Dream Man (6 page)

He smiled again, his eyes crinkling up, glittering blue between his thick, dark lashes as he shrugged out of his tan trench coat. “That sounds great. Beating up bullies gives me an appetite. But why don't you point me in the direction of the kitchen, and I'll make the omelets while you get cleaned up. In case you haven't looked, Ms. Leslie, you're a wreck.”

Her pantyhose were torn, one of her knees, scraped raw in the scuffle, bore a taped on neatly white bandage, visible through a large tear in her velvet skirt, which was fit only for the garbage. Luckily, her sweater was unscathed. Her raincoat had caught all the blood from her head that hadn't ended up on Max's clothing.

“Thank you. I won't be long,” she said, turning and moving too quickly across the living room. She staggered dizzily, clutched the doorframe, and pulled herself along the corridor. She was in the shower, standing under the hot spray, gingerly dabbing at the hair around her cut, when she remembered she hadn't pointed him to the kitchen. No matter, though. He would find it. He was a resourceful man—as well as a hero.

“You hurt your hand,” she said, glancing up from the light, fluffy omelet he had set before her. He must have used at least four eggs for each one, but she didn't mind. She'd smelled the delicious aroma of bacon, too, the minute she came out of the bathroom dressed in a warm, loose track suit. She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand near the bruised knuckles. “I'll put some antiseptic on it.” She pushed her chair back and stood.

“It'll be okay,” he said with a shrug, then spread honey thickly on a slice of toast. His hands moved deftly in spite of their size. A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the gentle way they had touched her, the tenderness, the caring in his softly stroking palms while he'd comforted her, then the quivering tension in them when she'd responded to his kisses.

“The skin is broken. The cuts might get infected. The paramedics should have looked at your wounds too,” Jeanie said, ignoring his protest. Seconds later, she returned from the bathroom with the same tube of ointment she had used her own scraped knee after her shower had soaked the bandage off. Gently, she smeared it on Max's hand, then dabbed up the excess with a tissue.

“Thanks,” he said. “That feels better. It started to sting when I washed up before I started cooking.”

She sat back down and picked up her fork “You could have said something.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Heroes don't whine.” Then, when she was busy biting into a slice of toast, he said, “Who's Sharon?”

Jeanie swallowed. “My sister. Why? Did she phone while I was in the shower?” There was alarm in her tone. “What did you tell her? Nothing about—”

“No, no! Relax. She didn't phone. I just wondered who she was.”

“If she didn't phone, how did you know about her?”

“You mentioned her.” He gave her a quick look, picked up a piece of bacon, bit it in half, and then said, “You told me I was supposed to be her hero, not yours. Something about your grandmother having said so.”

Jeanie stared. “I did? When?”

“After the attack. When we were in the car.”

“I don't remember.” But suddenly she did—and felt a flush rise up her cheeks. What a damn-fool thing to have said!

He shrugged. “No? Never mind, then. I guess it wasn't important.”

“No.” Jeanie shook her head. “No,” she said again. “Not important at all.” She forced herself to eat, but even while she dug into her omelet and toast, her stomach quivered and did a few double loops every time she looked up at him. His shoulders, under the pale blue of his shirt, were even broader than they had appeared under his trench coat and suit jacket. The coat and jacket now hung over the back of his chair, his top two buttons were undone, and his tie pulled loose, revealing a tuft of dark hair below the vee between his collarbones.

When they were both finished, he smiled, his gaze on her face, mesmerizing her. He took one of her hands in his, smoothing his thumb across her knuckles. “But my reason for inviting you out to dinner was important, Jeanie.”

“Was it?” Her heart did extraordinary things inside her chest. Quickly, she took her hand back from him and avoided that very strange expression in his eyes. “So… so was my reason for accepting. I was just on the verge of calling you—in fact, in the very act of lifting the phone—when it rang and it was you,” she said, talking too fast but unable to slow down. “I got the most interesting request today for someone to fill a temporary job, and I thought about you immediately.” She flicked a quick glance at his face. No need to tell him that she'd done nothing but think of him since last Monday.

“Really?” He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned on the table. “What is it?”

“It's right up your alley, Max. A man, at least I think it's a man, wants someone to write—er—something for him.”

He tilted his head to one side in that way she was beginning to find characteristic of him—and charming and wonderful. It enhanced his good looks, sent interesting shadows over his craggy face, making him even more mysterious and enigmatic and intriguing. “Something? Can you be more specific than that? How long is that ‘something' supposed to be? Is this a serious job offer for a free-lancer, or is it for my article on odd jobs?”

“Well, maybe both.” Jeanie considered for a moment, then laughed, that soft yet rich sound that never failed to move Max. He hadn't thought he'd hear it tonight. That she could laugh said a lot about her strength and courage and her ability to recover from trauma. “Yes, I think definitely both,” she went on. “As to length, a couple of pages each, minimum. Maybe three or four, and he wants half a dozen of them. Maybe more, he said. It depends on how the first ones are received.”

“First what?”

Jeanie looked up at the ceiling, and then flashed him a twinkling smile. “Something I'm sure you're well versed in, Mr. Mckenzie,” she said innocently. “Just a few little love letters.”

M
AX SAT UP STRAIGHT
. “Love letters?” He looked utterly disbelieving. “Some guy wants to hire someone else to write love letters? Why doesn't he write them himself?”

“I don't know.” She was serious now. “And maybe it's not even a man who wants them.”

“Not a man? Why would a woman want to hire someone to write love letters? And would they be for her to receive, or to send?”

“I don't know for sure that it's a woman, either.”

His eyes went wide. “No! Don't tell me it's a caged chicken!”

She laughed. “All I have is a letter signed with two initials and a surname, and a box number as an address. If my client's a man, maybe he doesn't feel he knows the right words or isn't romantic enough for the woman he loves, and he really wants to impress her. If it's a woman, maybe she's in love and like many other people, admittedly mostly men, can't put her feelings into words. Or, possibly, she intends to leave them around for a neglectful husband or lover to find, to shake him up or something. Or vice-versa if the client's a man. Or maybe he or she just wants something romantic to read in a lonely room at night, to pretend. But whoever it is, what he or she is asking is neither illegal nor immoral, so I agreed to try to find someone to take on the task. And,” she added, with persuasive smile, “whoever it is, is willing to pay well.” She quoted him the price the client had offered per page, and he whistled loudly.

“Wow! When do I start?”

Jeanie felt a moment's disappointment. She had thought he would refuse at first, that she would have to persuade him. She hadn't thought, by the way he dressed and the kind of car he drove, to say nothing of where he lived, that he was a hungry free-lance writer willing to take on any assignment at all as long as it paid a few dollars.

“Actually,” she said, “tonight would be best. The client is in a real hurry. The letter I received asking to have this set up said the first one was needed by the end of the week. Since the letters have to come to me, and I'm to send them on, the sooner the better. Could you have one on my desk by mid-afternoon tomorrow? And after that, he wants one a day until he says to stop. I told him it would be hard to find someone willing to write love letters and—”

“And I was kidding when I said ‘when do I start, ” Max said with a grin. “I told you I write nonfiction. I've never been in love, let alone written a love letter, in my life!”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Never?”

“Never. And I don't intend to start now, especially not when those letters are aimed at someone I don't know and will never know. How could I possibly say anything that a strange woman—or man—would find interesting or even pertinent? How would I start each one? ‘To Whom it May Concern: This is to inform you that I love you dearly'?”

Jeanie chuckled. “My client said ‘Darling' or ‘Sweetheart' would be an appropriate salutation. And he—she's—Oh, let's go with ‘he' for now because we don't know the gender of the client, provided me with a list of clues, to give to you—the writer, that is.” She retrieved her attaché case from beside her desk in the living room, snapped it open, fished out a folded paper, and handed it to him. He took it without opening it, gazing from it to her, bemused.

“For subsequent letters, of course, the writer will need more detailed hints as to subject, and he'll provide that,” Jeanie went on. “You know, sort of like, ‘Darling, last night was superb. You cook the most elegant stew.' Or maybe, ‘Angel, how I enjoyed dancing with you on the beach in the moonlight...' ”

He slapped the folded paper on his closed fist. “Right, and, ‘You looked so lovely in your silver lamé gown and your gum boots that it stopped my heart dead.' ”

“I guess you never have written a love letter,” she said. “Or danced on the sand in the moonlight. Gum boots, indeed.”

“In this weather, I wouldn't go to the beach without them,” he said, collecting their plates and cutlery and carrying them to the sink. Over his shoulder he asked, “Have you?”

She paused, halfway between him and the fridge, butter dish and cream pitcher in her hands. “Have I what, written a love letter?”

He turned, braced his arms back against the counter, and looked at her. “Danced on the beach in the moonlight—with or without rubber boots.” For some reason, he knew her answer was important to him. Maybe it all had to do with why he'd asked her out to dinner. They had to get to that, he knew. And soon.

“No.” Her voice was as quiet as his. She opened the refrigerator, set the things down and closed the door.

“Or written a love letter?” He took her arm and steered her through the archway into the living room, as if this were his home not hers, and seated her on the sofa. He sat beside her.

“Or been in love?”

“I … thought I was, once or twice. But I wasn't. Because when it was over, I didn't really care. I guess I've just never been a very romantic person.”

“Me either.” He leaned closer to her. Her scent was elusive, but just as delicious as before, and it was starting to drive him slightly crazy again. “Have you ever received a love letter?”

“Not since Johnny Mason passed me a note in sixth grade and asked if I want to ‘do it' with him behind the fire station.”

His eyes crinkled. “That was no love letter. That was a mash note.”

“If you've never written a love letter, how do you know the difference?”

He grinned. “Maybe because Johnny what's-his-name isn't the only sixth grader to have written a mash note.”

“Did you invite someone to go behind the fire hall?”

“No. Down to the marina where my dad's boat was moored. And I was in eighth grade by then, I think. Maybe I developed a bit late. Did you?”

“Did I what? Develop late or meet Johnny behind the fire station?”

He laughed and leaned back, one arm along the top of the sofa behind her, fingers just touching her shoulder.

“Answer either or both, as you like.”

“I developed on a fairly normal schedule, and no, I didn't meet him, not behind the fire hall or anywhere else. As a matter of fact, I had to ask my sister what ‘do it' meant. When she told me I was heartily offended and quit offering Johnny Mason my peanut butter cookies. I decided I hated him more than I hated peanut butter cookies.”

“Good for you. Your sister is older than you are? Are you close?”

“Very close. Our parents were killed in a boating accident when I was twelve and Sharon, just shy of nineteen. She raised me after that. She was wonderful to me. Mother, sister, best friend, all rolled into one.” She smiled. “And still is.”

“Then I'll have to meet her. Soon.”

Jeanie stared at him. “What? I mean, why?”

His hand cupped her shoulder as he turned her toward him. “I told you, Jeanie, that I had a very important reason for inviting you to dinner, for wanting to talk to you, to give you a chance to get to know me better. Didn't you wonder even a little bit about that reason?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “I guess I did. What was it you had in mind, Max?”

She watched his throat work. He reached up and loosened his gray-and-blue striped tie another couple of inches. “I guess … in my own way, I'm asking for the same thing Johnny Mason was. Only I want to do it right. I'd like you to marry me, Jeanie.”

For a moment she thought he was joking or that she hadn't heard right, but his eyes were serious, and she knew there was nothing with her hearing. She had heard his words with perfect clarity. Shock made her inarticulate and held her immobile for an instant, but then she shot to her feet and strode away from him. With the width of the room safely between them, she spun around and stared at him. “Marry you?” She swallowed with effort. “Marry you? For heaven's sake, Max! Why?”