Authors: Carol Rose
Her smile grew ironic. “Well, seeing how as all I’m going to have in the next six weeks are working and sleeping hours, I’ve decided to take a break—every week day at four.”
“Fine.” He suspected she was merely trying to annoy him. “You’ll find a television down the hall on the right. Now get on with your typing.”
* * *
Nicole watched him leave, unexpected laughter bubbling up in her. He was used to running people off, but the guy didn’t scare her. She needed him to give her father a release and that was the only reason she was here, but she didn’t plan on being a doormat in the process. Max had required her to type his manuscript, but their original agreement hadn’t said anything about her shutting up.
Whenever she made a smart remark, his eyes darkened even more. He was so self-contained, so locked down, she couldn’t help but try and shake him up a little. Sometimes people needed a reason to rethink their ideas about the world. He was so isolated behind his work and his money, who would ever be honest with him?
She looked unseeing at the words on the screen, mentally reviewing their conversation, in particular, her own reference to his “unsatisfied state.” Thank God she’d been able to keep from showing the other direction of her thoughts. A man as good-looking and virile as Max surely couldn’t be
unsatisfied
in his personal life. Not that she’d seen any evidence of women in his life—besides the assistants he liked to exchange on a regular basis. Then again, she’d only been here for several hours. He could have a dozen hot girlfriends, as far as she knew. Some women liked icy, withdrawn men and, heaven knew, Max had enough physical attributes to catch a woman’s eye. Even while he was freezing her with his sharp tongue, she couldn’t help being aware of his pull.
What made a human being need to be so self-protective?
She shook her head. This was going to be one weird six weeks. Who knew how a man with his bizarre talent and major money lived? He could have a bunch of odd habits she’d be a witness to. That would explain why he’d had her sign the “no talking to the press” contract.
To her annoyance, there had been three photographers hanging around outside the building when she came in this morning. Scum. Max was no prize, humanity-wise, but he deserved to be left alone, if he wanted it that way.
Nicole scooted back in her chair, her fingers poised over the computer keyboard. At least, she’d get to watch
Johnna!
everyday. During the school year, she had to tape her favorite talk show. Watching it live was one of her summer treats. When she’d accepted this temporary job, she’d thought she was going to have to miss out. But just now when Max was being such a butt, the idea to insist on watching it had popped into her mind. Let
him
do a little adjusting for a change.
It just might be good for him.
Tilting the note pad for better visibility, she went back to her typing.
Just then a door chime sounded, a muted, almost muffled sound. Her hands hovering over the keyboard, Nicole squinted at the pad, trying to make sense of Max’s atrocious handwriting. It wasn’t her job to answer the man’s door.
The chime sounded again, followed by a knock.
Lifting her head, she listened for the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Was the guy deaf when he was working or did the “no interruptions” rule extend to the doorbell!
Again, the chime rang combined with louder knocking.
“Good grief.” She got up and went to the front door, pausing only to release the four deadbolts before opening it.
The heavy door swung open, revealing a scowling man. He was tall with dark, gray-flecked hair, and looked like he’d dressed at random, his clothes not quite matching.
“This is for Max,” he said without preamble, thrusting out an envelope.
“Oh!” Startled, she took it. “Wait. I’ll get him. He’s right in—“
“No.” The stranger’s voice was rough. Standing there uncertainly, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. “No. Just give it to him. He can mail my check to me. The checks must have got switched at Ruth’s office.”
Max’s agent. Ruth.
Nicole frowned, puzzled by the man’s obvious agitation.
“Just have him mail it.” He turned and left.
Watching the guy disappear into the elevator, Nicole shrugged and shut the door. Beyond wondering idly just how many zeros she’d find on one of Max’s royalty checks, she gave the envelope little thought. But since she’d answered the door and accepted the check, she’d better take it to him.
Crossing the hall, she climbed the stairs to where Max sat in the window, the sun to his broad, muscular back as he frowned at the pad on his knee.
“Did you hear the doorbell?” she asked, perversely glad to have a reason to interrupt him again. He sat in the wide window, his dark head bent over his work.
“What?” He looked up, still frowning.
“The doorbell. It just rang three or four times. I answered it when it became clear you weren’t going to. A guy dropped this off. He says it’s a check. Apparently, your agent’s office sent your check to him by mistake.”
While she was talking, Max had opened the envelope.
“Okay.” His voice sounded odd.
“He was a tall guy, dark, about your height. He seemed to think you had his check.” Nicole looked at him expectantly. It made no sense, but she couldn’t deny the urge to prod him into some kind of interaction. For such a physically attractive guy, he managed to be fairly repelling, at least, his manner did.
“I might have his check.” Max stared at the one in his hand.
“He must be an author, too. One of Ruth’s other clients?” She leaned against the newel post. “I didn’t recognize him. Should I have?”
“What?” Max looked up. “No. I don’t know.”
“Like I said, he was tall, about your height. Dark like you, only he seemed a little older. I thought maybe he was a friend of yours,” she lied, repressing the urge to grin. Without a doubt, Max wouldn’t be the kind of person to have a lot of friends. Friends didn’t hang out with a guy because he had a great body and a cute butt. Friends had to like you.
“I mean, don’t authors belong to professional organizations? I thought maybe you got together and drank beers or something—“
“No.” Max carefully folded the check. “It was my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
Nicole stood looking down at him, her amusement vanished. “I told him you were here. I said I’d come get you, but he didn’t want me to.”
Max said nothing as he shoved the check into his shirt pocket.
“I guess I should have—“
“Never mind,” he said, not looking at her. “He dropped off the check, that’s all.”
Some sort of bad blood must be lingering between the two brothers, Nicole realized intelligently.
She looked at Max sitting in the window. “Your brother said something about you mailing his check to him. He said they must have gotten switched at Ruth’s office.”
“Probably.”
For a moment, Nicole would have preferred Max’s occasionally acid tongue to his silence. If Ruth had made the mistake, why hadn’t Max’s brother returned the check to her? It was obvious the two men weren’t on good terms. But Max’s brother
had
brought the check over personally. Maybe he wanted to patch things up with Max.
“So, your brother is an writer, too?”
Max looked up then. “Don’t you have some work to do?”
“I just thought…. “Why didn’t he want to see you?”
“This is none of your business.” Max’s voice was hard.
“No, but…if you and your brother are fighting, maybe it would help if you took his check over to him and sat down and talked about—“
“Listen,” Max got abruptly to his feet, “save your rescuing efforts for your father. I don’t need your help.”
Surprised and annoyed, she watched him start down the stairs.
“No,” she said sarcastically, following him, “it’s obvious you don’t need anyone’s help. You’re so healthy and well-adjusted. You have so many people clamoring to be near you—“
They had reached the apartment foyer by then. He swung around, glaring fiercely at her. “Go work. I don’t need anyone clamoring for anything, so keep your co-dependent, touchy-feely shit to yourself.”
Without another word, he turned and walked, bare-foot, out of the apartment.
Nicole stared at the closed door realizing—duh!—she’d unwittingly stumbled across a sore subject. A subject that roused the incredible, detached Max Tucker to a more vocal kind of rudeness. Interesting.
CHAPTER FOUR
A week later, Nicole sat at the computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard, totally absorbed in the story flowing beneath her hands.
“Here.”
To her left, her peripheral vision spotted a loaded plate at the same second her nose realized the source of the delicious smell.
Food.
“Take a break and eat,” Max ordered. “It’s after nine.”
She glanced up at the window, realizing darkness must have set in several hours ago. In the canyons of New York City, night fell earlier. She’d gotten so lost in the words she typed, she hadn’t even realized the day had passed into evening.
Picking up the plate, she noted that Max had left. Her thoughts eagerly returning to the manuscript, Nicole scanned the next page of his scribbling. Between bites, she typed.
Since she’d been working most nights until eleven or twelve, this wasn’t the first meal she’d eaten in front of the computer. In fact, all her meals had been eaten here with the exception of muffins and fruit, she ordered from room service before leaving the hotel each morning. Max wanted her here, ready to go, at the ungodly hour of seven.
Those first two or three days, she hadn’t really had much to do. Max had initially given her character sketches to type—most of which hadn’t yet shown up in the book. On the fourth day of working here, she’d come in, bleary in the early morning light, and found a stack of notepads beside the computer. All of them were filled with Max’s horrendous handwriting and from then on the book had just grown in the most amazing way. To her surprise, she felt spellbound by the developing story.
No wonder the man had his investment broker on speed dial. Someone had to watch over his millions.
Nicole put down her fork and finished the paragraph she’d been typing. Pausing, she glanced again at her plate and realized what she’d been eating. Surprisingly good lasagna, broccoli, a fresh, crisp salad and a fluffy wheat roll. It was all really good and she found herself wondering what restaurant had delivered it. Not that it was looking like she’d ever get enough time off to actually
eat-out
.
Leaning back in her chair, she stretched, trying to ease the kinks from sitting so long. She must have been more deeply absorbed than she’d realized. When the delivery guy rang, the sound of the doorbell hadn’t even penetrated her thoughts.
Standing up, Nicole gathered her plate and eating utensils and carried them into the kitchen.
She paused in the doorway, surprised to see Max loading the dishwasher. The kitchen bore the signs of a room where a meal had been prepared. A pan of lasagna still sat on the high-tech stove. A storage container of broccoli sat on the counter next to the refrigerator. Scanning the room, she saw there were no visible take-out containers or bags.
“You cooked this meal?” Nicole asked.
Max looked up quickly.
“Yes,” he said, rearranging a saucepan in the dishwasher.
“Really?” Surprise mingled with doubt in her voice. “It was great.”
He glanced at her with a sardonic smile as he reached for a damp dishcloth and began wiping the counter clean.
“I mean, it was terrific,” she stressed, still having a hard time picturing the famous Max Tucker doing something as mundane—and kind—as cooking a meal for her to eat. Of course, he had to eat as well. He’d probably just decided to give her some of his dinner. But the fact that he could cook well was so completely unexpected. “Surprisingly great food.”
“Yes,” he replied neutrally. “I’m picking up on your surprise. Have you finished Chapter Five yet?”
Nicole threw him a searching, puzzled glance. Weird. She still couldn’t believe he’d
cooked.
“No, but I’ll get it done before I leave tonight.”
“Fine.”
“I’m loving this book, but how do you stand the isolation?” she asked in a casual tone.
“Isolation?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I haven’t really talked to anyone, but you and Ruth since I started this. I did hear your banker’s voice when he called yesterday. But your doorman downstairs and the people who work in the coffee shop across the street are pretty much the only ones I speak to on a regular basis. Of course, I’m sure you know all the people at the coffee shop, the way you drink the stuff.”
“No,” he said uncompromisingly.
She looked up in inquiry. “You don’t like their coffee?”
“I have no opinion on it, having never sampled the product.”
Nicole stared at him for a long moment, narrowing her gaze as she tried to get what he was saying. She knew the man loved coffee. He was rarely without a cup of it in his hand.
As if sensing her puzzlement, he said shortly, “I don’t frequent public places—“
“Never?” she questioned in disbelief.
“There are,” Max said, his irritation shaded briefly with defensiveness, “a few good restaurants where people value anonymity.”