Twelve Days of Christmas

A reclusive billionaire who gives away millions of dollars worth of toys every year at Christmas?  It sounds like a fairytale…

I shouldn’t be here.  I should be in Bora Bora laying on a secluded beach, soaking up the sun, swimming in the surf and indulging in a bit of R&R with my boyfriend (if you know what I mean).  Instead, I am now boyfriendless (so much for that jewellery store receipt I found) and headed to the frozen Tundra that is New York City.  I don’t do winter.  I’m Aussie born and bred and quite happy with our Christmas days being celebrated in searing forty degree (that’s celsius for you people still dealing in the old money) heat with a barbecue around the pool and a couple of ice cold beers.  New York City in winter just doesn’t do it for me.

And it’s Christmas…did I tell you I hate Christmas?  And it’s just my luck that in the middle of a crowded Sydney airport I have a luggage malfunction and a really cute guy gets an up close and personal look at my pink polka dotted panties.  An auspicious beginning that doesn’t bode well for the rest of my trip.

So why have I been exiled to the frozen north?  Because my boss hates me, she tells me she loves me, and I’m the only one who can get the story on the mysterious Mr Toys, but this feels a whole lot more like purgatory.  I know I’m the best damned investigative reporter that our magazine (Iconoclast) has, but really, Mr Toys?  It sounds like a puff piece and not at all like the usual hard-hitting stuff I do.  But I’m a professional and I have twelve days to find this reclusive billionaire and convince him to spill his guts to me… it should be a snap!