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“No,” he said, leaning back in the chair, taking a draw of the dark roast he’d purchased. “But my grandfather usually gets his way. He’s like that.”
“I’m thinking you’re both accustomed to getting your way,” she muttered.
His smile was almost predatory.
Yeah, dangerous.
“At first I thought the idea ludicrous, but the more I think about it the more I like differentiating our stores from the pack. It’s a good message for the holidays. A do-unto-others sort of vibe that seems right in this economy.”
“You’re back to thinking of it as a profit generator.”
He cocked his head. “I’m always thinking of the bottom line, Mary Paige. Always. I can’t apologize for doing my job. I want to be up front and honest here about the reason I’m considering throwing my hat into this promotion blitz—it’s good for the company. And that’s it.”
She nodded, not happy that his only motivation for standing beside her as she became the Spirit of Christmas for Henry Department Stores was money, but appreciating his honesty. It was disappointing a person would be self-serving in the opportunity to help others and revel in the joy of the season. Very sad.
“Okay, I’ll sign on as long as you promise to be a good boy.”
He shrugged. “Who, me?”
She nodded, a bit amazed she was giving directives to a Henry. It was probably the most power she’d held in her hand ever…which felt heady. “Yes, you. I can’t have someone standing beside me scaring the homeless with a frowny face as I serve them Christmas ham.”
“We’re serving ham to the homeless?”
“I don’t know, but whatever Ellen and Mr. Henry have planned for us may put you outside your comfort zone. I’ll be your Spirit of Christmas as long as you summon a little enthusiasm.”
“I can fake merry.”
“That’s really pathetic, but I’ll take that as a yes.”
He extended his hand across the table and she stared at it for a brief second.
Did she really want to commit to spending the next few weeks with this man?
Her brother’s sloppy grin popped into her head, followed closely by her mother’s expression when faced with the mound of bills on the counter.
And then her own towering student loans.
And the animal shelter three streets away from her rented duplex in desperate need of funding.
Yeah, she could suffer through Scrooge for the next month. It wouldn’t be bad. He’d be her shadow. Nothing more. And at the end of it all, she’d take that check and create good with it.
She took his hand, which was warm from the coffee, and tried to ignore how nice it felt as his fingers curled over hers. No stupid tingles or dumb electricity. Just a nice toasty shake that made her feel only slightly fluttery. “Deal.”
He pulled his hand away and stood. “I need to get back. I have a luncheon meeting in thirty minutes, and I’m sure Grandfather will want to go over particulars with you. I’ll let him know we’re in on this Spirit of Christmas.”
She rose, dropped her half-filled cup in the trash can and followed him out the door—which he held for her, of course. As they walked to his office building, she mulled over her decision to do this thing. Was she borrowing trouble? Probably. She didn’t want to acknowledge it, but an attraction to Brennan lurked at the edge of her consciousness. That’s why agreeing to Malcolm Henry, Jr.’s plan felt dangerous. Because of Brennan and the way she kept looking at his stormy gray eyes, his drool-worthy shoulders and the nice butt that peeked through the back slit of his suit jacket.
But she’s wouldn’t be one of his playthings. Oh, she knew his reputation—New Orleans’s own playboy, favorite of the jet-setters and a cousin to those alpha heroes in her mother’s British romance books.
Of course he wasn’t some emotionally stunted Greek tycoon. He was an emotionally stunted New Orleans tycoon.
Surely there was a difference.
And she wasn’t his secretary…or mistress…or nurse.
Mary Paige was her mother’s daughter, Caleb’s sister, future CPA and card-carrying member of the SPCA and about as far from Brennan Henry’s type as a gal could get.
And that was her only reassurance.
They walked into the lobby of the building and she watched Brennan cringe at the large tree near the fountain. The music spilling out was jolly and reminded them of how cold it was outside.
Brennan gave another disgusted glance at the tree flashing in tune and turned to her. “When you get the schedule for whatever they’re planning, will you insure Grandfather forwards it to me so I can sync my calendar? He’s forgetful in his old age.”
“Sure,” she said, shrugging out of his coat, inhaling the scent of his cologne as she surrendered the warmth. “Anything else, master?”
She was being a smart-ass, but didn’t care. She wasn’t his assistant and didn’t have to pass along messages for him. Okay, it wasn’t hard to utter a simple sentence, but still, his presumptuousness irked her.
His eyes glinted approval at her sarcasm, which had a peculiar effect on her stomach. He pointed to the tree. “Yeah, tell him to take down that blinking monstrosity. It’s offensive.”
Mary Paige studied the good-looking miser who seemed to have tumbled from Dickens’s book into the here and now. “Tell him yourself.”
CHAPTER FIVE
MARY PAIGE OPENED the door to her duplex in midtown and smelled something burning. Simon must have made himself dinner because her place always smelled like this when Simon cooked. She also knew the dirty dishes would be in the sink and he’d be gone. Wonderful houseguest, he ain’t.
“Simon?”
His head poked out of the kitchen. “Oh, you’re home early.”
A giggle from the kitchen proved she’d been off base about what Simon had been doing in the kitchen.
“I took the day off,” Mary Paige said, zipping her purse and setting it on the table in the narrow foyer and trying to gauge whether she should leave or blaze into the kitchen and kick her goat of an ex-boyfriend out of her life for good.
“Uh, Mary Paige, I kinda have a friend here,” Simon said, jerking his head toward the depths of her tiny kitchen.
“I heard, but I need a drink,” she said, heading toward the fridge where, hopefully, she’d still find her dime-store bottle of Zinfandel.
“Stop,” Simon said, flinging out a hand. “We’re not exactly decent.”
Mary Paige almost skidded into the sofa table she stopped so fast. Oh, heck to the no. He better not be naked with some floozy in her kitchen.
Disgusting.
“Simon, please tell me you’re not—”
“We’re doing some experimental art. That’s all,” he said with the shrug of a thin naked shoulder.
“Fun experimental art,” someone of the female persuasion called out with a slight giggle.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go to my room for a moment while you two get decent and clear out of my place. Both of you. Clear out.” Mary Paige hurried toward her room because though she’d seen Simon without clothes, she never planned on doing so again. Letting him crash here had been a favor…one that had long ago proven a huge mistake.
Because she couldn’t get him off her couch or—obviously—out of her kitchen.
But she’d reached the end of her charity.
“Okay, we’re good,” Simon called after Mary Paige studied the wonder of her new cherry sleigh bed covered by a cream batiste spread. She’d looked hard at it, making sure Simon and whoever was posing for his experimental art—aka sex in the kitchen—hadn’t tried to use her new bed.
She stalked out to find Simon slouching on her couch wearing a pair of sweatpants and tank top. His bare feet were propped on her new Glamour magazine, and the bimbo—Mary Paige recognized her as the girl who sold her fancy cookies at a bakery down the street—perched on the corner of the couch. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a sort of dirty-looking dreadlock do that wasn’t flattering and hadn’t been in style for ten years.
“What’s up, M.P.?” Simon said, folding his arms behind his head and giving her a quasi-smile.
“What is up is your time,” Mary Paige said, nudging his bare feet off her table with her knee. “You said you only needed to crash here for a few days, and it’s turned into almost a month. This little escapade was the last straw. You need to pack your stuff and leave.”
“Come on, M.P. As soon as Rick gives me that commission, I’ll get a place.”
“No. My couch hasn’t been my own for too long and I miss it. Go stay with her.” Mary Paige pointed to the cookie girl, who made a funny face.
“He can’t stay with me. I live with my boyfriend.”
Right. Of course she did.
“Babe, if you’d let me sleep with you, I wouldn’t be out here on this couch.” Simon spread his hands and tried to give her his little-lost-boy smile, the one she’d fallen for over a year ago—before she knew that her highly artistic, creative boyfriend was a slug in disguise. He’d milked her checking account while bleeding her heart dry. And she found out she wasn’t so into a carefree, bohemian lifestyle when he asked if she was up for a three-way.
She’d ended the relationship last spring and hadn’t seen him until almost a month ago when he’d shown up at her front door with a hangdog expression and a pretty good reason why he’d cheated on her before—he had a large sexual appetite she couldn’t handle, which meant he’d actually been doing her a favor, right? Mary Paige had been caught so off guard by his tale of woe regarding some scheme a gallery owner had pulled on him, she’d agreed to let him sleep on her couch for a few days.
Yeah, she was a dumb-ass that way.
Not only that, but she owned all those Dead Sea salt scrubs and lotions sold in kiosks in the mall.
Giant sucker.
But not today.
“Get out of my apartment and take the cookie girl with you. Now.” Mary Paige stomped her foot. Twice.
“Babe, just a few more days. I swear. Rick’s a man of his word and he’ll get me my money.”
“And I’m a woman of mine. I told you that you could stay here for a few days…a month ago. Now it’s time to find some other sucker to mooch off. And you better leave the forty bucks you took out of my purse on the table before you leave. Oh, and the extra key.”
Simon straightened. “I didn’t take your forty bucks. I borrowed it.”
“Well, I want my borrowed money back or I’ll walk my butt down to the police station on the corner and file charges.”
He threw his hands up. “Whatever. I’ll write you a check.”
Not even worth the paper it was written on, no doubt. But it was better than nothing. “Fine.”
“Don’t know why you’re busting my ass for forty bucks when you got a two-million-dollar check squirreled away.” He gave her a little-boy smile aimed at making her feel crummy for holding out on him. “Naughty little M.P.”
His guilt trip didn’t work.
“You went through my jewelry box?” Mary Paige curled her hands and parked them on her hips so she wouldn’t wrap them around Simon’s scrawny neck. What had she ever seen in him? Okay, he was cute in a starving artist, funky, unconventional way, but that was where the charm ended.
Cookie Dreadlocks’s eyes widened. “She’s got a check for a cool two mil?”
“Looks real,” Simon said, stretching before glancing at the girl he’d more than likely bopped on Mary Paige’s grandmother’s vintage table. “Is it real?”
Mary Paige glared at him. “Of course not. Why would I have a check for that much lying around for you to find? It was a joke gift from my uncle’s party.”
The doorbell dinged like the bell in a boxing match.
Sweet relief.
“I’ll get it,” Cookie Dreadlocks chirped as she skipped to the door.
“This isn’t your—” The door swung open to reveal Brennan Henry standing on Mary Paige’s stoop.
“Yo, lookie,” Cookie Dreadlocks said, glancing over her shoulder at Mary Paige. “You got money in your doorway.”
Brennan slid off his sunglasses and glanced at the brass numbers affixed to the weathered exterior boards.
“Fake check, huh? Yeah, I know who that is.” Simon pointed toward Brennan. “Saw him at a show once.”
Mary Paige had no clue what to do when a hot, rich guy showed up on her stoop in the middle of kicking Sir Simon the Leech and his consort from her life, so she took a good thirty seconds to think about it.
Why now? Why here? Why her?
No answers.
“Oh, wow, is that your ride on the curb, dude?” Cookie Dreadlocks asked.
“Um, yeah,” Brennan said.
“Goddamn, that’s a good lookin’ car.” Simon checked out the ride through the slotted blinds.
Mary Paige finally snapped out of it when she saw Simon sliding toward the door with an opportunistic gleam in his green eyes. She pushed skinny Simon against the couch and stepped in front of Cookie Dreadlocks then she squeezed out the door, shutting it behind her.
“Mr. Henry,” she said, glad she hadn’t already changed into her usual end-of-the-day sweats and fluffy socks. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped back, nearly falling off the postage-stamp-size stoop. “Uh, I had to come this way for an appointment and thought I’d bring over the contract and schedule Grandfather and Ellen put together. Got my hands on it right before I left the office and thought you might want to look at it before you sign since there are some negotiable areas with regard to appearances.”
Mary Paige caught a flutter at the window and knew Simon was spying on them. She almost shushed Brennan. “Oh, okay.”
Brennan turned as the curtain was drawn back. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s who?”
“That guy staring out at us. Is he your boyfriend?”
