Читать книгу Millionaire's Christmas Miracle - Mary Wilson Anne - Страница 13

Pulling back from the impulsive kiss under the mistletoe, then turning away from Amy and leaving, was one of the hardest things Quint had ever done.

But it was the right thing to do. The situation with her wasn’t what he’d thought, certainly it wouldn’t be possible to do what Mike had said and “go with the flow,” not when a child was in the picture. He sure as hell wasn’t looking for anything long-term, and anything less than that would definitely affect a small child. He couldn’t be part of any passing fling. A two-year-old. God, he remembered Mike at two. A child was to be protected, so a “good time” wasn’t an option, at least not for him.

He felt the doors to the center whoosh shut behind him, and he kept walking before anything beyond the need to leave could settle into him. His hesitation before had brought on the kiss, and he knew how thin the ice was that he stood on when he was around Amy.

He entered the lobby where crews were starting to dismantle the temporary bar and take down the banners and reception desks. The guard standing by the front doors was the same man who had burst into the kitchen when the smoke alarm went off.

“Everything okay in there?” the man asked as Quint got close enough to him to read the name Walt on his badge.

Nothing was okay, Quint admitted to himself, but to the man he said a simple truth that became a fact when he walked away. “Everything’s under control. Thanks for your help.”

“I’ll check it out later, just to make sure.”

“Good idea.” He stopped by the glass doors. “I don’t know if my car’s still waiting for me, or if I’ll need a cab.”

“I’ll check it out for you. What’s your name?”

“Gallagher, Quint Gallagher.”

“Quint Gallagher?”

Quint turned when someone repeated his name, and saw a middle-aged man wearing a tuxedo with what looked like a tie-dyed bow tie at his throat, striding toward him. What was even odder was the ponytail of long graying hair, a number of studs in one ear and the total lack of the “corporate smile” on the man’s face.

The man stopped in front of him. “So, you’re Quint Gallagher?”

“That’s me. And you are?” he asked as the guard went outside to find his ride.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” the man said, but didn’t hold out his hand. “I’m George Armstrong, shareholder, and I’ve got questions for you.”

“Well, Mr. Armstrong, I’m just leaving and it’s late,” Quint said, turning to look out the door and definitely relieved to see the guard motioning a limo to the curb. More corporate talk wasn’t what he wanted right now.

“Your limo?” George asked, glancing past him.

“I think so. Maybe you could call and make an appointment? I’ll be in the executive suites on the top floor, I believe, and you can contact Ms. Donovan. She’s an executive assistant, and she can—”

“I’m leaving now and I could use a ride,” George said, cutting off Quint’s offer. “And since I’m what they call a ‘major stockholder’ in LynTech, I believe, technically, that that limo is partly mine, too.” Quint wasn’t given a chance to challenge that flawed reasoning, because as the man spoke he pushed back the entry door and glanced at Quint with a lifted eyebrow. “So, would you like to join me?”

If it hadn’t been so late, Quint would have told the man to take the limo and have it drive him anywhere he wanted to go, and he’d take a taxi. But if he did that, he’d be stuck here for a while, and Amy was still in the center. And he wanted distance. “I think I will,” he said, and followed George out onto the street.

George spoke all the way to the limo, a blur of words that ran on until they were both in the back seat, then George gave the driver an address. Quint recognized it as an industrial area. “Drop me at the hotel on the way,” he told the driver.

As the limo pulled away from the curb, George started up the talk again. “I spent a great deal of time fighting what we called ‘the establishment’ years ago, until I figured out that joining them beat the heck out of fighting them from the outside. So, I found a company founded on principles and got on board.”

“And your point is?” Quint asked, trying to keep the man focused.

“The point is, you’ve got a track record for being corporate-oriented, and, from your financial statements filed at LynTech, you’ve made, and continue to make, obscene amounts of money at what you do. But you need to know that LynTech is a special corporation, a corporation formed with vision, not avarice. Mr. Lewis was a throwback to a time when people cared.”

“Mr. Armstrong, I don’t know what you think I’m doing here, but believe me, I’m here to look after the good of the company, not to destroy it.”

“My point exactly,” George said. “And I’ve got some ideas to throw out for you to consider. A few smart things to do.”

Quint knew he’d been smart to leave when he had, and if he hadn’t taken a detour into “never-never land” with Amy, he would have been safely back at the hotel by now. Instead, he was listening to a man with a ponytail tell him what was best for the company. And all the while, all he could think of was how to forget about a stunning woman with a tiny child. That was the real “smart thing to do,” but it was damn hard to accomplish when he was almost certain he could still taste her lips on his.

AMY SANK slowly down to the floor as Quint walked away, her back against the fake tree. Then the doors closed and Quint was gone, leaving her stunned. That she’d let him kiss her was beyond reason, and that he was the one who had drawn back first was humiliating. She scrubbed her hand over her mouth, trying to rid herself of that feeling of his lips against hers. She didn’t want it.

She reached for her shoes that had fallen to the floor and started to put them on, cursing the fact that her hands were so unsteady that she had trouble redoing the buckle on the strap. She was lonely, and she hated Quint Gallagher for showing it to her so clearly with a careless kiss. That sense of loneliness that she’d avoided like the plague was almost unbearable at that moment.

She hurried with her shoes, trying to kill an anger in her that made no sense. Anger at a stranger. Anger at herself, and anger at Rob for dying. Stupid, stupid, foolish things to have anger over, and she fought against it.

It was as irrational as letting that stranger kiss her. It was as irrational as the fact that she hadn’t slapped the man. And as irrational as the tears that burned behind her eyes. A night that had started with such promise had spiraled out of control completely, topped by Quint’s appearance in the center.

“Damn you,” she muttered, not sure who she was damning at that point in time.

She pulled herself to her feet, swiped at her tangled hair, then pulled out the remaining pins. She took several deep breaths, the need to see her daughter almost choking her. She wanted to hold on to Taylor and make all of this confusion go away. As she turned, she felt her shoe strike something and saw a man’s wallet skittering across the carpeting.

She crouched by the wallet and picked up the soft black leather folder. She stood as she flipped it open and saw a New York State driver’s license. Quintin Luther Gallagher, six foot tall, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and a birthday on January first. His next birthday would make him fifty. She looked at the picture, and saw a man with raw attractiveness, a bit less gray in his hair and mustache—and those eyes. Even in the picture, the eyes seemed able to see right through anything and anyone.

She looked away from it, at a side slot with credit cards, then she opened the back to find money. One-hundred-dollar bills, about a thousand dollars. She closed it, then looked at the door and hesitated. Go after him, she told herself, just take it to him. But something held her in place. An uneasiness at seeing him right then, of meeting his gaze again.

“You fool,” she muttered and knew exactly who she was berating. It wasn’t Quint’s fault that he took her off balance and kept her there, or made her feel uneasy with the feelings that his look could suggest.

She clutched the wallet and headed toward the doors and in a few seconds, she was out in the lobby where the festivities were almost a memory. Just the beautiful tree still stood there. The rest had been cleared away. The only person she saw was the guard, Walt. He spotted her, smiled and called out, “The building isn’t going to burn down, is it?”

She tried to smile and found the expression was easy enough to produce for this man. He certainly didn’t bother her, or set her on edge. She crossed to him. “No, thank goodness.”

He looked at the wallet in her hands, then up at her. “What’s going on?”

“I was looking for Mr. Gallagher, tall, gray hair…?”

“I know him. He went out two or three minutes ago with another man.”

She looked out the windows at the street with its garlands on the light posts and potted plants by the doors strung with multi-colored lights. “He’s out—”

“He’s gone. He left in a limo.”

She looked back at Walt. “The company limo?”

“No, ma’am, one of those rentals.”

“I need to contact him. Is there any way to get a phone number for the limousine or find out where it took him?”

“I guess so, from the rental company, but I wouldn’t know which one he used or where he’d be going. What do you need?”

She looked at the wallet. “This fell out of his pocket, and he probably doesn’t even know.” She looked at Walt. “Can you get into the safe?”

“Oh, no, I can’t. I can put it in a desk drawer back there, and that locks, but it’s hardly secure.”

She couldn’t take that chance with the credit cards and a thousand dollars. “I’ll keep it, and if Mr. Gallagher calls or comes back, tell him I have it and…tomorrow, I’ll put it in the company safe. He can pick it up there.”

“Okay, no problem.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s getting late. Aren’t you ready to leave yet?”

“I’m on my way out,” she said.

“I’m heading off for my rounds, so why don’t I walk you out? That parking garage is pretty empty this time of night.”

“Thanks,” she said and headed back to the center with Walt following her. Stopping at the climbing-frame tree, she looked up at the mistletoe, then at Walt. “Can you reach that and take it down?” she asked, pointing to the plant.

“No problem.” The man reached, jumped slightly and grabbed the mistletoe, tugging it free. He held it out to her.

She took the mistletoe gingerly, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. “Thanks,” she muttered as she turned and went back to her office. She dropped the plant in the trash, grabbed her purse and pushed the wallet into it, then turned to get on with her life.

QUINT STOPPED listening to George somewhere between his tirade against the lumbering industry and his involvement in some demonstration in Washington, D.C. Quint’s mind wandered but always came back to that moment under the mistletoe when he’d thought, “What the hell,” and done what he’d thought about from the first glimpse of Amy’s lips. The kiss.

“Well, that went quickly,” George was saying as he touched Quint on the arm.

The limo was stopping, and Quint looked out the tinted windows at the hotel, a towering, glittering glass structure in the Houston night. The driver was at his door, opening it.

“We’ll talk more,” George was saying. “I’ll drop by your office, and we can hash out the resource problem.”

Quint didn’t know what the man was talking about, but got out and turned to look back in the limo. “You do that and we will,” he murmured, taking the hand George was offering. The man’s handshake was strong and sure, then Quint stepped back.

“Merry Christmas, Quint,” George said with a smile and a familiarity that Quint had no idea had formed between them.

“Merry Christmas,” he echoed and swung the door shut.

He didn’t wait for the limo to leave before he turned and went past the valets into the lobby of the hotel, a vast space with not one, but three Christmas trees, two on either side of the reception desk and one huge tree dead in the middle of the marble floor. Quint strode past the middle tree toward the elevators, but at the last minute he saw the bar and veered off toward it.

Going to his room to work had been his plan ever since he’d left the reception, but now that didn’t sound very good to him. He needed a drink. He needed to refocus. He slipped onto a high-backed stool in the pub-like bar and ordered a Scotch straight up. A sip of the fiery liquid got his attention, and he exhaled harshly. It was time to head up to the room.

He reached for his wallet, slipping his hand inside the tux jacket. His cell phone was there. The wallet wasn’t. He patted the jacket front and didn’t feel it. He’d had it earlier. He remembered making the decision to carry it and the cell phone. He’d had it when he’d left the executive suites, because he could remember patting his pocket and feeling it there. And he’d probably had it until the day-care center and all of the calamities there, from the rat fiasco to the smoke in the kitchen.

He looked at the bartender and motioned him over. “I need a phone for a local call.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said and reached below the bar to produce a corded phone that he placed on the bar in front of Quint. “Just dial nine, then your number.”

Quint dialed information and got a general number for security at LynTech. He punched in the number, heard it ring five times, do a quick double ring, then it was answered. “Olson, maintenance.”

“Maintenance? I was trying to reach security.”

“Sorry. Security isn’t available. They reroute to me at this time of night. Can I help you with something?”

“This is Quint Gallagher. I’m just start—”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heard about you.”

“Okay, I misplaced my wallet tonight, and it’s either there, at LynTech, or in the limo that brought me back to my hotel. I don’t suppose you know the number for the limo service?”

“No sir. But if you tell me where you were tonight, I could take a look around here for it.”

“I’d appreciate it.” He gave Olson a general rundown of his movements. “I remember having it on the twentieth floor, in the hallway by the elevators, and that’s it.”

“I’ll let security know, and if you give me a number where I can reach you, I’ll take a look and get back to you.”

He started to tell Olson to call the hotel, but he was stopped by the man saying, “Sir, could you hold for a minute?”

“Sure,” Quint murmured, and he heard a muffled conversation for a moment, then the man was back on the line.

“Good news. Mrs. Blake in the day-care center has your wallet.”

Relief was there, but so was a certain tightness in his chest. “What?”

“She told Walt, the security guard, that she’d found it, and if you called, to tell you that she’ll bring it in tomorrow and put it in the security safe. You can get it from there.”

There wasn’t anything he couldn’t live without until tomorrow, but he should probably call her anyway. “Do you have a phone number for Mrs. Blake?”

“Oh, no sir. That’d be in personnel and I don’t have any access to that. But she’ll bring it in, and they’ll put it in the safe. Just ask at the front desk and they’ll tell you where to go.”

He wouldn’t have to see her again. He should be relieved by that, but instead he found himself muttering, “Thanks, that’s great,” hanging up and motioning to the bartender to refill his drink. He didn’t have a clue why he felt vaguely let down and restless. He’d put another drink on his tab, then he’d go up and work.

“MAMA,” the child’s voice, edged with a whine, said, getting Amy’s attention immediately. She was on her feet, hurrying into the bedroom where she found Taylor in her crib, standing, arms out to be picked up.

Amy scooped up the child and cuddled her to her chest as she walked back out into the living room of the tiny apartment. She avoided the only mirror in the room, a small square over the desk by the door. She didn’t need to see herself to know she looked like death warmed over. No makeup, her hair in a ponytail and dark circles under her eyes from being up half the night with a sick child. That night after her fiasco with Quint had been followed by a day of waiting in the pediatrician’s office, picking up medicine and trying to comfort Taylor.

“She’s fine, Mrs. Blake, just teething and a bit of a cold, but nothing serious,” the doctor had told her, a doctor who had been through this before with the two of them.

When Taylor got sick, Amy overreacted and she knew it. She sank down in the old rocking chair, felt Taylor snuggle in with her, and she rested her head on the back of the chair. As she closed her eyes, she caught a red flash out of the corner of her eye and turned to see the message light blinking on the answering machine.

She hadn’t even thought to check messages today. She maneuvered Taylor to her other arm and reached to press the Play button.

“Amy, it’s Jenn.” Jenn, Rob’s sister, was the only relative she or Taylor had, and Jenn worried about the two of them. “Thanks for letting me know what the doctor said. If you two aren’t up for Christmas tomorrow, we can postpone. Tay-bug won’t know the difference if we put it off for a day or two until she feels better. I’ll call or drop by later to check on you two. Love you both.” There was a beep, then a date/ time stamp that showed the message had been left almost four hours ago. Another message started.

“This is Quint Gallagher.” She must have started at the sound of that deep drawling voice, because Taylor whimpered slightly, then resettled in her arms.

“I was told you had my wallet and would be bringing it back to LynTech today, but I haven’t been able to track you down or find my wallet. Could you call and let me know what’s going on?” He left a number and an extension that she knew was on the top floor in the executive suites. “I’ve got a dinner appointment, and I’d appreciate a call before five. If not, call this number.” He gave another number, then there was a hesitation before he ended with, “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

The beep came, then a date/time stamp and she looked at the wall clock by the tiny kitchen alcove. Six o’clock now and he’d called about two hours ago. She should have checked the messages, but she seldom got any that were important. And she hadn’t called LynTech because this was normally vacation and anyone she might have talked to, was gone. The wallet was in the bottom of her purse and she hadn’t even thought about it.

She kept rocking, then knew that she had to try and contact Quint. She eased Taylor more onto her right arm, grabbed the phone with her left hand and caught the receiver between her ear and shoulder. Awkwardly, she dialed the company number, then the extension, but it clicked over, said that the person hadn’t set up a voice mail system yet, then it clicked off. She hung up, dialed the second number and it rang at the same time as her doorbell sounded.

“Great,” she muttered, trying to get to her feet, balance a now-sleeping Taylor on one arm and the phone with the other hand. “Just a minute,” she called out, wishing that Jenn would just use her key. “I’ll be right there,” she called again, as she crossed to the couch and gently put Taylor on it. The baby rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up to her tummy, then Amy reached for a juice bottle she’d put there earlier and gave it to her. Taylor held it, but didn’t drink it as she settled back into sleep.

The phone at her ear rang one more time, then was answered. “Gallagher.”

She hesitated with her hand on the coldness of the doorknob and had to swallow once to find her voice. “This is Amy Blake,” she began and tugged back the door.

“So it is,” Quint said, over the phone, but he was right in front of her in her doorway. Dressed in a dark blue business suit that set off his tanned skin and graying hair, he had a cell phone pressed to his ear and that shadow of a smile playing around his lips.

Startled, she lost her grip on her phone and it fell to the floor between them.