A Billionaire for Christmas

But finding myself horny, wet, and suddenly turned on from zero to humpgirl by the sound of Declan speaking Russian makes me see that Jamie Lee Curtis and I are soul sisters.

Getting that aroused while wearing a too-tight elf costume that turns into a g-string when I stand up straight is all kinds of wrong.

Declan’s hissing in his deep, clipped voice, so angry and cold looking that I wonder if he’s really a Russian hit man and the American stuff is just an act. Maybe he’s not actually the VP of marketing for his father’s mega-billion corporation. Maybe he’s a secret double agent working for some shadow government and I’m just his cover.

I take a careful inventory of my elf costume.

Green satin. A skin volcano up top. Sequins unthreading. High heels with candy cane striped stiletto points. If I’m a double agent’s cover, then the Illuminati are in really big trouble.

The photographer tosses his camera onto a chair and barrels down on Declan, snatching Declan’s Santa hat off his head and throwing it down, stomping and spitting on it. His face is inches from my boyfriend’s, red rage all over as the Russian words are flying back and forth in a volley that is making my little red nub try to break away and drown itself in a fifth of vodka.

The Russian dude wrenches Declan’s arm, then rips his red jacket off Declan, who is now shirtless and bearded, fighting this guy.

“Beat his ass, Santa,” one of the dads in the crowd shouts. A bunch of the fathers have let go of their kids’ hands and are craning to catch a view of the fight. I grab the first thing I can use as a weapon, just sitting there on the counter, and run after, whacking the Russian dude over and over.

With the belly pillow from the Santa costume.

And then the photographer reaches for something on his hip, and everything goes into slow motion. Declan grabs his arm and twists it, hard. The guy headbutts Declan, a sickening crack breaking through the pan-flute version of “The Little Drummer Boy” that fills the mall’s sound system. Every parent is still, eyes wide and mouths shaped by shock.

Blood trickles into Santa’s beard and down his bare chest. I scream.

Declan ignores the blood and reaches for the guy’s hip just as a swarm of overstuffed mall cops (any of which could easily play Santa) arrive on their Segways. He lifts up the guy’s jacket and exposes the hip where he was about to reach and—

A gun.

As the security guys cuff him and call for police backup, some of the dads have phones high in the air, taping everything. Not a single mom or dad has covered their child, pulled them behind a post or a piece of furniture, or walked away. Fortunately, the kids just stayed in line, good little do-bees who haven’t had every Santa fantasy crushed.

Something falls out of the photographer’s pocket as he’s half dragged off. A giant pile of money. Then another.

“Hey! We paid extra for the good pictures!” a parent calls out. “You can’t take the photographer away!” The mall cops step in and try to calm the crowd while I run to Declan.

“You speak Russian?” I gasp as Declan walks toward me with a swagger. Either that, or he’s staggering.

“My nose is fine, thank you,” he says, irritated. “And yes, I speak it. Have since high school.” He glares at me. Mom and Amy run up, Mom holding out a tissue. He takes it and presses it against his nose as he tips his head up, eyes locked on me. “I go through that and all you can ask me is…”

“What the hell was that?” I snap. “You speak Russian to some angry photographer and next thing I know you turn into Jason Bourne!”

“You figured it out,” he deadpans.

People are golf clapping. “Go, Santa! America! America!”

“What does America even have to do with—” Amy starts to ask, but Mom cuts her off.

“All those children! Santa can’t be ruined for them!” Mom clucks, grabbing the Santa jacket and working to help Declan back in it. There isn’t much blood on the beard, and Mom dabs at it, frantic. “We need to get you back in that chair.”

“Mom’s just worried we won’t get a picture with you guys,” Amy says drolly.

“Picture?” Declan asks in a ragged voice. The mall cops come over and I walk away to answer questions. The long line makes this all tough, with a million questions that need to be addressed. Declan casts a long look my way. I can’t tell if he’s more upset about his injured nose or being left alone to converse with my mother.

I dispense with the mall security by begging for an hour to clear the line, which seems to have tripled. Declan’s peeling himself off Mom and Amy is texting. He settles in Santa’s chair to thunderous applause and I realize: we have no photographer.