The Spirit of Christmas

She pressed the button on the one-cup coffee machine before sifting through the folders on the corner of her desk. “Right here. They were waiting for you this morning.”

She pulled a folder covered with lime-green and red paisleys from the stack of plain manila and held it toward him.

He looked at it as though she’d handed him a writhing rattlesnake.

“What?” she asked. “He’s trying to get into the spirit and swears paisleys are all the rage this year.”

“This is a place of business,” Brennan muttered, downing some coffee and heading toward his office, holding the ridiculous folder with the reports Mark had promised. Next time, Brennan would request his director of marketing send them as an email attachment. Mark was adamant about using a highlighter and doing things old-school. He swore it kept him from missing important trends, but if the man kept decorating his folders like a schoolgirl on crack, Brennan would insist on electronic versions.

He pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Hey, Mrs. Caruso, could you bring me a plain—”

The door opened and his assistant entered with a manila folder and his second cup of coffee.

“You’re wonderful,” he said, accepting the mug and placing it next to the nearly empty one, before sliding the stapled reports he’d already pulled from the colored folder into the much more businesslike one she handed him.

“I know,” she said, turning toward the door. She spun around and snapped her fingers, the motion making her silver-strewn brown hair stand out like a flying saucer. “Your grandfather called and said he was bringing by the centerpiece for the new ad campaign. Said you needed to call Ellen and have her sit in on the meeting. Boardroom B at ten.”

She shut the door before he could mutter a really dirty word under his breath.

Oh, sure. He had nothing better to do than to be at the beck and call of his grandfather’s shenanigans. What had happened to the hard-nosed captain of industry who had brought their company into the twenty-first century? Where had the iron-fisted, no-nonsense head of the most successful chain of small department stores in the South gone?

Because the man who’d flown a kite from the top of the building last week wasn’t him. If the past few months were any indicator, Malcolm Henry, Jr.’s cheese had slid off his cracker.

Hell, the man sat up front with his driver holding a wiener dog he’d named Izzy in his lap. If that wasn’t damning evidence, Brennan didn’t know what was.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around the change in the man who had skipped most of his grandson’s birthday parties because there had been work to attend to. His grandfather had even arrived late at Brennan’s graduation because of an emergency board-of-directors meeting about an acquisition of a small chain of stores on the East Coast. Malcolm Henry had been the sharpest businessman in the Crescent City…and now he called bingo at the local homeless shelter on Friday nights.

Brennan picked up the phone. “Get me Ellen. Please.”

The VP of communications and community relations, who was also his second cousin, answered on the third ring. “Bivens.”

“Ellen, tell me my grandfather isn’t going through with this crazy promo idea.”

“Your grandfather isn’t going through with this crazy promo.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course I am. You told me to.”

Okay, so he had.

“We can’t throw money away like this. Giving a random stranger millions of dollars is irresponsible in this economy. We have investors who will flip when they find out MBH is handing out money capriciously.”

“Wait a sec, it’s not the company’s money.”

“You mean he’s using our money for this?” Something hot slid into his gut. It wasn’t as though his grandfather couldn’t do what he wished with his own money. But over the past six months, the man had shelled out huge chunks of money to pet nonprofit agencies. Giving money away to a perfect stranger, declaring him or her the Spirit of Christmas and mapping out some crazy publicity stunt sounded dangerously negligent.

Worry started eating away at Brennan. What if the heart attack his grandfather had suffered six months ago had done other damage—like to Malcolm’s head? Maybe a mild stroke that had gone misdiagnosed? His grandfather had always been extremely careful in spending money, both in business and his personal life.

Brennan wasn’t ready to watch his grandfather turn senile, ineffective and dotty in his advanced age. He wasn’t ready to let go of the one solid presence in his life.

“That’s what he indicated,” Ellen said, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “I assumed you had spoken with him about this. We’ve been working on this for three months.”

His grandfather had spoken to him. Brennan had just failed to “hear” the plan. “I have, but I was unaware of the particulars, and, honestly, I had hoped this crazy idea would fall by the wayside. After all, we have the Magic in the Lights gala coming up benefiting Malcolm’s Kids. Grandfather has plenty of charitable causes to pursue, all of which demonstrate the Spirit of the Season.”

“Actually, this idea of his is brilliant from a marketing perspective. All I have to do is splash this story on the front of the Times-Picayune, and we’re golden. You can’t buy this sort of goodwill.”

Brennan frowned. “Story?”

“He didn’t tell you how he found the person he wants to use as the center point?”

“No.”

An awkward pause hung on the line, and he could tell Ellen didn’t know if she should be the bearer of the news or not.

He saved her the trouble. “No problem. I’ll get to the bottom of it when we meet in Boardroom B at ten. I’ll see you then.”

“Meeting? I can’t attend—I have a report I have to submit to Don before the end of the day.”

“Grandfather called it regarding this foolishness.”

“Oh, well, then I guess I can’t refuse Malcolm.”

Of course you can’t. He still writes the checks around here.

Brennan set the phone in the cradle and looked at his desk. He had too much to deal with to worry over his grandfather’s stunt. He had a conference call at 9:00 a.m. about a new cosmetics line by some Hollywood starlet the company was considering for the stores, and he still needed to look at the reports Mark had sent so he could talk to the CFO, Don Angelle, about procuring extra commercial spots to be aired over Mardi Gras.

No time for crazy Spirit of Christmas ideas. Not when a healthy bottom line demanded more than mistletoe and Yule logs.

Bah, humbug.

He snorted at that thought. Man, he really was like Scrooge. Next thing, he’d be shuffling only one small lump of coal onto the fire to save a measly buck.

And with his grandfather pissing away all their money, he might be forced to play the Dickens character.

* * *

MARY PAIGE TAPPED HER FOOT in time with the Christmas music spilling out of the speakers, mouthing words about sleigh rides and walking in winter wonderlands. A huge Christmas tree sat on a platform in front of the lobby fountain, blinking in time with the music. She loved it and wished she knew how to sync music with her own small tree that she’d put up last weekend.

The doors slid open and she stepped inside the glass elevator with a well-dressed woman and pressed the button that would take her to the twentieth floor. As the doors closed, her stomach flipped over.

Maybe she should have told Mr. Henry she wasn’t interested. No one in her right mind would give up two million dollars, but Mr. Henry wanted her to basically take a break from her job to be his poster girl for bringing the true meaning of Christmas to the Crescent City. Her boss, Ivan, hadn’t been happy about her taking the morning off, and she still had half a study book to get through in preparation for her certified public accountant exam, which loomed in a couple of months. It felt like she’d be sacrificing all she’d been working so hard for.

Still, it was two million dollars.

And she was in her right mind. Mostly.

Late last night she’d considered all the things she could do with the money—pay off student loans, buy a car that didn’t have rust spots around the wheel well and make donations to all her favorite charities. And she could help her mom pay off the loans taken to modify their old farmhouse to accommodate her brother’s wheelchair. Yeah, two million could do a lot of good in her life…and in the lives of others.

So she should probably sign the agreement, cash the check and count herself a lucky duck…even if it meant tugging on a Santa hat and making merry with the entire city of New Orleans for the holiday season.

Besides, if during the meeting with Mr. Henry the whole crazy proposal felt like too much for her to handle, she’d refuse. She wasn’t locked in to anything and had done nothing more with the check than hide it in the bottom of the ballerina jewelry box her granny Wyatt had giving her for her twelfth birthday.

“Are you with MBH?” the woman standing next to her asked with a polite smile.

“Uh, no,” Mary Paige said, smoothing her skirt over her thighs, hoping the bottom of her Spanx wasn’t showing. The skirt had fit her four years ago, and even though she’d lost weight, it was still a little too tight. She hadn’t had time to go by the cleaners to pick up her more professional clothes, so she’d held her breath that morning and zipped. It worked but she had to keep tugging the hem into place because it inched up as she walked.

The other woman was dressed in a fine wool suit that fit her to perfection. A patterned raspberry-colored scarf was knotted at her neck, and her dark, heeled boots were absolutely gorgeous. She looked like an ad out of Vanity Fair.

“I’m just going to a meeting.” Mary Paige swallowed her nervousness and pasted on a smile. She was glad she’d used the flatiron on her hair this morning. At the very least her short blond pageboy cut flattered her elfish chin and helped her feel more together than she was.

The woman tossed her wavy brown mane over her shoulders and nodded at Mary Paige as she stepped out into the lobby of MBH Industries.

A pretty receptionist looked up as the brunette walked by her desk. “Oh, Ms. Thornhill, Mr. Henry has a meeting soon.”

“Really?” the brunette said, not bothering to even slow her steps. Instead, she pushed through the frosted glass doors to the inner sanctum, letting them swing shut after her.

The receptionist frowned and muttered something under her breath before donning a bright smile. “Welcome to MBH. Can I assist you?”

“Uh, hi. I’m Mary Paige Gentry, and I have an appointment with Mr. Malcolm Henry?”

Darn it. Why had she phrased it like a question? Like she was uncertain?

“Oh, of course,” the receptionist, whose nameplate read Cheryl Reeves, said with a genuine smile. “Have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Henry know you’ve arrived.”

Mary Paige pointed her sensible heels toward the seating area housing several glossy magazines and a beautiful orchid on a glass table and sat on the leather Barcelona chair.

Just as she perched on the edge of the chair—tugging the tight skirt over the edge of her Spanx—the frosted glass doors swung open.

But Mr. Malcolm Henry didn’t emerge.

Instead it was a Roman god wearing an expensive-looking suit and a scowl. He zeroed in on Cheryl as Ms. Thornhill lollygagged behind him with annoyance evident in her brown eyes. “Cheryl, will you see that Creighton gets a cup of tea while she waits for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Of course, Mr. Henry,” Cheryl said, rising from behind her desk. “I—” She snapped her mouth closed when Creighton shot her a warning.

“Don’t bother with tea, Brennan,” Creighton said, laying a hand on his forearm as if she could soothe the fiercest of beasts. “I have other things to attend to this morning. I thought you might be free for a little chat this morning. Nothing important.”

Innocuous words, but not the way she said them. Creighton—the well-dressed, gorgeous brunette—had purred them, with a sort of raspy innuendo that made poor Cheryl pinken like a…a…shrimp.

“Good,” he said, looking at the brunette as if he didn’t appreciate the implication of what a little chat was.

“Fine,” Creighton said, heading for the elevators with staccato click-clacks of her heeled boots.

Mary Paige shifted on the slick leather as the woman walked by, then slid right off the chair onto the floor in a graceless heap.

All three people in the lobby turned and looked at her.

“Oh, are you all right?” Cheryl squeaked, hurrying toward her.

The man named Henry—but not Malcolm Henry—got there first.

Mary Paige looked at him standing over her. His brow was furrowed and he reminded her of how her younger brother had once looked at a baby bird that had fallen from the pecan tree in front of their house—confused, alarmed and sympathetic. She knew she was the color of her sweater—a vibrant fuchsia—and could do nothing other than laugh. Falling twice in twenty-four hours? Had to be a record.

Her laughter seemed to really confuse him.

He glanced at Cheryl, who pressed her lips together as if she were afraid she’d join in the giggling, and asked, “Who is this?”

Mary Paige swallowed her laughter and struggled to fold her legs under her, praying the man wouldn’t spot her modern version of a girdle. Her heels failed to make traction so she looked even more awkward and her skirt rode even farther up her thighs.

Damn it.

His gaze zeroed in on the stretchy nude fabric, cutting into her white legs—yeah, her summer tan was long gone—and she saw the question in his gray eyes. He didn’t say anything as he made eye contact with her and extended a hand. She grabbed hold and let him haul her to her feet.

Again he asked, “Who are you?”

Creighton wore a bemused smile as she pointed to Mary Paige and said, “I think that’s your ten o’clock.”

Mary Paige pulled her hand away and jerked the skirt down where it should be—just above the knee. The elevator opened and Creighton gave them all a little finger wiggle and a cat-full-of-cream smile as she glided inside. The doors slid closed as Mary Paige, Cheryl and the grumpy sex god watched.

Mary Paige smoothed her hands against the shiny fabric of the chair and tried to smile, hopefully distracting him from the fact she’d wallowed like a sow on the floor of the lobby. “Um, slick chair, huh?”

The man bent and scooped up her checkbook, tube of lip gloss and cell-phone charger that had spilled from her purse when she’d taken her epic tumble. He passed them to her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She wasn’t sure if it was legitimate concern or more of a legal thing. “Yeah, my dignity’s a little bruised, but otherwise, I can walk.”

His stormy eyes perused her and it made her feel squirmy, not necessarily in a pervy way, but more in a crackly way. The man may have been fierce-looking, but he was abnormally handsome. If not a little scary. It wasn’t his size because he was a little over six feet, but it was the way his confidence oozed. No, not oozed. Conquered. The man conquered a room, demanding attention by his sheer presence.

She stuck out a clammy hand. “Hi, I’m Mary Paige Gentry. I’m to meet with Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr.”

The man took her hand. “So you are our ten o’clock?”

She shrugged. How was she supposed to know who his ten-o’clock appointment was?

His touch was warm and dry, which was good considering her hand had started sweating. Coming here wearing a too-tight skirt for a meeting about two million dollars then sprawling onto the floor and showing her “light” support girdle didn’t inspire serenity in a gal. She waited for an introduction.

A little tremor went through him—subtle but noticeable—before he dropped her hand. “I’m Brennan Henry, Malcolm’s grandson. I’m also the VP of acquisitions, and I’ll be sitting in on this meeting. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see if I can find where my grandfather is hiding, and we can get down to brass tacks regarding this…venture.”

She nodded. He didn’t sound very pleased about this…venture, but she wasn’t so sure about it, either. When Mr. Henry had helped her from the icy pavement—thus establishing a habit of Henry men hauling up clumsy blondes who fell on their asses—he’d explained his idea for bringing the true meaning of the holiday season to the city. And it had sounded sweet but implausible.

After all, how could she be the Spirit of Christmas?

She was an accountant…not even a certified one at that. She had nothing special that would mark her as the epitome of, well, anything. She had blond hair that she highlighted herself every two months to save a buck, she shopped at bargain stores and grew her own herbs under a growing light. And not those kind of herbs. Basil, thyme and rosemary. She skipped to the end of books to find out if there was a happily ever after before she read them and her bottom was a little too big for her frame. She was plain ol’ Mary Paige from Crosshatch, Louisiana. Well, not even Crosshatch, considering she’d grown up on an organic farm five miles from the town-limit sign.

So how was she supposed to inspire the citizens of the city to be kinder, gentler and more loving as they enjoyed the holiday season?

Uh, yeah. Sounded like a really weird idea, but for two million dollars—money that could help more people than herself—Mary Paige supposed she could at the very least hear the man out.

Brennan held open the door from which he’d emerged minutes ago.

Well, at least he was a gentleman.

She slid by, praying she’d remembered to put on deodorant that morning. She really couldn’t recall, and she could feel the anxiety seeping from her pores. Like literally.

“This way,” he said, his voice all rich and yummy, like a vanilla cupcake—a particular favorite of hers and one of the reasons her bottom was a little jigglier than it should be. He might be aloof but his voice had a warm timbre, the kind made for reading bedtime stories. Yes, naughty bedtime stories.

She dashed the thought of Brennan in her bedroom from her mind and followed him to a room labeled Boardroom B, where Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr. stood holding something aloft. Below him sat an adorable red dachshund, balancing on his back legs with front paws waving in begging fashion. Mr. Henry tossed the dog something, which it caught neatly, then turned to them with a sparkle in his bright blue eyes. “Miss Gentry, my own sweet Spirit of Christmas. You came.”

The older man looked much different than he had last night. The dapper navy suit with a whimsical red bow tie complemented his tanned skin, and the cordovan loafers had to be Italian—only because that’s what they always were on the wealthy men in the books she’d snuck from her mother’s bedside table.

“Good morning, Mr. Henry,” she said, moving close to the little dog looking up at the older man with expectant, beaded black eyes. “What a precious pup.”

She bent and held out a hand and the dog trotted to her, sniffed her hand and allowed her to pet him.

“Her name is Izzy,” Mr. Henry said, bending down and bestowing a kiss on the animal’s head. “She’s a good girl, aren’t you?”

A full minute was spent in admiration of Izzy, who rolled over and gave them her belly to scratch.

“I love dogs,” Mary Paige said, dutifully scratching Izzy’s satiny chest. “I had a golden retriever growing up. Toby was the best dog ever. He’s buried under our pink dogwood because he always loved that tree best.”

“Ahem.” The sound came from above them.

Mary Paige stopped prattling and glanced at Brennan Henry.

He appeared disgusted. “Do you two mind?”

“Sorry,” she said, standing and tugging her skirt. Again. “Never could resist a sweet face.”

Brennan pulled a chair out from the table for her as his grandfather headed around to the armchair at one end. The dog loyally trotted after him, curling at his feet with an adorable doggy sigh.

“Brennan isn’t fond of dogs,” Mr. Henry said with a secret smile.

“Well, you wouldn’t be, either, if you’d been humiliated at your tenth birthday party by a clown’s dog.”

Mr. Henry laughed. “That dog went to town on your leg, didn’t he?”

Brennan glowered. “I don’t think we need to bring that up. This is a meeting, right?”

Mary Paige sat—glad the chair had armrests to cling to—and hid a smile as she pulled hand sanitizer out of her purse and squirted some in her palm. She rubbed them together as Mr. Henry retold the story of his meeting Mary Paige, to which his grandson said a grand sum of…nothing.

As he’d finished talking about the check, the boardroom door opened and an older woman wearing an ivory suit entered. She carried several folders and a travel mug. “Apologies for being late. Don’s barking up my tree on these reports.”

The woman set her things opposite Mary Paige and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ellen Bivens, vice president of communications and community relations.”

Mary Paige shook her hand and introduced herself, glad to have another woman to break up the testosterone oozing from one end of the boardroom table. Ellen looked to be around fifty years in age with a long face and quick smile. Mary Paige liked her on sight.

Mr. Henry cracked his knuckles. “Okay, time to talk turkey. This young woman is exactly the kind of person we wanted for this campaign. We’re pulling out the stops for this—TV, radio and print. Hell, we’re even using that social media everyone’s talking about. It’s time to bring goodness back to Christmas. Rip down the sparkly tinsel and self-serving commercialism. I want the world to know that Henry’s embraces the spirit of service as part of the season.”

Ellen nodded, flipping through a folder. “This campaign is brilliant. With so many other companies embracing ‘me,’ it’s a good strategy to focus on this season being a time of sharing with others, reveling in the spirit of community, a time—”

“For making lots of money,” Brennan added.

Mary Paige glared at the sexy grandson with his fingers tented in front of him.

What an ass.

“Excuse me,” Mary Paige said, scooting her chair back. “If this is only about making money, I’ll have to decline.”

Brennan cocked his head. “Decline?”

Mr. Henry waved a hand. “Rest assured, dear girl. This is not about the bottom line, but the greater good. It’s about what you showed an old bum who had a need. It’s about the milk of human kindness.”

“But the bottom line is important,” his grandson persisted.

Mary Paige directed her attention to the ass. “I’m not interested in tricking people so you can make a buck. It’s deceitful to pretend the holiday is about showing love to your fellow man when you have a different motivation behind it. I can’t imagine something so…”

His eyes clouded.

“Well, let’s just say, I’ll not be part of it.” She turned her attention to Mr. Henry as she rose. Something about Brennan made her uncomfortable. Not just his concern for the almighty buck, but his distaste for his grandfather’s plan. She could feel cynicism sheet off him in waves.

And maybe part of her discomfort was she was attracted to the man…a man who was about as far away from her usual type as she could get. Scary. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Henry, but I’m not interested in being the Spirit of Christmas for Henry Department Stores.”

Brennan stood politely, ever the Southern gentleman, a mixture of triumph and relief on his face. “So you’ll be returning the check, then?”

CHAPTER THREE

BRENNAN WATCHED THE blonde with interest. What would she say at the thought of handing that two-million-dollar check back to his grandfather? Sure, she could buy a man a cup of coffee, but anyone could have done that…even an ax murderer. Here was the litmus test of her character.

Mary Paige shot him a look that curled something in his gut, and he felt the way he had when he’d disappointed someone he cared about. Except he didn’t care about this woman. So why did she make him feel like scum? His job was to take care of his grandfather and this company, and that included safeguarding the bottom line. Lord, she made it sound like it was wrong to pursue profit.