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pocketing away valuables.
    At six o’clock he walked into the living room, totally unprepared for the scene that greeted him.
    Merry sat in an ancient maple rocker before a blazing fire, a lacy white afghan draped around her shoulders. Before he could ask where the rocker came from, she looked up from her knitting. “Oh, my dear. You look absolutely splendid in that tuxedo. My Nicky, now, he’s partial to flannel shirts and suspenders. I just can’t imagine him in anything quite so fancy.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d like to take one of my old tuxes home to him?”
    “No, no, no. Nicky’s not nearly as tall as you. Actually, he’s a bit on the short side. And his belly, oh, you know that old saying about a bowlful of jelly. Well, that fits my Nicky to a tee.”
    “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Mac mumbled under his breath.
    “What was that you said?”
    “ N othing.” Mac shook his head. “Nothing at all.”
    Mac stood by the door, contemplating the mysterious rocker, the husband named Nicky, the bowlful of jelly. It was all too unbelievable, too crazy to even consider. No, she couldn’t be Mrs. Claus. After all, he quit believing in Santa forty years ago—Santa was a childish myth—and Mac lived in the real world.
    “I’ll be home late,” he said, dreading the thought of leaving his nice, rather chilly apartment for the heat and humidity of the hot June night.
    “You mean early—as in near morning?”
    “Okay. Very late. Don’t wait u p for me.”
    “Now, now, now, Mr. O’Brien. I have every intention of waiting up. Besides, I have a few things to discuss with you.”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as you’ll never find a wife at this Pallenberg shindig you’re going to tonight”
    “Who said I’m looking for a wife?”
    She didn’t answer, just glared at him over those funny little glasses in that defiant stance she seemed to have taken all day, her arms folded under her ample bosom.
    “ And I definitely won’t be looking for a wife at the Pallenbergs’.”
    “I should hope not. Those society types aren’t right for you at all.”
    “And you know who is right for me?”
    “I’ve got a few ideas. Run along now, child, and enjoy your party. We’ll talk later.”
    oOo
    Mac disliked parties. He preferred quiet, intimate affairs, just himself and a beautiful woman. But his position in society demanded that he attend and make his presence known. Since the day he turned two and his mother put him in his first tuxedo, short pants and all, he’d been attending grand functions like this one. At two he kicked and screamed, until his mother took him aside, wiped away his tears, and told him to straighten up and act like a fine young man. He bore the O’Brien name, and O’Briens always put their best foot forward, even when they hated the task.
    Tonight, as always, he did as expected, hobnobbing with the crème de la crème, the jet-setters whose lives revolved around parties, basking in the sun, and enjoying a steady stream of old money that never seemed to run dry. He could be just like them. He could let someone else operate McKenna Publishing, and all the other entities that made up the McKenna empire. But he’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t earn his way in this world. Mac had never wanted anything handed to him on a silver platter, although many people forced the plate in front of his face.
    He stood before a six-foot ice carving of embracing swans, sipped a delicate glass of champagne, and wished he held a cold bottle of beer. The frigid air around the icy sculpture was the only invigorating thing about this party, with the possible exception of the woman he had accompanied.
    Ashley stood with Mrs. Pallenberg, looking beautiful, graceful, and serene, with her blond hair swept off her back to reveal a slender, perfectly straight neck. Even in the heat she appeared cool, as though the night’s warmth were air-conditioned just for her.
    His eyes trailed down her