The Spirit of Christmas

“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.”

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