The Spirit of Christmas

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“No,” she said, holding firm to the doorknob and pretending that Simon and the weird girl didn’t exist.

Simon knocked on the window and waved.

So much for pretending Simon the Mooch away. She tried to smile.

“Well, he’s waving at us. And he’s in your place. This is your house, right?”

“I’m actually leasing it, but, yes, I live here,” she said, turning toward her ex-boyfriend. She shot poison arrows out of her eyes at him. Not for real, of course. But if she’d had the ability, she might have used it.

She hadn’t wanted Simon to know anything about the Henry Department Store thing.

Yet.

Of course, Simon would find out when he saw her in the media, but she really wanted to get him out of her life—and off her couch—before he learned she’d become the centerpiece of a multimillion-dollar campaign. Who wanted the headache of Simon and his puppy-dog eyes and sad-sack stories of someone ripping him off facing her every time she turned around? Oh, and his palm out, too.

“So?”

She glanced at Brennan, who seemed out of place against the sagging rail of her porch steps and the scraggly grass creeping over the cracked sidewalk. Mr. Ledbetter, the guy who owned the duplex, had had surgery and hadn’t been able to do any repairs, much less weed eating. The whole neighborhood still showed the effects of Katrina like a dry-rotted badge. So Brennan standing akimbo in his charcoal cashmere coat, dark pants and shiny shoes looked like a prince who’d stumbled upon a broken-down duplex in a questionable area of midtown to save the poor, clueless wench.

Well, she wasn’t a wench or clueless.

But still he looked awfully yummy for a gripe-ass.

“He’s leaving. Now,” she said loud enough for Simon to hear. The curtains swished closed and she sighed. “He’s been staying with me for a few weeks. Uh, just as a friend, but he’s worn out his welcome today. Kind of an inopportune time, you know?”

Brennan’s eyes widened and he shoved his sunglasses into the coat pocket. “You were kicking him out?”

“Not that it’s really any of your business, but, yes, he’s leaving,” she said again loudly, to emphasize the point.

One of his dark eyebrows lifted and a smile played at his lips. “You’re fired up, aren’t you?”

“That amuses you?” she asked, pushing her hair behind her ear and trying for some inner control. She needed to get Brennan off her stoop and Cookie Dreadlocks and Simon out of her house, and then eat a Lean Cuisine dinner. In exactly that order. “Now, if you’ll hand me the contract and schedule?”

Brennan didn’t budge. Just stared hard at the window where the curtains had started fluttering again. “You need some help convincing him?”

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s going. For good.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You don’t have to be. I don’t need your help.”

“I’m sure you do.” He beckoned at the window with one finger.

The doorknob wiggled in her hand. She clamped down on it, but even though she weighed the same as Simon, he had that whole manly arm-strength going for him. Brennan caught her before she stumbled into Simon.

“What’s up?” Simon said, scratching his head and looking very much at home. He’d tossed away his standard slouch for some puffed-up chest posturing.

“You giving Mary Paige a hard time?” Brennan folded his arms across his chest, which seemed to poke holes in Simon’s defensive pose. Mary Paige could almost hear the strains of the theme song from High Noon in the late-afternoon chill.

“Why would I give her a hard time?” Simon shrugged.

“She said you’re leaving. You’ve worn out your welcome with her.”

Simon shrugged again. “Mary Paige got a little ruffled, but that’s Mary Paige for you. A sweetheart of a girl. She didn’t mean—”

“The hell I didn’t.” She poked Simon in the chest. “I want you and Cookie out.”

“My name is Chloe,” the girl chirped, peeking over Simon’s shoulder. “I really don’t like being called ‘Cookie’ just because I sell cookies. I sell donuts, too. And lemon squares. And I’m studying to be a social worker.”

Mary Paige felt a flash of guilt. Hadn’t been fair of her to lump Chloe into the same pile as Simon—the girl had ambition. “Sorry, Chloe, but I really do wish you and your new boyfriend would vacate my apartment. I’m tired and want a bath.”

“No prob,” Chloe said, sliding by them all and trotting down the steps, backpack swinging behind her. “Later, Simon, who is not my boyfriend.”

“Later,” Simon said, failing to move from the threshold.

“Now it’s your turn,” Brennan said in a growly voice, eyeballing Simon like something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.

Simon gave Brennan his own version of a withering look. “Who are you to tell me anything? Don’t remember your name on the lease of this apartment.”

“Come on, Simon, it really is time to move on. After the whole deal with the money and then this episode today in the kitchen, I think we’re really done here,” Mary Paige said, in the same voice she used when she had to milk Betty Ann, her mother’s Jersey cow. Betty Ann was a cow version of bitch supreme and kicked hard.

“Are you doing this guy, M.P.? Is that what this is? ’Cause now it makes sense why you wouldn’t let me connect the dots.” Simon drew a line from one of his nipples to the other.

Brennan moved as quick as a cat—a pissed-off jungle cat—and twisted a fist in Simon’s T-shirt. “She said get out.”

His words were low and lethal. Mary Paige could almost imagine her grumpy Scrooge as a supersecret spy…or simply a guy who had a personal trainer. Fear flashed in Simon’s eyes before he threw up his hands. “’Kay, dude. Lay off the testosterone next time.”

Brennan released Simon, who immediately slunk inside her apartment, tossing Brennan his own fierce look. She clasped her hands behind her back, unsure whether she should thank Brennan or fuss at him for manhandling Simon. “Uh, thanks for being so insistent.”

Brennan ran his hands down his coat and tilted his head toward her. “Are you going to ask me in?”

She thought about that. “Do you want to come in?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said stepping into her world like a man who owned every room he entered—as a Henry, that probably happened often. The Henry family owned plenty of yard all over the Crescent City.

She followed him and shut the door only because it was still abnormally cold and the sun had gone to bed early. Otherwise, she might have left it open so as not to shut herself inside with two men who made her nervous. Simon shoved clothes into an old duffel while muttering under his breath. Brennan monitored him like a prison warden. As if he expected Simon to pull something funny. Which was weird considering Brennan had no idea what belonged to her or what belonged to Simon. It was moot, but she figured Simon didn’t know that.

“I’ll grab your stuff from the bathroom,” Mary Paige said, trying to escape the drama by giving her hands something to do.

“Already got it,” Simon said, tossing deodorant and body spray into the bag with the velocity of a major-league pitcher. He zipped the bag with angry flourish. Mary Paige handed him the bag that held his camera and various photography supplies, and he jerked it from her hand.

“Well, guess I’ll see you later, Simon,” Mary Paige said, feeling a little ping of regret at the circumstances of his leaving. No. She shouldn’t feel that way. That’s what got her in this mess in the first place. She had to stop picking up strays and getting walked on by everyone in her world…especially guys like Simon.

“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbled as he dashed a go-to-hell look at Brennan and headed for the door. The slam literally shook the house and a picture Caleb had painted for her fell off the wall.

“Well, that was fun,” Brennan said, picking the bright attempt at postmodernism from the old mismatched chair into which it had thankfully fallen.

He studied the childish rendering that she was proud of, given how difficult art was for Caleb with his cerebral palsy, before setting it against the end table.

“So why are you really here?” Mary Paige said.

* * *

WHY WAS HE HERE?

Brennan really didn’t have a good answer. He’d used the contract as an excuse to see her again, and he had no clue why he even wanted to see her again. Hell, Creighton was probably at his place now reclining against his headboard wearing a racy thong and sipping a martini…which wasn’t comforting in the least since he didn’t want her there.

But really, why was he here with Merry Sunshine?

He hadn’t the foggiest.

Maybe it was the idea of Creighton that had him detouring toward the shabby neighborhood harboring weird people like the two who’d just left, along with several stray dogs. He’d nearly hit one out front, and he hadn’t missed the food bowls hidden under the scraggly azaleas. He’d be willing to bet Mary Paige fed the strays. Very irresponsible.

Creighton and her dog-eared copy of Bride magazine fled to the back of his mind as he contemplated the woman in front of him. Mary Paige looked at him expectantly before picking up a small fob and pressing it.

The Christmas tree in the corner came to life in brilliant color.

He knew it. She was a Christmas nutso.

“I came to give you the contracts,” he said.

“Why not send them with a courier? Or fax them to my office? Or send them via email?”

He didn’t have a good response. “I told you. I had a meeting this way and thought I’d save time.”

“You mean spy on me,” she said, dropping the remote on the table and kicking off her shoes. Her skirt still inched up her thighs but he didn’t see the girdle thing peeking out. For some reason he wanted to see it. Maybe he had a girdle fetish he didn’t know about. Or maybe he hadn’t had enough water today. Didn’t dehydration make a guy do dumb stuff like drive across town to see a clumsy blonde with a too-big bottom?

Or maybe it was something more than that? Not something he wanted to contemplate.

“I’m not spying on you. That’s ridiculous.” He shifted his weight and averted his gaze. Mostly because she was right. He’d been curious. “Though I have to say seeing you in your world makes things clearer.”

Her brow creased and her pretty eyes narrowed. “‘Clearer’?”

“Suffice it to say, I understand you better.”

“‘Suffice’?”

“Am I not being articulate enough for you?”

“You haven’t convinced me you aren’t here to snoop around. So did you see what you needed?” She swept her hand around dramatically. “It’s not much but it’s clean…or it will be as soon as I clear out all traces of Simon.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea for me to stop by. I helped you with Simon, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t nominate myself for Prince Charming just yet, if I were you. I’ve seen you in your world, too, you know.” She walked toward the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea or a glass of wine?”

Drinking wine with her sounded intriguing, but he shouldn’t. This wasn’t a social visit. “Wine would be good.”

“All I have is pink Zinfandel,” she called from the kitchen.

Ugh. “That will be fine.”

She returned moments later with a plastic wineglass full of pink liquid and gestured to her couch. “All I have are plastic—the cat kept knocking the glass ones off the table and breaking them. I got tired of picking slivers out of my toes.”

A vision of Mary Paige’s naked toes flashed in his mind. Good God, he really was in trouble. “Cat?”

“Well, there are a lot in this neighborhood that run wild. I’m not irresponsible and I’ve called animal control many times, but it’s a losing battle for them. I kept one little cat. She’s blind, thus the broken dishes.”

“Where is she?” He sat but not before checking for cat hair. He didn’t much care for dogs, cats or any other absurd pets like ferrets, parrots or gerbils.

“Under my bed, most likely. She hates Simon.”

“Good judge of character.”

Mary Paige smiled and something inside him warmed. Her face had a sort of glow…or maybe it was that absurd tinsel Christmas tree beyond her shoulder. “My relationship with Simon was as much my fault as his. I enable people because I’m too soft. My greatest weakness.”

“A weakness that brought you fortune.”

“Fortune isn’t everything.” Her eyes appeared as deep as any lake he’d ever dived into during all those years of summer camp. She believed what she said.

Huh.

Maybe that was the reason for his fascination with her—she didn’t seem to care about money, unfathomable as it seemed. Anyone else faced with a dangling carrot of two million dollars would tap-dance, stand on his head or eat worms, but this woman didn’t give a rat’s ass. Money truly meant little to her.

Maybe she was soft…in the head.

But he knew that wasn’t true. Oh, she was soft all right—from the lovely curve of her ass to the goose-down heart beneath that ill-fitting, bright pink sweater. And that had to be the other part of his attraction to her—the softness that was so opposite of most of the women in his life, with their sharp cheekbones and even sharper tongues. “Not your fault for being decent, but I wouldn’t have let him in the door in the first place.”

“You wouldn’t have, would you?”

He took a sip of wine and tried not to grimace at the sweetness. “Nope.”

“So did you do enough reconnaissance? Satisfied I won’t wreck your company’s image with a heroin problem or bipolar personality?”

“No, you’re surprisingly consistent.”

He took a big gulp of the wine, grimaced because he couldn’t help himself this time, and stood. “I should be going. Here’s the contract and schedule. We’re moving fast out of the gate with the lighting of the Henry’s Christmas tree downtown on Wednesday evening. We’ll meet at the Fern and St. Charles stop to take the streetcar there. Work for you?”

“That soon?”

“My grandfather will work you like a mule.”

“He wants his money’s worth.” She gave another pretty smile. “I’ve yet to talk to Ivan the Terrible, but I’ll break the news tomorrow.”

“Ivan the Terrible?”

“My boss.” She followed him toward the door. “He reminds me of you—all business, no charm.”