Mary Wilson - Millionaire's Christmas Miracle

“You said you didn’t date, so I guessed you didn’t want to go and have a drink.”

“But you—” She bit her lip to cut off the words, stunned that she was arguing with him, when he was set to do what she wanted him to do—leave. “You’re right. I don’t.”

He hesitated, then said, “Let’s leave it at that. I’m right and you don’t.”

She hated it, but wasn’t going to argue anymore. She just wanted him to go. “Okay. Thanks again for your help.”

“Sure, and merry Christmas. Good luck with this place.”

“Merry Christmas and good luck with your new job.”

He looked at her, hesitated, then said, “Can I ask you one more thing?”

She braced herself, but asked, “What now?”

“How are you with plant identification?”

“Excuse me?”

“Plants.” He nodded above them, and she looked up to see the sprig of mistletoe that Anthony, the boy who had latched onto Matt and B.J. had put up earlier. He’d said he wanted to get Matt and B.J. in here to stand under it. Now Quint was pointing at it above them. “Is that mistletoe?”

“Yes, but…”

Her words died on her lips when he took a step closer to her, so very close, then one finger touched her chin, a single contact point, yet it robbed her of all her strength to move away from it. The world slowed for the second time that night, but her mind raced. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be. Not to her. Not here, not now, not with this stranger.

But it was happening, his head lowering toward hers, then his lips found her lips and a kiss brought her world to a complete stop.

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.”