Millionaire's Christmas Miracle. Mary Wilson Anne
clenched. “But I understand. It’s too soon?”
Honestly, she’d never thought of ever dating again. That wasn’t in her plans. She’d had love once, real love, and she knew that only came to a person once in a lifetime. “I just don’t date.” She felt her wedding ring almost biting into her from clenching her hands at her sides. She had Taylor, worked ten-hour days and didn’t think too much about what she didn’t have. She didn’t want to start now. “I’m really too busy.”
“I understand about work,” he said, but he didn’t make any move to leave.
“Work and other things,” she murmured as she scooped up her shoes and looped the straps over her fingers. “And on top of everything, I haven’t gotten all my Christmas shopping done.”
“That’s a big chore?”
She fingered her shoes nervously, shrugging. “With a two-year-old, everything is a big chore.”
“A niece, a nephew, brother, sister?”
“A daughter, Taylor.”
Words that made her smile did the opposite to Quint. They brought a slight frown, killing that shadow of a smile that she’d thought was semipermanent with the man. He glanced at his watch, then back at her, and it was as if a curtain had dropped between them. “You’re right, it’s time to go,” he said. “It’s late, and I’m keeping you from your shopping.”
It was what she’d wanted, him leaving, but she didn’t count on it being so disconcerting for her. Then she realized what was happening, something she should be very grateful for, but something that almost made her angry. “That’s why you didn’t take the tour earlier, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t have the time to take any tours.”
That didn’t wash with her. He was here now, killing time, and obviously in no hurry until he’d found out she had a child. “You don’t like kids, do you?”
“Oh, lady,” he said with a chuckle, but it had little humor in it. “You’re way off the mark with that.”
“You didn’t do the tour, and now that you know that I have a child, all bets are off?” That sounded ridiculous to her, but it made sense. “So you’re going to say good-night, and goodbye and walk out.”
“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.
Chapter Three
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