Making Christmas Special Again. Annie O'Neil
She wasn’t some little airhead who bolstered her ego by doing seasonal acts of charity.
He shoved up his sleeve to check his watch. ‘I’ve got patients to see and bad news to dispense, so if you don’t mind...?’
‘I do, actually. I mind very much.’
He rolled his finger with a ‘get on with it’ spin.
What was with the attitude? Founders who believed in their charities tended to drop it. Not this guy. Either he’d been royally screwed around at some point or was just plain old chippy. Even worse, somehow, in a handful of seconds, Max Kirkpatrick had slipped directly under her thick winter coat, beneath her cashmere sweater and burrowed right under her skin, making this interaction feel shockingly personal.
The Heatherglen Foundation wasn’t a platform for her to prance about Scotland, giving away her family’s money. It was the one good thing that had come out of the most painful chapters in her life. As quickly as she’d been unnerved by his attitude, she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to beg this man to take her money. He didn’t want it? He couldn’t have it.
She wiped her hands together as if ridding them of something distasteful. ‘I came here with a genuine offer of help and a list of donors as long as my arm. If you’re not interested in stopping Gavin Henshall from paving Plants to Paws over, I’ll be on my way.’
He blinked. Twice.
Ooh. Had she found a chink in the strong, silent man’s armour?
‘I suspect it’ll take more than a few thousand to keep Henshall at bay.’
He was right. She told him how much the last charity she’d sponsored had received.
He blinked again. ‘Can we skip straight to the what do I need to do to get the money part?’
Blunt. But it was a damn sight better than being dismissed as a bit of society fluff.
Her frown must’ve deepened because he suddenly folded into a courtly bow before unleashing an unexpectedly lavish charm offensive. ‘I do humbly ask your forgiveness. Etiquette school clearly failed me. I didn’t mean to be rude, Miss Ross-Wylde. Or is it Mrs?’
‘Ms,’ Esme snipped.
His eyes narrowed. Probably the same way hers had when he’d stiffened at the mention of Gavin Henshall.
He’d found her chink. She’d found his. Normally this would be her cue to run for the hills. But something about him made her want to know what made him tick. Sugar. Why couldn’t Max Kirkpatrick have looked like a troll or been long since married to his childhood sweetheart? She checked his ring finger.
Empty.
Her heart soared so fast she barely knew what to do with herself.
Explain the details. Accept his refusal—because he will refuse—then leave. Problem solved.
She crossed her arms, aiming for nonchalant, not entirely sure if she’d hit her mark. ‘I’ve just been up to speak to the hospital administrator, who has agreed to stall the sale until the new year. If the Christmas ball goes to plan, the hospital is happy to leave Plants to Paws as is.’
‘In perpetuity?’ Max obviously had his own set of conditions.
‘Precisely. The only thing—’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘I knew there was a catch.’
She let her eyebrows take the same haughty position his had earlier. ‘The only thing, Dr Kirkpatrick, is that I require the head of each charity to select two patients whom you think might benefit from a service dog.’
‘Oh. You require it, do you?’
She ignored him and soldiered on. ‘We can offer the patient two weeks of one-to-one training at the canine therapy centre, all expenses included, and a follow-up care package if they have financial difficulties.’
His expression didn’t change, but she could see he was actively considering her offer.
‘What sorts of things do your dogs do, apart from search and rescue?’ Max asked.
She smiled. She might have trouble bragging about herself, but she could big up her dogs until the cows came home. ‘We have service dogs specially trained to work with epileptics, diabetics, people with cancer, people with mobility problems. I imagine you see the full gamut of patients in A and E. I’ll forward you a full list of the services we can provide. We also have emotional support dogs, who work with people suffering from PTSD or anxiety.’
He nodded. ‘Would I have to play any part in this?’
Normally he would, but no way was she inviting Max Kirkpatrick to Heatherglen. He was setting off way too many alarm bells. Before guilt could set in, she reminded herself that she made the rules. She could also bend them.
‘Apart from attend the ball to receive a big fat cheque?’ She shook her head. ‘Not necessary. We’re an all bells and whistles facility, so...’ The lie came a bit too easily. She always invited the charity founder to join the patients and their families up at Heatherglen, but two weeks in close proximity with Max Kirkpatrick at this time of year, when the castle was romantically bedecked for the festive season? Not. Going. To. Happen.
Her mouth continued talking while her brain scrambled to catch up. ‘We run the training sessions at our canine therapy training centre. There’s also a medical rehabilitation clinic my brother runs in the main building. I have a week-long slot from December fifteenth up until the twenty-third of December, when we hold the ball. I understand the timing could be awkward with Christmas and family obligations, but as the developer is so keen to get construction under way, I thought we’d best get cracking. The patients could take the dogs home over the holidays then return for a second week of training sometime in January. If that suits.’
She watched his face go through a rapid-fire range of emotions. All of which he erased before she could nail any of them down.
‘I’m fine with that,’ he said evenly. ‘As long as we make a few of my guidelines clear.’
Esme couldn’t help it. She laughed. ‘Excuse me, Dr Kirkpatrick. If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one helping you here and as such—’
‘As such,’ he cut in, ‘I don’t want you steamrolling my charity into something it isn’t.’
‘And what makes you think I plan on doing that?’
‘Bitter experience.’
The second the words were out of his mouth Max regretted them. Hearing Gavin Henshall’s name had a way of catapulting him straight back into the scrawny fourteen-year-old kid who’d mown lawns, taken out rubbish and thrown himself at all the rest of the chores his stepfather had set him as if his life had depended on it, only to discover he’d changed the goalposts. Again.
Military academy, apprenticeships over the summer holidays, boot camp. No matter what he’d done or how hard he’d worked, he had never been permitted into the house to shield his mum from the emotionally abusive relationship she’d unwittingly married into.
Not that he blamed her. They’d both fallen for Gavin’s smooth lines. He’d promised her love, respect, a house with a big garden on the right side of town. A proper education for her ‘shockingly bright boy’, the son he’d always hoped to have.
How the hell Gavin had convincingly passed off the lies still astounded him. The only plus side of the cancer that had taken his mother’s life was that it had freed her, at long last, from Gavin. It was more than he’d been able to do.
He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the here and now.
Esme Ross-Wylde didn’t strike him as a steamroller socialite.