannot allow you to do that. It’s time you learned to see what a fantastic lady you really are, and I intend to help you." "By—?" The established novelist suddenly found herself at a loss for words. Blushing, she mumbled, "You know—what you did this afternoon?" "I spanked you," Wesley said calmly. "Though, I can’t say that it was much of a spanking. To be honest, I would have preferred to sit you down, like this, and explain things to you first. And while I’m sorry you were unprepared by what happened, I need you to understand something. I believe that even grown women sometimes need a sound spanking to curb dangerous or childlike behavior, and that it’s up to each man to provide for his lady’s needs—even if it means taking her over his knee and giving her a spanking on her bare bottom." "You do?" The question squeaked out. "You mean you would do it again if I cut myself down? And you’d…bare me?" "Absolutely." Wesley’s voice was quiet, but there was an intensity in his bright green eyes. "I promise I’ll never harm you, Arin, but I will take you over my knee and give you a real spanking if I hear you cut yourself down again. I would never allow anyone else to criticize you like that, so why should I allow you to do it to yourself?" Arin had received many spankings since that first awkward start, though the reasons she went over Wesley’s knee varied widely. A few months ago, her boyfriend would never have allowed her to

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say something sarcastic and simply walk away. That he chose to do so now was proof positive, in her mind, that he no longer loved her. "Did you eat breakfast at the hotel?" she called from the kitchen. "Or do you want me to make you something?" "Actually," Wesley replied, walking up behind her, "I was hoping you hadn’t eaten, as I’d like to take you out for breakfast." He wrapped his arms around her from behind, and kissed the back of her neck. "What do you say?" She shrugged, the motion stiff. "I’m not really hungry." Wesley did not intend to take no for an answer. "Did you eat this morning, young lady?" "No." "Alright then, we’re going out. And you will eat something," he added. "The only question is do you want to sit comfortably at the breakfast table, or would you prefer a sore bottom to go with your waffles?" "I’ll eat," a reluctant Arin replied. "Where are we going?" "I made reservations at the Campbell House bed and breakfast. We’re due there in half an hour. Where’s your coat?" "In the laundry room." Wesley kissed Arin’s cheek. "Wait here," he told her. A moment later, he held her coat so she could slip into the sleeves. "Bundle up, love. It’s cold outside." It was also, Wesley realized later, decidedly cold in the car, and the restaurant, and every bookstore and antique shop they visited in the quaint village of Campbell’s Crossing. It was, in fact, cold everywhere that they went, because Arin was giving

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him the cold shoulder. Still, he tried to be patient for, as lunchtime neared, so did the culmination of months of thought and planning. This was the day he would propose to the woman he loved, and he didn’t want a spanking to overshadow the moment. Arin, on the other hand, was practically hell bent on ruining the day. After all, why should she allow Wesley to enjoy their time together before he jetted off to the arms of another woman? The bastard was cheating on her, for heaven’s sake— cheating when he knew how much it would hurt her. He’d been the one to help her rebuild her fragile self-esteem, so there was no way he could claim ignorance on the subject. She’d spent long hours in his arms, crying over the many defects her ex-husband had pointed out in her. Wesley had actually convinced her that she was smart, talented and even beautiful; that he could so easily tear her apart now, after everything they’d been through together, was absolutely unforgivable. "Do you want to stop in the glass shop?" he asked as they neared the spot where they’d parked the car. "I think the owner is giving a blowing demonstration today." Tired and nearly at the point of tears, Arin shook her head. "No thanks. Besides, you should probably take me home and get an early start to the airport. It’s supposed to snow this afternoon, and you wouldn’t want to get stuck here for another day." Wesley squeezed her gloved hand. "I’ve got plenty of time, sweetheart. I don’t fly out until 6:30." He tugged her in the direction of the shop. "Come on. You love this place." Arin followed, tears stinging her eyes. Why did he insist on continuing this charade? Was he really so obtuse that he hadn’t realized she was angry, or

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was this just his way of avoiding a confrontation? Maybe he intended to keep her shopping all afternoon, and then drop her at the door with a quick good-bye kiss before he hurried to his new lover. If so, he was going to find himself very much surprised. If there was one thing her ex had taught her, it was to act first. If her relationship with Wesley was on its last leg, she’d be the one to fire the mercy shot that ended the damn thing; and if the powerful Mr. Raddison thought to avoid that shot by remaining in public, then he was going to be sorely disappointed. She would tell him what she thought of him and his two-timing ways, even if she had to do it in the middle of the town square. Wesley opened the door to the glass shop and ushered Arin forward. It was nearly 11:30, and he couldn’t wait another moment to show her what the shop owner had made for her. Mike, a man in his mid-fifties, was carefully crafting the final touch to his masterpiece when his wife led Wesley and Arin into the workroom. "Look who’s here," she said to her husband. "Didn’t you mention some kind of a special order for these two?" Mike grinned broadly and, with a proud flourish, added a brown stem to the top of Cinderella’s pumpkin-shaped coach. "I was just finishing up. How are the two of you today?" "We’re doing great," Wesley said, though his attention was focused on Arin. "It’s beautiful, Mike." He slipped an arm around his girlfriend’s waist. "Don’t you think so, sweetheart?" Arin nodded, astonished at the size and beauty of the pumpkin coach and eight prancing horses. Each horse was molded of clear glass, with delicate golden halters. The coach was the most ornate

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piece of blown glass she’d ever seen. There was a slight shimmer of pumpkin orange in the iridescent shell, and gold accented the running boards, wheels and half doors. Atop the coach, three delicate green leaves surrounded the stump of a brown stem that Mike had just finished. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—even more beautiful than the smaller version she’d been coveting all year. "I saw how disappointed you were when Mike sold the one he had in the window," Wesley said. "I hope you don’t mind that I asked him to make yours bigger. I know just where we can put it." Glancing from the glass creation to Wesley’s unabashed grin, Arin momentarily forgot her anger. "You had this made for me?" "Uh-huh." Wesley was watching her, his eyes bright with pleasure. "Do you like it?" "Of course." Her fears concerning their relationship temporarily forgotten, Arin threw herself into his arms. "Oh Wes, it’s beautiful. How can I ever thank you?" "You already have." He kissed her soundly, savoring the taste of her smile. "The look on your face is all the thanks I need. I’d do anything to see my girl happy." Anything. My girl. The words were still ringing in Arin’s ears as she buckled her seatbelt and watched Wesley start the car. Had she been wrong about what was going on with him, about the reason for his early flight home? It took her several minutes to work up the courage needed in order to confront him with her suspicions. Even then, she took the long way around the subject. "You didn’t have to do that," she said without looking at him. "I love it, but you’ve already been so generous." A note of hurt crept into her voice. "If

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the van and the blown glass are about making this a civil break-up, it wasn’t necessary. I won’t cling to you if you want out." "Excuse me?" Wesley was so surprised that he nearly veered off the country road, landing them both in a ditch. A sharp turn of the wheel had them narrowly escaping an accident, and it took a considerable amount of effort for him to bring the fishtailing car back under control. Only then did he dare to glance at her. "What on earth would make you think I was breaking up with you, Arin?" "What would make me think you’re not?" The return of sarcasm had his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I’m afraid you have lost me completely. Now, how about we start this conversation again, and you explain why you think I’m breaking up with you. And I suggest," he added, "that you get some control over that tone of voice, young lady, or I will have to remind you of our rules." "Our rules?" Anger surged through Arin, a powerful whip of white-hot lightening. "How dare you talk about our rules, when you’re breaking the most important one?" A muscle ticked in Wesley’s jaw as he fought to control his own anger. "Arin, I honestly do not know what you are talking about. What rule am I breaking?" "You were the one who wanted to date exclusively," she replied. "Or have you forgotten that? I told you how I felt up front. You knew I wouldn’t sleep with you, or let you stay over at my place, because I have to set the right example for my kids. You could have come to me any time, told me that you needed more, and I would have understood and let you go. But to do this, Wesley."

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Her voice broke on an angry sob. "You know how I feel about cheaters. I cannot believe you’re doing this to me—to us! It’s the one thing I can never forgive. I thought you were better than this." She swiped angrily at the tears that ran down her cheeks. "I trusted you." Wesley shook his head, hardly able to believe his sweet Arin was hurling such ugly accusations at him. "I don’t know where you’re getting this," he said, his voice lethally quiet, "but you are wrong, sweetheart. You’ve obviously worked yourself up into quite a frenzy, but I am not cheating on you and I can’t imagine where all of this is coming from. Are you PMSing?" "PMS?" Arin turned to Wesley, incredulous. "You think I have PMS?" She wanted to scream, to scratch and hit and break something big and heavy over his head. "How dare you? Stop this car, Wesley. Stop it right now." Wesley complied; though pulling into a long, graveled drive was more about their safety than about heeding Arin’s imperious demand. The minute he stopped the car, however, she opened the door and made good her escape. He was obliged to chase her half way across a snow-crusted wheat field before, catching her by the arm; he hauled her back to the car. "I have had quite enough of this ridiculous behavior," he scolded as he propelled her forward, back to the car. "You’ve had a bee in your bonnet all day, young lady, and I’ve put up with way more than I should have because I wanted this day to be perfect. But, now you’ve gone too far, and you can count on a good, hard spanking the minute I get you inside."

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"No!" Crying, Arin tried to pry his large hand from her arm. "You can’t spank me, Wes." Her words came in between sobs as he hustled her back into the car. "Not for this. I won’t let you." Wesley took the time to buckle Arin’s seatbelt. Then, crouching down so they were eye to eye, he told her, "You, young lady, no longer have a choice in the matter; and if you try to get out of this car again, I will take you into the backseat, bare your bottom and spank the daylights out of you, no matter who comes along. Do I make myself clear?" Arin wanted to protest, but she was too overwrought to say much of anything. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she nodded. "Good." Wesley shut the passenger side door, then stalked around the car and slid behind the steering wheel. Without another word, he put the car in reverse and backed out of the stranger’s driveway.

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Chapter Two

It took a good ten minutes of silence, for Wesley to calm himself enough to say, "Please tell me what I’ve done to make you think I’m seeing someone else. This day is more important to me than you realize, and I don’t want to ruin it by fighting with you over a simple misunderstanding." Arin closed her eyes and fought the demons that forced ugly words out of her mouth. She loved this man—the idea of him in another woman’s arms would never have hurt so much if she didn’t—and she realized that she couldn’t let things end without being absolutely sure of the truth. Measuring her words carefully, she said, "It started a couple of months ago, when you told me that you’d be flying home before New Year’s Day. We had such a wonderful time last year. I felt that I was losing something important by not spending New Year’s Eve with you." Her hands made small, wet fists in her lap. "I had already arranged for my sister to take the kids skiing this week, and I was so looking forward to having time alone with you. I guess I think of December 31st as special, a night that you spend with someone you love. I expected to spend that night with you." "Okay. I understand about New Year’s Eve and I’m sorry you were disappointed," Wesley replied.

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"But how did you go from that to the belief that I’m cheating?" Arin closed her eyes against the torrent of emotions that flooded her heart and mind. "It was all the little things," she answered. "I’ve hardly been able to reach you at the office, and your secretary is not a very good liar. She tried to cover for you, but I knew something was going on. I’d call and get the ‘away from the office’ excuse, or she’d say you were out of town. You used to tell me about your trips, Wesley, and all of a sudden, you were leaving me out of the loop. I knew something was going on, but I chalked it up to Christmas surprises." "But the van didn’t measure up to your expectations? Is that what you’re saying?" "The van was incredibly generous, but I can’t imagine that you spent hours and even days out of the office, picking it out. And certainly, it has nothing to do with your early trip back to New York." Arin paused, swallowed hard. "Why are you flying back tonight, Wesley? You’ve said it’s important, but you’ve never really told me what you’re doing. Please, explain it to me." A hint of desperation colored her words. "I want to believe you. The thought of you with someone else is breaking my heart." Wesley relaxed, the fear that proposing was going to be a huge mistake melted away in the face of her honesty. "You’re right, sweetheart," he soothed. "You deserve an explanation, and I’m going to give that to you." Slowing the car, he pulled into another driveway. "Let’s talk at home," Arin said, glancing nervously at the front door of the house where they’d stopped. They were less than ten minutes

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away from her considerably smaller place, and she’d heard the magnificent, two-story replica of a sprawling farm house—the one she’d admired since it first went up, over a year ago—was no longer an empty model home. "Somebody bought this place back in October," she told Wesley. "Please—I’d rather they not see us sitting out here. They might have kids that go to school with Shelby and Matt, and you know how fast rumors travel around here." "Somebody bought the place?" Wes mused. "You don’t have any idea who?" "No. I’ve only seen cars here once or twice. They were moving furniture in one day, and there was a young woman in the drive who seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before." The mental image clicked into place and she added, "Now that I think about it, maybe I’ve seen her at your hotel. I think she works the front desk there." "Oh—Tess, maybe? College-aged, long, very black hair that she wears straight?" "Yes." Arin spared the house another nervous glance. "Please, Wesley. Take me home." Much to her surprise, Wesley put the car in park and killed the engine. "Actually, I’d kind of like to see the place, and Tess has always been really friendly. Come on. Let’s knock on the door and see if anybody answers." Arin’s eyes grew round with dismay. "No! I can’t do that, especially not looking like this. My eyes are red, and my mascara’s probably running down my face. Flipping the visor down, she opened the lighted mirror and peered at herself. "I look horrible, Wesley. No way am I going to walk up to that door, looking like this."

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Ignoring her pleas, Wesley got out of the car and walked around to the passenger door. In a panic, Arin hit the door lock. "I’m not going in there," she called through the window. "If it’s that important to you, go on and talk with her yourself. I’ll wait here." Wesley hit the lock button on the remote keychain, and reached for the door handle. Arin beat him to the punch, locking the doors for a second time. "Knock it off, sweetheart," he said. "You are going with me, one way or the other. If you continue to be difficult, I’ll drag you out of the car and carry you to the door. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to walk on your own two feet, or do I need to throw you over my shoulder instead?" Arin looked at Wesley, absolutely aghast. He was serious about this, though she had no idea why he was so adamant about seeing the house. Defeated, she opened the door and stepped out of the car. "Fine. Let’s get this over with." Wesley held her elbow, carefully steering her around icy patches of sidewalk and steadying her on the steps up to the broad, wrap-around porch. He said nothing more, but simply knocked on the bright red door. "Hmmm—no answer," he mused, his hand on the knob. "I wonder—." Arin gasped as Wesley opened the door. He completely ignored her hissed, "Wesley, come on! You can’t just walk into other people’s homes." "I’m not doing any harm," he whispered to her before calling out, "Is anybody home?" Arin tried to back away, to run to the car, but Wesley tugged her forward, into the house. She stood in the foyer, awestruck, as he closed the door behind them.

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"We can’t do this," she whispered, though she was inexplicably following him into a large, tastefully decorated living room. "Look," she said, pointing to the overstuffed sofa, with its rich ivory and gold upholstery. "I saw this very living room suit at Grolle’s when Shelby and I were picking up her computer desk. Isn’t it beautiful?" "Yes. Very nice." Wesley watched as Arin walked to the center of the room. He grinned when, noticing a quilted wall hanging, she stepped forward to finger the quilter’s rendition of a peaceful, forest stream. "And this quilt! It’s the one I fell in love with at the Labor Day auction. Remember? It went for an ungodly amount of money. Obviously, whoever bought this place is filthy rich." She turned about to stare at the huge Christmas tree, decorated in ivory and gold and lit with hundreds of twinkling white lights. "Oh, how beautiful!" She stepped forward to finger a blown-glass ornament, then snatched her hand away guiltily. Sparing the dream room one more wistful glance, she whispered, "Wesley, we have to get out of here before the owners—." Wesley grinned as, glancing at a wall of family pictures, Arin’s words died in her throat. It was all he could do to force himself to stand still as, shocked, she stepped forward to get a better look at the photographs. Arin’s gloved hand fluttered up to cover her open-mouthed astonishment, for the faces that smiled back at her were not those of a strange family, but of her own children. Two identical frames had one large oval surrounded by twelve smaller ones. Every one of Shelby’s school pictures, from kindergarten through this year’s senior portrait, filled the available spaces. Matt’s

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kindergarten through sophomore years were memorialized in pictorial form, as well, and two empty slots waited for the junior and senior year photos yet to come. Other pictures held baby photos and impromptu moments that Arin had managed to capture on film. With tears running down her face, she turned back to the man she loved. "Wesley?" It was the only word she managed to get out, and the only one he needed to hear. Crossing the room, Wesley pulled Arin into his arms. "Do you like it, sweetheart? Shelby and Matt helped me with the decorating, but if there’s anything you want to change—anything at all—we’ll do it." "No, no—it’s perfect." Arin shook her head, as though to wake herself from a dream. "Wesley," she stammered, "I don’t know what to say. How did you—? When?" She rubbed at her forehead in an attempt to turn her astonishment into a coherent sentence. "Did you really buy me a house?" "Actually," Wesley replied, "There is one little string attached." Taking her hand, he pulled Arin back to the tree. "But we can talk about that after you open that present." He pointed out a deep blue, velvet box nestled amidst the green boughs. "It has your name on it." Arin’s hands shook so that she actually needed Wesley’s help to take down the gift and loosen the golden bow. She could hardly see for the tears in her eyes when, getting down on one knee, Wesley presented her with the most exquisite diamond ring she had ever seen. "Please, Arin," he said, tears shimmering in his own eyes, "make me the happiest man in the world. Say you’ll marry me."

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Arin stripped off her gloves and, tenderly cupping his face between her hands, nodded her assent. "Oh yes, Wesley. Yes. I’ll marry you." Removing his own gloves, Wesley took the ring from the box and slid it onto Arin’s finger. He didn’t even make it to his feet before she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. They wound up sitting on the floor, laughing and crying at the same time. "So, what will you do about work?" Arin asked as, a short while later, Wesley served the meal of roast chicken and parsley potatoes that he’d had Tess leave in the refrigerator for them. "I’m assuming this is to be our house, but are you going to be flying back and forth so you can work? I know how important the publishing company is to you." "You are important to me, sweetheart," he replied, "and I’m not looking for a part-time marriage. The company’s still mine, and we’ll visit New York occasionally, but I’ve turned the day-today operations over to my V.P. He’s been a part of all the day-to-day operations for nearly a year now, and I’m confident that he’ll do a good job." "I take it that’s why you have to fly back tonight? Oh, and what about a date?" Arin was talking a mile a minute, and Wesley sat back, reveling in their shared joy. "Do you want a big wedding? I mean, I’m okay with that, if you want it—but since I’ve done this before, I don’t really care about the dress and a reception. I’d be perfectly happy for it to be just you, me and the kids." "Actually," Wesley interjected, "that’s what I was thinking, too. And since you’ve asked about my trip, I think it’s time to tell you that I’m not going back to New York." He paused, his heart pounding,

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until Arin’s eyes met his. "You see, I was hoping to be married right away, and since you mentioned a Hawaiian beach wedding—well, I have four tickets, and there’s this perfect private beach, and since the kids have already given their permission for me to marry you—." "You asked the kids?" Tears once again stung Arin’s eyes. "That’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for them, and for me." Reaching across the table, she laid her hand over his. "Thank you." "It was my pleasure." Wesley simply could not stop smiling. "They’re great kids and I’m honored that they’ve accepted me as a part of the family. They both know that I don’t intend to replace their father, but I’m dedicated to being the best stepfather they could ever have. And they know that I love you. They both want you to be happy, sweetheart, and they believe that I make you happy." Arin brushed tears from her cheeks. "You do. So—," she prompted, "about Hawaii?" Wesley took both of Arin’s hands in his own. "I don’t want to rush you, sweetheart, so this is completely up to you. But I was really hoping that you would say yes to a New Year’s Eve wedding. It’ll just be the two of us, Shelby and Matt. We’ll go down to the beach—the view of the moon on the water is just amazing—and the minister will pronounce us man and wife just in time to ring in the New Year. All of this is subject to change, of course," he hastened to add. "If you’d rather wait, I’ll stay in the smaller of the two beach houses and—." "No." Arin shook her head quickly. "No, I don’t want to wait. I want to do it, Wesley. The beach,

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midnight—it’s everything I could have imagined, only so much more. It’s perfect." Getting up from her chair, she went into his lap and twined her arms about his neck. "Thank you, honey. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale, and you’re my Prince Charming." There was more kissing then, and Wesley thought he would go up in flames when Arin wiggled in his lap. He wanted her—the good Lord knew he’d been a patient man—but he was determined to wait until their wedding night to consummate their union. So, fighting his body’s natural urges, he led her on a tour of their fully decorated home. Every room was a surprise for Arin, and Wesley enjoyed watching her face light up as she noticed the little treasures that he’d filled the house with. There was a porcelain Precious Moments® nativity set in the middle of the formal dining room table, and she laughed at the way the kids had decorated their rooms. "You’re spoiling them already," she said, when she saw the state-of-the-art computers he’d installed in their bedrooms. "Did you let them pick this stuff out?" "The decorations, yes," he admitted, "but the computers are a surprise for when we get home." Leading her down the steps, he arrived at the door to their private suite. "I had this room soundproofed," he admitted, grinning. "I wanted you to be comfortable, knowing that nothing we say or do in here will be overheard." Arin walked around the sitting area, separated from the bedroom by a two-sided glass fireplace. There was a space in the cherry curio cabinet for the glass coach Wesley had given her, and the matching sleigh bed was another of the items she’d

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coveted at Grolle’s. There were matching cherry dressers and nightstands as well, and a cedar chest stained to match the other items in the room. Arin opened one door, expecting a walk-in closet, but found instead a glass-walled room and a Jacuzzi for two. "I had it added on," Wesley explained. "The glass is tempered, so no one can see in from the outside; and as you can see, I had trees transplanted so it would feel private, yet natural. Do you like it?" "Are you kidding? I love it." "Good." Wesley led her through a connecting door that opened onto the large, master bath. The shower was clearly built for two people and when she stopped to open the door, he allowed himself the privilege of cupping her soft, round bottom. "I think we’re going to be spending a lot of time in here," he whispered, kissing her neck. "I have been fantasizing about scrubbing your back for a very long time." "Mmm." Arin turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I like that fantasy, and I have one of my own. It involves you, standing under the hot water while I get down on my knees and—." "Enough," Wesley ground out, his finger tapping her lips. "We’ve got two days left, and we are going to make it." He took a ragged breath. "I think we’d best get out of here before I lose every ounce of self-control I have left." Taking her by the hand, he led her back through the bedroom. He almost made it to the door before she forced him to stop. There was yet another room off the sitting area, and the moment that Arin saw the decor, she knew precisely what that room was for. It looked, essentially, like a tastefully decorated office, but the

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computer desk and bookshelves were not nearly so telling as the straight-backed chair that occupied the far corner, and the wooden hairbrush that waited on the seat of that chair. Arin stopped and, swallowing hard, walked to the chair. With more strength than she realized she possessed, she picked up the heavy brush and turned to Wesley. "I think maybe there’s something we have to do before we leave here," she said, her eyes meeting his shyly. "I know I have a spanking coming, Wesley. I think I’d rather get it over with now, as opposed to later." Wesley shook his head and, walking to her, took the brush from her hand. "It’s okay, baby," he murmured. "It’s not necessary. You had good reason to be upset. I’m not going to spank you. Besides, it wouldn’t make for a very comfortable flight for you if I took this brush to your bottom." Returning the brush to its place, he took Arin’s hand and attempted to lead her out of the office. Arin did not move, and her voice was trembling when she said, "Wesley, I’ve never asked you for a spanking, but this is important. I built up an entire case against you, when I should have just asked you about what was going on at the office. It was just so easy for me to slip back into the old inferiority complex, and that’s what I did. I told myself that I was too clingy, too fat, too everything for you to love me. I broke the very first rule you ever gave me, and I transferred all my insecurities to you, convincing myself that they were your thoughts." Arin forced herself to look up at her fiancé. "I don’t want to have to ask, Wesley, but I know I need this." Wesley took a slow, deep breath. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he told Arin, "If I spank

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you, baby, it’s going to hurt. You’ll be sitting on a sore, probably bruised bottom all the way to Hawaii—and that’s a nine-hour flight." He tipped her chin up and studied her large brown eyes. "Are you sure that’s what you want, what you need?" "Yes, sir," Arin whispered. "I don’t want this, but I know that I need it." Wesley nodded once; then, taking Arin’s hand, he led her to the only vacant corner in the room. His fingers, familiar with the jeans she was wearing, managed the button and zipper with ease. Turning her to face the wall, he finished the task of baring her bottom. He pushed the jeans to her ankles, then slid blue satin panties to her knees. Finally, cupping each bottom cheek in turn, he said, "I wouldn’t do this if your skin was too cold, baby; that would hurt too much. But you’re sufficiently warm, so I want you stand here with your nose in the corner while I get things ready. Do you understand me?" "Yes, sir," Arin answered. A part of her wished she’d never opened her big mouth. The deepest part of her soul, however, acknowledged that the right choice was often the painful choice. "Come here, baby," Wesley said from across the room. "You have a spanking coming, and I want you over my lap PDQ." Arin turned to find Wesley watching her. He’d moved the straight-backed chair into the center of the room and was waiting there, hairbrush in hand. Arin hobbled to his side—she was never allowed to touch her jeans or panties once Wesley had pulled them down—and lowered herself across his hard thighs. When he wrapped his arm around her waist and tucked her into his body, she was reminded of just how big and powerful he really was. She was

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5’5", but she never paid much attention to the nineinch difference in their heights until she was bent over his lap, her feet dangling to his right and her fingers barely touching the floor on the left side of his chair. "Hold on, sweetheart," Wesley warned, just as he always did, and Arin obediently wrapped both hands around his ankle. "This is going to hurt," he added, "but please remember that I’m only doing this because I love you." "Yes, sir." The words were barely out of Arin’s mouth when the hairbrush cracked against her upturned bottom. She shrieked—she couldn’t help that—but Wesley had told her long ago that she was not to hold in the pain. She was gasping, tears swimming in her eyes, before he’d laid the first dozen hard spanks across her naked backside. "All right, little girl," he said, having dealt out twelve excruciating strokes to her bottom. "Do you know why I’m doing this?" "Yes." Still gasping, Arin struggled to put together a coherent sentence. "I got down on myself, and I doubted your love for me. Because of that, I convinced myself you were cheating and I wallowed in that anger until I was completely out of control. I was mouthy and disrespectful for no reason." She did not try to stifle the first small sob. "I’m sorry, Wesley. Will you forgive me?" Wesley tightened his grip on Arin’s waist. "Of course I forgive you, baby. I always do," he added, tapping the brush against her waiting bottom. "Don’t I?" "Y-yes sir."

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Arin cringed, knowing they’d only just gotten started. Clenching her bottom cheeks, she waited for the next dozen spanks to fall. "There’ll be none of that," Wesley said as he maneuvered her into a different position. Tipping her father forward, he clamped his right leg across the back of her left knee, then swiveled her around so he could insert his left knee between her legs. In this position, there was no way she could clench her bottom and, though he realized it would cause her more pain now, he knew that she’d appreciate the effect of the new position later. "You’ll bruise worse if you tense up," he reminded her. "You’d probably better hold onto the leg of the chair for support." He waited for her hands to find purchase, then raised the brush and returned to his task. The rest of the spanking was, from Arin’s perspective, an unbearably long blur of pain and noise. The brush cracked against her bottom and she shrieked and twisted, begging for an end to the pain. The cadence of Wesley’s words was soothing, even though she lost the ability to concentrate on what he was saying after the second dozen burning strokes of the brush. She lost count, too, and had no idea how many times the horrid wooden implement had fallen before Wesley lifted her up and held her, sobbing and utterly spent, against his chest. "I love you, baby," he crooned as, holding her to his chest, he moved to the rocking chair. The motion soothed Arin, as did Wesley’s reminders of his relentless love for her. "It’s going to be okay," he whispered, kissing the tears from her cheeks. "You’re forgiven and it’s time to move forward." He brushed damp blonde hair away from her face.

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"We’ve got a plane to catch, and wedding vows to exchange. Are you ready to go?" Arin nodded and, very shyly, kissed Wesley’s cheek. "Thank you for spanking me. I’m pretty sure I’ll never sit comfortably again, but that’s okay. Thank you for giving me what I needed." "You’re welcome." Shaking his head at the wonder of Arin’s gratitude for a blazing bottom, Wesley set his soon-to-be wife on her feet and quickly collected the jeans and panties that she’d kicked to separate corners of the room. Then, very gently, he helped her to dress. Easing the panties up over her swollen bottom, he said, "The first thing I’m going to do to celebrate the New Year is kiss your poor bottom all better." ______________ Two nights later, as a balmy breeze ruffled the warm Hawaiian waters, Wesley and Arin exchanged their wedding vows. Her children eagerly counted down the last minute of the old year, their voices a whispered chorus beneath the minister’s deep voice. Then, he pronounced them man and wife, and the far away roar of celebration joined Shelby and Matt’s cheers. It was a perfect night, a perfect wedding, and more than Arin had ever dreamed possible.

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Ringing in the New 2005 Arin Raddison stood at the kitchen sink, her hands immersed in hot water and white bubbles, her steadfast gaze following the movements of her children as they stowed suitcases and ski poles in the trunk of eighteen-year-old Shelby’s car. It was Christmas evening and, for the first time in their lives, her daughter and son would be spending a part of their school vacation with the father who’d left them more than a decade earlier. Despite her best efforts to control her feelings, tears filled Arin’s eyes. She didn’t want them to go. “Hey, gorgeous.” Wesley, her husband of nearly a year, startled her when he moved to stand behind her. Arms circling her waist, he pulled Arin back to nestle against his chest. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he too watched the kids’ progress. “You okay with this?” Arin shrugged, but her attempt at disinterest failed as tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s not like I have much of a choice,” she murmured. “Jeremy has a right to see his children. I guess, after all this time, I just didn’t expect him to insist on exercising his rights—especially not at this time of year.” Wesley kissed the top of his wife’s head, eased the dirty plate she held back into the dishwater, and

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turned her in his arms. His heart thudded painfully, sharing her sorrow, when she turned her face into his shirt front and wept. “I know. I’m going to miss them too, doll.” “Thank you for understanding,” Arin whispered. “I shouldn’t feel this way. I ought to be happy that the ex is finally trying to be a parent, but it pisses me off. He thinks he can waltz back into their lives now, after all the years he spent avoiding their phone calls and dodging child support payments, and it makes me sick. He offers the kids one ski trip and now he’s Superdad? And what’s worse, they’re buying it. I swear, I could strangle the bastard.” Wesley cleared his throat. “That’ll be enough of that language, young lady.” He spoke in a low, even tone—a warning in and of itself. “I know you’re upset, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to listen to that kind of talk in our house.” Arin let out a sigh, attempted to release the tension in her neck and shoulders. “I’m sorry, hon. It won’t happen again.” “Good girl.” Wesley kissed his wife again, then surreptitiously handed her a tissue as her children headed back to the house. “It looks like they’re done. You might want to dry your eyes.” “Thank you.” Arin dabbed at her tears and blew her nose softly, determined to put on a happy face for the kids. She managed to toss the crumpled tissue in the kitchen trashcan before Shelby and Matt stepped inside the utility room, stamping the snow from their boots. “We’re all packed,” Matt called, his cheeks red and his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I can’t believe we’re actually going to get the chance to ski the Lake Mountain slopes. I’ve wanted to go there forever.”

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Arin bit down on her tongue, concentrated on that pain in order to keep her emotions under control. She hated the pang of jealousy that Matt’s enthusiasm engendered in her, but it seemed grossly unfair for her ex to swoop in now and win their son over after years of shirking all responsibility for the children he’d fathered. She didn’t want to think that one ski vacation could make up for a dozen years of absentee fathering, but her son appeared all too eager to forgive Jeremy for everything. “I just hope we actually get to ski,” Shelby added. She’d been five when her father left, and appeared less inclined to forgive the man she’d once adored. “Knowing Dad, he’ll probably be too busy to take us on anything but the bunny hills.” “Knock it off, Shel,” Matt said. “I’m tired of listening to you rag on him. Maybe he’s changed, but you’ll never know if you don’t give him a chance.” Standing behind Matt, Shelby rolled her eyes heavenward. Still, she threw an arm around her brother’s shoulders to placate him. “Alright, Matt. I’m sorry. I guess I just have different memories of Dad than you do. But I’ll try, for your sake.” Arin swallowed back tears as she watched the interaction between her children. Shelby had been her father’s little princess one day, and abandoned the next. Her distrust of Jeremy was understandable, but she was obviously trying to keep a lid on her feelings for her younger brother’s sake. She had, in fact, confided in Arin that she was visiting her dad only because she didn’t want Matt to be there alone when—not if—Jeremy pulled another one of his “disappearing acts.”

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“We both hope you have a great time,” Wesley said. His arm tightened briefly around Arin’s shoulders, lending her strength. “Don’t we, sweetheart?” Arin plastered a smile to her face. “Of course we do.” She went to the kids then, hugged each of them in turn, and added, “We’ll miss you on New Year’s Eve, of course, but hopefully you’ll be having a blast. Just be careful. Okay? And call if you need anything.” “Don’t worry, Mom,” Shelby said. “I’ll make sure the brat doesn’t break anything important.” “And I’ll keep the klutz off the real slopes,” Matt teased. He hugged his mom, gave her the obligatory peck on the cheek, then turned to his sister. “Come on. At this rate, our vacation will be over before we make it to Lake Mountain.” “Whatever.” Shelby playfully jerked her brother’s knit hat down over his eyes. “Hey guys,” Wesley called as the kids headed for the door. He held out several folded over twenty dollar bills to each of them. “Just in case you need something,” he explained. “Thanks,” Shelby said. “Yeah, thanks Wes,” Matt echoed. “See you next week.” Matt walked the kids out to the car, ostensibly to make sure Shelby had enough oil in the car, while Arin watched from the kitchen window. She hated letting them go, and didn’t feel she had enough control over her emotions to join them outside. Aside from the potential for Jeremy to once again disappoint his children, she was also concerned about the possibility of broken bones—or worse. Lake Mountain was notorious for its difficult slopes, and Jeremy was about as far from being

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responsible as an adult man could get. She could only hope that he’d remember her cautions about Matt and Shelby’s level of experience. They’d need someone with them who knew what he was doing on the long side of the mountain. Somehow, she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust the man who’d betrayed and abandoned her. Outside, Wesley dropped the hood of Shelby’s white VW back into place, and gave the kids a thumbs up sign. Arin swallowed back tears as the engine roared to life, and the kids waved in her direction. A honk of the horn later, they were on their way to their father’s place. Tired of crying, Arin attacked the supper dishes with a vengeful energy. Her first wedding anniversary was only days away, and she wasn’t going to allow circumstances to ruin her enjoyment of that special day. “Yikes,” Wesley said as he returned to the kitchen. “You’re going to scrub the holly leaves right off of that Christmas china, doll. We have a dishwasher. Remember?” “Of course I do,” Arin snapped. “Excuse me?” Wesley’s tone had her glancing at him nervously, her face a dark, embarrassed shade of pink. The low rumble of disapproval spoke volumes, and Arin wasn’t particularly fond of the consequences of letting her temper get the best of her. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to snap.” “I know.” Wesley joined her at the sink, a kitchen towel in hand, and began to dry the dishes. “It’s okay…this time. But,” he added, pausing in his work, “I’m only going to put up with so much, Arin.” His strong right hand skimmed down her back to cup one round bottom cheek before laying a stern

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swat on its twin. “If you need to talk or rage or cry, you can say so. You know I’d never take that personally. But snapping at me or using the kind of language I heard come out of your mouth earlier will get you a good bottom warming, young lady. Understand?” “Yes sir.” Arin leaned into her husband, grateful for his solid strength despite the fact that he could put his well-defined muscles to use tanning her bottom at any time. They’d come a long way since the first time Wes had spanked her, and she’d found that his consistency was comforting even when it meant she’d be sitting uncomfortably. “I’ll be good. I promise.” ______________ Arin had every intention of keeping her promise, but her nerves frayed a bit more with every day that passed. The kids had called her upon their arrival at their father’s place and every night since, but their brief descriptions of the resort and the non-stop fun only seemed to fuel the angry fire that simmered deep within her heart. “Let’s go into the city for supper tonight,” Wesley suggested on Thursday afternoon. “I’m dying for some pasta, and the Spaghetti Factory will be too crowded tomorrow night.” Arin looked up from the crossword puzzle she was working, a slight frown marring her pretty features. “What kind of pasta do you want, Wes? I’ll make it here instead. I don’t really feel like spending hours in the car today.” “You haven’t felt like riding ten minutes in the car all week,” Wesley said. He crouched down in front of the chair where his wife had chosen to spend most of her week, and captured her gaze by

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taking the neatly folded sheet of newspaper and ink pen from her hands. “I wasn’t really making a request,” he said, his tone deceptively soft. “You need to get out of the house for a while. We’re going to the Spaghetti Factory for supper, doll, and you have one hour to get ready. Hop to it.” “But what if the kids call? Wesley, I can’t spend the evening in the city. If something happens, and they need me—.” A deep breath helped Wesley hold onto his patience. “You know, sweetheart, the phone company’s put out some nifty services in recent years. Take call forwarding for example. Ever heard of it? I dial in a code, and my cell phone number, and we don’t have to miss a single, solitary phone call.” Arin’s frown deepened. “I know all about call forwarding, smart ass,” she said. “But we’re an hour closer to them here than we will be if we go into the city. Besides, I’m not in the mood for Italian.” It was a blatant lie—she rarely turned down an opportunity to visit the Spaghetti Factory—but she felt almost panicked at the idea of leaving the house. “If my cooking’s not good enough, you’re certainly free to go by yourself…but I’m staying here.” She knew her words were a mistake the moment they were out of her mouth, but Arin met Wesley’s stern gaze with one of stubborn defiance. The battle of wills, however, only lasted as long as it took for her husband to stand and, taking a firm grip on her arm, pull her up from the chair. “I have had more than enough,” Wesley said as he propelled Arin forward with hard, stinging spanks to her denim-clad backside, “of your attitude, young lady. I’ve let a lot of things slide this week, because

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I knew you were tense about the kids being with their dad, but that was absolutely the last straw. I want you in the bedroom, bare-bottomed and waiting in the corner when I join you.” “No.” Arin hopped from one foot to the other, covering her bottom with both hands in order to avoid her husband’s broad palm. “You’re not being fair, Wesley. You can’t spank me just because I don’t feel like eating out. I won’t let you.” “You’re not being spanked because you don’t want to go out,” Wesley said. “And you’d better move your hands, young lady. You’ve already earned a dose of the big hairbrush. Block one more swat, and I’ll be applying that brush exclusively to your thighs.” “You wouldn’t!” Arin’s horrified gaze swung to her husband’s face. One look at the hard line of his jaw had her hands dropping to her sides. She gave a little gasp as the first of many more open-handed spanks fell across her bottom, but she wisely chose not to argue the point. Wesley marched his wife down the long hall, applying his hand to her backside all the way. He moved her through the bedroom without missing a beat, and did not stop the assault to her nether regions until they reached the “naughty” corner of the adjacent office. “You’ve been asking for this all week,” he told her gruffly. Reaching around her from behind, he easily unzipped her jeans and pushed them down to her ankles. “Haven’t you, young lady?” Arin blinked back tears, but she couldn’t prevent the hitch in her voice when she answered her husband. He was sliding her blue satin panties to her knees, preparing her for the spanking she knew

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would leave her bottom throbbing, but she didn’t have it in her to argue the point. Wesley was right. She’d been keyed up and taking it out on him all week. She didn’t want this, but she knew she deserved and needed to be over her husband’s knee. “Yes sir,” she whispered. Wesley touch was, at once, much gentler. Leaving her panties at her knees, he rested his chin on the top of her head while his hands found and cupped her already pink bottom cheeks. “I hate having to spank you, Arin. You know that…right?” “Uh-huh.” “I’m doing this because I love you, doll. And because, at this point, it’s the only option I have left. It’s my duty to take care of you—physically and emotionally—and I know you can’t be happy with your own behavior. I have the feeling that, if I let this go any farther, you’re going to end up pretty down on yourself. Am I right?” Arin’s vision blurred, her tears making the corner seam waver in front of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Wesley. And you’re right. I don’t like the person I’ve been this week. This isn’t me. Please help me, honey.” Wesley breathed a sigh of relief. He and Arin had agreed to have an old-fashioned marriage—one in which he would take on the head-of-household responsibilities. Even though she was his partner, his right hand and trusted advisor, Arin had willingly given her consent to any and all spankings Wes believed necessary. Still, he’d never had to force her compliance, and he didn’t know that he could, if it came down to that. He was grateful that he didn’t have to make that decision just now.

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“I’m going to help you, baby,” Wesley assured his wife. “Just let me move the chair, then you can fetch the hairbrush I’m going to use to blister your bottom.” Arin’s stomach clenched and rolled as nervous butterflies took flight deep inside her body. When Wesley used the word “blister,” he meant it quite literally. Arin knew, too, that she’d already had the only “warm up” she was going to get. Her husband never sent her for the brush until he was ready to apply it. There would be no hand spanking this time, no gradual introduction that somehow made the terrible fire of the brush easier to bear. She had but a few moments to wait, to prepare herself, before Wesley called to her. “Alright, little girl.” The anger was gone from his voice, leaving only a stern but loving determination. “Go get your hairbrush. You’ve been naughty, and now your bottom is going to pay the price.” Arin hated this part, despised shuffling from the office to the bathroom, her jeans and panties impeding her progress. Just when she was desperate to have the entire process over with, she was forced to hobble through the large bedroom, retrieve the heavy wooden hairbrush from her side of the bathroom counter, and return to her husband’s side. She took mincing steps, not daring to lift her feet too far off the floor lest she get tangled in the jeans puddled around her ankles. The panties twisted as she walked, effectively binding her legs together so that it seemed to take forever to follow Wesley’s instructions. Wesley watched his wife slowly cover the length of their bedroom. He’d come to recognize the value of the little rituals that went with the disciplinary

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spankings he gave his wife. Taking Arin to the corner and making her stand still while he bared her bottom was one of the ways he reminded her that he was in control of the situation. Sending her to fetch the brush forced her to take an active role in her correction, and the clothing around her knees and ankles slowed her movement so she had plenty of time to think about what was coming. When Arin at last arrived by his side, he held out his hand for the brush. She offered it to him, handle first, as a sign of her submission. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she willingly obeyed his directions. Wesley took the brush, and then held his arms away from his body. “Alright, young lady,” he growled. “You know the drill. Lay down over my lap, please.” Quite familiar with “the drill,” Arin gingerly lowered herself face down over her husband’s hard thighs. The difference in their heights left her dangling, fingertips skimming the carpet to the left of the “spanking chair,” and her legs churning air to his right. Wesley’s arm curved around her waist, and he tucked her more tightly against his body. His confident touch provided both a shackle to hold her in place, and an anchor to keep her safe. That, Arin decided, was the magic of Wesley Raddison. He could discipline and comfort her at the same time. She’d given him authority over her body, but his power was always tempered by love. “Well, young lady? The tapping of the brush on her bottom reminded Arin of her final part in the spanking, and she found it surprisingly easy to give him the words he expected. “I’m sorry for my behavior, sir, and I need your guidance. Will you please spank me?”

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“Yes, I most certainly will.” His tone softened then, and she felt his sigh of regret. “This is going to hurt, baby—a lot. You’d best hold onto something.” Wesley waited for his wife to get a firm grip on something. One hand settled on the chair rail, but the other curled around his ankle. That touch, the fact that she clung to him even when he was about to blister her tail, sent a wave of tenderness washing through him. “I love you so much, doll,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Always, always remember that.” Swallowing hard, Arin steeled herself for the first searing smack of the hairbrush. Unwilling to keep her waiting any longer, Wesley raised his arm and took aim. The sound of the hard, solid smack seemed to split the air in the room. Arin’s breath hissed out, but she remained still. A few more smacks, however, had her writhing and squirming across her husband’s knees. Confident that he had her attention, Wesley began to lecture. “I know this has been hard for you,” he said, “but I warned you what would happen if you let your unhappiness overcome your good sense. Didn’t I?” “Yes sir,” Arin said, her answer quickly turning into a low moan. “I’m sorry Wesley. I’ve been an awful wife all week.” Wesley never let up, raining down burning spanks in a slow and steady rhythm. At this stage, there was no question as to who was in charge. Arin could hardly catch her breath, let alone control the way her body bucked with each fiery smack. “Your attitude has been awful,” Wesley corrected. “Sometimes your behavior gets your

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bottom into trouble, little girl, but you are not an awful anything.” He stopped for a moment, letting Arin catch her breath. “Understand?” “Yes sir.” Arin’s voice broke on a sob. “Thank you.” Wesley picked up the pace again, laying hard swats down all over his wife’s pretty bottom. “Now what do we do to fix this problem?” “I…I don’t know.” Shapely legs jerked with every smack. How could she possibly give her husband a rational answer when her butt was on fire and her body was writhing and dancing of its own accord? “Please Wes…I can’t think.” “Okay.” Wesley continued spanking, the brush leaving burning, red flesh in its wake. “If you don’t have any ideas to offer, maybe you’d be willing to listen to one of mine?” “Yes…yes!” She was feeling rather desperate by now, the burn in her backside quickly turning into an unbearable fire. “I’ll do anything, sir. Anything!” “Alright, then.” Wesley stopped spanking, rested the hairbrush against the back of Arin’s right thigh. “So you agree that it would be a good idea to get out of the house tonight?” “Wesley….” The uncertainty in her voice, coupled with her obvious need to argue the point, earned Arin a weltinducing spank to each sensitive thigh. “Let’s try this a different way,” Wesley suggested. Once again, the hairbrush stilled against her thighs. “Do you believe I love you, little girl?” “Of course,” Arin gasped between sobs. “You love me and I love you, the way it’s supposed to be.” “I’m glad to hear it.” Wesley tapped the hairbrush lightly up and down the backs of his wife’s

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legs. “And do you believe that I take your health and happiness seriously…that I consider it my duty to take care of you?” “Yes.” Arin had regained a measure of self control and now held herself stiffly, expecting more of the awful spanks at any moment. “You always take care of me.” “Then why,” Wesley asked, delivering a powerful swat to the lowest part of his wife’s bottom, “are you fighting me every step of the way?” Again, he delivered two agonizing blows to the tops of her thighs. “I’m just so…scared,” the sobbing woman blurted out. “What if the kids need me and I can’t get to them?” Wesley transferred the brush to his left hand and, with his right, began to soothe Arin’s heated flesh. “We both know they could get hurt anywhere, at any time. That’s not what this is really about, doll. Is it?” Arin let out a ragged breath. The truth was hard to admit, even to herself, but Wesley would accept nothing less, and her bottom couldn’t stand much more of his particular method of persuasion. “No sir,” she whispered, feeling small and petty and ashamed of herself. “I’m afraid they’ll…I don’t know…like their dad. I’m afraid they’ll believe the horrible things he said about me all those years ago. That I was too clingy, too bitchy…too everything. I couldn’t stand that, Wesley. I couldn’t stand for them to blame me for everything, but what if Jeremy was right about me? What if it was my fault?” The sharp pop of the brush against her bottom made Arin jump. “It takes two people to make a marriage,” Wesley said. “You weren’t perfect and

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neither was he, but that didn’t excuse his taking up with another woman. No one deserves to be cheated on, baby. No one.” Arin shuddered once, and then the sobs took over, washing the rest of the fear and anger from her mind and heart. Within moments, she found herself crying against Wesley’s shirt front as he carried her to the rocker-recliner in their bedroom. “It’s okay, baby,” he crooned softly. “You don’t have to worry about that happening. You were the one who made all the sacrifice for them, rocked them when they had nightmares, made sure they had clothes and food and a roof over their heads. Nothing Jeremy does now can change that.” “Do you really think so?” Arin whispered. “How do you know?” “Aww, doll.” Wesley rubbed his wife’s back in soothing circles. “I know because I see it in their eyes every time they look at you. Those kids love you with their whole hearts, and it lights up their faces just like your love is a light for them…and for me.” Deeply touched by her husband’s words, Arin could do nothing but rest gratefully in the shelter of his arms. Wesley rocked the chair slowly, allowing her time to calm down before he finally smiled against her forehead. “I’m still hungry for Italian, sweetheart. And, besides, if we don’t go to the city tonight, we’ll lose our reservation at the Towers.” Arin sat up then, roused to interest by the name of the exclusive hotel and spa that she’d been longing to visit. “We have reservations at the Towers?” Wesley grinned at her. “Tomorrow’s our anniversary,” he said. “You didn’t really think we

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were just going to sit at home and do nothing…did you?” A blush crept up Arin’s neck. “Well, I did think we were staying home. But I never said I expected us to do nothing.” Wesley shook his head playfully before setting his wife on her feet. “Well look who’s finally got her old spunk back. Now,” he said, turning her in the direction of the bathroom, “go get ready. I’m hungry…and not just for pasta.” There was a decidedly wolfish gleam in his eyes. He sent his wife to the shower with a gentle swat to her bottom, but a few minutes later Wesley decided that some cravings called for immediate indulgence. Shedding his clothes, he surprised Arin by joining her beneath the hot water. His hands found and soothed her aching bottom flesh and, in no time at all, sent the fire racing to a more intimate part of her body. It was there beneath the shower, with steam curling around them and hot desire urging them on, that the Raddisons began their anniversary celebration a little early…and with a decidedly delicious bang.

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Rainbow’s End

Neila Shanahan liked to chase rainbows. As a child, she’d been fascinated by the brilliant arcs of color, and her grandfather’s equally colorful tales of leprechauns and pots of gold to be found at the rainbow’s end. In fact, one of her earliest memories was of Granddad pointing out the magical streaks of pink, yellow, blue and green that disappeared into the woods beyond their postage stamp yard. “You see that, Luv?” he asked in a brogue as thick as Mama’s worst oatmeal experiment. “That’s a bit o’ magic right here on earth.” “Magic? Like Jeannie, on TV?” Five-year-old Neila was enamored with the reruns featuring Barbara Eden as a pink-clad genie. Granddad picked her up and tossed her toward the sky, eliciting giggles. “Aye, somethin’ like that,” he replied. “Only there’s no bottle, and that Jeannie’s a lot prettier than the leprechaun guarding his pot of gold at the end of that rainbow.” “A leper-con? Is that a mean kind of genie?” Neila wrapped her arms around Granddad’s neck and held on tight. “Will it get me?” “Well, a leprechaun is tricky, but he’s not really mean.” Granddad hugged her tight, and then

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settled her in his lap. “Besides, I’m right here, and I’d never let anything or anyone hurt my little Luv.” “Phew.” Neila wiped her small brow like she’d seen Jerry do after he escaped another of Tom’s traps in the cat-and-mouse cartoon. Granddad had to stifle a chuckle to answer her next question. “What does a leprechaun look like?” “A leprechaun’s a wee old dandy, dressed in a coat and tall hat. The pictures you see around here,” he continued, his arm arcing wide to encompass all of their adopted home in the United States, “always show little men dressed all in green, but every true Irishman knows that leprechauns favor the color red. Their coats are sewn with gold thread, and they have more gold buttons than they’ve buttonholes to poke them through.” “Show-offs,” Neila accused. “Precisely! They’re richer than most kings, and they want everyone to know it. Every one of them has treasure buried in a hundred different places – treasure no one can find save when a rainbow appears. Then, if you follow the rainbow to its very end, you’ll find a pot of gold and a leprechaun guarding it.” “And then you’ll be rich?” “So long as you don’t let the old man trick you.” Granddad’s brown eyes sparkled with mischief, making Neila sit up straighter and take notice. “If you ever come upon a leprechaun, you mustn’t look away from him, or he’ll disappear, and you’ll only get the pot that you found him guarding. But if you keep the old fellow in sight and question him, he’ll have to take you to all of his treasures, and then you’ll be mighty rich, indeed!” Neila twirled one blond piggy-tail around her finger as she gave that some thought. “What about

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wishes, Granddad? Do leprechauns have to give you three wishes, like genies?” “That’s a fine question,” Granddad replied with a wink, “and tells me you’re thinking hard about something. If you could get a leprechaun to grant your wishes, what would you ask for, Luvey?” Neila shrugged and snuggled deeper, tucking her head beneath her grandfather’s chin. “My first wish would be for Mama to be home more, and not have to work so hard. I miss her when she’s at the hospital for so long.” Granddad gave her a gentle squeeze. “That’s a fine wish.” “My second wish would be for Papa, that he would come home from that place across the ocean. I hear Mama crying sometimes, late at night, and I know she misses him.” Granddad kissed the top of her head and hugged her tight. “He’d come home if he could, Luvey. I’m sure of that.” Neila, far too young to understand the real meaning of M.I.A., went on to explain her third wish. “The last thing I’d ask for is more wishes, so I could wish for more things!” “Smart girl!” the old man praised. “Do you think I could make the leprechaun give me my wishes if I caught him?” Neila shifted so she could look up into Granddad’s twinkling eyes. “You just might be able to do it,” he replied. “But I bet he’d test you first, to see just how smart you are. He’d probably ask you all sorts of questions about the place you – and he – come from.” “You mean the hospital?” Neila asked, her eyes round. “I’d be good at answering those questions,

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‘cause Mama’s told me all about how babies get born.” “Actually, I was thinking he would ask you questions about Ireland, and the faerie folk there. I wager he’d like to know you’ve learned about your home across the sea, for it’s a magical place indeed.” Neila squirmed down from Granddad’s lap, and tugging on his hand, asked, “Can we please walk to the woods and find the end of the rainbow? I want to get the gold and make my wishes, and if that old leprechaun asks questions, you can answer them ‘cause you know all about Ireland.” “Well, I can’t see any harm in that, Luvey. But you’ll have to wear your slicker in case it starts raining again. Deal?” Granddad stuck out his right hand, and little Neila shook it firmly. “It’s a deal. Come on!” After that day, Neila and Granddad made a habit of chasing rainbows in search of gold and wishes. Twenty-seven years later, she couldn’t quite squash the urge to seek out the end of every rainbow she encountered. She managed to control herself, of course. She wasn’t a loon, after all, but a grown woman with responsibilities of her own. She had a good job as a surgical nurse in a small-town Illinois hospital, a tidy apartment, and a reliable boyfriend who wanted a commitment. From the outside looking in, it seemed that Neila Shanahan had everything a woman could possibly want. Why then was she standing on the back porch of her childhood home, watching rain roll across a West Virginia valley, her fingers crossed as she searched for a slash of color to brighten the sky?

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“This is a beautiful view.” Marti Owens, owner of the only real estate office in the nearby town of West Salem, stepped onto the porch behind Neila. “The place will sell in no time. Are you sure you want to part with it, dear?” Neila hugged herself. “Honestly, I wish I could stay here, but Harry can’t leave the city.” “He’s a stockbroker?” “An accountant. He works for a brokerage firm in downtown Chicago. He wants to get married.” “Your mother mentioned that not so long ago.” Marti patted her shoulder in a motherly way. “I half expected to meet him this week.” “Yes… well…” Neila searched her brain for the right words to explain Harry’s absence. “He would’ve come, but I thought it best for him to stay behind. He’s terribly busy, what with April fifteenth looming, and he couldn’t desert his clients just now. Harry prides himself on being reliable.” “Hmmm.” Marti, the self-appointed grandmother to half the population of West Salem, put an arm around Neila’s shoulders. “That’s an admirable quality, though certainly not the only important thing to look for in a man. “Take my Joseph, for example. He had such a zest for life, just like your Granddad. Things were never dull with Joe around. He was always one to pick up and go at a moment’s notice, dragging me off on picnics and piling the kids in the station wagon whenever someone challenged our team to a game of softball.” “I remember.” Neila recalled the faded photos that decorated the walls at Owens Realty. With thirteen Owens kids living under one roof, they’d had a team for every sport played in West Virginia. “Your kids always seemed to be having fun.”

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“Sometimes a little too much fun.” Marti smiled. “But Joe was a good father. He knew the difference between high spirits and the kind of behavior that required a sterner approach. Now that’s a good quality in a man. A good sense of humor and flexibility are important, too.” Uncertain how to respond, Neila simply asked, “You have papers for me to sign?” “I’ve got them laid out on the kitchen table.” She scanned the gray horizon once more before following Marti into the house. The spring thunderstorm swept in, minutes after the real estate agent disappeared down the curving, gravel driveway. Shivering at the sudden drop in temperature, Neila pulled a green and blue patterned afghan around her shoulders and curled up in the faded rocker-recliner that Granddad had favored. Exhausted after last night’s wake and the early morning funeral, she was quickly lulled to sleep by the steady drumming of the rain. ______________ The first notes of a John Phillip Sousa march jerked her from a sound sleep. She located the blaring cell phone a moment too late to answer the call, but was glad of that extra moment when she saw Harry’s number on the caller ID screen. If she had to listen to one more conversation about pork bellies and their effect on so-and-so’s total gross income, she might well start snoring in his ear. She turned off the phone’s ringer and padded barefoot into the kitchen to put on the tea kettle. All thoughts of Earl Grey fled, however, when she glimpsed the view from the kitchen window. A rainbow – the most vibrant she’d ever seen – stretched across the backyard and disappeared into

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the trees that bordered the property. Leaving the tea kettle in the sink, Neila slipped on faded brown penny loafers and let herself outside. The rainbow was so close that she imagined the color would coat her hand if she could but reach out and touch it. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d followed it to the edge of the forest. Without thought to the falling temperature and impending sunset, Neila stepped into the shelter of swaying evergreens and budding shade trees. She walked through the forest for some time, guided by glimpses of red and yellow just beyond the treetops. She’d never seen anything so beautiful, nor could she remember a time when she’d been more certain that she would at last solve the mystery at the end of the rainbow. Even her childhood jaunts with Granddad seemed only mildly exciting in comparison to the thrill she experienced as she hurried through the trees. It seemed that something magical gripped her, so she noticed neither the lengthening shadows, nor her own progress as she rushed toward the center of the forest. She knew only that she was almost there, that the adventure of a lifetime waited for her just beyond the next oak or wide pine. She was rushing headlong toward that magical something when a protruding root snagged her foot, and she hit the damp forest floor with a startled cry. It took several minutes for the dazed young woman to right herself and gather her wits about her. She looked around, dismayed, as she prodded her burning ankle. “Nothing broken,” she said aloud, to break the eerie silence that had fallen around her. It was nearly dark, and an upward glance confirmed the worst. Her rainbow – so real

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only a moment ago – had simply winked out of existence. Neila leaned heavily against the trunk of a black birch in order to pull herself upright. What had she been thinking, to run into the forest with sunset fast approaching? “This is nuts,” she told herself. “Which way is home?” “I believe you came from that direction.” Neila gave a startled cry and jumped back from the man who was suddenly right in front of her. She unfortunately stepped down on her injured foot, which refused to work properly, and sat down hard on a carpet of rain soaked leaves and molding pine needles. “Shit!” She blinked up at the dark-haired stranger. “You scared the crap out of me, mister. Where’d you come from?” “Just over there,” he said with a vague wave, “and you’re lucky I’m not a hunter. The way you came crashing through the forest, I nearly mistook you for a bear.” “A bear?” Neila glared up at the man. “That’s ridiculous. I grew up on the edge of this forest. There aren’t any bears here.” “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” The stranger, dressed in a red-flannel jacket and faded jeans, crouched down in front of her. “I tag black bears for the wildlife registry. Trust me, there are plenty in these woods.” “Hmmph. I had no idea.” Neila sat on the forest floor, dazed, as the raven-haired man rolled the left leg of her khakis past the ankle, which was now a bit pink. “It’s not broken.”

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“I know,” she answered tartly. “It’s not swelling, or hot, and I’m a nurse. Probably just a mild sprain.” “I see.” The vivid hue of his green eyes took her breath away. “You don’t seem all that sensible, considering you’re a nurse. What are you doing, running around out here in the dark without a jacket? Are you trying to get hypothermia?” “Of course not!” Neila jerked her foot away from the stranger’s probing touch. “And it wasn’t dark when I started out.” “Well, it’s nearly dark now, and you have to be freezing in short sleeves. You’re not even wearing socks, for heaven’s sake!” “I’m fine,” Neila snapped. “Now if you’d just help me up, sir…” “Sean.” “What?” “My name is Sean Fitzpatrick.” He held out his big right hand. “And you are – ?” “Neila Shanahan,” she said as she shook the offered hand. “If you’ll just help me up, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” “Sean.” “Yes, of course.” Neila couldn’t imagine why she felt so irritable with the man, but she couldn’t keep her tone from betraying that irritation. “If you’ll please help me up, Sean, I’ll be on my way.” “On that ankle?” He straightened, took off his jacket, and draped it around her shoulders. “I think you’d best let me take you home.” He lifted her easily, the movement so fluid and quick that she was already in his arms before she could protest. “Hey! Put me down.”

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He didn’t bother to acknowledge her attempt at self-reliance, a fact that furthered her irritation. “Where do you live?” “On Old Hickory Road, right at the top of the hill.” Neila made one last attempt to control her temper. “Seriously, I appreciate your help, but you don’t need to carry me. I’m too heavy.” “Don’t be silly,” the man replied. “It’s going to rain again any moment, and we need to get you inside where it’s warm. Besides, you hardly weigh a thing. I bet you don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.” Neila thought to argue, but the protest died in her throat. Instead, she whispered, “I buried my mother this morning. Watching someone die like that – she had cancer – kind of kills the appetite.” “You’re Kendra Shanahan’s daughter.” It was more statement than question. “I was sorry to hear about your mom.” “Thanks.” Neila allowed a curtain of strawberryblonde hair to fall forward, hiding her face from his knowing gaze. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to live in a small town, where everybody knows everybody else’s business.” She bit down on her tongue the moment the words escaped. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right at all. I only meant that it’s a surprise to meet a stranger, and find out he knows –. Oh, never mind.” A chuckle rumbled deep in Sean’s chest. “Just lay your head on my shoulder and relax, sweetheart. You must be exhausted.” Neila experienced something strange in that moment, a settling of her heart and mind. It seemed that she’d known Sean Fitzpatrick all her life. She rested her cheek against his broad chest and said, “I was looking for the gold.”

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Fitzpatrick’s ground-eating stride never faltered. “I know.” “You do?” She was oddly content in the stranger’s arms. “How would you know that?” “I was guarding it.” “Oh. Of course.” She smiled. “I should have recognized you, Sir Leprechaun, but you don’t look at all like your pictures.” “You were expecting someone shorter, perhaps? Dressed all in green?” “Shorter, yes. But Granddad told me long ago that leprechauns actually favor the color red.” “And he was right. That jacket around your shoulders is proof enough, isn’t it?” “Right you are.” Neila giggled. “But there’s still the issue of height. Leprechauns are wee little faerie folk, you know. And they’re always old and grizzly.” “Hmmph. Why is it that mortals think they’re the only beings that evolve? I work out at the gym, you know. And being a creature of magic, I don’t have to be short if I don’t want to be.” “Oooh, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.” Neila snuck a glance at Sean’s face and realized that they’d emerged from the forest. “Hey, that was fast. I must not have wandered as far into the woods as I thought.” “Oh, you wandered quite a distance to find me. But I know that place like the back of my hand. I’ve had my gold stored there for well over three hundred years, now.” Neila blinked in surprise, and when she opened her eyes, the man with piercing green eyes and black-as-midnight hair was lowering her to the sofa. She shook her head in hopes of clearing away the surreal feeling.

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“There’s ibuprofen in the cupboard to the right of the sink,” she told Sean. “I think you’d better get me some because I seem to be delirious with the pain.” Sean merely grinned as he took a seat on the battered coffee table in front of the couch. “And some ice, too.” Neila closed her eyes against the throbbing in her leg. “It’ll help the pain.” “It might.” Neila opened her eyes to see his dark head bent over her now bare foot. “Or I could just kiss it all better.” “What?” Shocked at the intimate tone of the stranger’s voice, she tried to pull away. He only held her leg firmly, though, and pressed his lips to her ankle bone. Neila’s eyes went wide as she felt the pain fade away. She turned her foot one way, and then the other. Nothing hurt at all! “Okay,” she said. “Obviously, I’m dreaming.” She smiled then, and let her fingers glide through his thick, dark hair. “And it’s turning into a darn good dream.” “Really?” Mischief sparkled emerald green in the man’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Luv… but I can assure you, this is no dream.” Neila laughed at that outrageous claim. “I was thinking of Granddad earlier today. He always called me Luv or Luvey, and now you’ve done the same. You see? It’s all a dream.” She brushed her palm over the dark stubble on his jaw. “I love five o’clock shadows, but my boyfriend can’t grow a beard. He’s kind of a weenie – not at all like you. Would you do me a favor, Sean?” “Just name it, and your wish is my command.” “Would you hurry up and kiss me before I wake up.”

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“I would be delighted to kiss you.” Sean moved to the edge of the couch and gathered Neila in his arms. “And after that, I’m going to take you right across my knee and give you the sound spanking you deserve for wandering into the forest and putting yourself in danger.” “You’re what?” Her eyes opened wide, then closed again as Sean gathered her close for his kiss. It was wonderful, perfect... everything a dream kiss should be. He started slowly, brushing his lips against her temple and down the line of her jaw before beginning a thorough, breath-stealing exploration of her mouth. Neila’s heart slammed in her chest, her heated blood raced to parts of her body that she’d forgotten she had. When they at last came up for air, she could only stare in wonder at the figment of her imagination. “Wow! This is some dream. Would you do that again, please?” Sean smiled, but shook his head. “Sorry, Luv, but we’ll have to come back to that later. Right now, I have something to say about your lack of common sense.” With that, he flipped her over his knee. “You might as well get comfy,” he said. “You’re going to be here a while.” “Oooh… sexy,” Neila said. Then a broad palm fell hard on the still-wet seat of her khakis, and she yelped with surprise. “Hey! I don’t think I like this part of the dream.” “You’re not supposed to like it,” Sean said, even as his hand smacked hard against Neila’s upturned bottom. “But I promised your Granddad I’d look after you, and I always keep my promises.” “You what?” Neila shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean, you promised Granddad? And stop with the hitting. It hurts!”

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“This isn’t hitting, young lady. It’s spanking. There’s a difference. And it’s supposed to hurt.” He didn’t argue the point further, but merely continued to rain down one hard swat after the other. “You know better than to go chasing after rainbows without your rain slicker, and you certainly shouldn’t have been in the woods when it was nearly dark. What on earth were you thinking?” “I don’t know,” Neila said, breathless. She’d been spanked many times as a child… mostly by Mama, though she’d endured the occasional trip over Granddad’s knee when her behavior warranted discipline… but she’d forgotten just how much it hurt to have her bottom smacked. “I’m ready to wake up now,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I keep telling you, you are awake. But since you don’t seem to be getting the message –.” Neila gasped in surprise as Sean righted her to stand in front of him. The next second she was once again held over his knee, this time with her pants falling off her ankles and her panties wrapped around her knees. Shocked, she could only cling to his leg as he left burning handprints all over her naked bottom. “Stop! Please!! I don’t understand any of this. How do you know my Granddad, and why would he ask you to watch out for me?” She tried to squirm away the moment Sean’s broad palm connected with her right thigh. “Holy shit, that hurt!” “You’re only going to get one warning about the language, young lady,” Sean said. “If I hear another foul word, I’ll soap out your mouth.” “Okay.” Neila’s voice trembled, and tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” Sean asked. “For using bad language.”

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His big hand rose and fell another half-dozen times. “Is there anything else you want to apologize for, young lady?” “Yes! I – I shouldn’t have gone into the woods so late in the afternoon, especially without a coat. And you’re right. Granddad would have spanked me for doing something so stupid. Mama would have, too.” It was that admission that finally loosened the floodgates. Neila began to cry, great heartwrenching sobs for all that she’d lost. She was still sobbing when she found herself curled up, and miraculously dressed, in Sean Fitzpatrick’s lap. He rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head until she was calm enough to speak. “You’re really magic,” she whispered. “Aren’t you?” “Yes.” She noticed the brogue then, a comforting accent as thick as Granddad’s. “But how?” “Your grandfather told you all about Ireland, and the magic found there, Neila. Is it really so hard to believe that there was truth to his stories?” “I guess not.” Neila’s eyebrows drew together as she tried to grasp that concept. “But why would Granddad ask you to look after me, and why would you do it?” “Your granddad found my treasure years ago, but we struck a bargain. He left the gold on the condition that I would always look out for you. He loved you, Neila. He didn’t want you to lose sight of the magic all around us.” He feathered kisses along her forehead. “I definitely got the better end of the deal.”

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Neila sat up straight, so she could look her leprechaun in the eyes. “Because you got to keep the gold, you mean?” Sean shook his head. “No. Because I fell in love with the person that your grandfather treasured above all others.” He kissed the end of her nose. “That’s you, silly.” “Good answer.” Joy bubbled up from deep inside Neila. “Would you do me a favor, Sean?” “Just name it, Luv.” “Kiss me again, now that I know I’m not dreaming.” “It will be my pleasure.” Sean’s smile promised a lifetime of magic. “Now, and for the rest of our lives.”

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Trick or Treat "I'm sorry, honey…really I am." I lean against your shoulder, not daring to look you in the eyes. I know I deserve a spanking, but I don't really want one – not tonight. I'm tired and cranky, my hands hurt from hours of wielding a needle and thread, and I just want to collapse in front of the computer for a long chat with other mothers who understand the work that goes into a Halloween costume. "I didn't mean to be such a witch. It was just a really hard day." "Yes… well, maybe we should talk about it first then." You hug me, far more understanding than I deserve. "Tell me what happened." ______________ I was sitting in the middle of the living floor – amidst heaps of green satin, gold tulle, and yards of bric-a-brac – when our daughter arrived home from school. "Mo-om!" she moaned, stretching out the one syllable word as only an irritable twelve-year-old can do. "Don't tell me you're not done with my costume yet. The party's tonight." I blew hair out of my eyes and tried once again to insert a too-small needle through three layers of fabric. "I know when the party starts," I barked,

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"and I'll have your costume done before then. Got any homework?" "What do you think? The sixth graders are hosting this thing. Do you really think our teachers would give us a bunch of homework on top of everything else?" Ah, sarcasm. Obviously the preferred method of communication amongst the pre-teen set, our innocent little firstborn child has mastered the art. If they gave degrees for this alone, she would be awarded the status of valedictorian of her graduating class. The fact that she gets it from me – that she's the "one just like you" that my mother wished on me – is not lost on this little red hen. Do you have any idea how many times I've apologized to my mom for the insufferable brat I must have been? There's no going back, of course. My only recourse is to pass on the maternal curse. I have. If luck holds out, Nicole will have not one, but two just like her. "I'll thank you not to talk to me like that," I growled. "And since you don't have any homework and I'm obviously doing something for you, I think you can do the dishes for me." "Aww, Mom! Do I have to? I just got home. Don't I deserve just a little break?" "Fine… whatever. You have until 3:30, and then I'm going to need your help getting this place straightened up. Your father will freak if he sees this mess." "Well, it's not my mess. You're the one with everything spread all over the floor." "Nicole – ." "Okay, okay… sorry." She grabbed the remote and, flopping down onto the couch, turned on the

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television. "Hey! How come you locked out Jenny Jones?" "I locked out all the talk shows. You don't need to be watching that garbage." "But it's not always bad. Sometimes they do makeovers and stuff like that. Besides, I don't watch the bad episodes." I pushed harder on the needle and the dull end poked through my leather thimble, pricking my index finger for about the fifteenth time in one day. It was all I could do not to let loose with a string of profanity, but that's something we've agreed we don't want our children to hear in our home. I did, however, sound more irritable than I intended when I told her, "I'm your mother and it's my job to protect you from that kind of crap. I will not have you watching shows with topics like "My mother got pregnant by my boyfriend," and that's final. Now drop the subject!" "Geeze! It's like you don't trust me or something!" She bounced off the couch, kicked yards of tulle out of her way, and stomped off to her room. "And don't mutter under your breath at me, young lady!" I called after her. ______________ "I told you not to get so elaborate with that costume," you remind me quietly. "I know it," I snap. "You don't have to gloat, damn it!" Your hand bounces off the part of my thigh you can reach from this position. "Do you want to forgo the talking and go straight to the spanking, young lady? Because if that's how you're going to talk to me – ."

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"No." I sniffle and rub the red spot on the side of my leg. "I'm sorry, honey." "Okay." I can feel you relaxing into the chair and try to do the same in your arms. "So, you were both PMSing at the same time," you begin. "I was not!" I sit up and glare at you. "This isn't about PMS, Jas! This is about Nicole showing an utter lack of respect." "Then why didn't you ground her?" I can tell by the tension in your voice and the hard line of your jaw that I'm very close to crossing a line I don't want to cross. "You're her mother, Leah. If you go too easy on her, she'll never learn to respect you." "I… I couldn't. I mean, she's worked so hard on this party and she would have been so embarrassed and… and – ." "And it's the time of the month when both your hormones get all out of whack and maybe you know that you could have been a little more adult about the whole thing?" Damn, it's irritating to live with someone who's always right. "Okay. I was PMSing, too." "I thought so." You hug me gently. "The costume looked great, by the way. Her friends were ooh-ing and ah-ing over it the minute she got out of the car." "Really?" That fact helps to soothe my temper. "I worked really hard on it." "And she looked like the queen at last year's Renaissance Faire. You did a good job, honey." Your praise buoys my spirits. "So, what else happened?" ______________ I was still working on Nicole's costume when Ricky got home. As usual, he burst in the door like Tigger on No-Doze.

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"Mom!" he yelled just before he tripped over my sewing box. Lucky for him, my right shoulder and arm broke his fall. This time I poked my left index finger. "Sorry. I didn't see you." "Hi," I murmured around the injured finger I was sucking on. "How was school?" "Fine. Do we have any chicken cordon bleu?" "Huh?" My poor, feeble mind just wasn't quite up to the lightening speed at which our son moves through life. "Do we have any more of those chicken cordon bleu things in the freezer?" He circumvented my mess and headed for the kitchen. "I want a snack." "I don't think so, but there are apples and carrots and I think a brand new bag of pretzels, too. Why don't you try a snacky sort of food for snack time, and leave the entrees for dinner?" "But I don't want apples or carrots… and I hate this kind of pretzels, Mom. Why didn't you get the little sticks?" "Okay, Leah," I told myself. "Get a grip." To our son, I replied, "Honey, they're the exact same pretzels – same brand and everything – just shaped differently." "They don't taste the same. The knots are gross." I turned toward the kitchen to find our son slumped in the doorway, looking for all the world like he was about to faint from hunger. He cradled a box of frozen chicken entrees to his chest. "Please, Mom! I'm starved." Okay, so the kid was born to do Shakespeare. "Oh alright… but you fix it yourself – and don't leave me a mess to clean up." "Cool. Thanks!" He disappeared into the kitchen, followed shortly thereafter by the sound of earthenware plates crashing into one another.

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"Ricky, what are you doing?" I scrambled up off the floor and hurried into the kitchen, to find our son holding two halves of one plate, a piece in each hand. "What happened?" "I'm sorry, Mom," he murmured sheepishly. "I didn't mean to – ." "Why on earth didn't you just use one of the paper plates?" I fumed, jerking a paper plate out of the holder near the microwave. "For crying out loud!" I put his "snack" in the microwave and slammed the door, was about to do some more venting when I caught a glimpse of his face. His lower lip was quivering, his blue eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Mom," he said as the tears spilled over. "I'll buy you a new plate when I get my allowance." "Geeze, Mom, you didn't have to be so mean to him," Nicole materialized in the kitchen doorway. "It's just a plate. You have a ton of them." I blew out a breath and blinked away my own tears. "I'm sorry, buddy," I said as I took the broken plate from his hands and pulled him into a hug. "And Nic, I'm sorry I was grumpy with you, too." I extended an arm to our daughter, who crossed the kitchen and joined in on the group hug. "Forgive me, guys?" "Mmm-hmm," Ricky nodded as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Sure, Mom," Nicole replied. "And I'm sorry, too. Is there something I can do to help with my costume?" "With the costume, no… but there are still dishes to be done." "Okay. I'll do 'em."

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"Great. And afterwards," I said, an idea forming, "how about we take the pumpkins outside and carve them?" "Yeah!" Ricky jumped excitedly, the top of his head striking my chin hard enough to bring tears to both our eyes. "Oww! Sorry Mom." I kissed the sore spot on the top of his head and wished I had someone to kiss my bump all better. "It's okay. Your chicken's done, though, so why don't you sit down and eat that while I finish up your sister's costume. And if you have any homework, you need to do that, too, before we get started on the pumpkins." "Okay." He was already fishing in the silverware drawer, in search of a fork. "I just have a math paper. It won't take long. Can I eat in the living room?" "No…not with that stuff. I don't want cheese sauce in the carpet." "Besides, it's my turn for the TV, Nicole chimed in. "If anybody gets to pick a show, it's – ." "Me." I finished the sentence for her as I made my way back into the living room. "And the television is staying off, because I'm working and I don't want it up as loud as it'd need to be for you to hear it out there." I plunked down in the midst of my costume mess and glanced over the half-wall to see Nicole roll her eyes. Just this once, I decided to ignore her. It wasn't worth the argument; and besides, I had work to do. ______________ "So the pumpkin carving thing was about you feeling guilty?" As usual, you go right to the heart of the matter. "You yelled at the kids, then you felt bad, so you decided to take on the chore of

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pumpkin carving to make up for it? Even though I'd already told them I'd help them with it over the weekend?" "Yeah, I guess." I know I sound defensive, but I can't seem to help myself. "Besides, I like to do that, and since I won't be around this weekend – ." "You took on one more thing that you couldn't handle today." "I handled it," I retort. "The pumpkins look great and any reasonable husband would have understood the need to order pizza on a busy night like tonight! It's not like it cost us a fortune or anything." You suck in a deep breath and I know you're trying to keep a hold on your own temper. "That's not the point, is it, young lady? We agreed that you would cook on your days off, and today was one of those days. You know what eating out is doing to our budget, Leah. We could buy twice the amount of groceries for what we're spending on pizza, burgers and Bob Evans every week. Not to mention the fact that everyone's tired of the same old restaurants all the time. And anyway, this rule was your idea, not mine." "Okay," I grumble. "You're right." I pull away from you, fold my arms across my chest. "There. Satisfied?" Your silence is deafening as you set me on my feet. "Okay… it's obvious that talking isn't doing us any good. So, I want you to take the pruning shears outside and cut yourself a switch." "A switch?" My stomach flip-flops at the thought and I back away from you, instinctively shielding my still clothed bottom. "Please honey… not that! I'll be good. I promise. Can't you just use the paddle?"

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You get up, take one step toward me, and I feel suddenly very small. "Do you really want to argue with me just now?" I look away from your challenging gaze to the rather large splotch of orange that decorates your once white t-shirt. My bottom tingles and a shiver courses through me. You've been fairly patient, given the circumstances. Nodding, I skirt around you and head for the back porch. I suppose it would be best if we got this over with while the kids are still at the party. The gardening shears are in my toolbox, along with the handheld shovel and a four-tined gar dening fork. Even though I'm careful on the back steps, I still come close to slipping in the orange slime left over from my temper tantrum. If only I hadn't thrown that pumpkin goo at you. ______________ Nicole's costume was finally finished, and the kids and I were working on the pumpkins when we heard you pull into the garage on the other side of the house. "Damn it, I forgot about supper!" I thought as I heard you walk through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. It was, of course, much too late to thaw something, so I decided it would be best to at least look like I'd had a plan all along. "Hey, guys," you said as you kissed the kids. "How'd you manage to talk mom into doing this tonight? I thought I was going to help you on Saturday." "She just wanted to," Ricky said with a shrug. "Do you like my pumpkin, Dad?"

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"Uh-huh." You nodded your admiration of his vegetable creation, though your eyes never left my face. "And why do you suppose mom wanted to?" "'Cause she was sorry she yelled." Leave it to our nine-year-old to be brutally honest when I'm the one about to catch heck. "Hmmm." I went back to the chore of scooping out handfuls of pumpkin guts in order to avoid the accusation in your eyes. "And just what was Mom grumpy about?" Nicole, obviously aware of the tension between us, piped up. "It was my fault, Dad. I was giving mom a hard time about my costume." "And why were you doing that, young lady?" you asked her. "Nicole, Rick… how about we put the candles in these and set them out on the front porch," I interrupted. "Yeah!" Ricky grinned. "Where are the candles, Mom? Can I light mine?" "You take the pumpkins around front and I'll bring the candles," I said, giving Nicole a pointed glance. "You want to help your brother, please? I'm going to order a pizza and then I'll be out." Nicole gave us both a wary glance. "Sure, Mom," she said as she hedged around you. "Come on, Ricky." You waited until they were out of earshot to ask, "And just what was that all about? Has Nic been giving you a hard time today?" "It was as much my fault as hers." I wiped my hands on a nearby towel and headed for the house. "What kind of pizza do you want tonight?" You followed me into the house. "Pizza Brothers, I guess. But I thought you were going to cook on your days off."

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"I just had too much to do today." I opened up the "junk" drawer. "Okay, where's the phone book?" "Don't look at me." You were beginning to sound as irritable as I felt. "Maybe you wouldn't have been too busy to cook if you'd not done the pumpkins." "Oh, come on, honey." I found the phone book on the kitchen table, right where I'd left it after making some PTA calls this morning. "It's not going to kill any of us to eat pizza tonight." "I didn't say it would." You grasped my elbow and turned me so that I could not help but look at you. "But that's not the point is it? We had an agreement." "Fine." My irritation was beginning to resurface. "So I didn't cook. You can beat my butt later, but for right now, I have things I have to do." "Excuse me?" One eyebrow disappeared beneath the hair that fell across your forehead. "I don't beat your butt or any other part of your body, young lady. You can, however, expect a spanking tonight – and your current attitude is only making things worse." "Sorry." I handed you a couple of candles and a book of matches, then picked up the phone. "Would you help the kids with this, and then send them upstairs to get ready for the party? And what do you want on your pizza?" "Whatever." I could tell you were irritated, but you only stalked away. I was out in the backyard, cleaning up the pumpkin mess when you caught up with me. "The kids are getting cleaned up. I suppose I have to go pick up the pizza?" you asked, clearly unhappy about that prospect.

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"Well, it would be helpful." I gave you a longsuffering look. "But if you're going to be pitiful, I'll just do it myself." Your eyes glittered angrily. "I'll go get it. Where is it?" "Pizza Brothers, but just forget it!" I dropped a newspaper covered with pumpkin innards on the picnic table. "Heaven forbid you should have to get back in the car for any reason! I'll go get the damn pizza, and drop the kids off at the party, and pick them up tonight, too. You just go sit down and put your feet up because I'm sure your eight-hour job must have been so much harder than the twelve hours I've put in on costume making, cookie baking and clean-up, laundry and my homework and – ." "That is enough," you ground out. "I'm going to pick up supper and when I get back, Leah, you'd be wise to have a better attitude. Do I make myself clear?" "Oh no you don't!" I was furious beyond all reason. You turned your back on me and I just snapped. I scooped up a handful of pumpkin and hurled it at your back. "Don't you walk away from me!" I yelled just as the mess splattered the back of your shirt. If I'd had any sense at all, I would have run from the fury I saw in your eyes. Unfortunately, all rational thought had abandoned me by that point. You stalked toward me and I flung another handful of pumpkin in your direction, this one hitting your face and neck before sliding down the front of your shirt. You were too fast for me to make the same mistake for the third time. You grabbed my upper arms and hauled me away from my ammunition, then said, far too softly, "Go upstairs, right now. Go to our room and stay there. If the kids need your

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help, they can come to you. I'm going to go get supper and when I get back, I don't want to hear that you've been out of that room. Do you understand me?" My anger was replaced by a sudden sense of impending doom. "Yes sir," I whispered. "I'm sorry." "You will be." You walked me to the house, swatting my backside all the way. "Believe me, you are going to be one very sorry little girl when I'm finished with you. Now go." I fled up the stairs, grateful that the children's rooms were on the other side of the house. When you slammed out the front door, I began to cry. Luckily, your trip into town gave you time to cool off. I did not leave our room even when you brought supper home and then left again, kids in tow. I was still there, curled up in bed, when you poked your head in the doorway. "Better come downstairs and eat something," you told me gently. "Then we can talk." I had to force myself to eat a piece of pizza, but by the time you opened your arms to take me into your lap, I was quite a bit calmer. Of course, I knew I would still be spanked, but the Hershey's bar you left on the kitchen counter was enough of a peace offering to make it clear that you were no longer angry with me. ______________ And now here I am, cutting a switch from the hickory in our back yard, the flesh on my bottom crawling with dread. After the way I've talked to you, I wouldn't blame you a bit if you were angry with me – yet I know you're not. You never spank me when you're angry. You only order me to bare my bottom when you're calm, rational, and able to

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do a thorough job of paddling my backside without going overboard. I have a feeling this switching will, indeed, be most thorough. You are standing just inside the back door when I return, the long-dreaded implement of correction held tightly in my hand. You take the shears and switch and nod in the direction of the stairs. "Go on up and get ready for bed. You can either put on a nightgown or nightshirt – no panties – or a pajama top and leave the bottoms off for now. I'll expect to find you in the corner when I come up." "Yes sir." Every step upward sets off a fresh rush of butterflies in my stomach. By the time I'm appropriately dressed and standing, nose to the corner, tears are threatening. I've been a grouch all day and it doesn't take the threat of a spanking to make me regret my actions. The memory of Ricky's hurt look when I yelled, the way that Nicole tried to take the blame for my short temper – these things prick my conscience so that, when you call me from the corner, I go to you willingly, almost eager for the punishment I know I deserve. I don't plead for mercy or so much as look at the switch in your hand, but merely bend over the edge of our bed and wait for the first fiery stripe to brand me. Instead of the switch on my bottom or legs, I feel your hands on my shoulders as you gently lift me up to face you. Tears roll down my cheeks as I gaze up into your blue eyes. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "Please, just do it. I know I deserve this." Much to my surprise, you break the switch in two and toss it into the trash can beside the desk. "You do need a spanking," you say quietly, "but I have a feeling the switch would be overkill tonight. You're obviously already sorry." You sit down on the

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edge of the bed and draw me to stand between your legs. "Over you go, sweetheart," you tell me gently. "Let's get this over with." Anytime you start a spanking by pinning my legs between yours, I know I'm in for a real bottomburner, and tonight is no exception. Your hand ricochets off my backside, catching the back of one thigh or the other more often than not, and I cannot help but squirm against the burning pain. Still, my tears are borne of gratitude as well as remorse. I am sorry for the way I've acted, but grateful for a husband who loves me enough to correct me when I'm wrong. And while I cannot help but wriggle and cry over your lap, you do not shame me for my lack of self-control. Instead, you wrap your arm more firmly about my waist and speak soothing words even as your solid palm continues to stoke the fire that's burning in my vulnerable nether cheeks. Apologies fall from my lips like rain; and by the time you pull me up and wrap me in your embrace, I am indeed the sorry little girl that you predicted I would be. "It's okay," you murmur, kissing my forehead and rubbing my back to calm me. "I love you, Leah, and you're forgiven. Just let it all out now. You're safe here, honey. You're safe and I love you." You help me settle into bed, pulling my nightshirt down and the covers up before you kiss my cheek. "I'm going to go get the kids," you whisper. "You just go on to sleep, okay?" "You don't want me to help get them ready for bed?" "Hun-uh. I can manage." Your smile warms me. "You need some sleep, babe." You're right again, as usual. A solid night's sleep does me good, our early-morning loving just icing

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on the cake. I have no idea how I got so lucky as to marry you, but I'm sure glad I did.

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The Young Mrs. Claus T’was the week before Christmas, and way up at the North, the elves were all running, to and fro, back and forth. And Santa was busy, testing all the new toys, that he soon would deliver, to the good girls and boys. Everyone was cheerful., They were all at their best, except one pouting lady, who was unlike the rest. And she, Santa’s wife— whose first name was Grace— was moping about, with a frown on her face Why, you might ask, was Mrs. Claus sad? Well, I’ll tell you the truth, she was not sad, but mad. You see, she was pouting, for on Christmas Eve night, her man would be off On his round the world flight. And he’d leave her behind. She’d be stuck home alone.

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It made her so angry, that she wanted to groan. Now speaking of groaning, I’m sure you may too, if I keep up this rhyming, so as a favor to you, I’ll tell my tale straight. (No more rhyming from me.) Of Grace, and her man, And her time o’er his knee. But before I begin, there’s one thing I must say— With your image of Santa, I’m afraid I must play. For what you’ve been told, is simply not true— He’s not old. He’s not fat. And his beard sticks with glue. It’s all a disguise— the white hair and belly, that shakes when he laughs, like a bowl full of jelly. Nick Claus is ageless. He looks young and buff., He likes to work out, to go running and stuff. But when he is working, he dons his disguise. He hides his great body, but he can’t hide those eyes! They’re the bluest of blue, and what first attracted, young Grace to the man. She got quite distracted! They ended up married, to the North Pole they went,.

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Grace Claus —the bride— and her good-looking gent. Now that that’s settled— You do get the picture? I know of the legend, and fat Santa’s a fixture, Of our holiday lore, but please put that aside, and allow me to take you, on a wild midnight ride. Give heed to my story, You’ll hear something new! ‘Tis the story of Grace, and the night that she flew, Along beside Santa, right there in his sleigh, with the toys and the reindeer, and a sore bum, by the way… On a crisp, dazzlingly white day in late December, Nick Claus sat at his desk, pouring over his naughty list. "What about Suzy Tuttle?" he asked the deputy director of Claus & Company’s investigative branch. "Has there been any improvement?" "I’m afraid not, sir," Elroy said in a clipped British accent. "Double-oh-four checked in an hour ago and—." "Double-oh-what?" Nick peered at the elf who sat across from him, noticing the man’s slicked back hair and shiny silver watch for the first time. Clearly, he’d been spending too much time watching James Bond videos. "Elroy, you know how I feel about the cloak and dagger stuff."

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"It’s a code name," Elroy huffed, "and I stand by my assertion that our staff members deserve the protection of anonymity." "Our staff consists of 70,000 house cats, 4300 dogs and a garter snake named Raúl. I hardly think they’re in danger of being discovered." Nick nodded at the watch. "And what does that thing do? You’re not going to shoot my eye out with a BB or melt another of my snow globes with one of those crazy lasers, are you?" Elroy, reminded of his last foray into the world of gadgetry, turned a dull shade of red. "No sir. It’s just a watch." When Nick pinned the little man with a questioning stare, he amended, "Well, there is a two-way transponder—." Nick shook his head, too good-natured to be angry with his helper. Elroy was young, after all, and even an elf craves a bit of adventure now and again. "Just stay away from the lasers, okay?" Elroy nodded. "No problem, boss. Now, about Suzy Tuttle?" Nick tapped his pen on the desktop. "Surely she’s done something good this year," he mused. "I really hate to leave any child out, and you know how picky the cats are. Look at one cross-eyed and—." "The neighborhood informant is a dog." Nick gave a skeptical snort. "Maybe he has a score to settle. Whose dog is he, anyway? Does he belong to that grouchy old lady at the end of the block?" "He belongs to Suzy," Elroy answered, without looking up. "She’s a tail-puller." Nick shook his head. "I hate to leave gifts for the other children, and nothing for Suzy."

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"I’ll have the gardener cut her an extra-nice bundle of switches, with a big, red bow." Elroy looked down at his spreadsheet in order to hide his grin. "Elroy!" Nick peered at the man intently. "You’re enjoying this far too much." He tapped his pen on the desk twice. "Didn’t she help set the table on Thanksgiving?" Elroy sat up straighter in his chair. "That was her sister." "Maybe she helped with the dishes, then." "Her brother—Kyle’s his name—volunteered." Nick sighed. "Does she feed the dog?" "Never." "Pick up her toys?" "Hun-uh." Nick sat back in his chair and pinned Elroy with a searching gaze. "Does she wash her hands before dinner?" "Well, yes," Leroy answered hesitantly, "but only because her mother makes her." Nick grinned. "Good. That makes her obedient, too! Put her down for a doll and a pink bicycle with a bell on the handlebars." Elroy gave a long-suffering sigh, and scribbled a note on his paper. "Yes, sir. Now, about Gregory Tugnutt?" Smiling triumphantly, Nick punched the intercom button on his phone and asked, "Mrs. Carol, could you please check in with Grace about the cookies? She was baking when I left the house, and Elroy and I could use a snack about now." "Actually, I’ve just come from there." The whitehaired secretary materialized in the doorway, bearing a tray of sugar cookies and steaming hot cocoa. She crossed to the desk and, placing the tray

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in front of her boss, told him, "And just you remember—no shooting the messenger." "What?" Nick’s puzzled look turned to one of grim understanding the moment he saw the cookies. Grace had truly outdone herself. The trees were dazzling, the snowflakes glistened with some kind of opalescent sugar she’d sprinkled over the white icing, and the Santas wore perfect replicas of his trademark red suit, right down to the gold buckle on his wide, black belt. There was only one problem. Someone had broken the heads off of each and every Santa cookie. "So, what have you done now?" Mrs. Carol asked in a motherly tone. Steering clear of his decapitated likenesses, Nick chose a Christmas tree cookie to munch on. "What makes you think I’ve done something? Maybe Grace is just cranky today." Mrs. Carol folded her arms over her ample bosom. "I haven’t seen headless Santa cookies since the year you delivered gifts to children the world over, yet neglected to get your wife a present." Nick glared at his secretary over the rim of his cup until Elroy’s snort of amusement caught his attention. "Don’t laugh too hard," Nick said. "It won’t be nearly so funny when you’re the one with an unhappy wife." Elroy sobered instantly, but Mrs. Carol was undaunted. "Go make up with your wife," she said, picking up one decapitated Santa by the boot. "These things are giving me the willies." "Alright." Nick walked Mrs. Carol to the door. "I give. I’ll talk to Grace tonight." "You’ll talk to her now," the white-haired woman insisted.

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"Fine. I’ll talk to her now." Turning back to Elroy, Nick said, "Find something good in the Tugnutt child, and whoever else you’ve got on that list." Ignoring Elroy’s disgruntled look, he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and headed home. Grace was standing at the kitchen counter, staring teary-eyed at the row of Santa heads before her. Here it was, the 23 rd of December, and she still hadn’t convinced Nick to let her ride along with him on Christmas Eve. Drat it all, why did he have to be so stubborn? Couldn’t he see that she wanted to feel included in his life’s work? She was close to crawling into bed for a good cry and a nap when she heard the back door open and Nick’s sure footsteps as he stomped the snow from his boots. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she squared her shoulders and picked up a Santa head, which she popped into her mouth just as her husband entered the kitchen. "I was wondering where all the heads were to my cookies." Grace stiffened as Nick wrapped one arm around her waist and, reaching around her, grabbed a couple of cookie pieces. "The decapitated ones are giving my secretary the willies. Want to tell me what’s going on?" he asked around a mouthful of iced sugar cookie. Grace pulled away, more irritated than before. "Nick Claus, how can anyone be so clueless? You know who’s been naughty and who’s been nice all over the world, yet you can’t remember what we talked about just last night? Honestly!" Nick piled cookies bits in one hand and reached into the refrigerator for the milk. "You’re still mad because I won’t let you come along tomorrow night? Grace, I’ve told you before, I’m working." "Working?" The young Mrs. Claus slammed metal cookie sheets into the sink. "Work is what you

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get paid to do, Nick. Nobody’s paying you to deliver all those presents." "We don’t need any money." Nick put a stack of bite-sized cookie pieces on the table and, dropping down onto a kitchen chair, asked, "Will you hand me a glass, please?" A sullen Grace turned her back on her husband. "Get it yourself." Heaving a sigh, Nick went to the cupboard for a glass. "You’d better watch it, young lady," he said as he reached past her into the cupboard. "I don’t care for your attitude." Grace, trapped between her husband’s hard body and the kitchen sink, tried to ignore the butterflies that suddenly fluttered to life in her stomach. He looked like a laid back twenty-six year old, but Nick Claus was, in reality, an old-fashioned man who believed in old-fashioned methods of maintaining peace in a household. In other words, a warning concerning her attitude could have only two results. Either Grace could change her attitude, or Nick would change it for her by way of a long, thorough bare-bottomed spanking. Frustrated, but unwilling to earn herself a trip over Nick’s knee, the young woman clamped her mouth shut and focused all of her attention on the dirty dishes. With a quick, angry motion, she turned the water on full blast. Much to her dismay, it hit the flat of a rectangular cookie sheet and splashed upward, directly into her face. She gasped, Nick dropped his glass into the sink, and they both fought to get the spray of water under control. "What did you do that for?" Nick demanded as, crisis averted, he reached for a towel. His gray, ribbed-knit sweater was soaked, as was his blonde hair, and water dripped off the end of his nose.

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Nevertheless, he handed the towel to his wife before procuring another for himself. "Well, I didn’t do it on purpose," Grace said as she dried the water from her face. "I was just trying to do the damn dishes!" "Excuse me?" Nick stopped in the act of scrubbing the water from his hair to pin his wife with a meaningful look. "You heard me." Grace tried to work her fingers through her long, whiskey-colored hair, but the water had turned her super-hold hairspray into something akin to paste. "I was just trying to do the dishes, and if you hadn’t been in my way—." "I wouldn’t have been in your way if you hadn’t refused to hand me a glass." Nick reached out to brush tendrils of wet hair away from his wife’s eyes. "Gracie Anne, you’re getting dangerously close to trouble. If I hear one more four-letter word out of your mouth, I’ll—." "You’ll what?" Grace jerked away from her husband’s touch. "Just what the hell do you intend to do, Mr. jolly-old-saint-Nicholas? Please, tell me." Nick let out a long, slow breath. "Since you can’t seem to clean up your language, young lady, it would appear that telling you is no longer an option." Nick pulled his chair away from the table and, seating himself, crooked his finger at his wife. "Come here, Grace." A furious Grace backed up against the counter. "No." Nick shook his head. "Gracie Anne, I’m going to give you one more chance. Come over here now, on your own, and I’ll take your obedience into consideration." "No, no, no!" Grace was soaking wet, shivering, and completely out of control. Instead of obeying

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her husband, she turned and swept every remaining piece of sugar cookie onto the floor. Then, with precise, deliberate steps, she angrily ground the Santa heads into crumbs beneath her feet. "Nicholas Claus, you are a mean, heartless, inconsiderate jerk, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you spank me when you’re the one in the wrong." Nick’s blue eyes narrowed. "I’m going to count to three." "I don’t care." Grace stomped on another of her husband’s likenesses, her green eyes locked with his. "One—." "Go ahead," she said, hands on her hips. "Count all you want!" "Two—." Her lip quivered, the first sign that she had finally recognized her precarious position. "This isn’t fair." "Three." Nick was out of the chair before she could move, and back again, with his wife dangling over his knee, in no time. "I wanted to avoid this, Grace," he said as he rucked up her skirt and pulled her red satin panties down, inside out, to her knees. "I wanted to be reasonable, but you just wouldn’t settle down. I wanted you to come to me of your own free will, but you wouldn’t do that either. Now this sweet little bottom of yours," he said, cupping one creamy round cheek, "is going to pay the price for your behavior." Tightening his hold on his wife’s waist, Nick rested his hand lightly on one tensed globe. "Do you have anything to say, young lady, before your spanking?" Stubborn to the end, Grace only shook her head. "All right, then." Nick had hoped his wife would apologize for her temper tantrum, thereby allowing

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him to go easier on her, but it was clear that she wasn’t going to give an inch. With a grim shake of his head, he drew back his arm and let loose with a volley of hard, open-palmed spanks that left red splotches all over her bare bottom. "You just do some thinking, then," he muttered, "and let me know when you’re ready to talk this over like adults." Now Grace was defiant— she squirmed and she hissed. She tried to reach back, but Nick just pinned her wrist, to the small of her back, and kept spanking away. "I’m warning you," said he, "I can do this all day! "But I’m thinking your bottom, will get mighty sore. And when next you sit down, it will hurt even more. "So please stop your fighting And talk to me, Grace. Let me hold you, and kiss you and wipe those tears from your face." "Ouch!" Gracie cried. How she kicked and she wriggled! "Stop it," she begged, as her bottom flesh jiggled. "You’re not being fair, Nick. You’re being quite mean. I may never forgive you, for this little scene!" "I’m sorry to hear that," Nick said with a sigh. "I don’t like to spank you,

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nor make you cry. "But you leave me no choice, when you act as you did. On that temper of yours, You really must put a lid." So Nick kept on spanking, and poor Gracie tried as hard as she could her feelings to hide. But soon she grew tired. Then, exhausted and spent, she forgot her dumb pride, and to her tears, gave vent. Nick felt the change that came over his wife. So he asked, "Are you ready, to be done with this strife?" "Yes, sir," said she, whose bottom was throbbing. "I’m sorry I was bad," she moaned through her sobbing. So Nick helped Grace up and sat her out on his knee, wiped away all her tears, and said, "Listen to me. "I hated to spank you, but you know how I feel. About that bad language, We had a deal." Grace’s face turned quite red. Oh dear! She’d forgotten! There was more yet to come, And she already felt rotten. "Please Nick," she begged. "Oh please, not the soap! "I’ll be good now. I promise!"

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She looked at him with hope. But Nick shook his head. "Skip the pleas and the wishes. Now, go fetch me the Dawn that you use on the dishes." Grace was reluctant. How she hated this part! But she obeyed her husband, for she knew in her heart, that she’d broken the rules, and this punishment earned. So she fetched Nick the soap. At least one lesson she’d learned. She knew not to fight. To Nick she’d submit, Even though the foul soap, Left her wanting to spit. Nick took the bottle, and pulled open the top. He said, "Stick out your tongue," and there placed a drop. Gracie’s eyes watered. Yes, tears filled her eyes. The taste of that soap, was an awful surprise. "Al right, let’s go to the bedroom," Nick said. "You’ve a paddling to go before I tuck you in bed…” Grace followed Nick to the bedroom, her eyes watering as the bitter, soapy flavor spread across her tongue. When she and Nick were first married, her use of bad language had been enough of a problem that she had agreed to the double punishment of a mouth soaping and a paddling in

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order to get the bad habit under control. In all honesty, Grace was proud of the way she’d conquered that habit, and she was deeply ashamed of herself for having slipped back into that pattern of behavior now. That didn’t make it any easier, however, for her to wait in the corner while Nick took the paddle down from the closet shelf. Nick, too, was having a difficult time with this part of the punishment. With less than twenty-four hours to go before he’d be off delivering presents, the last thing he wanted to do was paddle his wife. Taking a seat on the end of the bed, Nick allowed himself a moment to gaze at Grace. She was standing in the corner, the skirt of her holly-red sweater set tucked up around her waist to expose her hot, red bottom. She stood quietly, her occasional sniffling and the sore-looking bottom cheeks the only indications of her current distress— and Nick couldn’t help but admire her for the strength she exhibited. He’d spanked her hard with his hand, and she knew that the paddling would be worse, but she was obediently waiting for him to call her from the corner. He picked up the paddle with a sigh. "Come here, sweetheart," he said. "Let’s get this over with so you can go rinse your mouth out." Grace turned and her tear-stained cheeks and disheveled appearance were nearly Nick’s undoing. Her damp hair had begun to curl around her face, and the wet sweater was clinging to her in all the right places. Her red satin panties, now twisted around her ankles, forced her to hobble slowly across the room. By the time she was standing in front of him, paddling her was the last thing on Nick’s mind. Still, he knew that he had to stand firm on the issue of her bad language, as she had long

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ago admitted that she didn’t respect herself when she gave in to the temptation to curse. "Do you know why you’re going to be paddled, Grace?" he asked. "Yes sir." Cheeks flaming, Grace stared at the toes of her satin ballet-style slippers. "I used profanity. And I am sorry." Nick nodded, fully aware that his wife regretted her actions. "I know you are. And I’m sorry that I have to paddle you, but I’m going to stick to our agreement about this." Taking her arm, he guided Grace down and over his left knee, then locked both her legs between his thighs. "You’d better hold onto my ankle, sweetheart. This is going to hurt." Grace wrapped both her hands around her husband’s ankle and taking a deep breath, told him, "I’m ready." It was the last coherent thing she would say until the paddling was over. Crack! The oval of wood fell hard against the base of her right bottom cheek. Grace jerked and cried out, only to feel the same shock of pain as a second hard whack followed the first. She was all too familiar with Nick’s method of getting a point across quickly and efficiently, and she fought the rising panic as the paddle fell again, repeatedly assaulting the same patch of flesh. Four whacks— then five—had Grace gasping before Nick shifted his attention to the other side of her bottom. "I’m sorry, Nick," she sobbed as he tapped the paddle against her upturned bottom. "Please forgive me for cursing at you!" "Of course, sweetheart. You know you’re always forgiven." He tightened his hold on her waist. "Now try to hold still for these." Crack! The paddle fell against her left bottom cheek, the end catching the inside of the cleft

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between the two orbs of flesh, and Grace fought to keep from screaming. Nick brought the paddle down a second time, and a third, and her cries grew frantic. By the time he’d laid down five sound smacks with the paddle, Grace was sobbing again. Clinging to Nick’s ankle, she braced herself for another round of spanks to her right bottom cheek, but the fresh assault didn’t come. Instead, Nick tossed the paddle to the floor and lifted his wife up to sit in his lap. "There now, baby," he murmured, his voice tender as he stroked her hair and rubbed her back. "It’s all over with, and you’re forgiven." Kissing her forehead, he asked, "Are you ready to rinse your mouth out?" Grace nodded against her husband’s shoulder. "Please." "Okay." Nick rose, Grace cradled in his arms, and carried her to the bathroom. He ran water into a paper cup and handed it to her, then stepped away from the sink so she could wash the taste of dishwashing liquid from her mouth. When she’d rinsed and spit several times, he stroked her hair and asked, "All better now?" "Yes sir." Grace turned and, with a little sob, went into her husband’s arms. "I’m sorry," she murmured as her tears soaked into his sweater. "No wonder you don’t want me along on Christmas Eve. You probably think I’d cause all kinds of trouble!" "What?" Stunned, Nick lifted Grace up and sat her, very gently, on the bathroom counter. "What do you mean, I don’t want you along?" Grace tried to wipe the tears from her eyes, but more continued to fall. "You said I couldn’t go—that you’d be working."

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"I will be." Nick studied his wife’s face. "But sweetheart, it’s not that I don’t want you with me. To be honest, I’d like to have you at my side all the time, but it’s a cold time of year to be flying around the world and I was just trying to protect you from that." Cupping her face between his hands, Nick forced Grace to meet his gaze. "Honey, I never wanted you to feel left out. I just didn’t want you to be as cold and tired as I am, come Christmas morning." Sniffling, Grace reached for a tissue. "I—I realize you’re just trying to protect me, Nick, but I do feel left out. Taking Christmas gifts to the children is important to you, yet it’s a part of your life that I’ve not been allowed to participate in. Can’t you see how that might hurt me?" Nick nodded, finally understanding what it was that his wife wanted. She wasn’t looking for a way to get out of the house. She simply wanted to share in something that meant a great deal to him. "Come on, sweetheart," he said, lifting her up into his arms. "You look tired. How about you take a nap now?" Arms wrapped about his neck, Grace nodded sleepily. "That’s a good idea. Would you tuck me in?" "Sure thing." Nick carried Grace to the bedroom and, after divesting her of her wet clothing, tucked her into the warm bed. Once she was asleep, he hurried to the factory and talked with the head of the clothing division. He had an idea for a special gift that he felt sure Grace would love. When she donned a Mrs. Claus costume the next night, and climbed into the sleigh beside him, he knew without a doubt that he’d been right.

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Now here we are. My story’s all done. I hope you’ve enjoyed it. I’ve surely had fun. And I bet that you’ll not look at St. Nick the same, now that you know, how his wife he did tame. And if you decide, to be better this year, because for your bottom, you’ve started to fear— Then my story’s well told, for you’ve heeded my warning— and you’ll surely be glad, come this Christmas morning! Now I must leave you. It’s nearly dawn’s light. So merry Christmas to all, And to all a good night!

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The Christmas Wish

It was the day after Thanksgiving, the official beginning of the holiday shopping season and Dinah Peterson – grade-school teacher by day and department store gift wrapper by night – looked out at the sea of anxious faces on the other side of the wrapping counter. She'd been on her feet since fivethirty in the morning and, by a quarter past two in the afternoon, had yet to take a lunch break. Her stomach was rumbling, her head throbbing; and to make matters worse, somebody's six year old had, once again, pressed the on button that brought the singing, swaying, Santa costume-wearing Elvis Presley doll on her counter to life. With an inward groan, she attempted to tune out the blare of "Jingle Bell Rock" as the mindlessly dizzying rush of a new Christmas season swirled around her. Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock… Jingle bells sway and jingle bells play… To her right, fifty-something Connie Wilson murmured, "I swear, if I have to listen to that song one more time today, I'm going to scream." "I know what you mean," Dinah whispered back. "Do you suppose we could take the batteries out of his butt? Those swaying hips are making me seasick."

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"Miss, are you about done with that package?" A tall woman in a designer coat leaned over the counter, clearly impatient. "I'm in a hurry, you know." "Like the rest of us aren't?" a distinctly irritable voice piped up from somewhere behind the impatient fashion plate. "You've got no right to be bitching, seeing as you cut in line right in front of me! What do you think you are… special, or something?" "There you go. All done!" Dinah forced a cheerful smile to her face and handed the carefully wrapped package to the customer at the head of the line just in time to forestall a cat fight between the bickering women. "I can help you now," she said, looking past tall and fashionable to greet a middle-aged woman with heat-flushed cheeks and black hair that clung to her forehead. "I'm sorry for your wait." "Not your fault. Some people just think the world revolves around them." The disgruntled woman blew the black hair off her forehead, handed over her packages, and shed her coat. "Damn hot flashes. Take my advice, honey. Avoid menopause at all costs." Dinah smothered a laugh. "I'll try. Now, what kind of paper would you like? The Santa, gold doves or green foil?" "Dinah? Have you had lunch yet?" Mr. Foster, the ever-harried floor supervisor, asked his office doorway. "Not yet." "Then go," he barked. "The last thing I need is one of my wrappers fainting dead away on me. Jerry here'll take your place."

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With an apologetic smile, Dinah stepped back, allow a nervous-looking teenager to take her place in the front line of the war zone formerly known as the customer service and gift wrap center. "Good luck," she whispered to her replacement as she bolted for the break room. "And don't forget to ask for hazard pay." ______________ The break room, officially known as the "employee lounge," was blessedly empty. Taking her brown bag lunch from the ancient refrigerator, Dinah pulled out a kitchen chair and dropped down onto the barely padded seat. Someone had turned off the speaker that blared canned Christmas music and, much to her relief, had loaded the CD changer with several more relaxing selections. She heated a bowl of soup, hummed along as Linda Ronstadt crooned, Like a little lamb that's lost in the wood, I know I could Always be good… To one who'd watch over me. "Pretty sentiment," Dinah grumbled, "but hardly practical. When it comes to real life, it's every man, woman and child for herself." It wasn't that she didn't want someone to care for her, someone to love. Dinah Peterson had, in fact, been wishing for exactly that all her life. But reality had taught her how futile such a wish was. She didn't believe in Cinderella or Santa Clause, and she'd accepted the fact that she would never have someone to watch over her. Head still throbbing, she ate as much as she could stomach; but her shoulders and neck remained tense as she pondered whether or not to

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continue moonlighting at the store. Five years ago, she'd taken her first moonlighting job in order to provide a real Christmas for a family that had fallen on hard times. And while she still enjoyed the behind-the-scenes shopping and the anonymous Christmas Eve visits that left her "adopted" children wide-eyed and their parents stunned, she was beginning to feel that a break might be in order. Today was just the beginning, and already she was fed up with the crabby, impatient shoppers, had heard enough choruses of "Jingle Bells" to see her through the entire month of December. Maybe she should just quit now, before her sanity gave way under the strain. Head pounding, she transferred her weary body to a cracked vinyl love seat, laid a wet paper towel over her eyes and leaned back in an attempt to drive away the remains of her headache. "Ho, ho, ho! What have we here?" The booming voice startled her out of a sound sleep and, sitting up abruptly, she cracked her forehead against something remarkably solid. The half-dry paper towel slid away and she clutched at her head as sparks shimmered in her peripheral vision. Above her, the stunned store Santa cupped his chin and moved his jaw back and forth. "Mmmph… that's a hard head you've got there, little lady." "Oh really?" Dinah couldn't hide her irritation "Well, it's not like I expected to wake up with someone staring me in the face. What were you doing, leaning over me like that?" "Sorry." Blue eyes twinkled beneath bushy, pasted on eyebrows. "I passed the wrapping counter on my way back here and one of the ladies

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working asked me to check on someone named Dinah. I take it that's you?" "Shit!" She sat up again, glanced at her watch in agitation. "Damn it, I'm late." "You obviously weren't feeling well." Santa's voice was still gentle, but there was a spark of irritation in his eyes. Why he had any right to be irritated with her, Dinah couldn't say – but there was something about that look that made her uncomfortable. Her discomfort was only slightly relieved when he added, "I'm sure they'll understand." "Maybe. And if not – ." She pushed herself up and off the love seat, but was obliged to reach for the man's sleeve as the room dipped and swayed around her. "Are you okay?" He reached for her, caught her around the waist as she blinked away the swirl of black that hampered her vision. "You don't look so good." "I'm… I'm fine." She tried to pull away from his grasp. "It's just postural hypotension. It'll pass." "If you say so." Santa, looking doubtful, led her to one of the straight-backed chairs that matched the 1970's olive green table. "Here… sit down and put your head between your knees." "I don't need to – ouch!" she complained as he applied gentle but insistent pressure to the back of her head, bending her forward despite her reluctance. "Hey, bub… knock it off!" "Bub?" He chuckled, his southern drawl even more evident in his laugh. "That'll be Santa to you, missy. Unless you want to wind up on my naughty list, that is." "Give me a break," she groaned. "What are you… some kind of a method actor?"

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"Dinah?" Mr. Foster's voice startled them both. "Dinah! You were supposed to have been back on duty ten minutes ago!" "I'm sorry." She struggled to sit up straight and was promptly forced to close her eyes against the black fog that threatened to envelop her. "I – I'll be right there." "You'll do no such thing." Even with her eyes closed, she knew it was Santa who spoke up for her. Who did this bozo think he was? Obviously, the red suit and fake beard had given him an inflated sense of self-importance and she was just about to put him in his place when he added, "It's my fault she's late Bill, but she's obviously sick. If I were you, I'd send her home before she gives whatever she's got to the rest of the department. You can't afford to start out the season short on help." Her field of vision clearing, Dinah glanced up at her boss. Mr. Foster – obviously "Bill" to the guy in the Santa costume – was not known to be overly generous when it came to sick time. And while she might entertain thoughts of quitting, she certainly didn't want to be fired. "I'm not sick," she insisted. "Just a little dizzy from a headache and getting up too fast." She shook off Santa's white-gloved hands and stood. "I'll just get back to work now." Her attempt to slide past her boss was nixed when he said, "Oh no, you don't. Chris is right. You don't look well. I think you'd best go on home." "What?" She could not have been more surprised had a parallel dimension opened up and sucked her into a world where everything was made of chocolate and candy sprinkles. "Really, Mr. Foster – ." "No arguments, Ms. Peterson. I don't want you infecting the rest of my workers with whatever

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you're getting. So, take the rest of the day off… in fact, take the weekend off… and I'll see you Monday afternoon at 5:00." "Y-yes sir," Dinah mumbled. "If you're sure you don't need me – ." "Everything's under control." For a moment, the supervisor's voice sounded less forceful, more like a concerned parent than a department store manager who was about to be short-staffed on the worst day of the year. "You're a good worker, Dinah, but everyone needs a break now and then. Are you going to be okay to drive?" She blinked her eyes in an attempt to sharpen her focus. Now that she'd let her guard down, she was beginning to realize just how lousy she actually felt. The bump on her head had brought her headache roaring back to life, and the shimmering lights at the edges of her field of vision warned that a migraine was coming on. "I'll just take a cab," she murmured, two fingers massaging a spot above her right eye. "No need for that, when my truck's parked right outside," Santa piped up. "I can take her home and be back within the hour. That okay with you, Bill?" The fact that the two men were talking about her as though she was a small child was beginning to wear on Dinah's nerves. She began to protest, but Bill Foster's dismissing wave cut off her retort. "Good thinking, Chris. I'll make sure they change the sign in your workshop area so no one's standing around waiting for you while you're gone." Her head pounding ever louder, Dinah sputtered, "But… but I can – ." "See you Monday, Ms. Peterson." Mr. Foster disappeared through the break room door and Santa, obviously in no mood to take no for an

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answer, took her elbow and propelled her toward the long row of employee lockers. "You do have a coat? Yes?" "Of course." Irritated, she pulled away from the stranger. "It's cold out and I'm not a complete numbskull." "I never said you were. A little mouthy, maybe – but certainly not a numbskull." Blue eyes twinkled and, although she could have sworn he was mocking her, the young woman found she didn't have the strength to argue the point. "Look buddy," she said as she opened her locker. "I appreciate the offer of a ride, but I don't need any help. I can take care of myself." "I'm sure you can." He reached past her, pulled a sensible wool coat out of her locker. "But you need a ride and I've got a reputation to uphold. What kind of a guy would I be if I didn't keep my word to get you home safely?" He held the coat out and offered her a coaxing smile. "Now come on. Quit being stubborn and put on this coat." "I'm not stubborn," she hissed as she shrugged into her coat. "No… of course not." Taking her arm, he led her out to the employee parking lot. "I don't have my sleigh here, but I'll get you home, just the same." He opened the door of a beat-up Chevy truck. "In you go, sweetheart." "I'm not your sweetheart," she protested, then clutched her head when her own voice was a tad bit too loud. "You'll never get rid of that migraine if you don't lie down. Come on… I'm just trying to help. Really." She squinted at the costumed man, suspicion warring with the desire to crawl into a dark, quiet hole. "How did you know I was getting a migraine?"

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He chuckled. "Oh come now, Ms. Peterson. Surely you remember the first rule of Christmas. Santa Clause knows everything." She allowed him to help her into the truck almost without thinking. "So does that mean you know my address, too?" she asked the moment he slid behind the steering wheel. "Because if you do, I'm not going to think you're Santa so much as a stalker who's cornered his prey." He shook his head. "Nope. Not that I don't have the info at home, of course… but I let the elves keep track of addresses. After all, I've got enough to worry about, what with the naughty and nice lists." She rolled her eyes skyward. What a ham this man was! "Okay, fine. I have an apartment at 273 Oak Street. It's kind of hard to get to, though, so you drive and I'll direct. Now if you'll just take the exit onto Hilliard Road East – ." "Actually, I don't need directions." He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. "You're in the Richards building. Right?" "O-kay." She reached for the door handle. "So you are a stalker – ." "Don't be silly. I have a friend in your building. Now why don't you relax and let me get you home?" Her trust was normally hard won, but her head hurt too badly for any further argument. "Okay." She slid down and let her head fall back against the edge of the bench seat. "In that case, drive fast. This headache is getting worse by the minute." Eyes closed, she felt him put the truck in drive. As they rolled out of the parking lot, she sent up a prayer that she'd make it back to her apartment without getting sick. Santa's truck wasn't in the best shape, but she really didn't think he'd appreciate an

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up close and personal look at the lunch that was laying, like lead, in the pit of her stomach. "And here we are." The voice that woke her this time was quite a bit quieter than before. Sitting up, she attempted to unbuckle her seatbelt while squinting against the bright sun. "Thank you," she whispered, grudgingly. "I appreciate the ride home." "It was my pleasure; and as soon as I've seen you in – ." "Oh no… you don't have to do that. I'll be fine." "Hun-uh. It's part of the Santa service." He was out of the truck and opening the passenger side door before she could offer another word of protest. "Besides… I want to make sure you have whatever medication you need for the headache before I take off." He retrieved her purse from the truck floor and, with a gentle hand beneath her elbow, helped her down onto the sidewalk. "I take it you've had a migraine before." "Mmm-hmm." She walked gingerly up the steps to the front entryway, offered him a weak smile when he opened the door. "I'm on the second floor." They took the elevator up and the motion was nearly her undoing. At the door, he took her key, fitted it to the lock, and then helped her in to collapse on the sofa. "Okay… what do you take and where do you keep it?" Later, Dinah would be chagrined at the uncharacteristic way in which she allowed the man to take over; but for now, she was in too much pain to care. "There's a medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The bottle labeled Imitrex."

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"Okay." He strode down the hall, returned almost immediately with the half-full bottle of medication. She was still trying to get the childproof cap off when he returned with a glass of water. "Here," he said, taking the medicine from her. "Let me help you with that." She swallowed the tablet he handed her and, leaning back on one of the throw pillows, attempted to focus on the red and white image in front of her. "I guess I should thank you." "Nah… don't put yourself out. After all, a tough lady like you didn't really need the help… right? In fact, maybe you should look at this as a favor you did for me. After all, I've got to earn those merit badges anywhere I can get them. So, are you going to be okay by yourself, or should I call someone… a friend or family member?" "No. I'll be fine." She let out a slow breath and focused on the safe, dark place inside her mind – the place where the pain could not invade. "But thanks, Mr.… um?" "You can just call me Chris." "As in Kringle, I suppose?" "That'll do for now." She heard him turn the doorknob, managed to open her eyes long enough to watch him step out into the hall. "Your keys are on the coffee table and I'm locking this door behind me. You be sure to call the store if you need anything. I'll be there until nine tonight." Ignoring the suggestion that she might need his help, she chose instead a non-committal, "Long shift." "Yeah? Well, I am Santa and 'tis the season. But don't worry about me. I get eleven months off, you know, so I can afford to work the long hours right now."

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"Whatever." Dinah shut her eyes against the light that poured in from the hallway. "Goodbye, Chris." His chuckle irritated her. "Goodbye, Ms. Peterson. I'll see you Monday." The door closed and the lock clicked softly into place. She opened her eyes just long enough to make sure her keys were on the coffee table and he was really gone. Finding everything just as he'd told her it would be, she closed her eyes and let the oblivion of sleep close over her. ______________ It was half past ten when she awoke from odd dreams to the sound of Connie's voice as she left a message on the answering machine. "Are you okay, sweetie? I heard our Santa took you home and put you to bed. He seems like a nice guy, but I just wanted to be sure – ." Dinah fumbled for the phone. "I'm here, Connie – and I'm fine. What were you saying?" "Oh! I'm glad you're okay. I heard Santa drove you home. Are you feeling any better?" "Umm…still kind of headachy, but I'll be alright. So, do you know this Chris whatever-his-name-is?" "Who?" "The store Santa. He told me his name was Chris." "Oh. No, I really can't say that I know anymore than you do. But he seems nice. He was concerned about you… asked for you phone number before we left the store tonight, but I told him I'd call to check on you. Do you need anything?" "No. I'll be fine." Dinah sat up abruptly. "He asked for my phone number? Of all the nerve. I hope you didn't give it to him."

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"Of course not," Connie replied. "I wouldn't do that without your permission. But what a sexy accent! I've always loved Texas men." "Texas? I thought you didn't know any more about him than I do." Connie laughed. "You know my George hails from Houston. I'd recognize that accent anywhere. So, you're sure you don't need anything, hon?" "No. Really… I'm okay. Are you working Monday night?" "Nope…working your shift Sunday, so they gave me Monday off. You take care, okay? And call if you need anything." "I will, Connie." Dinah smiled a little wistfully at her friend's mother-hen tendencies. "I'll see you later in the week then. Bye." ______________ Dinah was grateful for the quiet weekend at home, given the fact that the migraine turned out to be a precursor to a nasty 24-hour bug. Much to her chagrin, she did end up calling Connie on Saturday night, as she simply couldn't get out to replenish the pain reliever that she desperately needed. Still, she was embarrassed when her fellow gift-wrapper showed up with not only Tylenol, but a Mason jar filled with hot, homemade chicken soup as well. "You look awful, hon," the older woman clucked as she poured the soup into a bowl and fixed the patient a small glass of ginger ale. "You should have called me sooner." Dinah shrugged, self-conscious. "I didn't want to bother you." "Bother me? Nonsense! You’ve never been a bother." Sobering, Connie peered at her young friend over wire-rimmed glasses. "You don't have to

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put up the walls with me, you know. Everybody needs friends." "I'm sorry," Dinah murmured guiltily. "But you know me, Connie. I'm just used to being on my own." Connie Wilson was, in fact, one of the few people who truly did know her – knew the secrets she kept, understood her fear of abandonment and inability to trust. "Maybe you've been on your own too long," she chided as she took the seat opposite Dinah's makeshift bed. "Maybe." "Speaking of which – ." Connie had never been one to let an opportunity slide. "That Santa of ours seems quite taken with you. He asked after you again today." "Oh great! That's just what I need… an out-ofwork actor with a Santa complex." "Actually," Connie said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "word on the rumor mill has it that he's actually an uptown architect who takes the month of December off just to play Santa to the kiddies. Kind of sweet, don't you think?" "Yes… yes, I guess so." Dinah felt the heat climb up her neck and stain her cheeks red. "There's something about him that feels… well, different from other men." "Then I was right – you are interested?" "Maybe, but only mildly. So promise me… no matchmaking. Okay?" "Me?" Connie took on an air of exaggerated shock. "Why Dinah, you know I'd never do such a thing. Your life is just that – your life. Besides, just because I'm old, doesn't mean I'm a busybody." "Ri-ight. Promise me, Connie."

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"Oh, okay." Connie held up two fingers. "I solemnly swear that I will not so much as think about matchmaking. Scout's honor." "You better not." Dinah laughed in spite of herself. "And in the meantime, I promise I'll try to be nice to our jolly old elf. Deal?" Connie nodded over her tea, a pleased look in her eyes. "It's a deal." When she struck the bargain, Dinah had no idea how soon she'd be called upon to keep her word; but then again, she didn't expect Chris – in full Santa costume – to knock on her door just as she was setting up her Christmas tree the next evening. "Ho, ho, ho! And who have we here?" He was in the outside hallway, kneeling down to talk to her neighbor's four-year-old when she opened the door. "Let me see now?" He tugged at his beard thoughtfully, glanced at the little girl's mother as he murmured, "Now what was your name again? It's right on the tip of my tongue." Dinah stood back and watched, amused, as the young mother mouthed, "Kayley." "Ah yes… I bet you're Kayley. Right?" The child nodded, her eyes round as saucers. "Uh-huh! How'd you know, Santa? Am I on your list?" "Well, of course you are. At the top of page 47, I do believe. And I hope you've been a good girl this year?" "Oh, I have!" The tow-headed girl glanced up at her mother for confirmation. "Haven't I, Mommy?" "Yes… an angel. But I think Santa's come to visit Ms. Peterson here, so maybe we should say goodbye for now?" "Okay." Kayley sounded a bit disappointed. Picking up the child-sized suitcase near her feet,

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she announced, "I'm going to stay at Daddy's this week." A look of concern crossed her face and she glanced up at her mother. "Where will I be on Christmas, Mommy? Santa has to be able to find me." "Don't you worry about that," Chris offered. "I've got it all under control, okay? You just be a good girl and get to bed nice and early on Christmas Eve. After all, I can't come to your house until you're asleep." "Okay." Kayley looked relieved. "Bye-bye, Santa." Chris stood. "Bye, Kayley. Have a nice week with Daddy." He turned to Dinah, started to say something, when the girl's mother gave his arm a quick squeeze. "Thank you," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "We just separated a few months ago. You helped." "You're welcome," Chris whispered back. To Kayley, who was pushing the button for the elevator, he added, "Merry Christmas, Kayley!" "Merry Christmas!" The little girl waved back, enthusiastically. "Bye!" "Well," Dinah said, stepping back to let her own personal Santa through the door. "To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Kringle?" "You left your gloves in my truck," he said as he shut the door. "I just thought you might need them, come the morning. It's supposed to get cold, you know." "Is it?" Feeling awkward, Dinah laid the gloves on a nearby chair. Her living room was a mess of cardboard boxes and several strands of colored lights lay tangled in the middle of the floor. "Come in if you dare," she offered. "Want something to drink? I've got tea and hot chocolate, or some

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ginger ale or diet cola, if you'd prefer something cold." "Thanks, but I have to get home. This costume gets pretty heavy by the end of the day." He picked up a small, framed picture on the catch-all stand near the door. "Family?" he asked of the three young boys smiling for the camera. "Not really," Dinah answered. "They're a family I heard about through the Red Cross. I'm trying to put together a Christmas for them." Remembering the scene in the hallway, she added, "I'll be needing a Santa to take the presents to them on Christmas Eve. I don't suppose you'd be interested in the job? I mean, you probably have a family you'll want to be home with. Right?" "Actually, I don't have anyone around here, and won't be flying home to see my folks until Christmas evening, so I'd be glad to." He put the picture down, had his hand on the doorknob when he asked, "I take it you're feeling better?" "Yes… much. And I'm sorry I was such a bitch the other day," she added. "Thank you for seeing me home." "It was my pleasure. Besides, nobody's at their best when they've got a migraine. Though I must say," he added, frowning, "language like that's going to get you on my naughty list, young lady." She blushed crimson. "Oooh, sorry Santa! I forgot you didn't like naughty girls." One bushy white eyebrow all but disappeared beneath the matching wig. "Oh, I like naughty girls just fine." Chris opened the door. "It's just that they don't always like laying over my lap instead of sitting in it."

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The comment took Dinah completely by surprise. By the time she'd gathered her wits enough to form a comeback, Santa was long gone. ______________ Dinah didn't quite know what to make of Chris's teasing threat, but she did find it intriguing; and since she'd given Connie her word that she'd play nice with the guy in the red suit, she figured she'd have plenty of time to do a bit more investigating. She started the week by baking him cookies – which he raved about – as a thank you for the ride home. Before long, they were taking breaks at the same time, sharing bite-sized pieces of their lives over coffee and, eventually, their first real dinner out. When he showed up at her door for that first date, it was all she could do not to bolt for the bedroom and lock herself in. It wasn't that he was unattractive, of course. Quite to the contrary, Christopher Allen Baker was tall and lean, his dark, neatly trimmed hair a stunning contrast to the curly white wig she'd grown accustomed to. In fact, the store Santa was – sans costume – just about the best looking man she'd ever met, and that left her feeling intimidated. "Uh… Chris? Is that you?" she asked when she opened the door. "In the flesh." The twinkle in his unforgettable blue eyes both reassured and terrified her. "You didn't think I was going to wear the suit to the theater, did you?" Her cheeks turned crimson with embarrassment. "No, of course not. It's just… well, you don't look at all like Santa Clause."

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"Hmmm… and should I take that as a compliment?" he asked as he helped her into her coat. "Yes, of course. I mean, it's not that I don't like Santa, but – ." Stepping out into the hallway, she fell momentarily silent. She'd not felt the least bit intimidated by the man in the Santa suit, but seeing him like this changed everything. He was handsome – almost too handsome – and she felt out of her league. "It's just weird, seeing you without the costume. Kind of like dating a stranger." His hand was a light pressure in the small of her back as he guided her into the elevator. " I hadn't thought of that. I guess I've had the advantage all this time. After all, I knew you were gorgeous from the start." "Right." "Are you calling me a liar, young lady?" His tone was something of a surprise. Playful, yet colored by a hint of disappointment, it was the same tone he'd used when he'd alluded to spanking "naughty" girls. "I guess I just don't consider myself anything special." "No?" Hands on her shoulders, he directed her attention to one of the mirrored walls. "Are you really telling me that lady isn't drop dead gorgeous?" She gave her reflection a doubtful look. Curly brown hair – always too frizzy for her taste – tumbled across her shoulders, framed a face liberally sprinkled with freckles and a too-square jaw. In addition, her figure was nothing much to write home about. At 5'8", she considered herself too tall, yet the height did nothing to diminish what

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she thought of as wide hips. Her eyes, the color of sweet tea, flickered to his handsome reflection. "Oh, somebody might drop dead looking at me," she joked. "But it wouldn't be thanks to my stunning beauty." Much to her surprise, he actually frowned. "We're going to have to work on that self-image, young lady. But for now – ." He surprised her a second time by kissing the top of her head. "Just take my word for it. You are most definitely drop dead gorgeous." It was an odd start to what ended up being the first of many pleasant evenings together. The more she learned about Chris, the more Dinah liked him. She was surprised at how quickly she was able to let her guard down, allowing herself to trust when she'd thought it impossible. Certainly Chris wasn’t perfect – he could be bossy, especially when it came to her use of bad language or not getting enough sleep – but even his frequent chiding felt natural and, somehow, loving. She was thrilled when he agreed to play Santa for her class of 1st graders, touched when he showed up early enough to put in an appearance at every one of the small school's twenty classrooms. After school, when she agreed to an early supper, he took her back to his house, left her to recoup from school party day while he showered. "I'm downloading some blueprints from the office," he said, jerking a thumb at the laptop he'd left open on the kitchen table. "If you happen to notice it's done, you want to log off for me? That way, we'll be ready to go when I get out of the shower." "Sure," she agreed as he disappeared down the hall. "I'll take care of it."

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She sat quietly for a while, all but too tired to move from her spot on the sofa, but then curiosity got the best of her and she began to wander around the living room, checking out the contents of his bookshelves and interested in the photos on his walls. One collage frame contained pictures of what had to be his family. He'd spoken often and enthusiastically about his parents and the little sister that lived in Amarillo, and from the looks of the man who smiled from several of the snapshots, there was no doubt but that Chris had inherited his height and that disarming smile from his father. The women in the pictures were much smaller in size, but mother and daughter had the same crystal-blue eyes as the man she'd first known as Santa. She stared at the photos for a long time, her imagination drawing her into the memorialized scenes. Birthday parties and graduations, what looked like a fourth of July celebration and even a few "gotcha" type pictures obviously taken by someone trying out all the features of a new camera. They all looked so happy, like the perfect, peaceful family. She didn't see painted on smiles, or dark secrets hiding behind their eyes. The thought only magnified the difference between her life, and his. What was it like, she wondered, to be a part of something so good? Just then, a beeping sound pulled her out of her melancholy state. The download was finished, so she started closing Chris's electronic files. The last thing to go was his web connection and, suddenly curious, she clicked on his "favorites" list. You could learn a lot about a person from what web sites they surfed, she reasoned. And as fast as this relationship was progressing, perhaps a little exploration was in order. After all, she wasn't all

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that keen on getting serious about someone who was addicted to Internet pornography. What she found wasn't porn, but it took her by surprise, just the same. One sub folder, marked "stories," was particularly large and, upon clicking on the top link, she found herself staring at a web page that promised "only the finest in spanking fiction." She glanced down the hall and, relieved to see his bathroom door was still shut, opened up a story page and began to read. She was still reading, and unfortunately oblivious to everything going on around her, when his hand on her shoulder made her jump. "Find something interesting?" "Oh… Chris!" She started and whirled around, her cheeks a guilty shade of red. "I… I was just – ." "Snooping?" He smiled, but there was a wariness in his eyes. "And now you know my deepest, darkest secret." He pulled out a chair, sat down across from her and captured her gaze with his own. "Is there anything you want to ask me?" She was embarrassed – mortified, actually – but also curious. From his numerous comments and playful threats, she'd guessed he had a "thing" for spanking – but she'd never envisioned having a face-to-face conversation about the subject. "I … I don't know. I guess I don't know much about this sort of thing. But the story was – ." It hardly seemed possible for her to blush any hotter, yet she felt the heat suffuse her face. "Well… kind of… interesting." He relaxed into a cautious smile. "Not sick? Not horrifying? Not… abusive?" She shrugged. It was all so strange and new to her. Not that she was naïve, of course, but she just hadn't given consensual, adult-to-adult spanking a

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lot of thought. "No, it doesn't seem sick to me. After all, people do a lot kinkier things than that. And if two people agree to do something they both enjoy – ." She paused awkwardly, wondering if she would enjoy it. "Abuse is different. It's about not having a choice, about something being done to you – something you have no say in and can't prevent." Chris nodded agreement. "Look, sweetheart – obviously this is my personal kink. But we're just getting started here, and I don't want you to feel in any way pressured to try that, or to do anything else you're not ready for. So, if you want to talk about it, let me know. Otherwise, we'll just table this conversation until you're ready. Deal?" Dinah breathed a sigh of relief. "Deal. And Chris? Thanks for not being mad at me for snooping." "It's okay." He helped her into her coat, then shrugged into his own. "Actually, I kind of thought you might. And in a way, it was easier than telling you outright." "You big sneak!" she laughed as he held the door open for her. "And to think I was worried you might yank me over your knee and paddle my bottom." A boyish grin lit his features. "Maybe someday. But only if you want me to." "I'll keep it in mind," she teased. "For future reference." As it turned out, the future wasn't all that far away – though when the time came for Dinah to receive her first adult spanking, erotic play would be the last thing on either of their minds. ______________

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Late that night, after taking her home, Chris took a drive out in the country in hopes of settling his mind. He could hardly believe his good fortune in finding Dinah. She was stunning, intelligent and hadn't reacted with horror to what she'd seen on his computer. In addition, there was something about her – something indefinable – that he hadn't realized he was looking for in other women until that first chance meeting in the break room. He couldn't put a name to what he felt from her, could only describe it as a paradoxical mix of strength and vulnerability, but even that seemed insufficient. The label, however, didn't actually matter. He was in love with Dinah Peterson, and he intended to marry her. There was only one thing that truly troubled him, and that was her refusal to discuss her family. He thought perhaps he would bring it up over supper the next night, and found that a perfect opportunity presented itself as he was clearing the table of junk mail so they could sit down to eat. There, mixed in with a pile of sales fliers and credit card offers, was an unopened Christmas card. The expensive-looking label read, "From Mr. & Mrs. Frederick Peterson." "Hey, sweetheart," he said. "You missed a card… from a Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. Your parents?" She was standing at the counter, rolling meatballs for the evening meal they would soon share. "Yeah. Just put it on the end table, please. I'll take care of it later." "Okay." He scooped up an armful of magazines and junk mail, leaving the neglected card on top. Later that evening, as they sat down on the sofa to watch the classic "Rudolph" special on TV, he

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handed her the card. "Here. You can open this, now that you don't have your hands in a meatball mess." "No thanks." She refused to take it from him. "I'll deal with it later." "Okay." He put the card back, but continued to pursue the subject. "You never talk about them… your parents. I take it you're estranged?" "You could say that." She pointed the remote at the television, settled on the right channel and in a too-cheerful voice, said, "Here it is! This was always my favorite Christmas cartoon, you know." "Maybe you should open it," he suggested. "Maybe there's something in there that will heal this rift between the three of you." She sighed, but didn't look at him. "The only thing in that card is a check for some ridiculous sum of money," she replied stiffly. "And I don't want it." "Dinah," he said, gently turning her to face him. "Do you think you're being fair to them? People change, you know." "Not them." "How do you know that if you don't open the card?" She tried to turn back to the television, but he wouldn't allow it. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," she warned. "Get off the subject." "Please open it. For me?" He saw the indecision in her eyes, carefully hid any signs of triumph when she capitulated. "Fine. Give me the damn card." "Watch that mouth, young lady," he growled as he put the card in her hand. Her fingers were trembling as she tore open the envelope. She pulled out the card and a check fell into her lap. "See?"

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She handed him the card and he scanned the generic Hallmark sentiment, winced as he realized that even the signature was pre-printed. She was right. There was no personal message, no expression of love for the beautiful, intelligent woman their daughter had become. There was only the card and a check for, "A quarter of a million dollars?" He watched in dismay as she shredded the bank draft. "You just tore up a check for a quarter of a million dollars?" "My parents are the kind of people who think they can buy anything, Chris – but they can't buy me." She stuffed both the card and the torn check back into the envelope it came in. "Satisfied?" "I'm sorry, sweetheart." He took the bright red envelope from her, laid it aside, then pulled her into an embrace. "I'm sorry I pushed you to open that. But if you ever want to talk about it – ." "Look, Chris," she lashed out, hurt. "They call themselves my parents, but I barely know them. They were rich enough to pay others to raise me, and didn't care, even when I told them about the things that went on while they were touring France and Switzerland and Greek islands. I grew up in a mansion, a child with a full time staff and not one person who actually cared enough about me to – ." She stopped mid-sentence, bit down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling. "To what?" he prompted. "What happened? She shook her head. "Bad stuff. I don't want to talk about it." Her voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. Looking into her eyes, it was as if a part of her had just been curtained off, hidden from his sight. "I learned how to take care of myself early on, Chris. I sure as hell don't intend to take

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anything from them now. So how about we just watch the movie, okay?" He wanted to hold her, to offer comfort, but her body language warned him that now was not the time. "Okay." The rest of the evening was marked by an uncomfortable tension that Chris could do nothing to alleviate. Even his suggestion that they go shopping together the next day – to pick up the last of the gifts for the family she'd taken on as her Christmas "project" – was met with an excuse. "Thanks anyway, but don't you have to work?" "Yeah, but I can call the agency for a substitute." "No… that's all right." She looked almost relieved at the thought of being away from him for a while. "Besides, I have some private shopping to do, and I can't have you around for that. Something tells me you're a peeker." "I am not." He played up the mock indignation, but underneath the façade was the knowledge that she simply didn't want him around. "How about I come over after work and help you wrap the gifts, though? I'm pretty good at that." "I'm not sure how long it will take me to get the shopping done," she hedged. "I'll just stop by to see you at the workshop before I leave the mall. Okay? That way we can play it by ear." "Sure." He wanted to appear calm, unruffled, but worry was eating at his insides. A few minutes later, he decided to call it a night. He could only hope that some time alone would help to restore Dinah to her normal self. ______________

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When she didn't stop by the workshop the next day, he began to fear that he'd upset her more than he realized. He'd only wanted the best for her – wanted to erase the sadness from her eyes – but he could see now that he'd come on way too strong. He tried to call her several times through out the day, but both her home phone and the cell went unanswered. By five, he was truly worried – and determined to stop by her apartment to check in on her. He stripped out of his costume, washed the beard and eyebrow glue off of his face, and jerked on his denim jacket. A heavy, wet snow was blanketing the blacktop outside of the suburban mall, but not even that could dim the angry shouts coming from the parking lot. A man and a woman were out of their cars, their foul language a result of an argument over a parking space. Chris watched as the man took a threatening step toward the taller-than-average woman, was running across the parking lot to get in between the two before he realized that Dinah was the woman in need of rescue. He reached the spot where they stood, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the way just as the furious man lunged forward. With no object on which to take out his wrath, the driver of the BMW fell flat on his face. Enraged, he picked himself up off the ground, but stopped short when he came face to face with Chris. "This your woman?" he growled. "'Cause if she is, she sure has got a hell of a mouth on her." "I've got a hell of a mouth?" Dinah yelled, trying to maneuver around her protector. "It seems to me you were giving as good as you were getting." Chris grabbed her arm, tucked her safely behind him and said to the muddied man, "I'm sorry about

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that sir. My fiancée does have something of a temper, but I'm sure she'll be quite happy to apologize for whatever she said. Won't you, sweetheart?" he added by way of a cue to Dinah. "Like hell I will," she fumed, struggling to get free of his grip. "Damn it, you don't even know what happened, and you're blaming me?! Doesn't that just figure? " Chris inhaled sharply, turned to face her. His eyes were fierce, his tone low but uncompromising when he said, "You will apologize, Dinah LeeAnn Peterson, or I will tuck you under my arm and spank your backside right here, right now, until you are truly sorry. Am I making myself clear?" "You… you wouldn't." "I would. So, what's it going to be?" "I… I'm sorry." The words were for the angry driver, but her gaze never left Chris's face. Much to her chagrin, the man began to chuckle. "Well, my boy," he said, clapping Chris on the back. "Looks like you've got this one under control, so I'll leave you to it. By the way, she started this by sliding into the parking spot I'd been waiting for and flipping me off. I don't usually get into fights with women, but – ." Chris turned back to the man, gave him a look that had him taking an instinctive step backwards. "Okay… well…." The well-dressed man backed toward his car. "I…I think I'll go now. Sorry, miss," he added for good measure. Then he was in his car, driving fast to get out of the parking lot and away from the mouthy woman and the man who looked quite capable of committing murder. "How dare you?" Dinah jerked away from Chris's grasp the moment the angry man was out of sight.

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"Who the hell do you think you are? You had no right – ." "Come on," Chris ground out, his hand closing about her wrist. "I'm driving you home, right now, and you are going to tell me what that was all about." "No!" She twisted, pried at his fingers, but it was no use. "You let me go, you bastard! You can't tell me what to do!" "We'll see about that." He opened the driver's side door and all but tossed her into the cab of his truck, did not let go of her hand until they were moving too fast for her to jump out. "Put on your seat belt," he ordered. "No." She was shaking with fury. "Go to hell." At the next stoplight, he reached across her and fastened the safety belt, while she stared, stonefaced, out the front window. "You could have been hurt," he said as soon as they were moving again. "I saw that guy lunge at you. He wasn't messing around." She was silent for a few minutes longer but as the adrenaline rush wore off, she could not prevent the tears from running down her cheeks. "Chris? Wh-what are you going to do? You… you didn't mean what you said about spanking me. Did you?" "Was that guy telling the truth. Did you start the fight by flipping him off?" "Yes." "Then I most certainly did mean it; and you are going to find out exactly how serious I take this as soon as I get you home." She said nothing more; simply leaned her forehead against the passenger window and let the tears come. He was right about everything. She'd been stupid and reckless and she deserved to be

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punished, but she wasn't at all certain she could bear it. Could she allow this man to pull her over his lap and spank her bottom – not in play, but for real? What if he took her jeans down – or worse yet, her panties? What if it hurt too much? Could she stand it? Would she cry? The questions were still whirling about in her mind when he unlocked the door to her apartment and ushered her in. He helped her out of her coat, laid it – along with his – on the back of the nearest chair, then steered her out to the kitchen. Her stomach started doing flip-flops when he pulled a kitchen chair away from the table, turned it around and seated himself. Her mouth went dry when he pulled her to stand between his legs. Holding her hands in his, Chris began to talk quietly. "Dinah, I realize we haven't known each other all that long, but I want you to know that I'm confident in what I feel for you. You matter to me – what you think and feel, do and say is important to me. That's how much I care, how much I love you." He watched as her face flooded with color and tears filled her eyes. "That's why I can't stand to watch you put yourself in danger, sweetheart. And what you did today? That was seriously dangerous. You instigated an argument that could have ended a lot differently. I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn't been there, if someone hadn't gotten to you in time. That guy was way out of control." "I would have been fine," she protested. "I'm not a child, Chris. I can defend myself." "Against someone whose got several inches and probably 75 pounds on you? I don't think so." Her face flamed, but she didn't bother to argue the point.

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"No, sweetheart… what you did today was reckless. You put yourself in danger, and I cannot – will not – just ignore that." He paused, gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "But at the same time, I realize this is a new concept to you, and I am not going to do anything you don't agree to. Okay?" "Okay," she whispered. "Then what are we doing out here like this, if you don't plan on spanking me?" "I didn't say I wasn't going to spank you, young lady. I said I wasn't going to do anything against your will, but I stand by what I said about you needing a spanking." His blue eyes were intense on her face. "What I'm saying, Dinah, is that it's up to you. I believe in spanking, even for grown up ladies, when they're out of control – and obviously, your temper was out of control back there in that parking lot. "This is part of who I am, and it's not going to change. The woman that I marry will have to accept this about me, understand it will be a part of our lives. I'm not a cruel man and I'm never going to do anything to cause you real harm. But I will spank you, when I believe it's necessary to teach a lesson. "What I'm asking you now," he added, "is whether or not you feel you can submit to this kind of discipline. It has to be up to you, Dinah. If you believe you were wrong and you're willing to accept what I think is a fair measure of guidance, then you'll go over my knee. I'll give your bottom a sound spanking, and then it will all be over with. If not – well, I guess we'll know whether or not this relationship can go any farther. What's it going to be?" Dinah stared at Chris, not certain of what she was feeling, let alone what she was going to do. She

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had been in the wrong – she knew that – but she didn't know if she could trust anyone to correct her in the manner he was suggesting. "I – when I looked at those web sites, I thought this was sexual… something for fun. I didn't expect – ." He nodded. "I understand, hon, and there can be a wonderful sexual element in adult spanking. Someday, if you want, we'll explore that. It will be about you, about what feels good to you. You'll be in charge." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "But this is different. You've done something that you know was wrong, and now I need to know that you won't make the same mistake again. If I spank you tonight, I'm in charge. I will spank as long and as hard as I think you need. It won't be pleasant. It will hurt and you'll probably cry, but I'd rather you learn the lesson like this, than from somebody in the middle of a road rage." He paused, brought both her hands to his lips and kissed each palm in turn. "Do you trust me? Are you willing to accept my guidance on this issue?" Her stomach was a riot of nerves when she nodded her head. "Yes. I – I'm sorry, Chris. Please spank me." He nodded once, crisply. "Okay then. I want you to take down your jeans and bend over my left knee. If you're good and don't fight me, you can keep your panties on this time. If you give me a hard time, they come down. Understand?" She swallowed hard, but her nervous fingers found the button, lowered the zipper and pushed her jeans down around her thighs. Red heat suffused her face as, with his hand on her arm to guide her, she took her position over his muscular

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thigh. Chris wrapped his arm firmly about her waist, let his broad palm rest on her upturned bottom. "Have you ever been spanked before?" he asked. "No." "Alright then. I want you to remember a few things. Number one, no bad language. That will only make it worse. Okay?" "Okay." "And no fighting me. You keep your hands out of the way, and your legs as still as you can. If you fight, the panties come down. Understand?" "Y-yes." She was absolutely going to go out of her mind with embarrassment. Would he never get it over with? "All right, then. Are you ready?" "I – I think so." She took a deep breath to screw up her courage. "Yes. I'm ready." "Okay." The warmth of his hand disappeared, was replaced by a sharp, resounding smack to one round bottom cheek. She jumped, surprised by the impact. "Ouch!" He began to lecture immediately. "You did something very foolish today, young lady. You could have been hurt, and I care too much to let that happen. That's why I'm doing this." His hand fell several more times – Lord, she'd not known anyone's hand could be so hard – and she began to squirm. "Chris… wait. I changed my mind. I – I can't do this. I don't want to be spanked!" "I'm sure you don't, darling; but that's pretty much the point. If you wanted to have your bottom blistered, it wouldn't be much of a deterrent, now would it?"

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The beat of her heart tripped up a notch. He wasn't going to let her up! "No…really. I mean it." She tried to get control of her voice, to reason with the man who was leaving hot red handprints on her bottom. "I need you to let me up, Chris. Now." Her words didn't phase him. Without missing a beat, he replied, "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you don't get to be in control here. You are on the learning end of this conversation, so I suggest you concentrate on the lesson being taught. Your out of control temper nearly got you hurt today, and you will not be getting up off my knee until you've convinced me you understand just how serious I am about keeping you safe." He shifted her farther forward on his knee, targeted the flesh just below her pantyline and let loose with half a dozen echoing slaps. "And since I have yet to hear so much as a sorry out of you – ." "S-sorry?" Her breath was coming in little gasps, her surprised indignation giving way to fury. "You bastard! I'll show you sorry!" She began to pound on his leg. "Let me up right now!" For one brief moment, Dinah thought she'd won. His hand stilled, the spanking stopped, and she breathed a sigh of relief. In the next moment, she realized how cruel false hope could be in circumstances such as these. "I made it clear from the beginning that you were not to curse or fight me, young lady," Chris said, his tone altogether too calm. "Do you remember what I said would happen if you disobeyed those rules?" It was all happening too fast – the fight in the parking lot, the spanking and now his promise to… to what?… if she fought. His fingers hooked in the waistband of her panties a fraction of a second

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before she remembered, and then she was fighting and clawing for all she was worth as he tugged her last line of defense down her to her knees. "No," she cried out, furious, as his hand made renewed contact – this time with the unprotected flesh of her bottom. "No! Chris… please don't do this." She felt panicked, desperate to bring an end to the pain and humiliation; even more so to avoid breaking down in front of him. The entire situation was mortifying enough. She could not – would not – let him see her cry. "I care about you," he continued. "I want what's best for you, Dinah Peterson. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe." He emphasized each point with stinging swats to her burning bottom. "Am I getting through to you yet?" "I – I could have handled it." She anchored her teeth in her bottom lip to keep from crying out. The constant smacks were building into a fire she feared she would not be able to resist, but the thought of losing control – of looking weak, needy – was more terrifying to her than the prospect of being spanked into eternity. She blinked away the tears that threatened and made one last stab at regaining control. "I can take care of myself, Chris. I don't need you. I don't need anybody." And that's what it was really all about, he realized with a start. Last night, he'd had a glimpse into the past that had created the strong, capable woman he'd come to love. But opening up that old wound had left her with anger that she didn't know how to express. It was likely that anger had triggered the argument in the parking lot and he suspected, too, it had something to do with her fierce fight to remain in control just now. She was afraid of trusting someone, only to be let down

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again. His hand stilled, his voice was gentle as he assured her, "I'm not like your parents, Dinah, or any of the other people who let you down. You can trust me. You can believe me when I say I want to love you, to protect you." It was the one thing she didn't expect, hadn't prepared herself for. His simple promise broke through her defenses and she began to cry. She was so quiet that he didn't realize, at first, that she'd reached the point of tears; but the moment he saw that her shoulders were shaking, he returned her panties to their rightful place and helped her to stand. She pulled up her pants, then stood before him – tears streaming down her cheeks – until he pulled her into his lap. "It's okay," he whispered against her temple. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Just cry it out." That's exactly what Dinah did. Leaning into Chris's embrace, she found a kind of calm that she'd never expected. For the first time in her life, she felt protected, safe – not just from the outside world, but from herself as well. No one had ever taken care of her before – at least not for any reason other than the generous paychecks they could expect when her parents came home. This was a new and wonderful experience – one she never wanted to live without again. They spent the night deep in conversation, woke the next day to wrap the gifts for their "adopted" family. Late Christmas Eve, as they basked in the pleasurable memories of three little boys tearing open unexpected gifts, Chris took a small, carefully wrapped box from his pocket.

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"Please, Dinah… marry me? I know it's soon, that we haven't known one another all that long, but – ." "Yes." She cut off his speech with an enthusiastic kiss. "Yes, I'll marry you." He pulled her into a fierce embrace. "I am the luckiest man in the world!" Smiling, she peeled off the phony white moustache in order to have better access to his sensual lips. "And I'm the luckiest woman. After all, it's not every lady that sees her wish come true, just in time for Christmas."

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