Читать книгу The Spirit of Christmas - Liz Talley - Страница 13

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.

“Okay, fine. I’ll go to my room for a moment while you two get decent and clear out of my place. Both of you. Clear out.” Mary Paige hurried toward her room because though she’d seen Simon without clothes, she never planned on doing so again. Letting him crash here had been a favor…one that had long ago proven a huge mistake.

Because she couldn’t get him off her couch or—obviously—out of her kitchen.

But she’d reached the end of her charity.

“Okay, we’re good,” Simon called after Mary Paige studied the wonder of her new cherry sleigh bed covered by a cream batiste spread. She’d looked hard at it, making sure Simon and whoever was posing for his experimental art—aka sex in the kitchen—hadn’t tried to use her new bed.

She stalked out to find Simon slouching on her couch wearing a pair of sweatpants and tank top. His bare feet were propped on her new Glamour magazine, and the bimbo—Mary Paige recognized her as the girl who sold her fancy cookies at a bakery down the street—perched on the corner of the couch. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a sort of dirty-looking dreadlock do that wasn’t flattering and hadn’t been in style for ten years.

“What’s up, M.P.?” Simon said, folding his arms behind his head and giving her a quasi-smile.

“What is up is your time,” Mary Paige said, nudging his bare feet off her table with her knee. “You said you only needed to crash here for a few days, and it’s turned into almost a month. This little escapade was the last straw. You need to pack your stuff and leave.”

“Come on, M.P. As soon as Rick gives me that commission, I’ll get a place.”

“No. My couch hasn’t been my own for too long and I miss it. Go stay with her.” Mary Paige pointed to the cookie girl, who made a funny face.

“He can’t stay with me. I live with my boyfriend.”

Right. Of course she did.

“Babe, if you’d let me sleep with you, I wouldn’t be out here on this couch.” Simon spread his hands and tried to give her his little-lost-boy smile, the one she’d fallen for over a year ago—before she knew that her highly artistic, creative boyfriend was a slug in disguise. He’d milked her checking account while bleeding her heart dry. And she found out she wasn’t so into a carefree, bohemian lifestyle when he asked if she was up for a three-way.

She’d ended the relationship last spring and hadn’t seen him until almost a month ago when he’d shown up at her front door with a hangdog expression and a pretty good reason why he’d cheated on her before—he had a large sexual appetite she couldn’t handle, which meant he’d actually been doing her a favor, right? Mary Paige had been caught so off guard by his tale of woe regarding some scheme a gallery owner had pulled on him, she’d agreed to let him sleep on her couch for a few days.

Yeah, she was a dumb-ass that way.

Not only that, but she owned all those Dead Sea salt scrubs and lotions sold in kiosks in the mall.

Giant sucker.

But not today.

“Get out of my apartment and take the cookie girl with you. Now.” Mary Paige stomped her foot. Twice.

“Babe, just a few more days. I swear. Rick’s a man of his word and he’ll get me my money.”

“And I’m a woman of mine. I told you that you could stay here for a few days…a month ago. Now it’s time to find some other sucker to mooch off. And you better leave the forty bucks you took out of my purse on the table before you leave. Oh, and the extra key.”

Simon straightened. “I didn’t take your forty bucks. I borrowed it.”

“Well, I want my borrowed money back or I’ll walk my butt down to the police station on the corner and file charges.”

He threw his hands up. “Whatever. I’ll write you a check.”

Not even worth the paper it was written on, no doubt. But it was better than nothing. “Fine.”

“Don’t know why you’re busting my ass for forty bucks when you got a two-million-dollar check squirreled away.” He gave her a little-boy smile aimed at making her feel crummy for holding out on him. “Naughty little M.P.”

His guilt trip didn’t work.

“You went through my jewelry box?” Mary Paige curled her hands and parked them on her hips so she wouldn’t wrap them around Simon’s scrawny neck. What had she ever seen in him? Okay, he was cute in a starving artist, funky, unconventional way, but that was where the charm ended.

Cookie Dreadlocks’s eyes widened. “She’s got a check for a cool two mil?”

“Looks real,” Simon said, stretching before glancing at the girl he’d more than likely bopped on Mary Paige’s grandmother’s vintage table. “Is it real?”

Mary Paige glared at him. “Of course not. Why would I have a check for that much lying around for you to find? It was a joke gift from my uncle’s party.”

The doorbell dinged like the bell in a boxing match.

Sweet relief.

“I’ll get it,” Cookie Dreadlocks chirped as she skipped to the door.

“This isn’t your—” The door swung open to reveal Brennan Henry standing on Mary Paige’s stoop.

“Yo, lookie,” Cookie Dreadlocks said, glancing over her shoulder at Mary Paige. “You got money in your doorway.”

Brennan slid off his sunglasses and glanced at the brass numbers affixed to the weathered exterior boards.

“Fake check, huh? Yeah, I know who that is.” Simon pointed toward Brennan. “Saw him at a show once.”

Mary Paige had no clue what to do when a hot, rich guy showed up on her stoop in the middle of kicking Sir Simon the Leech and his consort from her life, so she took a good thirty seconds to think about it.

Why now? Why here? Why her?

No answers.

“Oh, wow, is that your ride on the curb, dude?” Cookie Dreadlocks asked.

“Um, yeah,” Brennan said.

“Goddamn, that’s a good lookin’ car.” Simon checked out the ride through the slotted blinds.

Mary Paige finally snapped out of it when she saw Simon sliding toward the door with an opportunistic gleam in his green eyes. She pushed skinny Simon against the couch and stepped in front of Cookie Dreadlocks then she squeezed out the door, shutting it behind her.

“Mr. Henry,” she said, glad she hadn’t already changed into her usual end-of-the-day sweats and fluffy socks. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped back, nearly falling off the postage-stamp-size stoop. “Uh, I had to come this way for an appointment and thought I’d bring over the contract and schedule Grandfather and Ellen put together. Got my hands on it right before I left the office and thought you might want to look at it before you sign since there are some negotiable areas with regard to appearances.”

Mary Paige caught a flutter at the window and knew Simon was spying on them. She almost shushed Brennan. “Oh, okay.”

Brennan turned as the curtain was drawn back. “Who’s that?”

“Who’s who?”

“That guy staring out at us. Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” she said, holding firm to the doorknob and pretending that Simon and the weird girl didn’t exist.

Simon knocked on the window and waved.

So much for pretending Simon the Mooch away. She tried to smile.

“Well, he’s waving at us. And he’s in your place. This is your house, right?”

“I’m actually leasing it, but, yes, I live here,” she said, turning toward her ex-boyfriend. She shot poison arrows out of her eyes at him. Not for real, of course. But if she’d had the ability, she might have used it.

She hadn’t wanted Simon to know anything about the Henry Department Store thing.

Yet.

Of course, Simon would find out when he saw her in the media, but she really wanted to get him out of her life—and off her couch—before he learned she’d become the centerpiece of a multimillion-dollar campaign. Who wanted the headache of Simon and his puppy-dog eyes and sad-sack stories of someone ripping him off facing her every time she turned around? Oh, and his palm out, too.

“So?”

She glanced at Brennan, who seemed out of place against the sagging rail of her porch steps and the scraggly grass creeping over the cracked sidewalk. Mr. Ledbetter, the guy who owned the duplex, had had surgery and hadn’t been able to do any repairs, much less weed eating. The whole neighborhood still showed the effects of Katrina like a dry-rotted badge. So Brennan standing akimbo in his charcoal cashmere coat, dark pants and shiny shoes looked like a prince who’d stumbled upon a broken-down duplex in a questionable area of midtown to save the poor, clueless wench.

Well, she wasn’t a wench or clueless.

But still he looked awfully yummy for a gripe-ass.

“He’s leaving. Now,” she said loud enough for Simon to hear. The curtains swished closed and she sighed. “He’s been staying with me for a few weeks. Uh, just as a friend, but he’s worn out his welcome today. Kind of an inopportune time, you know?”

Brennan’s eyes widened and he shoved his sunglasses into the coat pocket. “You were kicking him out?”

“Not that it’s really any of your business, but, yes, he’s leaving,” she said again loudly, to emphasize the point.

One of his dark eyebrows lifted and a smile played at his lips. “You’re fired up, aren’t you?”

“That amuses you?” she asked, pushing her hair behind her ear and trying for some inner control. She needed to get Brennan off her stoop and Cookie Dreadlocks and Simon out of her house, and then eat a Lean Cuisine dinner. In exactly that order. “Now, if you’ll hand me the contract and schedule?”

Brennan didn’t budge. Just stared hard at the window where the curtains had started fluttering again. “You need some help convincing him?”

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s going. For good.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You don’t have to be. I don’t need your help.”

“I’m sure you do.” He beckoned at the window with one finger.

The doorknob wiggled in her hand. She clamped down on it, but even though she weighed the same as Simon, he had that whole manly arm-strength going for him. Brennan caught her before she stumbled into Simon.

“What’s up?” Simon said, scratching his head and looking very much at home. He’d tossed away his standard slouch for some puffed-up chest posturing.

“You giving Mary Paige a hard time?” Brennan folded his arms across his chest, which seemed to poke holes in Simon’s defensive pose. Mary Paige could almost hear the strains of the theme song from High Noon in the late-afternoon chill.

“Why would I give her a hard time?” Simon shrugged.

“She said you’re leaving. You’ve worn out your welcome with her.”

Simon shrugged again. “Mary Paige got a little ruffled, but that’s Mary Paige for you. A sweetheart of a girl. She didn’t mean—”

“The hell I didn’t.” She poked Simon in the chest. “I want you and Cookie out.”

“My name is Chloe,” the girl chirped, peeking over Simon’s shoulder. “I really don’t like being called ‘Cookie’ just because I sell cookies. I sell donuts, too. And lemon squares. And I’m studying to be a social worker.”

Mary Paige felt a flash of guilt. Hadn’t been fair of her to lump Chloe into the same pile as Simon—the girl had ambition. “Sorry, Chloe, but I really do wish you and your new boyfriend would vacate my apartment. I’m tired and want a bath.”

“No prob,” Chloe said, sliding by them all and trotting down the steps, backpack swinging behind her. “Later, Simon, who is not my boyfriend.”

“Later,” Simon said, failing to move from the threshold.

“Now it’s your turn,” Brennan said in a growly voice, eyeballing Simon like something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.

Simon gave Brennan his own version of a withering look. “Who are you to tell me anything? Don’t remember your name on the lease of this apartment.”

“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.”