The Spirit of Christmas

“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.