by Liz Talley
Oh, hell, no. If his grandfather had some sort of notion about Mary Paige performing a bypass on the hardened parts of his ticker, he was sadly mistaken. Brennan wasn’t damaged or bitter. He was merely a realist. And he absolutely did not need another woman in his life—not when he couldn’t seem to shed Creighton at the moment. She’d become like a latex coating on his fingers…preventing him from feeling anything. He really wished he’d left her alone. Wished she’d get the message he’d tried to send her many times over the past few weeks.
So even if he felt a weird interest in the accountant, he wasn’t letting his grandfather cook up some crazy matchmaking scheme with a stranger he’d picked up at a gas station.
But this blonde wasn’t dumb. She narrowed her eyes at the old man then shifted her gaze to him.
“This is about Christmas, right? I mean, you’re not trying to give me a babysitting job with McScrooge here, are you? I’m no miracle worker, Mr. Henry.”
“Babysitting?” Brennan echoed, trying not to frown and scare poor misguided Little Bo Peep. “I’m not the one who fell on my ass in the lobby then crawled across a boardroom to fawn over some cur.”
Izzy lifted her head and gave him a doggy glare as if she knew he’d slighted her.
Brennan tapped the arm of his chair. “Someone might need babysitting, but it’s not the guy wearing the striped tie and sitting in this chair.”
Mary Paige blinked at him, making him feel a little childish for being so defensive. What was wrong with him? He never got emotional during business meetings. Of course, this was one of the strangest meetings, but nevertheless, he had to get hold of the situation. No way would he try to convince her to do this. If she refused, it would likely be game over for his grandfather’s little idea. One less headache for Brennan.
“Before we send out a press release or make any further plans, why not do a test run?” his grandfather said, settling back into his chair and folding his hands across his still-flat stomach.
“Like what?” Mary Paige looked as if she might bolt for the door at any second.
Her reaction to him struck Brennan as odd. Most women found him charming. Okay, not charming, but intriguing. After all, he wasn’t half-bad to look at, had money in the bank and treated them like ladies. What was this chick’s problem? Hadn’t he helped her from her fall, picked up her lipstick and held the door for her? He hadn’t been an ogre. But she’d been treating him like he had horns. It was almost as if she didn’t want to participate in the gig because she’d have to spend time with him.
So he was a bit grumpy this morning. And not totally on board with the whole Spirit of Christmas idea. Was that good reason to act like he was the Antichrist?
Or maybe just anti-Christmas?
Perhaps that was it. The woman was a bona fide Christmas jingle-bell ringer. Probably decorated her whole house with flashing lights and little red-nosed reindeer statues.
“Why not take Miss Gentry down for a cup of that new eggnog coffee they’re brewing at CC’s? Show her your sweet side, grandson o’ mine,” Malcolm said.
It wasn’t a suggestion…it was an order—iron buffered with gentility. His grandfather may have been slurping down the Froot Loops lately, but he was still his grandfather, the man who’d nearly single-handedly built Henry’s into a reputable, reliable chain of department stores with net worth that kept Wall Street’s eye on them. So if Malcolm Henry said “Jump,” folks asked, “How high?” But Brennan wasn’t folks. He was the heir to the throne with the key almost in his pocket. Wasn’t it time he stopped dancing to his grandfather’s tune? “I’m sure Miss Gentry has other business—”
“Yes, I do,” she agreed quickly.
Her eagerness to avoid him stopped him. The woman didn’t even want to go to coffee with him? Good Lord, when was the last time a woman had turned him down? Hardly ever. From the time he’d been knee-high, everyone had jumped to do his bidding, to be his friend, to have some of the limelight given to the Henry name shine on them. But this little accountant didn’t want a thing to do with him…and that made her more interesting than her willingness to hand back the check.
“Maybe we should get better acquainted.” He stood and politely pulled her chair back as she rose.
Her hair swished in front of his nose, releasing a light scent of innocence and simplicity that tumbled him briefly into childhood. He breathed deeply, then exhaled into the silky strands. And he felt her tense in awareness.
Something flared between them, causing an almost uncontrollable urge for naughtiness to overtake him. The wisp of an idea curled into his brain, featuring Mary Paige in silk stockings and a red-and-white Santa-styled push-up bra. Her ass would be spectacular in a garter and thong. And her smile. So warm and promising.
Ellen’s phone went off, drawing everyone’s attention to the BlackBerry jittering on the table. He popped the picture of Mary Paige playing the sexy ingenue from his mind with his handy dandy pin of reality. For heaven’s sake, the woman was wearing some girdle thing that was about as sexy as corn bread.
Mary Paige stepped back, almost brushing against him. “I’m sorry. I’m not playing games with you, Mr. Henry. I’m merely convinced I’m not the right girl to be your holiday spirit. I’ve a lot on my plate, and while the money would be nice, I think it best if I bow out.”
“Coward,” Brennan murmured in her ear before he could catch himself. He had no clue why he’d issued the challenge. What did he care if she stomped out of the office, handed over the check and the whole stupid holiday stunt crashed and burned? He didn’t. But something inside him had balked at watching Miss Mary Sunshine slip through his fingers.
He felt her response—the slight outrage, the nervousness at his presence invading her space and a little bit of the right kind of interest—just before she moved away.
“Okay, maybe just coffee,” she said.
“Splendid,” his grandfather crowed, leaning forward to toss a file onto the table. “Ellen and I have some work to do while you two talk about a partnership that will make this the best season for Henry Department Stores in its history…a season of kindness.”
Brennan ignored his grandfather’s donning of Christmas-colored glasses and gestured toward the door, allowing Mary Paige to slide through before following. He couldn’t stop himself from watching her really nice backside.
She spun around as the boardroom door closed and caught him looking. Her face went pink again and she pointed a finger at him. “If you think I’m sleeping with you, you’re nuts. This is a business meeting.”
His reconnaissance skills with regard to the opposite sex weren’t usually this rusty. While many in New Orleans thought him a playboy, he truly didn’t sleep around that much. He was no walking hormone even as visions of Mary Paige in sexy Santa lingerie had him tilting that way. “Since when is going for coffee code for sex? Jump to conclusions much?”
“So what were you looking at?”
“Whatever you’re wearing that keeps showing under your skirt. Is that a pair of Spanx?”
Her eyes widened right before a vivid red swept up her neck. She jerked at the skirt riding high on her thighs. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe…”
She turned and stalked ahead of him, holding her purse as if it were the last parachute on a plane.
He followed not because he had to, but because something inside him wanted to follow her.
Which didn’t make a damn lick of sense.
CHAPTER FOUR
MALCOLM HENRY, JR. sat in his big office chair and smiled.
He couldn’t have scripted a better meeting between his grandson and that adorable girl. Brennan had taken notice earlier than Malcolm had expected and it tickled him to no end. He was tired of watching a parade of beautiful empty girls wind through his grandson’s life, and he wondered if this Mary Paige could work magic in the life of the person he held dearest.
Not that it had been his original intention—he wasn’t a matchmaker and would never meddle in his gr
andson’s love life. But when life handed you peaches, you made pie. And as he’d watched the pretty Mary Paige climb into his Bentley with such apprehension, he wondered if fate had pulled a fast one and delivered the very person who might help Brennan find the true meaning of Christmas.
Hell, the true meaning of life.
A real peach.
Malcolm sneezed and it scared the dog curled in his lap.
“Sorry, girl,” he said, scratching under Izzy’s chin. She closed her alert eyes and if a dog could sigh, well, then Izzy sighed. “Such a wonderful creature, aren’t you?”
She didn’t bother to open her eyes. That meant she agreed.
A knock at his office door had him spinning from the view of Poydras Street to face his assistant, Anton “Gator” Perot, who’d been his bodyguard, driver and right-hand man for the past twenty years. Malcolm trusted Gator like he trusted no other. Raised on the bayou backwaters by a grandmother from the Houma tribe, Gator had pulled himself up from near poverty by sheer cunning, guts and smarts. He’d landed in Malcolm’s doorway after refusing to take a job with the Garciano family—a true show of character that paid off when Al Garciano was tossed in the slammer for racketeering.
“I have the pictures from last night on this disk,” Gator said, setting a plastic case on Malcolm’s desk. “Want me to give them to Ellen or send them to the Picayune?”
Malcolm sighed. “Not yet. I’m still waiting to see if Miss Gentry will sign on.”
His assistant raised his eyebrows as he eased into one of the red leather chairs across from Malcolm. “She did look at the check, didn’t she? Two million’s hard to say no to. Don’t think I’ve met a broad who would turn down shoe money like that.”
“This one’s a bit different.”
“Do-gooders usually are.”
“Is that what you think she is? A do-gooder?”
Gator shrugged. “Never would have pinned you for one, either, but turns out you shoulda named that mutt Max.”
“Max? Izzy’s a girl.”
“You know from that cartoon about the Grinch. Remember his dog’s named Max.”
The Grinch, huh? Well, Malcolm supposed it could be said his old shriveled heart had grown three sizes. Or, more accurately, it had repaired itself with a new mission in life.
Six months, three weeks and four days ago, Malcolm had stepped out of the Bentley, heading into the board-of-directors meeting, when a crippling pain struck him. He’d literally dropped to his knees, putting out a hand to a passerby who sidestepped him in panic. Gator had already pulled away from the curb, and there was no one there to help him. He collapsed on the dirty Poydras sidewalk, unable to talk or even breathe.
Someone had called 911 and a doctor dining in a hotel restaurant had seen him from across the street, left his eggs Benedict and administered first aid. By the time Malcolm had reached the hospital, he’d coded twice. The E.R. doctor was on record as stating there wasn’t a prayer’s chance in hell Malcolm would make it.
After a drawn-out surgery where he was nearly declared dead, Malcolm had awoken alone in ICU…and had remained there by himself for four days. When he’d been moved to a private room, he went a whole week seeing no one but his physical therapist, the doctors, nurses and Gator. Brennan had come by once to get him to sign power-of-attorney papers so he could run the company while Malcolm recovered.
Malcolm had received tons of flowers, plants and baskets of cookies, but no visitors.
And that had done something to him.
The reality of being Malcolm Henry, Jr., CEO of MBH, had slammed into him with the same crippling velocity of a massive heart attack. He was a shadow of a man who no one knew and, worse, no one really cared about.
And the realization had hurt.
And it had sobered.
And it had changed him.
As he worked to heal himself physically—changing his eating habits, work habits and exercise habits—he’d looked really hard at his life and what it represented and found it sadly lacking in the fundamentals of happiness.
He had no family who cared for him, save Brennan, who was headed down the same dead-end street Malcolm had already trod, and Ellen, who was focused on healing from a bitter divorce. His only other kin, his nephew Asher, lived in Europe and seldom visited. Malcolm had no true peace. No true purpose other than making money. No warmth of human kindness to buffet him when a cold wind blew. His life was a yawning pit of darkness with no light beckoning.
Malcolm needed a role model, someone to show him what true joy was. So he went to the bookstore and bought biographies on people who’d embodied it—Mother Teresa, Ghandi and the Apostle Paul. He read about their lives of service, about their lack of self-importance, about their sheer passion for living.
And his heart had grown three sizes.
“Maybe I should have named her Max,” he said, rubbing her head and earning an adoring swipe of her tongue on his wrist. “I sent Brennan with Miss Gentry for a coffee. Right now, they don’t see eye to eye on this endeavor.”
Gator raised his eyebrows, making his thin, nearly feral face more attractive. He looked fierce but was putty in the hands of old ladies, small children and cats. Who woulda thunk?
“Brennan is a tough cookie, boss. He might eat Miss Gentry for lunch and pick his teeth with her pinky finger.”
Malcolm smiled.
“What?” Gator grinned, a sort of dawning in his eyes. “You’re not playing matchmaker, are you? She’s not his type. He likes women who scratch.”
“I have a sneaking suspicion Miss Mary Paige isn’t as docile as she appears. She reminds me of a girl I once knew. And this isn’t about matchmaking. It’s more like waking Brennan from his money-drunk stupor.”
Before it could take root, he struck the thought of Grace from his mind because it still smarted to think about his first love. She’d broken his heart and danced away with some schmuck from River Ridge after Malcolm had offered to set her up as his mistress. Who could blame her for wanting a full and respectable life, for refusing a man who would marry the “right” kind of girl while keeping the “wrong” one on speed dial? Malcolm had been too afraid of his father to choose Grace over adding to the family fortune as expected, so he’d lost her. And Malcolm hated losing.
“Well, let’s hope they find some way to make this happen. Don’t think you have time to play Hobo Hal again, and truthfully, I don’t wanna sit in that Dumpster again. Got a sensitive nose, and I still can’t get rid of the scent of rotten milk and molding bread.”
“Pansy-ass,” Malcolm drawled, spinning toward the window and the busy city cranking like gears on a clock spread before him.
“Managing mama hen,” Gator said.
Malcolm had to think about that. “Oh, I don’t have to do any managing of those two. I’m banking on something wonderful happening this Christmas.”
Gator harrumphed.
“Besides Brennan knows the score. He wants to be CEO. I want Mary Paige as my Spirit of Christmas. He better make it happen.”
“And you always get what you want.”
Malcolm smiled. “Usually.”
* * *
MARY PAIGE SCOOTED to one side of the elevator and pretended that she hadn’t made a fool of herself.
Of course, he had been looking at her stupid Spanx and not her butt. It was very evident the man wasn’t interested in someone like her. She’d seen his preferred type of woman earlier and Mary Paige was as far from put-together sophistication as a gal could get.
Not that she didn’t try.
She wanted to be a confident, well-dressed career girl. To have a duplex uptown, shop in decent stores and get her hair cut in salons that offered tea while she waited.
But she hadn’t gotten there yet. And she may never arrive at that particular destination if she let herself get sidetracked.
“I’m assuming you like coffee since my grandfather has sent us out on a playdate for the stuff?” Brennan asked, shrugging into his overcoat as
the elevator descended. An older woman with puffy graying hair had handed it to him as they’d approached the lobby of MBH, making Mary Paige wonder how the woman had known he needed the coat. Psychic assistant?
“Uh, sure. Though I usually go for tea.”
“They have tea.”
And that was their brilliant conversation in the elevator.
They walked out of the building, greeted by a cold wind whipping around the corner. Mary Paige shivered and wished she hadn’t left her sweater behind that morning. Brennan quickly took off his coat and handed it to her.
“No, I’m fine. It’s a short walk.”
He jabbed it toward her again. “I insist.”
She tried not to sigh her frustration. He was already acting as though he had to babysit her. She didn’t need his damn coat because it wasn’t like they were in Minnesota. It was only forty-three degrees—she wouldn’t freeze walking three doors down. But she took the dark cashmere coat and draped it over her shoulders.
It was warm and smelled like expensive men’s cologne and for a brief moment, she felt safer.
Which was idiotic.
“Thank you. You’re quite the gentleman.”
He looked at her and stuck his hands into his pants pockets. “I try.”
Monday morning in New Orleans swirled around them with businessmen hurrying toward offices, tourists sleepily contemplating maps and street signs and the French Quarter homeless folks lolling in doorways, siphoning heat from open souvenir shops.
CC’s smelled like her mama’s kitchen, resplendent with the scents of comforting coffee and pound cake baking. Tinkling jazz was overshadowed by the hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine.
She approached the counter and perused the menu board. She didn’t usually go to coffeehouses for tea because the prices added up fast. She was an at-home Celestial Seasonings kind of girl. “I’ll have a cup of green tea. That’s it.”
