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He snorted at that thought. Man, he felt a little too much 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.
* * *
MARYPAIGETAPPEDHERFOOT 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 because she’d been working on how to sync music with her own small tree 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 New Orleans. 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 shewasin 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 into anything and had done nothing more with the check than hide it in the bottom of the ballerina jewelry box her granny Bea had given 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 ofVanity 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 face 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 scheduled in ten minutes.”
“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 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 very attractive man 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 do to this morning. I just thought you might be free for a little ‘chat’ this morning. It can wait.”
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.
