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“What? It doesn’t scream ‘fun’?”
“More like insanity.”
Malcolm laughed. “Indeed, I fear I’ve finally gone mad, but I’m loving every second of it. I’ve another blinking nose if you wish to board the crazy train.”
“Save it for the accountant. She’ll probably revere it more than the Hope Diamond,” Brennan said, sinking onto the damask slipper chair flanking the marbled fireplace. The room was New Orleans formal with a few funky original paintings from noted abstract painters. Malcolm had dated a noted, much sought-after interior designer who’d used the St. Charles mansion as a showcase for all that was luxurious and expensive. Brennan knew. He’d paid that bill and nearly choked at the cost of the rug where his feet now sprawled.
“Mary Paige is a gem, is she not? I don’t think I could have picked a more perfect or deserving person to be our centerpiece for this campaign. I’m extraordinarily pleased.”
Brennan grunted and tried not to think about Mary Paige with her silky hair and soft lips. He didn’t know why she bedeviled him, drew him to her like a kid to fireworks, but she did. And it bothered him that he couldn’t get her out of his mind. His mind should be filled with sales figures and the new line of bathing suits they were launching for plus-size women, not a nosy accountant with a too-big smile and an ass that fit incredibly well in his hands. But his mind, like his eyes, seemed to have a will of its own randomly popping up images of Mary Paige sprawled naked on his bed, maybe tied to the headboard with a string of Christmas lights. Now those were lights worth enjoying, ensnaring that blonde elf so he could enjoy the satin of her skin, capture her sighs with his lips as he showed her how to get into the spirit of things best not shared with anyone but him.
Yes, only for him.
“Brennan?”
His grandfather’s voice ripped him from his naughty Christmas fantasy. “Yes?”
“I asked if you were riding with me to the benefit. Is that why you’re here?”
“No, thought I’d take the Virage for a spin. Nice night for it.” In most aspects Brennan was practical. He wore expensive clothes when necessary, but otherwise pulled on Levi’s and Dockers. His one true vice, the one thing he indulged in, however, was fast cars. Beautiful, luxurious, expensive fast cars, and the silver convertible Aston Martin Virage coupe he kept in the secure Henry estate garage was testimony to a wicked part of him.
The Virage was beauty in motion.
He’d once dated a woman who’d viewed shoes as art, and when he’d seen the closet she’d designed filled with display cases for shoes, he’d been disparaging that a person would build a museum for shoes. Then she’d held up the shoes, one by one, her voice full of admiration for the details, the supple leather, the towering, glittering works of art, and Brennan understood. Everyone had his or her peccadilloes, embarrassing collections, or self-indulgent fripperies that on the surface seemed ridiculous, but beneath spoke to a basic human quality—people liked pretty things.
And his Virage was very, very pretty.
He wondered what vice Mary Paige indulged in. Perhaps beautiful, expensive French underwear? That would be a nice collection to see. Or maybe erotic literature? No. Mary Paige wouldn’t dare.
“Brennan?”
“Yes?”
“Awfully distracted this evening, aren’t you?” Malcolm said, smoothing a hand over his silver hair and tugging the lapels of his jacket into place, keeping one eye on the mirror like a sixteen-year-old on prom night. “I had hoped to introduce you to my date before the gala. Judy’s nervous about attending, and I thought it might set her at ease to know at least one more person.”
Judy What’s-her-name was such an odd choice of dates for his grandfather. The thought of Malcolm dating a woman who’d once been a nun seemed like a joke. A nun and a billionaire walk into a bar…
It was nearly as bad as Brennan dating the accountant who wore cheap clothes and fed homeless animals.
“I’ll be glad to stay and meet her.” Even if he was ready to go. For some reason he felt antsy, a feeling that had settled over him since admitting to Mary Paige the real reason he wasn’t filled with Christmas cheer.
“Good. I had hoped I might convince you to escort Miss Gentry to the gala. Has to be intimidating for her, too.”
“I told you I’m not perpetuating the idea there is romance between us. She’s not my type.”
Malcolm frowned but said nothing.
Brennan tried to believe his own words even though his body had been singing a different tune, indulging in crazy fantasies about the simple, not-so-much-his-type woman for the past two nights. Crazy, hot fantasies.
He was horny.
No other explanation…at least not one he wanted to admit. He pushed himself off the chair and started to pace to release some of the antsy energy plaguing him.
“Just a minute, Brennan, if you will.”
Brennan paused. “Yes?”
“Perhaps it’s not the time or place for such a conversation, but I need to apologize to you and that bill is past due. It’s hard to swallow my pride and admit to being something other than what I should be, but—”
