A Fairytale Christmas (8 page)

Magic Under the Mistletoe

Dear Reader,

Imagine how excited I was to learn I would be making my Harlequin Romance
^®
debut with Susan Meier! Susan has long been one of my favorite authors, and working with her made my first writing assignment a joy. As we fleshed out the McKenzie twins’ stories we discovered we had a lot in common, including a mutual appreciation for the magic surrounding Christmas—the kind that comes from opening your heart to the season’s beauty and possibilities.

Workaholic Gill McKenzie is so bent on success she’s forgotten what real Christmas magic is. Fortunately Oliver Harrington and his charges are there to remind her. And maybe, just maybe, open Oliver’s eyes a little, too.

As for me, I’m enjoying the magic of being part of the Harlequin family. I hope you enjoy reading Gill’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Meanwhile, on behalf of my husband and son here in New England, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

Happy holidays!

Barbara Wallace

Look out for Barbara Wallace’s next Harlequin Romance
^®
novel in December

THE CINDERELLA BRIDE

T
HE
brightly painted silhouettes of children decorating the McNabb Community Center couldn’t mask its surroundings. Broken windows and padlocked storefronts told the truth. Across the street a group of young men, too young to be out of school, congregated in a convenience store doorway. Gill McKenzie felt them eyeing her as she stepped from the cab. An elderly woman pulling a metal shopping cart with groceries approached on the sidewalk. She too cast Gill a look as she passed.

Welcome to wrong side of the tracks.

Pulling out her cell phone, she double-checked the meeting time on her calendar and noted she had, as usual, arrived early. Punctuality was something she prided herself on. It showed clients you considered their projects important and of high priority.

Except this wasn’t supposed to be her project, was it? She was
supposed
to handle the Remaillard aftershave launch. Remaillard was Rosenthal Public Relations’ biggest client and organizing a successful product launch would have virtually guaranteed Gill the new vice-president position.

Enter Stephanie DeWitt. Gill could still hear the mock apology Stephanie gave during this morning’s meeting. “I suggested to Elliot that you were the best person for the job.
What with your family owning a Christmas tree farm and all.”

No, her brother-in-law owned the farm, Gill had wanted to scream. And Stephanie wanted the promotion as badly as she did. But Elliot Rosenthal had been right there, so she’d simply smiled graciously, seething inside.

So, while Stephanie took over the launch, with its big budget and luxury setting, Gill stood here, in the worst section of Boston, charged with throwing a kids’ Christmas party. Not just any Christmas party. A magical, stunning, media-attention-generating party with less than a month’s notice. Her only help was the center’s director. Some guy named Oliver Harrington.

Across the street, the store owner chased the teenagers away, hollering what she was pretty sure were obscenities in Spanish. The kids swore back, and one of them tossed an empty can into the street. The rattle echoed in the frigid air. Gill sighed.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Gillian McKenzie.
So Stephanie had got the project she wanted? Big deal. Since when did she let a setback get in her way of success? She hadn’t become the youngest account supervisor in Rosenthal PR’s history for nothing. If she wanted something in this world, she had to make it happen. Let Stephanie have her aftershave launch. Gill would throw the best damn charity party Boston ever saw and make sure Elliot Rosenthal would
have
to promote her.

Confidence renewed, she yanked open the door. Oliver Harrington, look out. Gill McKenzie was here to make some Christmas magic.

A watched water spot never grows.

Oliver Harrington stared at the spot on the ceiling in his
office. It definitely looked bigger than when he’d left last night. Somewhere the center had a leaky pipe.

Another expense he didn’t have money for. Along with a new van and replacement glass for the broken rear windows. His list of expenses he couldn’t afford was growing as fast as that leak.

He supposed he could always charge the plumber on his personal card and put in for reimbursement when the center had money. But at this rate his “get reimbursed later” list would be the longest list of all.

Saving the world wasn’t supposed to be this expensive.

Sipping his cold coffee—everything in the center seemed to be cold these days—he turned away from the stain, back to the mish-mash of papers on his desk. Stacks of bills, receipts and forms warred for his attention.

Then there was Julia. The photo of his ex-fiancée beamed up at him from the newspaper. She certainly rebounded well after their break-up, or so it appeared by the way she clung to her current fiancé’s arm. The heir to a pharmaceutical fortune or something like that. Wealthy, a corporate success, socially prominent. Basically everything Oliver refused to be. The guy looked happy enough.

Never was good enough for you, was I?

Sometimes he wondered what life would be like if he had caved to Julia’s demands and taken a job with her father. He’d be senior vice president by now. He’d be driving a luxury sedan instead of a broken-down pickup.

He sure as hell wouldn’t be worrying about water leaks. Crumpling the photo, he took aim for the wastebasket and shot, missing by a foot.

“Your girlfriend’s here.”

The pronouncement, short and sweet, kicked all thoughts of “what if?” aside.

“My what?” Since the disaster with Julia he had but one committed relationship, and that was with the center.

Maria Carrerra folded her arms across her body. Though only five foot one, the mother of six was by far the most formidable volunteer the center had. Her first day on the job, she’d stared down the surliest teenagers on the block with a look. Oliver knew because he’d been one of them. Her expression hadn’t been unlike the one she was shooting him now. A look that said he should know what she was talking about.

“The woman from that public relations agency.”

“Right.” Now he remembered. “The party planner.”

Peter McNabb, head of the McNabb Foundation and Oliver’s chief donor, had had the misfortune of getting caught by a camera phone
in flagrante delicto
with his au pair, and so he was throwing a huge children’s Christmas party at the center for damage control. Personally, Oliver hated seeing his center being used for some PR stunt, but he didn’t have much choice. Not if he wanted a decent budget next year. He thought of the water stain that was no doubt expanding behind him as they spoke.

Maria, meanwhile, still stood in the doorway, giving him the look. As a volunteer she was terrific. As a secretary, not so much. “What’s the matter? Go ahead and send McNabb’s image-polisher in.”

“I can’t. She’s not here.”

“You just said—”

“I said she was here, meaning at the center. She went straight to the community room. Right after telling me you need to bring a tape measure with you. She’s kinda bossy.” A frown marred her petite features. “We’re not going to have to run around doing all sorts of errands for her, are we?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she understands we’ve got other work to do besides throw this party.” He might not have
a choice about hosting the party, but he refused to let Peter McNabb’s PR stunt take over his center.

“Good,” Maria replied. “Because right now I don’t think she realizes that.”

The community room was in the back of the building. A refurbished cafetorium left over from when the building had been an elementary school in the 1950s, it now served as the center’s main gathering space. Overall, it wasn’t much. There was a stage at the far end of the room, and a battered piano tucked in the corner that Oliver had paid to have tuned last month. Several large tables were pushed against the walls, along with boxes of toys and balls of various sizes. Two of the windows had boards in them thanks to broken glass. The walls, he noticed, were looking pretty dingy, too. They could stand fresh paint. Another item for his list.

At the moment, the room played host to the preschool playgroup. Mothers gathered in folding chairs, chatting and nursing babies, while toddlers wreaked their usual havoc on the toys and snacks. Oliver spotted his appointment immediately. The willowy blond pacing the perimeter looked as out of place as a cellist at a rap competition.

He watched as her coat swayed in cadence with her steps. Cell phone stuck to her ear. Cashmere scarf. Faux-fur-trimmed hood. Stiletto-heeled boots that cost more than his paycheck. Visions of society photos danced in his head. Uptown all the way, wasn’t she?

No sooner did he step toward her than a particularly havoc-wreaking boy, slightly older than the others, ran up, his mouth filled with cookies. He held out the box for Oliver to see. “Mr. Oliver! We got animal crackers!” At least that was what Oliver
thought
he said.

“Jamarcus, you get back here!” His mother, a very preg
nant young woman, gestured at the boy to return. “Leave Mr. Oliver alone.”

Oliver smiled. “You better listen to your mother, Jamarcus.”

Realizing he was outnumbered, Jamarcus did as he was told, racing back across the room at top speed and nearly taking out the PR woman in the process.

“Whoa, pal, save the speed for the Olympics,” she said, ducking out of his path. “Someone needs to cut back on the caffeine.”

She moved in, hand extended. “Oliver Harrington? I’m Gill McKenzie from Rosenthal Public Relations.”

For a second, Oliver lost the ability to speak. Uptown, downtown—the woman was an absolute knockout. That blond hair framed the face of an angel. A very sexy angel. With sparkling green eyes and an incredibly perfect bow of a mouth. A guy could spend hours exploring that mouth…

“Did you bring the tape measure?” he heard her ask. “I can’t stay long, and I wanted to get some layout measurements. This space looks like the best area. A little dingy, but what the heck? That’s what decorations are for, right?”

Had she said
dingy?
That snapped him back to reality. In a flash, everything he’d come to loathe about uptown came flying back. Gone were the longing and melancholy thoughts, wiped away by an angel-faced interloper. Didn’t matter how gorgeous she was. Who did she think she was, coming here slinging insults as
his
center?

“About the space. You’re going to have to move that piano, along with those tables. The toys, too. Are the kids using this room all the time? Because I’m going to need a couple days to—”

“Whoa—slow down, angel.” He finally found his voice. “I’m not moving anything yet.”

She blinked. A slow, deliberate action that no doubt usually
had men begging to do her bidding. That it made his own insides twitch didn’t help.

“Gill,” she said. “My name is Gill, not Angel.”

Then maybe she should
look
like a Gill. Wasn’t that a man’s name anyway? “My mistake,
Gill.
” His annoyance was growing with each passing second. This woman was too sexy, too good-looking, too much like a society-page photo for his comfort. “But I’m still not moving a thing without knowing what’s going on.”

She took a moment before nodding in concession. “Sorry. I tend to get ahead of myself.” Her voice had a Southern twang that didn’t match her appearance. “I was thinking this room would be the best space for Mr. McNabb’s Christmas party.”

“You mean the center’s party.”

She gave him another one of those slow motion blinks.

“I was under the impression you were here to plan a Christmas party to promote the center.”

“True. Mr. McNabb does want to see the McNabb Center get some well-deserved media attention, among other things.”

“Among other things? Is that PR speak for creating a distraction?”

To her credit, Angel’s—Gill’s—expression didn’t slip. “With the right message you can parlay this party into donations. People always look for causes to support come the holiday.”

Which was the only reason he wasn’t fighting McNabb about the event. He hated charity events, hated working them even more, but he’d sell his soul to the devil if it meant a better budget. Right now, the devil looked suspiciously angelic.

“Now,” Gill continued, “about the party. Like I said, this room makes the most sense, but we’re going to have to clear
the space. Do you think you can have your people move the furniture?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check with my
people.
”

She was trying not to roll her eyes; he could tell. He also knew he was being over the top with his attitude. He couldn’t help himself. Gill, here, was pushing his buttons. He knew her type—oh, he knew her type very well. It was all about image and success. They saw his center as merely a building. They didn’t see the people. Feel the connection he felt. Once they got what they needed, they walked away.

Well, if he had to court their vanity for donations, so be it. But that didn’t mean he would be her lap dog, bowing to her wishes. As far as he was concerned, the people at the center were his family. And he’d never let his family be taken advantage of. His green-eyed angel had better learn the ground rules from the start.

G
ROUND
rules? Gill was trying to keep her patience—really she was—but this director was making it difficult. Bad enough they were having this meeting with kids running amok, but now he wanted ground rules?

What was with all the attitude anyway? Why act as if she was the enemy? It wasn’t as if she’d begged to be here.

Focus on the promotion.
She took a deep breath. “What kind of ground rules?”

“First, this is a community center, not some hotel ballroom. Our job is to serve the community—which means, yes, the kids
will
be using this space right up to the party. You’ll have to work around our schedule. Second, I don’t have
people.
I have volunteers. They’re here on their own time because they want to help the neighborhood. They aren’t here to do your bidding. You want them to do something, you ask me first. If they aren’t busy volunteering with the kids, then we’ll see.”

In other words, no help from him. She was
so
going to kill Stephanie when she got back to the office. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I want the kids involved.”

Okay, that one she could manage. “Already done. Little hard to highlight the center’s work without them here.”

“Not invited,” he said. “Involved. There’s a difference.” He
gestured at a group of toddlers playing some random running game that only little kids could understand. “For a lot of these kids, this is the only real Christmas celebration they’ll get. I’m not going to let their holiday be hijacked, no matter how many donations this party attracts. If they get shoved aside, I won’t cooperate.”

Because he was the picture of cooperation at the moment. “The kids will be involved. I promise.”

Gill waited while Oliver studied her face. Assessing her sincerity, no doubt. She stood her ground, even though the scrutiny made her insides jumble.

At last he nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “Okay, then, why don’t I show you the facilities?”

“Officially, our mission is to provide a safe alternative to life on the streets.”

“And unofficially?” Gill asked. They were walking along the rear corridor of the center. She could tell from Oliver’s tone of voice there were a lot of “unofficial” duties.

“Unofficially we’re whatever people need us to be. Different day, different challenge.”

“Sounds a lot like public relations work.”

Her attempt at camaraderie didn’t raise so much as a smile. “Except in this case, instead of the bottom line, people are worried about simply surviving.”

“For some of my clients the bottom line
is
about survival.”

“Trust me,” Oliver replied with a soft snort, “it’s not the same thing.”

Gill said nothing. Arguing would only waste time she didn’t have. Still, she didn’t appreciate his dismissiveness. She worked every bit as hard as the next person, maybe harder, and just because she didn’t work for a nonprofit organization,
it didn’t mean her work didn’t count for something. It counted for a lot. It was who she was. Gill McKenzie, youngest account supervisor in Rosenthal PR’s history. She’d worked hard for that title.
To become someone worth noticing.

They rounded the corner and stopped at a set of double doors. “This is the gym,” Oliver said, holding the door open.

Gill peered in, recognizing the age-old smell of sneakers and dust. Handmade posters taped to the cement wall chanted “Go Panthers!” and “Panthers Rule!”

She arched her brow. “Panthers?”

“Center’s basketball team. Some of the kids are pretty good.”

Pride shone in his brown eyes. It was the first time she’d seen his face show any kind of enthusiasm, and Gill had to admit the change was amazing. When she’d first met him, she’d considered Oliver Harrington handsome, but now those good-looks went deeper. His enthusiasm seemed to come from the inside and shine out, like a glow. It took what were sharp, patrician features and softened them, turning his expression youthful and engaging.

“Sounds like you all take the community part of your name seriously.” That was good. She could do a lot with that line. In the back of her mind she began drafting press releases.

Oliver seemed less impressed. “We do what we can. ’Course we could always do more.”

“Then Peter McNabb took the right time to get caught with his pants down, didn’t he?” At Oliver’s sidelong look, she added, “You get this party.”

“I’m sure Mrs. McNabb feels the same way.”

Actually, Gill doubted Mrs. McNabb was as upset as the board of directors, but she kept that to herself. “Seriously, if we do this party right, the center will get a ton of donations.”
She purposely emphasized the word
we.
Anything to buy a little cooperation.

Oliver closed the gymnasium door. “What do you mean by ‘right’?”

“Go all out. Create an event so extraordinary the media and public will have to pay attention. Give major donors a reason to attend.”

“In other words, put this party on the society pages?”

Exactly. Although the way he ground out the word
society
made her regret the suggestion. “People’s generosity increases after a few drinks,” she reminded him. Suddenly an idea popped into her head. “We could turn the center into a Winter Wonderland, complete with snow, trees and all the rest of the holiday trimmings.”

She could already picture the idea.

“Every room can focus on a different theme, with themed refreshments. Gingerbread martinis in the gymnasium, candy cane cocktails in the community room. We’ll say ‘The McNabb Community Center—Where Magic Happens Everywhere. Every day.’ We’ll be knee-deep in media coverage.”

“How do the kids factor into this society wonderland?”

“Kids?”

“Yeah, the kids.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, giving her a look that said she should already know what he was talking about. “You promised the kids would be involved, remember? What are they going to do? Serve the martinis?”

Ground rule number three. In her enthusiasm she had forgotten; she’d been too busy imagining decorating concepts.

It wasn’t that she didn’t
want
to include the kids, she simply wasn’t used to kid events. That was her sister Gwen’s territory. She was the maternal one in the family. Gill had always been busy working.

The scowl on Oliver’s face told her that excuse wouldn’t fly. “I promise the event will be kid-friendly, too,” she said.

“I hope so. I was dead serious earlier. I’m not letting you shove my kids aside so a bunch of socialites can get their photo in the paper. There are plenty of other parties where they can accomplish that.”

His kids?
Bit possessive, wasn’t he? “Even if those socialites end the night by writing you a big fat check?”

“I’d rather they write a check after walking a mile in these kids’ shoes, not after sipping designer drinks. Maybe if they experienced the hardships these kids experience they’d be a little less interested in publicity.”

And maybe if someone lost the chip on his shoulder he’d get a few more donations. Man, but he was difficult. Originally she’d thought putting him in a tuxedo and unleashing those good-looks on a room of society matrons would have the money rolling in. Now she wasn’t so sure. With that attitude, it was a wonder he charmed any donors at all.

She glanced at her cell. The meeting was almost over. Thank goodness. She wasn’t sure how much more of Oliver Harrington she could take. “Can I please see the kitchen facilities?”

“This way.”

They re-entered the community room where the preschoolers were still playing their running game, although they’d broken off into smaller groups at this point. Oliver led her to a set of swinging doors. “The kitchen is right off the community room. Left over from the cafeteria days. We use it more for storage than anything. Any gatherings we host are pizza parties or pot luck.”

She could tell. To call the room dated would be generous. The painted cupboards were cracked and in some cases
missing hinges. Opening one, Gill found juice boxes and bulk snack packages.

“I’m sure your big-time donors would go for potato chips and apple juice,” Oliver said. “I hear they’re all the rage on the charity circuit these days.”

“So are caterers,” Gill replied, closing the refrigerator. She was starting to get seriously sick of the comments. There were charities out there that would kill for the kind of event she could provide. He could be a little more appreciative. “I’ll call a couple of services I’ve worked with before and have them work up numbers. If that’s okay with you,” she added.

Oliver shrugged. “Long as my
people
aren’t inconvenienced, knock yourself out.”

For the first time since they’d met, Gill didn’t bother disguising her eye-roll.

It was after nine o’clock when Gill finally walked through her front door. She tossed her keys in the bowl with an exhausted groan. Could today be any longer? First Stephanie’s blindside this morning, followed by back-to-back meetings all day long.

Then there was Oliver Harrington and his ground rules. How was she supposed to plan a Christmas party to beat all Christmas parties with that chip he carried blocking her progress?

She was wiped. Too tired even to boil water. Thank goodness for microwave popcorn, dinner of champions.

While she waited for the kernels to pop, she unpacked her briefcase, spreading the contents across her desk. Being home didn’t mean work stopped. Not if she wanted that vice presidency.

Outside, the lights on the Boston Commons sparkled and swayed like colored stars. There was a glow in the distance
from the Frog Pond Pavilion. She’d heard the music from the rink when the cab dropped her off.

She loved this view. It was one of the best in the city. The first day she’d arrived in Boston, she’d walked the edge of the Common from the State House to the Central Burial Ground and fell in love with every inch. When she saw the line of brick row houses on Beacon Street—once the homes of Boston Brahmin—she knew immediately she had to live in one. It had taken eighteen months of scrimping, saving and burning the midnight oil, but she’d managed to check that goal off her list six months ago.

You’ve come a long way from Towering Pines and the little house on Jensen Street, she thought proudly. She wasn’t poor little abandoned Gill McKenzie anymore. She was a success. Someone the world couldn’t pretend didn’t exist. And once she got that promotion… Well, the sky was the limit.

Of course that all depended on getting Oliver Harrington to play ball.

A beep announced dinner. How could she win the man over? she wondered as she padded back to the kitchen. There was something about the man she couldn’t put her finger on—beyond the chip on his shoulder. At first glance he was arrogant and stubborn. Dedicated, though. You could see that from the way his face had lit up talking about the basketball team. You had to admire his loyalty.

Maybe that was what was throwing her. The look in his eye when he talked about the kids. The way he glowed from the inside out.

If only she could find a way to make him look that way at
her.
That was, get him to see how a successful, mind-blowing party would help his kids.

Her eyes traveled to the tabletop tree on her dining room table. Gwen had laughed when she’d sent her a photo of the
tree. “Oh, my God, it’s a mini-tree! How’d you get it away from its mother?” her twin had teased. Then she’d offered to send Gill what she called a “real” tree.

That was it! A tree! Gill nearly dropped the popcorn bag. Why hadn’t she thought of the solution earlier? A tree was the perfect goodwill gesture. The kids would be thrilled, Oliver would see she wanted to do right by the center with this party, and maybe—just maybe—he’d give her a little more cooperation.

Grabbing her cell, she dialed Gwen’s number, hoping she wasn’t calling too late.

On the third ring, a familiar voice answered. “Teaberry Farms.”

Warm feelings washed over her. “Hey, any idea where a girl can get a good Christmas tree?”

“Gill!” Her sister squealed with delight, making Gill smile. Gwen always sounded as if her phone calls were a lottery jackpot, even though they talked every few days. “I was just thinking of calling you.”

“At this hour? I figured you and Drew would be all cozy and romantic. Don’t tell me the honeymoon’s over?”

“No, it’s definitely still in full swing,” her sister replied, almost dreamily. “Drew’s at the airport getting Brody. He’s in for Christmas break.”

“I can’t believe you have a college-age stepson. How is Mr. UCLA doing, anyway? Still planning to be the next big movie director?”

“Depends on who you ask. He says great. His father thinks he spends too much time enjoying himself and not enough time in the library.”

“Typical student.”

“And he’s been talking a lot about some girl named Susan.”

“Is it serious?”

“Doubt it. Last month it was Jessica.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll settle down eventually. Look at his father.” Drew Teaberry had been quite the playboy until he’d met Gwen. Now he was a doting father and husband.

“True. Drew just hopes he doesn’t take as long as he did to smarten up. How about you? Any irons in the fire?”

Gill, who was emptying the popcorn into a bowl, laughed. She knew what kind of irons Gwen meant. They had this same conversation at least once a month. The problem with her twin was that Gwen had an incurable romantic streak, and marriage to the man of her dreams had only made it worse.

“When would I have time to meet anyone? Between meetings? I’ve been working nonstop.”

“But it’s Christmas.”

“Like that makes a difference in the PR industry.”

“Don’t you want someone to cuddle up with under the Christmas tree? Or to get trapped under the mistletoe with?”

“The only thing I want for Christmas is promotion to vice president. Which,” she tossed a kernel in the air and caught it in her mouth “got a little harder, thanks to Stephanie DeWitt.”

Briefly she explained how she’d lost the Remaillard account and ended up working on the Christmas party.