The Spirit of Christmas

She pulled her wallet from her purse.

“I’ve got it,” Brennan said.

“No, you do not,” she said, shoving a five-dollar bill at the girl behind the register, who took it with an unsure look.

Brennan shrugged, ordered a plain black coffee then reclined in a chair at one of the wooden tables, crossing his legs and looking very intense even in a relaxed posture.

Mary Paige took the cup steaming with fragrance and sat opposite him. “So?”

He gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Kind of an annoyed smile. A make-the-best-of-this smile. “My grandfather has an iron will, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I noticed,” she said, pulling the tea bag from the water and setting it on a pile of napkins. She added one sugar packet then took a sip. It warmed her instantly. “Oh, here’s your coat. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

He waved a hand. “Keep it until we get back.”

She nodded, mostly because it seemed stupid to argue over a coat when they had more important things to iron out. “About this whole Spirit deal, I get the feeling you’re not on board with it, and I’m unsure exactly what it is I’m taking on and how I can do anything near what your grandfather wants.”

Brennan nodded, pausing a moment as if he were gathering the right words to say. She studied him in the yellowish light of the café…at the slight shadow of his beard, the intelligent gray eyes and the thick shock of brown hair, glinting with reddish highlights. He had nice broad shoulders and strong, blunt fingers, and though he wore a well-tailored suit, she could tell he’d look spectacular in athletic shorts and a T-shirt.

Something more than tea warmed her insides.

Okay, horny girl. Stop fantasizing about Scrooge as a man and see him for what he is—a not-so-nice person.

But could she really say that?

No.

She didn’t know the man, and judged him based only on his reaction to the crazy scheme his grandfather had dreamed up and his intent to make a buck from the campaign. That didn’t mean Brennan threw kittens in the lake or elbowed old ladies.

“I agree with you. This whole thing is absurd, but my grandfather’s nutty Spirit of Christmas idea isn’t a bad one. It could be brilliant for our company, bring in a load of customers buying into the whole true-meaning crap. It’s just bothersome to have to spend the time making it happen.”

Okay, he was a bit of an ass.

“Bothersome?” she asked.

“Well, don’t tell me you want to skip all over the city doing Lord only knows what for the entire season? With me?”

He looked hard at her and something crackled between them.

What if?

That question floated out there between them.

Mary Paige snatched it back. “So this is a no-go?”

“I didn’t say that.”

What had he said, then?

Mary Paige cleared her throat. “Listen, I have plans for my life. Plans that don’t include a crazy billionaire and five weeks of standing beside you pretending I want to be there.”

He frowned and looked sort of offended.

“But I like your grandfather. And I like what he’s trying to do. Christmas often feels so commercialized people lose sight of what is truly important.”

“Which is?”

“Family, friends, love.”

“Bah, humbug,” he said with a smile.

She arched an eyebrow she knew needed waxing. Why hadn’t she gone by the mall and attended to her wayward eyebrows? Because she hadn’t known she’d be sitting across from a hot executive having tea.

“I’m trying to bring some humor into this,” he said.

She rolled her eyes.

“Not working?”

She took another sip of tea. “You’re behaving much better.”

“Oh, goody.”

“If we do this, we need to set ground rules.”

“I know. You aren’t sleeping with me.”

She felt the blush sweep her face and wished she had more control of her body. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—”

“So you will sleep with me?” His gray eyes sparked and for the first time she saw that Brennan’s charm might be way more deadly than expected. The man was downright gorgeous when he offered a genuine smile.

“Uh, that’s not what I meant. I meant I didn’t mean to imply that you were looking at my…uh…my butt in that way.”

“What if I were? You have a nice-looking ass.”

She snapped her mouth closed because it had fallen open again like the country bumpkin she was.

His eyes crinkled and she realized he enjoyed flirting with her. What’s worse, she enjoyed it, too. “Stop playing with me, Brennan.”

“Oh, I haven’t even begun playing with you yet, Mary Paige,” he drawled, his voice dropping an octave, making liquid heat flood her lower body.

Damn him. This man wasn’t anything she should be meddling with.

“Okay, are we doing this or not, Brennan?”

“Doing what?”

“This Spirit of Christmas thing your grandfather wants.”

“Oh, that.”

She didn’t bother with asking him what else he’d been talking about because she knew. And she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction he wanted. “Yes, that. The only thing on the menu.”

His short laugh stroked the imp inside her who really, really liked playing the sexy word games with him. “Actually, I usually prefer things not on the menu, but we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

“No.” She sipped her tea and stared out at people hurrying by the window. She wasn’t allowing herself to go off the menu…she was barely convinced by what was on the menu. Spending time with Brennan felt dangerous, and that appealed to her. Which was peculiar. She didn’t even like him all that much. “In all seriousness, should we do this thing your grandfather has in mind?”

“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?”

“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.”