Dream Man (4 page)

“You ran it weekly. None of the candidates were suitable?”

She chuckled. “Wildly unsuitable, if you want the truth, though not one actually smelled bad.”

Max had to smile at her response. “Did you expect respondents to apply looking unkempt and with dirty feet?”

“I certainly didn't check out any feet.”

He liked the sound of her laugh. Liked it more than he should, but still wanted to elicit it again. “How about finger nails? Behind the ears? Did you ask if they flossed and brushed three times a day?”

“No. But if you were to make a serious application, I might.”

“I brush and floss virtuously and visit my dentist twice a year.” Then, turning serious, he said, “Maybe you got unsuitable candidates because of where you placed the ad. I wondered about your reasoning, there. I mean, the personals would have seemed more appropriate.”

“No.” She shook her head and a fine froth of curly, light brown hair wisped free from her severe style to catch the sunlight behind her, outlining her face with a golden glow. He immediately remembered the Christmas tree angel in his grandmother's home. He was getting far too interested in this woman for his own good.

Women came on to Max McKenzie. He did not come on to women. He didn't have to. There was no conceit in the knowledge, just an acceptance of facts. And regardless of what Rolph had suggested, he had no intention of putting himself out of circulation, because there were times when he enjoyed his easy popularity with the opposite sex. Getting interested in one specific woman, getting tied up in any permanent legal or emotional way would not just curtail that, it would stop it in its tracks.

“I deliberately didn't put it in the Companions Wanted section of the newspapers,” she said, “because it was to be a paid position, and I thought executives looking for other employment might be intrigued enough by the phrasing to reply.”

He laughed. “Oh, you got that right! It drove my brother, Rolph, crazy. He subscribes to ExecNet because he's expanding his boat brokerage firm and is on the lookout for just the right man for the number two spot.”

Jeanie lifted her brows. “Or woman, I hope,” she said dryly.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” That idea, in itself, was novel. Had Rolph ever considered a woman as second in command? He had to laugh silently at the idea. As much as Rolph liked women, had more women as good friends than he really wanted, he also had definite ideas about women in positions of power. Women, as far as Rolph was concerned, should be lilies of the field.

“Anyway,” he went on, “Rolph's the one who prodded me to reply when your ad came out again today. Tell me, if you can without breaking any confidences, do you—does your client, rather—really believe that three weekends constitutes a long-term commitment?”

Again, she laughed. Again, he felt the magic of it wrap itself around him. He swallowed hard. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. He was thirty-eight years old, and he hadn't felt this way in the presence of a woman for more than twenty years! He had to stop his libido from getting out of control. It was as simple as that. Except, where Jeanie Leslie was concerned, controlling his libido wasn't simple. It reminded him of a game they used to play with a greased watermelon in the lake as kids. The minute you thought you had a grip on it, it went slipping and sliding and bobbing away completely out of your command.

“Of course not,” she said, replying to his question and snatching his attention back where it belonged—on their conversation, and off her incredible, sexy charm. “But three weekends was all I—we—were willing to pay for. If the man we chose hadn't decided by then that he wanted to see my … client again without being paid, he wasn't the right one. At least, that was the theory. I admit it was an ill-conceived idea and one I was glad to drop.”

“Did the client ever find someone who fitted her?”

Jeanie shook her head. “No. In fact, she never even met any of the candidates. I was in charge of … selection. And none of them was even remotely possible.”

Back in the car he asked, “If my brother advertised with you, would he be likely to find what he needs? Would I?”

“Yes, of course, but he should use other sources, too. I don't demand exclusivity of my clients, just… honesty. As I require of the people who apply for the jobs.”

“Everything up-front and straightforward, huh? Was it that famous straightforwardness that attracted unsuitable men for the position, or something else?”

Jeanie shrugged. “Maybe.” She didn't try to explain that non-answer, but he was not apparently about to drop the subject.

His smile mocked her. “Hmm. I wonder what it could have been, then?”

None of them looked like you.

She flicked a glance at him and caught his eyebrows raising upwards. Heavens! She hadn't said that out loud, had she? No. No, of course not. She was much too self-controlled to blurt out every passing thought, though every little part of her responded to him and his incredible smile, even when he was making fun of her. It made her mad even while it excited her so much, she almost drove into the back of a bus. It wasn't fair! No woman should have to try to drive sensibly with a man like Max McKenzie smiling at her from the passenger seat. Maybe if she stopped, told him to get into the backseat and crouch down so she couldn't see him, they'd both be safer. Except then he'd know how crazy he was making her.

“It was not lack of straightforwardness,” she said, making no attempt to stem the huffy tone. “What I meant was, if you spread the word around about what you're looking for, maybe you'll have better results. No point in relying on one source.”

“I won't. But if you do hear of something you think might be right for me, will you call? Something wild and interesting and unusual enough for my article?” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a card, placing it on the dash just as she swung the car into the parking lot behind her building.

She stared at the little white rectangle as she pulled up on the hand brake and turned off the ignition. Then, almost against her will, she reached out and took it, dropping it into an outside pocket of her purse.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course, Mr. McKenzie.”

“Hey,” he said, “you called me Max just a few minutes ago. Why the return to formality?”

Jeanie opened her door, stepped out, and looked at him across the car roof when he had alighted. “Good-bye, Mr. McKenzie. Thank you for the lunch.” She couldn't begin to explain to him why she felt the need to hide behind what he called formality. She couldn't even explain it to herself. But she felt it was better that they stay several arms' lengths away from each other even when they were saying good-bye. And why not be formal? It wasn't as though she intended to see him again.

He didn't stay one car width away, let alone an arm's length. He came right up to her, smiled at her, bent his head, and brushed an impudent kiss over her lips. Then, lifting his hand in a little salute, he said, “See you, Jeanie,” and strode away along the sidewalk, around the corner, and out of sight.

Jeanie stood there for several minutes, gripping her purse so tightly, her hands ached. Her insides shook. Her head spun. Her knees quaked. She would not, under any circumstances, see that man again. She wondered bleakly as she climbed the four flights of stairs to her office if there were some way she could ensure that she would never go to sleep again. Because if she did, she knew she would see him—in her dreams.

“It's not fair!” Why should the perfect ‘weird' job offer come in now, a week after she'd first met Max McKenzie, six days after she'd firmly—several times a day—put him out of her mind. “It simply is not fair.”

“Did you call me, Ms. Leslie?”

Jeanie looked up to see the girl in the doorway. “No, Cindy. I was talking to myself. It's all right. Go on home now. It's late.”

“Yes, ma'am. I was just going.”

Jeanie scarcely heard the younger woman. She sat with her hands in her hair, staring at the letter before her. Talk about an odd job request! And why had it been sent to her, of all people? Was it to tempt her? She lifted her head and gazed at the ceiling. “Grandma Margaret, is this your doing?” Nothing. No response of any kind. Well, she hadn't expected one, had she? She didn't really believe that she'd inherited any of Grandma Margaret's Gypsy characteristics. If anything, she'd inherited something far more valuable: her own mother's practical streak. And it was that very practically that had made her file Max's business card in her Rolodex instead of tossing it in the garbage as she probably should have a week ago. She never threw out anything like that, just in case she might need it one day, and dammit—this was the day she would have to call him.

She wracked her brains. Did she know of any other freelance writer who might be capable of coming up with what the client wanted in the time he wanted it? Did she know any other writers at all? Unfortunately, no. She frowned, flipping through the Rolodex and found the “Mac” section.

There it lay, tucked into its little plastic pocket. Max McKenzie's card. Although it was plain white with black Gothic print, and not at all fancy, it still had a look of understated elegance about it. Old money, or something. Slightly raised black letters and numbers formed his name, telephone number, and the address to which she'd sent the brief and polite thank-you note after his unostentatious but beautiful floral arrangement had arrived the day following their lunch. Of course, the fact that it was a Beacon Hill address had certainly added to the impression of old money.

But for this, a note wouldn't do. She had to call him. She stood, paced to the window, looked out, leaned her forehead on the glass for a few moments then stood erect and squared her shoulders. She marched back to her desk and sat down. With her hand on the phone, she rehearsed what she would say. When the phone rang right under her palm, she leapt about two feet out of her chair, her eyes so wide her eyeballs nearly fell out, and every hair stood on end.

“Jeanie Leslie,” she said into the phone.

A few moments after leaving Jeanie Leslie in the parking area at the rear of her building. Max had convinced himself quite firmly that he was fully in control, not only of his libido, but of his future, and that she, as lovely as she was, had absolutely no part in it. The next morning, after a night of pursuing her through his dreams, he was less convinced but determinedly put her out of his mind, concentrating instead on one of the articles he was currently working on—but not the one dealing with strange job offers.

By noon, he was ready to tear his hair out. She would not stay out of his mind. He remembered her scent. He heard over and over her husky, soft voice speaking his name. What would it be like to hear it again? He stared at the phone, then looked resolutely away. No, dammit, she had made it clear that she didn't want anything more to do with him. There were plenty of women in the world who did want him. More than he cared to count. He took his personal phone directory and opened it at random, lifted the phone, and began to punch in numbers. There was that redhead who lived over in Saanich. She'd always been ready for anything. Hearing the splatter of rain against his window, he remembered she was spending the wet season in Palm Springs. He set the phone down.

The next name that leapt out at him was that of a rather sweet woman who claimed quite openly to be in love with him. He'd stopped seeing her because it wasn't fair to give her hope of anything more than friendship. Still, her adulation had been damned good for the ego, and Jeanie Leslie, with her obvious immunity to him, had certainly not been. Lifting the phone again, he dialed the florist his family had dealt with for years, ordered an arrangement sent to Jeanie at her office, dictated a brief note of thanks for her help on his article, and decided that would be that.

And later he had gone upstairs and dreamed again of Jeanie Leslie.

It was intolerable, he decided a week later. He picked up the phone, punched in numbers he had no need to look up, and was startled to hear her answer before even half a ring had sounded in his ear.

J
EANIE NEARLY SLAMMED
the phone down when Max McKenzie said, “Hello, Jeanie Leslie,” in that voice that did things to her traitorous insides. “This is Max McKenzie. I know it's short notice, but are you free for dinner tonight?”

Her heart slammed hard inside her, once, twice, then slowed to a regular beat as her eyes rolled heavenward, and she slumped back in her chair, suddenly resigned. Only … resignation didn't usually feel like this, did it? All tingling tummy, flighty head, and curving smile that just would not quit no matter how hard she tried?

“I … uh, yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm and contained.
All right, Grandma Margaret. Why don't you let me in on what's happening before it happens? Isn't there some kind of sign you could have sent me before you sicced the man on me again?

“Great!” He sounded as if he really meant it.

Inside her, something fluttered like one of his chickens getting shoved into a cage. But it didn't squawk even a tiny bit in protest, she noticed.

“Eight o'clock? May I have your address so I can pick you up?”

Jeanie bit her lip. Like getting into a car with a strange man, giving out her address to someone she didn't know was something Sharon had warned her against over and over. Once, she had thought her sister was unduly cautious, but the older she grew, the more she became aware of the things that could happen. And she had to admit that being responsible for the care and well-being of three other people tended to make her less intrepid than she had once been. “I'd rather meet you somewhere.”

In a puzzled tone he said, “All right. If that's what you prefer.” He named the restaurant where he would book a table, and Jeanie hung up, watching as her hand trembled on the pale blue phone.