no,” Mary Paige said, smoothing her skirt over her thighs, hoping the bottom of her Spanx wasn’t showing. The skirt had fit her four years ago, and even though she’d lost weight, it was still a little too tight. She hadn’t had time to go by the cleaners to pick up her more professional clothes, so she’d held her breath that morning and zipped. It worked but she had to keep tugging the hem into place because it inched up as she walked.
The other woman was dressed in a fine wool suit that fit her to perfection. A patterned raspberry-colored scarf was knotted at her neck, and her dark, heeled boots were absolutely gorgeous. She looked like an ad out of Vanity Fair.
“I’m just going to a meeting.” Mary Paige swallowed her nervousness and pasted on a smile. She was glad she’d used the flatiron on her hair this morning. At the very least her short blond pageboy cut flattered her elfish chin and helped her feel more together than she was.
The woman tossed her wavy brown mane over her shoulders and nodded at Mary Paige as she stepped out into the lobby of MBH Industries.
A pretty receptionist looked up as the brunette walked by her desk. “Oh, Ms. Thornhill, Mr. Henry has a meeting soon.”
“Really?” the brunette said, not bothering to even slow her steps. Instead, she pushed through the frosted glass doors to the inner sanctum, letting them swing shut after her.
The receptionist frowned and muttered something under her breath before donning a bright smile. “Welcome to MBH. Can I assist you?”
“Uh, hi. I’m Mary Paige Gentry, and I have an appointment with Mr. Malcolm Henry?”
Darn it. Why had she phrased it like a question? Like she was uncertain?
“Oh, of course,” the receptionist, whose nameplate read Cheryl Reeves, said with a genuine smile. “Have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Henry know you’ve arrived.”
Mary Paige pointed her sensible heels toward the seating area housing several glossy magazines and a beautiful orchid on a glass table and sat on the leather Barcelona chair.
Just as she perched on the edge of the chair—tugging the tight skirt over the edge of her Spanx—the frosted glass doors swung open.
But Mr. Malcolm Henry didn’t emerge.
Instead it was a Roman god wearing an expensive-looking suit and a scowl. He zeroed in on Cheryl as Ms. Thornhill lollygagged behind him with annoyance evident in her brown eyes. “Cheryl, will you see that Creighton gets a cup of tea while she waits for me.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Of course, Mr. Henry,” Cheryl said, rising from behind her desk. “I—” She snapped her mouth closed when Creighton shot her a warning.
“Don’t bother with tea, Brennan,” Creighton said, laying a hand on his forearm as if she could soothe the fiercest of beasts. “I have other things to attend to this morning. I thought you might be free for a little chat this morning. Nothing important.”
Innocuous words, but not the way she said them. Creighton—the well-dressed, gorgeous brunette—had purred them, with a sort of raspy innuendo that made poor Cheryl pinken like a…a…shrimp.
“Good,” he said, looking at the brunette as if he didn’t appreciate the implication of what a little chat was.
“Fine,” Creighton said, heading for the elevators with staccato click-clacks of her heeled boots.
Mary Paige shifted on the slick leather as the woman walked by, then slid right off the chair onto the floor in a graceless heap.
All three people in the lobby turned and looked at her.
“Oh, are you all right?” Cheryl squeaked, hurrying toward her.
The man named Henry—but not Malcolm Henry—got there first.
Mary Paige looked at him standing over her. His brow was furrowed and he reminded her of how her younger brother had once looked at a baby bird that had fallen from the pecan tree in front of their house—confused, alarmed and sympathetic. She knew she was the color of her sweater—a vibrant fuchsia—and could do nothing other than laugh. Falling twice in twenty-four hours? Had to be a record.
Her laughter seemed to really confuse him.
He glanced at Cheryl, who pressed her lips together as if she were afraid she’d join in the giggling, and asked, “Who is this?”
Mary Paige swallowed her laughter and struggled to fold her legs under her, praying the man wouldn’t spot her modern version of a girdle. Her heels failed to make traction so she looked even more awkward and her skirt rode even farther up her thighs.
Damn it.
His gaze zeroed in on the stretchy nude fabric, cutting into her white legs—yeah, her summer tan was long gone—and she saw the question in his gray eyes. He didn’t say anything as he made eye contact with her and extended a hand. She grabbed hold and let him haul her to her feet.
Again he asked, “Who are you?”
Creighton wore a bemused smile as she pointed to Mary Paige and said, “I think that’s your ten o’clock.”
Mary Paige pulled her hand away and jerked the skirt down where it should be—just above the knee. The elevator opened and Creighton gave them all a little finger wiggle and a cat-full-of-cream smile as she glided inside. The doors slid closed as Mary Paige, Cheryl and the grumpy sex god watched.
Mary Paige smoothed her hands against the shiny fabric of the chair and tried to smile, hopefully distracting him from the fact she’d wallowed like a sow on the floor of the lobby. “Um, slick chair, huh?”
The man bent and scooped up her checkbook, tube of lip gloss and cell-phone charger that had spilled from her purse when she’d taken her epic tumble. He passed them to her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She wasn’t sure if it was legitimate concern or more of a legal thing. “Yeah, my dignity’s a little bruised, but otherwise, I can walk.”
His stormy eyes perused her and it made her feel squirmy, not necessarily in a pervy way, but more in a crackly way. The man may have been fierce-looking, but he was abnormally handsome. If not a little scary. It wasn’t his size because he was a little over six feet, but it was the way his confidence oozed. No, not oozed. Conquered. The man conquered a room, demanding attention by his sheer presence.
She stuck out a clammy hand. “Hi, I’m Mary Paige Gentry. I’m to meet with Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr.”
The man took her hand. “So you are our ten o’clock?”
She shrugged. How was she supposed to know who his ten-o’clock appointment was?
His touch was warm and dry, which was good considering her hand had started sweating. Coming here wearing a too-tight skirt for a meeting about two million dollars then sprawling onto the floor and showing her “light” support girdle didn’t inspire serenity in a gal. She waited for an introduction.
A little tremor went through him—subtle but noticeable—before he dropped her hand. “I’m Brennan Henry,
