Millionaire's Christmas Miracle

She pulled herself to her feet, swiped at her tangled hair, then pulled out the remaining pins. She took several deep breaths, the need to see her daughter almost choking her. She wanted to hold on to Taylor and make all of this confusion go away. As she turned, she felt her shoe strike something and saw a man’s wallet skittering across the carpeting.

She crouched by the wallet and picked up the soft black leather folder. She stood as she flipped it open and saw a New York State driver’s license. Quintin Luther Gallagher, six foot tall, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and a birthday on January first. His next birthday would make him fifty. She looked at the picture, and saw a man with raw attractiveness, a bit less gray in his hair and mustache—and those eyes. Even in the picture, the eyes seemed able to see right through anything and anyone.

She looked away from it, at a side slot with credit cards, then she opened the back to find money. One-hundred-dollar bills, about a thousand dollars. She closed it, then looked at the door and hesitated. Go after him, she told herself, just take it to him. But something held her in place. An uneasiness at seeing him right then, of meeting his gaze again.

“You fool,” she muttered and knew exactly who she was berating. It wasn’t Quint’s fault that he took her off balance and kept her there, or made her feel uneasy with the feelings that his look could suggest.

She clutched the wallet and headed toward the doors and in a few seconds, she was out in the lobby where the festivities were almost a memory. Just the beautiful tree still stood there. The rest had been cleared away. The only person she saw was the guard, Walt. He spotted her, smiled and called out, “The building isn’t going to burn down, is it?”

She tried to smile and found the expression was easy enough to produce for this man. He certainly didn’t bother her, or set her on edge. She crossed to him. “No, thank goodness.”

He looked at the wallet in her hands, then up at her. “What’s going on?”

“I was looking for Mr. Gallagher, tall, gray hair…?”

“I know him. He went out two or three minutes ago with another man.”

She looked out the windows at the street with its garlands on the light posts and potted plants by the doors strung with multi-colored lights. “He’s out—”

“He’s gone. He left in a limo.”

She looked back at Walt. “The company limo?”

“No, ma’am, one of those rentals.”

“I need to contact him. Is there any way to get a phone number for the limousine or find out where it took him?”

“I guess so, from the rental company, but I wouldn’t know which one he used or where he’d be going. What do you need?”

She looked at the wallet. “This fell out of his pocket, and he probably doesn’t even know.” She looked at Walt. “Can you get into the safe?”

“Oh, no, I can’t. I can put it in a desk drawer back there, and that locks, but it’s hardly secure.”

She couldn’t take that chance with the credit cards and a thousand dollars. “I’ll keep it, and if Mr. Gallagher calls or comes back, tell him I have it and…tomorrow, I’ll put it in the company safe. He can pick it up there.”

“Okay, no problem.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s getting late. Aren’t you ready to leave yet?”

“I’m on my way out,” she said.

“I’m heading off for my rounds, so why don’t I walk you out? That parking garage is pretty empty this time of night.”

“Thanks,” she said and headed back to the center with Walt following her. Stopping at the climbing-frame tree, she looked up at the mistletoe, then at Walt. “Can you reach that and take it down?” she asked, pointing to the plant.

“No problem.” The man reached, jumped slightly and grabbed the mistletoe, tugging it free. He held it out to her.

She took the mistletoe gingerly, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. “Thanks,” she muttered as she turned and went back to her office. She dropped the plant in the trash, grabbed her purse and pushed the wallet into it, then turned to get on with her life.

QUINT STOPPED listening to George somewhere between his tirade against the lumbering industry and his involvement in some demonstration in Washington, D.C. Quint’s mind wandered but always came back to that moment under the mistletoe when he’d thought, “What the hell,” and done what he’d thought about from the first glimpse of Amy’s lips. The kiss.

“Well, that went quickly,” George was saying as he touched Quint on the arm.

The limo was stopping, and Quint looked out the tinted windows at the hotel, a towering, glittering glass structure in the Houston night. The driver was at his door, opening it.

“We’ll talk more,” George was saying. “I’ll drop by your office, and we can hash out the resource problem.”

Quint didn’t know what the man was talking about, but got out and turned to look back in the limo. “You do that and we will,” he murmured, taking the hand George was offering. The man’s handshake was strong and sure, then Quint stepped back.

“Merry Christmas, Quint,” George said with a smile and a familiarity that Quint had no idea had formed between them.

“Merry Christmas,” he echoed and swung the door shut.

He didn’t wait for the limo to leave before he turned and went past the valets into the lobby of the hotel, a vast space with not one, but three Christmas trees, two on either side of the reception desk and one huge tree dead in the middle of the marble floor. Quint strode past the middle tree toward the elevators, but at the last minute he saw the bar and veered off toward it.

Going to his room to work had been his plan ever since he’d left the reception, but now that didn’t sound very good to him. He needed a drink. He needed to refocus. He slipped onto a high-backed stool in the pub-like bar and ordered a Scotch straight up. A sip of the fiery liquid got his attention, and he exhaled harshly. It was time to head up to the room.

He reached for his wallet, slipping his hand inside the tux jacket. His cell phone was there. The wallet wasn’t. He patted the jacket front and didn’t feel it. He’d had it earlier. He remembered making the decision to carry it and the cell phone. He’d had it when he’d left the executive suites, because he could remember patting his pocket and feeling it there. And he’d probably had it until the day-care center and all of the calamities there, from the rat fiasco to the smoke in the kitchen.

He looked at the bartender and motioned him over. “I need a phone for a local call.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said and reached below the bar to produce a corded phone that he placed on the bar in front of Quint. “Just dial nine, then your number.”

Quint dialed information and got a general number for security at LynTech. He punched in the number, heard it ring five times, do a quick double ring, then it was answered. “Olson, maintenance.”

“Maintenance? I was trying to reach security.”

“Sorry. Security isn’t available. They reroute to me at this time of night. Can I help you with something?”

“This is Quint Gallagher. I’m just start—”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heard about you.”

“Okay, I misplaced my wallet tonight, and it’s either there, at LynTech, or in the limo that brought me back to my hotel. I don’t suppose you know the number for the limo service?”

“No sir. But if you tell me where you were tonight, I could take a look around here for it.”

“I’d appreciate it.” He gave Olson a general rundown of his movements. “I remember having it on the twentieth floor, in the hallway by the elevators, and that’s it.”

“I’ll let security know, and if you give me a number where I can reach you, I’ll take a look and get back to you.”

He started to tell Olson to call the hotel, but he was stopped by the man saying, “Sir, could you hold for a minute?”

“Sure,” Quint murmured, and he heard a muffled conversation for a moment, then the man was back on the line.

“Good news. Mrs. Blake in the day-care center has your wallet.”

Relief was there, but so was a certain tightness in his chest. “What?”

“She told Walt, the security guard, that she’d found it, and if you called, to tell you that she’ll bring it in tomorrow and put it in the security safe. You can get it from there.”