Enchanted

  Enchanted

  A Merry Nicholas Christmas Tale

  Book 1

  by

  Patti Berg

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Copyright © 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

  Cover design: Hot Damn Designs

  Author photo: Bob Berg

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Other books by Patti Berg

  About the Author

  Prologue

  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.”

  Chapter 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. There 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.

  He reached across the desk and picked up the photo of his father, staring into the warm gray eyes of the elderly gentleman. “I turned forty-nine yesterday, Dad,” he whispered. “Nearly half a century of living and what have I accomplished? I’ve doubled your empire. I socialize with presidents and kings. But I’m lonely.” He shook off his sadness and set the photo back in its usual spot on the left side of his desk.

  He shuffled through a pile of papers, wishing the work, the company, and everything else demanding his attention would disappear. He pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to drive away the headache that had plagued him since early morning. Forcing himself to relax, he leaned back in his chair, dug his fingers into his neck, and kneaded the taut muscles. Stolen moments of relaxation rarely occurred, but today he didn’t care. Today he started reflecting on his life, and he didn’t like what he saw.

  “Excuse me, Mr. O’Brien.”

  He didn’t even see Grace, his secretary since time began, walk into the room, carrying another pile of dreaded paper.

  “I hate to bother you, but I have something important to discuss.”

  “Oh, God. Whatever you do, don’t tell me you’re quitting.” He leaned on the desk, resting his chin on the heels of his hands, pressing fingers into his temples.

  “No”—Grace chuckled—“but you just might fire me.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk about the Christmas party.”

  He looked from the slightly built woman with a head of tightly permed grayish brown hair to the calendar on his desk. “It’s June.”

  “Yes, I know it’s June,” Grace said, “but in order to get the best location, we have to reserve early. Now—”

  “You know I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

  “You used to—”

  “Those are the key words, Grace,” he interrupted again. “I used to. But not anymore.”

  “But the parties were a tradition when your father was alive. Remember how he loved dressing up like Santa for the kids?”

  “That was a long time ago. People don’t have time for office Christmas parties anymore. They’re too busy.”

  “That’s just an excuse.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s just say I’m too busy for a Christmas party, and I’m too busy to continue this conversation.”

  “Very well, sir,” Grace huffed. “I’ll try again next month.” She dropped a stack of folders on his desk and walked to the door, turning back for one parting remark. “By the way. I hope you don’t mind if I change your signature block to Scrooge O’Brien.”

  Mac frowned as he watched the door close behind Grace, an institution around McKenna Publishing. More like a mother than a secretary, Grace was one of the few people who could get away with back-talking the boss. But her dedication and loyalty never failed, and Mac was positive she’d die at her desk.

  He quickly dismissed all thoughts of Grace and Christmas parties, and tried to forget the headache. But other thoughts crept into his mind, and soon the wording of the contract blurred as his eyes moved from the legalese to the photo of his father, and then to the sterling silver frame at the right side of his desk. It held the picture of an older woman, white-haired and plump, with bright red cheeks and a loving smile. People who saw the photo assumed she was Mac’s grandmother. In truth, he liked the frame—and the picture that had come with it. He never considered replacing it with a photo of someone he knew. He cherished the frame and the memory of his father who had given it to him one Christmas morning, just a few hours before he died.

  There was a story behind the gift, something he never quite believed. Remembering his father’s words made Mac laugh and brought back sentimental thoughts of the man who never had a harsh word to say and found good in everything that surrounded him.

  “There’s something special about this,” his father told him, running his fingers over the dulled silver. “I was in an antique store the other night, looking for something unique for your mother. There were a bunch of old frames sitting on a shelf, mostly wood and brass. I found this one hidden behind the others. It was tarnished and covered with dust, but when I picked it up, it shimmered a bit. Maybe it wasn’t actually a shimmer, because the silver needed polishing. I wiped off some of the dust with my finger to see the picture and, now don’t think I’m losing my mind, but I could have sworn the lady in that picture winked at me.”

  Mac smiled as he remembered the story. So like his dad to find something magical about a tarnished silver frame and a picture of an old woman. But he never forgot the words, nor the love in his father’s eyes when he gave his son that last Christmas hug. The day after his father’s funeral, Mac polished the silver, buffed it until it glowed, and put it on his desk, a constant reminder of the man he deeply missed.

  Christmas hadn’t been the same since that day. A big part of him had died along with his dad—the part that laughed and cried and found good in everyone and everything—and he wanted it back. He just didn’t know how to bring it to life.

  He stared into the eyes of the woman in the photo. I wish I could believe in magic the way my father did. I wish you could wink and bring me happiness. He laughed, shook his head, and returned to the contract before him.

  oOo

  Kathleen didn’t knock timidly. Timidity wasn’t a word in Kathleen Flannigan’s vocabulary. She didn’t even wait for Mac to invite her in, but pushed open the door, slammed it behind her, tossed the mock-up on his desk, then took a seat across from the giant she called boss.

  Mac’s head didn’t move; only his eyes looked up from his work. Don’t look into her eyes, he told himself. Her eyes had mesmerized him ten years ago when she was only twenty-two. Find something else to focus on. Not the lips. No, definitely not the lips. Ah, the lapel of that boring navy jacket. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked, emotionless.

  “No, sir. But we need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, away from her startling blue eyes, away from her lips.

  “Why do you find it so difficult to like my work?” She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs, and waited for an explanation.

  He raised his head, let his eyes stray to her one exposed knee. He remembered the old days when her knees were covered with faded blue jeans, skintight, and looking much too tempting to a man who wanted desperately to ignore his desire for a much younger woman. Get a grip, Mac, he chastised himself.

  Kathleen followed his eyes and uncomfortably adjusted her skirt over the bare expanse of skin.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the opposite arm, a posture that frightened most people. His overwhelming size intimidated others. But Kathleen Flannigan didn’t look threatened.

  Their eyes met.

  The battle began.

  “I don’t dislike your work. If I did, you wouldn’t be in my employ.” His eyes narrowed, an
d he stole another quick glance at her legs. “The only thing I dislike is how you go out of your way to do things contrary to my wishes.”

  “What you wish for and what’s best for you and the company aren’t necessarily the same things. You want a profitable magazine—that’s what I plan to give you.”

  Unfolding his arms, he braced his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “I suppose if anyone can do it, you can. You’ve always been rather lucky.”

  “Not lucky. I’m good. Damn good.”

  One eyebrow rose at her statement. “I won’t dispute that. I’ve known it for years.”

  “Then why do you ignore me?”

  Silence, He turned away from Kathleen and stared out the window. How could he answer that question? In five long years he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask her about the rumor he’d heard about her and his father. Not that he wanted to believe the rumor, but he’d never had a chance to question his dad, and it was much easier to ignore Kathleen than confront her with his fears.

  Just as he had ignored her for five years, he ignored her question. Instead of answering, he picked up his pen and scribbled a just-remembered thought on a piece of paper—Housekeeper. Then he looked up, but not at Kathleen. “Tell me about Success,” he said, looking over her shoulder, focusing on the bookcases behind her.

  “It’s going to be great.” Pride rang out in her words, “It’s not directed at any particular group, but for successful women and women who want to be successful. It’s full of ideas to make their lives easier, help them achieve greater success. It’s for women who know how to handle men, and for women who need a little help in that department.”

  Try as he might, Mac couldn’t keep his eyes from Kathleen’s face, nor a smile from his lips as he looked at the animation in her expression while she spoke about the magazine she so obviously loved. One of the many things Mac hadn’t forgotten about Kathleen was that she never lacked emotion. Strong emotion.