Dream Man

For Susan Horton,

who found me a whole in the ground,

but most of all

for Susann Brailey

who always helps me find my way out of the holes

I dig for myself.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

“HEY, LOOK! HERE'S
that nutty one again.” Rolph McKenzie held the fax sheet by one corner as he walked from his office into his brother's. “I think you should go for it this time, Max.”

Max laughed, shook his head, and scanned the familiar words. The ad hadn't shown up for several weeks, but there it was again. Listed under Executive Employment Opportunities, sent out on what was called the ExecNet, by J. Leslie & Associates, Career Consultants, a fairly new but rapidly growing career counseling and job placement firm, the ad should have been in the Companions Wanted section of the daily paper instead.

Wanted: Tall, mature (35-45) man, heroic in nature, preferably dark haired and blue eyed, capable of making long-term commitment. Must like children, country life, and classical music. Ability to play one or more instruments an asset. Term of employment, three weekends. Apply in person to Ms. Leslie.

“Yes sir, that's some long-term commitment,” Max said, laughing again.

Listening to the soft rumbling of his brother's laughter, Rolph knew the sound would have warmed any female heart—had there been a female around to hear it. That was one of Max's problems, Rolph thought. Everything about him was attractive to women. And he was one of the world's most determined bachelors. It did create conflict in his life, having to beat them off with a bat. Rolph sighed silently.
He
should have such problems! All
he
attracted were “good friends” who wanted nothing more from him than to talk about his brother, maybe get a few insights, tips on how to capture the uncapturable.

Max let the paper slide onto his desk where it sat atop the messy pile of newspaper tear sheets, books and pamphlets, and scribbled notes on yellow paper. “You really think I should answer it?”

“I told you to answer it when it first appeared last month.”

“And I told you then it wasn't for me.”

“Yeah? Why not? It fits the only criterion you set down for researching your article. It's a weird job offer.”

“Sure, but the woman is probably serious about it.”

“So was the guy who advertised for an experienced pig shaver. You answered that ad, went and observed the man who was ultimately hired, and wrote a lot of good copy.”

“Well, a couple of paragraphs, anyway. But this one—” he shook his head. “Nah. This woman's looking for a husband, a daddy for her kids. She just hasn't got sense enough to run the ad where it would do the most good.”

“Yeah, maybe. But you wouldn't have to take the job. Just go and be interviewed, ask a lot of questions, find out what it's all about.”

Max nodded. “That three-weekend clause really intrigues me. I wish…”— He shook his head again—“Nah. It's not fair to mess with someone like that.”

“You wouldn't be messing with her. You'd have no intention of taking the job. After you find out what you can about it, you prove to her somehow that you're all wrong for her, and she'll say no. Looks as if she's been doing that all along anyway, considering the number of times she ran the copy last month. And now she's started again.”

“I guess you're right … unless she hasn't had any takers at all.” Max was weakening.

“And the term of commitment is about what you usually manage,” Rolph pointed out with a grin. “You're thirty-eight, so age-wise, you qualify. Your hair is as black as coloring can make it, except at the temples where you leave that bit of silver for contrast, and your eyes are blue. You spend as much time as you can at your cabin. You've always said you'd like to raise kids if it didn't mean having to have a woman around to produce them, and you play a mean trumpet.”

Max leaned back, propped his heels on the desk, linked his hands behind his head, and said, “Coloring! I oughta poke you for that one, little brother. You're the one turning gray, not me. Silver temples don't count. They merely add distinction.”

“My gray hardly shows, since my hair is blond. But if I am showing my age, it's because I worry about you,” Rolph said sanctimoniously. “You need some stability in your life: A wife, kiddies, lawns to mow, hedges to clip, a station wagon, a mortgage. Picket fences and leaky roofs.”

“Picket fences and leaky roofs, huh?” Max swung his feet to the floor, looking mildly interested. “How do you figure that as being good for me?”

“I didn't say it would be good for you to have all that. But it might be good for me.”

“Then you go for it!” Max offered his brother the fax.

“What I'm saying is that it would be good for me if you got married.”

Max cocked his head to one side. “Yeah? How so?”

“You're older than I am. It's time you got married. Maybe then I'd be able to get a woman to look at me for more than thirty seconds after she meets you.”

“Hell,” Max snorted, realizing Rolph was joking—or hoping he was. “You do okay. You just need to try harder, that's all.”

“Yeah. And you don't have to try hardly at all.”

Max gave his brother a sharp look, catching a pensive expression on his face. Maybe he wasn't joking? Was he still feeling sore about that bimbo who'd come on to Max so strongly a few weeks ago? Rolph hadn't been
serious
about her, had he? Max gnawed on his lower lip. Dammit, too many of Rolph's dates had deserted him, once they'd set eyes on his older brother. It had been happening virtually all their lives. They'd always joked about it. But, at thirty-six, maybe Rolph wasn't finding it funny anymore. And maybe he was right. If Max was out of the running, things might change. But, hell! He hadn't yet met the woman who turned him on so powerfully that he'd even think about marriage. He didn't believe such a woman existed. And even if she did, it wasn't up to him to run interference for his brother, was it?

“… so why not go tootle on your trumpet in front of the lonely lady and see what might fall into your lap?”

Max suddenly became aware that Rolph was speaking again. It took him a moment or two to catch up with the trend of the conversation again. “Oh!” he said when his brother's words penetrated. “The lady said ‘classical,' and there ain't nothin' classical about the way I play my trumpet.” He held the paper up and scanned it again, then shook his head, laying the ad on the desk. “And I'm anything but heroic. No—It's a crazy idea.”

Rolph stepped into the next room, ran off a copy of the fax, picked up a highlighter, and outlined the ad in bright yellow. “There,” he said, returning and dropping it onto the desk in front of his brother. “Don't lose it. I can tell you're tempted.”

Max grinned. “Yeah? And how can tell that?”

Rolph returned the grin. “You said it was a crazy idea. Are you going to have Freda phone for an appointment?”

Max slapped his palms on his desktop and stood, suddenly all business. “No. It says ‘apply in person.' And that is exactly what I'm going to do.”

“Great. You do that. I'll see you when I get back from San Fran. I'll want a full report.” Rolph left, chuckling and muttering to himself, leaving Max's office door wide open. As usual.

Freda, Max's research assistant looked up from her computer. “What are you two are talking about?” Max knew she'd heard every word. She was only two years away from retirement but there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

“What? Eavesdropping, Freda?”

“Hmmph. I consider it wise to keep on top of the outlandish things you boys get up to. In case someone asks me later. Probably in court.”

Max chuckled. Once, Freda had been their nanny. Then, their mother's personal assistant. Now, she worked for him. But in reality she belonged to the whole family, and they belonged to her.

Max shook his head, bent and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Don't worry about it, Freda.”

“Don't worry?” She brushed a lock of gray hair back from her forehead. “Of course not. Why would I? Long-term commitment? Three weeks? What's to cause me concern in that?”

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. McKenzie?” The breathless voice and the adoring expression in the eyes of the young receptionist suggested that if he didn't, she'd see to it that he soon would—with her. Their twenty-year age gap appeared to be no barrier to her.

“No, I don't, Ms.”—he glanced at the nameplate on the desk—“Ms. Harrison.”

“Cindy,” she said, and smiled as she turned the nameplate facedown. “Ms. Harrison's away having a baby. I'm filling in. I could ask Ms. Leslie if she'd spare you five minutes. Actually, she's just on her way out for lunch, and since I know for a fact that she's lunching alone today, her client having canceled at the last minute I'm sure—” The girl broke off as the door to the inner office opened and a tall, slender woman stepped through, then came to a dead stop, staring.

Max stared back. The woman's beauty stunned him. A hint of peach on her cheeks glowed through her pale, iridescent gold skin; her eyes, set wide apart and framed between thick, dark lashes, shone a cool, smoky gray. As they swept over him, he believed he read fear in them, but it was so quickly masked, it was easy to persuade himself it had never been there.

Besides, why should she be afraid of him?

They had never met before; he would have remembered! And even if they had, there was nothing remotely frightening about him. As Rolph said too frequently and with unfortunate accuracy, women automatically liked him. And this person standing before him was definitely all woman. She was intensely female, even if she was trying to hide her femininity behind a tailored suit, detract from it by pulling her hair straight back, and deny it by failing to return his smile.

If this was J. Leslie, career consultant, then he was in the wrong career and needed to consult her immediately.

Jeanie stood rooted for an instant, staring at the man. She felt as if she were seeing a ghost—or a dream come to life. Her heart began to beat again; only then did she become aware that it had stopped for a moment or ten.

Dream men do not come to life, she told herself sternly, trying to control the wild hammering of her heart. This man's resemblance to the man she'd been dreaming about off and on for the last ten months was pure coincidence. There were plenty of tall, lean men with curly black hair and blue, blue eyes that crinkled up in a network of lines when they smiled—in women's dreams and out of them.

“Oh.” The receptionist's short word brought her back to earth and suggested that only seconds had passed since she'd come through the door and seen him. Jeanie tore her gaze from the man and glanced at Cindy, who was saying, “Ms. Leslie, this is Mr. McKenzie. He doesn't have an appointment, but I was about to ask if you could spare him a few minutes.”

“Uh …” Jeanie forced herself to look at the man again. It was no easier this time, still just as shocking to see him in person right before her. If he'd been going to come to life before anybody, then it should have been her sister Sharon. After all, it was for Sharon that she'd dreamed him up and for Sharon that she'd advertised for the man she'd seen so often in her dreams.

“Max,” he said, and his voice was exactly as she'd known it would be. He extended his hand, and she took it automatically. It was warm and dry and firm and everything she had expected. She wanted to step even closer and see if he smelled the way she imagined he would. And, idiotically, she wanted just as badly to run from him, not because she had decided not to go through with her crazy plans for Sharon—which she had, weeks ago—but because seeing him there almost made her change her mind again. He was the one. He was perfect. Otherwise, why had her interfering ancestor, her father's Gypsy great-grandmother, Grandma Margaret, who was reputed to poke her nose in when she became aware of anyone in search of a mate, put him into her dreams all those months ago?