A Fool's Gold Christmas. Susan Mallery

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      ONE

      THE SOUND OF eight tiny reindeer had nothing on a half-dozen eight-year-olds clog dancing, Dante Jefferson thought as he held the phone more closely to his ear.

      “You’ll have to repeat that,” he yelled in to the receiver. “I’m having trouble hearing you.”

      The steady thudding above his head paused briefly, then started up again.

      “What’s going on there?” Franklin asked, his voice barely audible over the banging that nearly kept time with the damned piano music. “Construction?”

      “I wish,” Dante muttered. “Look, I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.” The stupid dance class would be over by then. At least he hoped so.

      “Sure. I’ll be here.” Franklin hung up.

      Dante glanced at the bottom right of his computer screen. The ever-present clock told him it was seven-fifteen. In the evening. Which meant it was eleven-fifteen in the morning in Shanghai. He’d stayed late specifically to speak to Franklin about an international business deal that had developed a few glitches. The clog dancers had made the conversation impossible.

      He saved the spreadsheet and went to work on his email. He and his business partner had plenty of other projects that needed his attention.

      Just before eight, he heard the clog dancers going down the stairs. They laughed and shrieked, obviously not worn out by an hour of misstepping practice. He, on the other hand, had a pounding pain right behind his eyes and the thought that he would cheerfully strangle Rafe first thing in the morning. His business partner had been the one to rent the temporary space. Either Rafe hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about the dance school parked directly above. The offices were in an older part of Fool’s Gold and had been built long before the invention of soundproofing. Rafe didn’t seem to mind the noise that started promptly at three every single afternoon and went well into the evening. Dante, on the other hand, was ready to beg the nearest judge for an injunction.

      Now he got out of his chair and headed for the stairs. He made his way to the studio. He and whoever was in charge were going to have to come to terms. He had to spend the next couple of weeks working out the problems of the Shanghai deal. Which meant needing access to his computer, contracts and blueprints. Some of which he couldn’t take home. He needed to able to use his phone, in his office, while speaking in a normal voice.

      He paused outside the door that led to the studio. It was as old-fashioned as the rest of the building, with frosted glass and the name of the business—Dominique’s School of Dance—painted in fancy gold script. He pushed open the door and entered.

      The reception area was utilitarian at best. There was a low desk, a computer that had been old a decade ago, backless benches by the wall and several coatracks. He could see through into the studio itself—a square room with mirrors, a barre that was attached to the wall and, of course, hardwood floors. There wasn’t a piano, and he realized the endless, repetitive song that had driven him insane had come from a compact stereo.

      He rubbed his temples and wished the pounding would stop, then walked purposefully into the studio. He was a coldhearted bastard lawyer, or so he’d been told endlessly by those he bested. He planned to reduce the dance instructor to a blob of fear, get her to agree to lay off with the dancing and then go back to his phone call. All in the next ten minutes.

      “We have to talk,” he announced as he came to a halt in the center of the room.

      He realized there were mirrors on three walls, so he was seeing himself from unfamiliar angles. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair mussed, and he looked tired, he thought briefly, before turning his attention to—

      Dante swore under his breath as he took in the tall, slender woman dressed in nothing more than a black leotard and tights. Despite the fact that she was covered from collarbone to toes, the clinging outfit left nothing to the imagination. He almost felt as if he’d walked in on a woman undressing. A sexy woman with big green eyes and honey-blond hair. A woman who was completely untouchable, for a host of reasons.

      He ground his teeth together. Why hadn’t Rafe mentioned that his sister was now working here? But even if his business partner didn’t kill him for looking, Dante had a firm list of rules that were never broken. Not getting emotionally involved was number one. Anyone who taught little kids to dance had to be softhearted. Nothing got him running faster than a hint of emotion.

      “What are you doing here?” Evangeline Stryker asked.

      Yes, he thought as he stared at her. Rafe’s baby sister. She was responsible for the nightmare that was his life. She and those unbelievably loud mini-dancers she taught. So much for reducing the dance instructor to anything.

      “Dante?”

      “Sorry,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice from growling. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

      Evie gave him a wide-eyed stare, then a strange half laugh. “Right. I work here. I teach dance. Lucky me.”

      Dante knew Evie had broken her leg a few months ago, but he didn’t remember hearing anything about a head injury. “Are you all right?”

      “No,” she snapped and put her hands on her hips. “Do I look all right?”

      He took a step back, not wanting to get in the middle of whatever she had going on. “I came upstairs because I can’t work like this anymore. The pounding, the same piece of music playing over and over again. I have to talk to Shanghai tonight, and instead of peace and quiet, there were clog dancers. You’ve got to make it stop.”

      He held out both hands, palms up, speaking in what he knew to be his most reasonable tone.

      “Make it stop? Make it stop?” Her voice rose with each word. “Are you kidding?”

      * * *

      EVIE KNEW SHE sounded shrill. She was sure she was wide-eyed, flushed and more than a little scary, but right now she didn’t care. She was in full panic mode and now Dante was stuck listening to her rant.

      “You want to talk to me about your troubles?” she continued. “Fine. Here are mine. In approximately six weeks it’s Christmas Eve. That night, the town of Fool’s Gold expects yet another chance to see their annual favorite—The Dance of the Winter King. You’ve never heard of it, you say? I know. Me, either. But it’s a huge deal here. Huge!”

      She paused for breath, wondering if it was possible for her head to actually explode. She could feel a sort of panicked pressure building. It СКАЧАТЬ