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“Good,” he said, looking at the brunette as if he didn’t appreciate the implication of what alittle chatwas.
“Fine,” Creighton said, heading for the elevators with staccato click-clacks of her heeled boots.
Mary Paige shifted on the slick leather as the woman walked by, then slid right off the chair onto the floor in a graceless heap.
All three people in the lobby turned and looked at her.
“Oh, are you alright?” Cheryl squeaked, hurrying toward her.
The man named Henry—but not Malcolm Henry—got there first.
Mary Paige looked at him standing over her. His brow was furrowed, and he reminded her of how her younger brother had once looked at a baby bird that had fallen from the pecan tree in front of their house—confused, alarmed, and sympathetic. She knew she was the color of her sweater—a vibrant fuchsia—and could do nothing other than laugh. Falling twice in twenty-four hours? Had to be a record.
Her laughter seemed to really confuse him.
He glanced at Cheryl, who pressed her lips together as if she were afraid she’d join in the giggling, and asked, “Who’s this?”
Mary Paige swallowed her laughter and struggled to fold her legs under her, praying the man wouldn’t spot her modern version of a girdle. Her heels failed to make traction, so she looked even more awkward, and her skirt rode even farther up her thighs.
Damn it.
His gaze zeroed in on the stretchy nude fabric, cutting into her white legs—yeah, her summer tan was long gone—and she saw the question in his gray eyes. He didn’t say anything as he made eye contact with her and extended a hand. She grabbed hold and let him haul her to her feet.
Again, he asked, “Who are you?”
Creighton wore a bemused smile as she pointed to Mary Paige and said, “I think that’s your ten o’clock.”
Mary Paige pulled her hand away and jerked the skirt down where it should be—just above the knee. The elevator opened and Creighton gave them all a little finger wiggle and a cat-full-of-cream smile as she glided inside. The doors slid closed as Mary Paige, Cheryl, and the grumpy goose watched.
Mary Paige smoothed her hand over the slick back of the chair and tried to smile despite the fact she’d just wallowed like a sow on the floor. “Slick chair, huh?”
The man bent and scooped up the checkbook, tube of lip gloss, and cell-phone charger that had spilled from her purse. He passed them to her. “Are you okay?”
She wasn’t sure if it was legitimate concern or more of a legal thing. “Yeah, my dignity’s a little bruised, but otherwise, I can walk.”
His stormy eyes perused her, and it made her feel squirmy, not necessarily in a pervy way, but more in a crackly way. The man may have been fierce looking, but hewasabnormally handsome. If not a little scary. It wasn’t his size because he was maybe six foot tall, but more about the way he oozed confidence. Here was a man who knew where he belonged.
She stuck out a hand. “I’m Mary Paige Gentry. I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr.”
The man took her hand. “So, youareour ten o’clock?”
“I guess.” How was she supposed to know who his ten o’clock appointment was?
His handshake was hard and brief, which was good considering her hand had started sweating. That probably had to do with showing up in a too-tight skirt, sprawling on the floor, and showing her “light” support girdle. Oh, and there was the matter of that two million dollars. The sum of those things didn’t inspire serenity in a gal.
“I’m Brennan Henry, Malcolm’s grandson. I’m also the VP of acquisitions, and I’ll be sitting in on the meeting. If you’ll follow me, we’ll find my grandfather, and see about getting down to brass tacks regarding this…venture.”
She nodded. He didn’t sound very pleased about this…venture,but she wasn’t so sure about it herself. After Mr. Henry had helped her from the icy pavement—thus establishing a habit of Henry men hauling up clumsy blondes who fell on their backsides—he’d explained his idea for bringing the true meaning of the holiday season to the city. And it had sounded sweet but implausible.
After all, how could she be the Spirit of Christmas?
She was an accountant…not even a certified one at that. She had nothing special that would mark her as the epitome of, well, anything. She had blond hair that she highlighted herself every two months to save a buck, she shopped at bargain stores, and grew her own herbs under a growing light. And notthosekind of herbs. Basil, thyme, and rosemary. She skipped to the end of books to find out if there was a happily ever after before she read them, and her bottom was a little too big for her frame. She was plain ol’ Mary Paige from Crosshatch, Louisiana. Well, not even Crosshatch, considering she’d grown up on an organic farm five miles from the town-limit sign.
So how was she supposed to inspire the citizens of the city to be kinder, gentler, and more loving as they enjoyed the holiday season?
Uh, yeah. Sounded like a really weird idea, but for two million dollars—money that could help more people than herself—Mary Paige supposed she could at the very least hear the man out.
Brennan held open the door from which he’d emerged minutes ago.
