Enchanted
Enchanted
A Merry Nicholas
Christmas
Tale
Book 1
by
Patti Berg
USA Today
Bestselling Author
©
2012 by Patti Berg
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No
part of this book may be
reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
First published in the United States by Jove Books 1994
First e-book edition:
November 2012
C
over design
:
Hot Damn Designs
Author photo: Bob Berg
Table of Contents
Merry Nicholas shuffled through Central Park toting two candy-cane-striped carpetbags. Her voluminous red dress and starched white apron rustled in the faint summery breeze as she maneuvered through Frisbee throwers, barking dogs, and baby carriages. When she reached Fifth Avenue she stopped, tilted her head skyward, and squinted into the sun. The bright light gave way to a cloudy vision—a woman; a man; another woman. Merry’s eyes twinkled over the top of rectangular spectacles. “Ah, yes, yes, yes.” She nodded. “I know just what’s needed here. Don’t worry, Nicky. I’ll take care of everything.”
The vision disappeared as Merry scurried on her way, singing, “Fa la la la la, la la, la, la.”
1
Eleven pairs of eyes looked in awe
at the man seated at the head of the conference table. No one made a sound. No one breathed until Mr. O’Brien turned a page.
They watched him, impressed with the way he scrutinized the contents of the magazine mock-up. He scanned one page, then the next, his expressionless face never changing. He didn’t spend time analyzing individual portions of the document, but they knew he wouldn’t overlook even the smallest detail. McKenna O’Brien liked things perfect—
t’
s crossed,
i
’s dotted—and heaven help those who misspelled a word.
McKenna O’Brien—Mac to his friends,
Mr.
O’Brien to his staff—garnered respect from all who knew him. He took crazy, half-baked schemes and made them successes; hired people for their talent rather than their education. He had a commanding, powerful personality, and no one disputed his authority. He had the rare gift of making millions on everything he touched; in fact, the whispers around town said McKenna O’Brien could spin straw into gold, and a lot of people believed it.
Mac hesitated when he reached the final page. He turned the magazine over and gave the cover one more look. His fingers drummed on the table as he inventoried the faces of his editorial staff. He hated to see them squirm while they waited for his verdict on the latest periodical developed by his publishing empire, but he didn’t let even a thread of emotion show on his face. Not a scowl, not a smile. Nothing to hint at his approval or dislike, until his gaze met Kathleen Flannigan’s. That’s when his sun-bleached, strawberry blond brows knit together over his frowning, smoky blue eyes.
“Would you care to explain
where
you got the idea for
this
magazine?”
Kathleen looked him straight in the eyes. “It’s called
Success
, and I took your basic idea and ran with it. The topics are hot. We have excellent writers, and our surveys show the circulation will be larger than anything else we publish.”
“I don’t recognize
any
of my basic ideas,
Ms.
Flannigan.”
“You wanted a new and innovative magazine for women and that’s what I’ve put together.”
Mac looked down at the mock-up, thumbing through its pages. “No. What I wanted was a magazine for successful businesswomen, the ones who’ve reached the top. They want to read about investments and finances and . . .” He raised his eyes and quickly scanned Kathleen’s outdated navy suit, amused at her taste in fashion, then lowered his eyes again to the mock-up. “. . . and fashions for work.”
“You’re wrong.”
Mac’s head shot up. No one ever told him he was wrong, least of all his staff. But Kathleen Flannigan bucked him at every turn and had done so since the day he hired her. “Then tell me,” he said, “what do successful women want?”
“To be considered a success no matter what their station in life, be it housewife or president. To not be looked down at for being a maid or secretary, or in some other career that others might not consider the pinnacle of success.”
Kathleen took a deep breath, aimed her gaze directly at Mac. She grinned, then looking at her shoulder, very carefully, very dramatically, brushed an invisible piece of lint off her jacket.
Mac came close to laughing at Kathleen’s theatrics, but didn’t. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and contemplated her words. All the others around the conference table seemed to disappear as he directed his attention to Kathleen, searching her eyes, those azure eyes that had driven him crazy six years before, the same eyes he had ignored for the last five. He saw her determination, that strong-willed drive that wouldn’t give up.
The sun’s rays glinted off the glossy, brightly colored cover of the magazine, and he forced his thoughts away from Kathleen and back to the issue at hand. It didn’t really matter what he thought of
Success.
It looked good. It would probably garner a lot of attention on the magazine racks. What did he know about the contents of a woman’s magazine? He hired people like Kathleen because they knew and loved the business, and Kathleen, in particular, had the uncanny knack of knowing just what the public would like.
Kathleen. He didn’t want to think about her. For the past five years he had stayed away from meetings such as this just so he wouldn’t have to see her. Why had he attended today? Why had he put himself through the torture of seeing the woman he had forced himself to forget?
He pushed back the massive black leather executive chair, took the mock-up, and walked to the window, staring out at the high-rises that surrounded his building. He noticed with sadness that only a trace of blue sky could be seen overhead. T
here was a time when
he could see the world from this room; now he saw nothing but skyscrapers. When had New York swallowed him? He had long ago tired of it, so why couldn’t he walk away and leave it all behind? Because walking away was never easy. Hadn’t he proved that when he walked away from Kathleen?
When he looked back at his staff, all eyes focused on him, each person involved with the magazine waiting for his decision on whether or not to go ahead. He could easily quash the concept now. He could drop six months’ worth of work in the trash can at his feet. But, in reality, the only thing he had against the magazine was that Kathleen was at its helm, and he knew he couldn’t throw away what promised to be a big moneymaker for his company, simply because he wanted to stay away from the magazine’s creator.
His eyes rested on Kathleen’s, and hers bore a hole straight to his soul. Ignoring the lump in his throat, he gritted his teeth, took four long strides across the room, and stopped at her side. He dropped the mock-up on the table in front of her. Bending his large, six-foot-five-inch frame, he leaned over, his face so close to Kathleen’s that he could see each individual pore on her makeup-free face.
“If you say it will work, you’ve got my blessing. However”—he stood up straight, looming over Kathleen—“this is your baby.” His voice lowered, almost to a whisper. “Don’t expect any help from me.”
oOo
“Damn it, Mac. Why do you always let that woman get to you?”
That’s what his father would have said if he’d been in the boardroom and seen Mac’s lack of warmth and charm. But his dad hadn’t been in the boardroom in over five years, and the words Mac heard were the ones filling his head as he stared at his surroundings—his dad’s old office, filled with cherished mementos, worn but comfortable chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookcases overstuffed with reference books, Zane Greys, and Louis L’Amours, and the old oak desk Mac had carved his name in as a boy.
