Dream Man

by Judy Griffith Gill

  “I’m sure time will, if you don’t,” he said easily as they started down the four flights of stairs. “The elevator worked fine when I came up a few minutes ago.”

  “Did it?” she asked. “Exercise is good you, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “Max,” he said, taking her arm, drawing in deep breaths of the delicate scent that wafted up from her hair.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard him.

  “My name is Max.” He wanted to hear her say his name in that sexy, husky voice of hers. Never had he wanted so much to hear a woman say his name, but she seemed determined to be all business.

  “Yes, I know.” She slipped her arm out of his clasp, swung her shoulder bag in between them, and returned his warm smile with a small, cool one of her own. She was, he realized with a slight sense of shock and a large dose of curiosity, completely impervious to that so-called natural charm his brother envied. Why? When his body chemistry reacted so wildly to her, wasn’t the feeling supposed to be mutual? She was also, he realized, not going to offer her first name in response to his.

  “My car’s just around the corner,” he said as they came down the last flight of stairs and into the building’s lobby

  “Mine’s right out here,” said Jeanie, pushing open the door to the staff parking area at the rear of the building, stepping out into a swirl of leaves from the autumn-gold poplars between the lot and the sidewalk. Dream man or not, she wasn’t getting into a car with a man she had never met before and knew absolutely nothing about. Not unless she was behind the wheel and in control.

  Sharon had taught her that much—and considerably more, Jeanie mused as she drove through the crowded streets of downtown Victoria. It hadn’t been easy for Sharon, at eighteen years old, to take up the rearing of a little sister in a small apartment in Toronto, all the two girls could afford while Sharon attended the Royal Conservatory of Music. After their parents died, she and her sister had survived some rough times together.

  Her passenger broke into her thoughts. “Nice car. I’ve always admired Nissan’s workmanship.”

  “Thank you. I find it comfortable to drive.”

  “Yes. I can tell. You’re a very smooth driver.” She glanced at him, pleased with the comment, but did not reply. She felt vaguely surprised to learn that he wasn’t one of those dinosaurs who hated to have a woman drive him. Sneakily, she watched from the corner of her eye as he sat back, his gaze switching from small glances at her face to the passing scenes of Government Street. When she parked the car, he was out his door and around to her side in a few long-legged paces. He opened her door and helped her out, his hand large and warm on her elbow. As she had on the stairs, she pulled away quickly. She was determined to keep this luncheon on a businesslike plane, especially because the mere touch of his hand had the extraordinary ability to turn her insides to butterscotch pudding. Things like this did not happen to Jeanie Leslie.

  When they were seated, had been served ice water with lemon slices, and steaming cups of coffee, and their orders taken, she leaned back in her chair and smiled, hoping her professional calm properly masked her deepening interest in him.

  Who was he? Had she seen him somewhere before? She had an active social life. Maybe they’d attended the same party once or twice, she’d seen him across the room and had subconsciously remembered him. That could account for his having figured so largely in her dreams these last months. But even as she thought it, she knew she was trying to fool herself. If she’d seen Max McKenzie, even across a crowded room, she’d have remembered with more than her subconscious. Extreme caution was called for here, she thought. Maybe even a little chicken-hearted cowardice.

  “Now, Mr. McKenzie,” she said briskly, wanting to get this meeting over with fast, “how can I help you?”

  He considered telling her, but it was far too soon in their relationship for him to say what was uppermost in his mind—that his brother had given him the germ of an idea, and meeting her had given that little seed a helluva big dose of growth hormone. Besides, he was certain that if he gave himself a day or two to reflect, he’d realize the idea was one of the dumbest he’d ever entertained. So what if she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, with her pink and gold skin, tawny-colored hair, smoky eyes? So what if the scent she exuded made his head reel? So what if she walked as if she wore a tiara and long, ermine-trimmed robes? So what if he had, for one wild moment, suddenly felt as though there might be such a thing as love at first sight? It was impossible because love itself was impossible. No, this was purely the worst case of lust he’d ever suffered, exacerbated by her failure to respond to him as women always did. Some devil in him demanded that he break through that cool reserve of hers, make those smoky eyes flare with flames of excitement. Ah, yes. Good, old-fashioned lust. There was nothing to do but wait it out. It would go away in time, especially if he didn’t see her again. He remembered once when he was in college he’d gotten so dizzy over the sight and scent of a flight attendant that he’d wanted to ask for oxygen. At least the experience had proven to him that he was capable of going off the deep end momentarily, but that it would also pass. So he said what he’d come to say before he’d had it wiped from his mind by the sight of her tall slender body and slate-gray eyes.

  “You can start by telling me your first name.”

  “Jeanie.” She gave a tiny shrug, more impressed than she liked to admit when he didn’t automatically respond with the usual, “Jeanie with the light brown hair.” It amazed her how that phrase from a long-ago song hung on in the modern vernacular.

  “I’d like to know more about the job that requires a mature man who likes children, country life, and classical music, Jeanie.”

  To his surprise, her cool facade broke for an instant, and her eyes flared not with excitement or pleasure but with that hint of fear he’d seen before.

  She stared at him, reared back slightly in her chair, and said sharply, “No! Absolutely not.”

  Chapter Two

  JEANIE FELT HER MIND go blank for a moment, then fill with tangled thoughts. She had known. On the most basic of levels, she had known the moment she saw him that he had come to her for one reason only, weeks late, maybe, but who was she to argue with destiny? Except that now she found she didn’t want him to know she had placed that ad personally, or why. What held her back she couldn’t say, but maybe it was because he was so right it terrified her. But she realized Sharon would never be able to handle a man like him, not in her present state of mind. He was too strong, too overwhelming. Too … male.

  “No!” she said, shocked to hear the incipient panic in her voice. She shook her head to clear it, forced the fear down, and brought herself under tight control. “I’m sorry,” she said pleasantly, but firmly, keeping her gaze on his face, “but that job isn’t being offered any longer.”

  “Oh?” His brows lifted. “It came over the ExecNet this morning on my brother’s fax machine.”

  “It did?” Her shock was evident again, but she controlled it even more quickly than before. “If so, then it was sent out by mistake.” She pulled a wry face and sighed dramatically, rolling those gorgeous gray eyes heavenward.

  He smiled. “Cindy?”

  With a small laugh, she nodded. “I guess so. Poor Cindy.”

  “Why not poor you? You have to put up with her.”

  She gave him a level stare. “I do not have to put up with her. I choose to. If you had ever been a young woman looking for office work, you’d understand why. So many ads read, Junior office clerk wanted. Must have at least two years’ experience. And then they offer a rate of pay so insultingly low that no male would ever be expected to live on it. I used to wonder how and where young women were supposed to gain experience if no one would hire them until they had some. So I take them on right out of school and train them whenever I get a chance and encourage my clients to do the same.”

  He smiled and reached across the table to touch the back of her left hand, drawing a b
lunt, white nail from the base of her ring finger to the tip. “You’re a nice woman, Jeanie Leslie.”

  She withdrew her hand slowly and looked at him, wondering why she was so fierce in her determination to keep Max and Sharon apart. She didn’t usually feel quite so strongly about things of this nature. She was being protective, that was all. She dragged her mind back to their conversation. “Thank you. But I don’t do it to be nice. I do it because it’s right.”

  He startled her with his next question. “Are you a single mother?”

  She blinked, and he saw again how long and thick and black her lashes were. Incredible!

  “Why, no!” she said, surprised. “I’m not a mother at all. What made you ask?”

  “Because of the ad.”

  She turned a delicate shade of pink but held his gaze steadily. “That ad,” she said crisply. “was withdrawn several weeks ago.”

  “Why?”

  She stared at him. “Why? Mr. McKenzie, an advertisement can be dropped at any time. A person can change her mind about her requirements.”

  “I’m aware of that,” he said with the same easy grace he’d shown when he’d accepted her decision to take her car. His eyes danced, she thought, with slightly mocking humor. “How long after I walked through that door did you change your mind about your requirements?”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard the words, Mr. McKenzie.” Her voice was cold. “It was your meaning I was questioning.”

  “Ms. Leslie … Jeanie, you sent out that particular ad.” It was not a question.

  “Yes, I did. Originally. But not today. Sending out advertisements is one of my functions as a career consultant. I help place clients who are seeking employment with those who are employers, and vice versa. I try to match the right person with the right company.”

  “Exactly. But clearly, it was not a company requiring a mature man who likes children and music and is capable of forming a long-term attachment, or words to that effect. It was a woman.”

  Jeanie barely resisted the urge to shift in her chair, to look away from him, to gnaw on her lip. Any of those actions would have been completely unprofessional and would have shown her agitation. “It was,” she stated. “But I assure you, I am not the woman who was searching for a … mate. I simply placed the ad. However, details of any contract I might have with a client are confidential. And since, as I mentioned, the ad has been withdrawn, I see no need to discuss it. Who do you think will win the Grey Cup this year, Mr. McKenzie?”

  He laughed. “You placed that ad. And I don’t think it was for a client. Again I ask why?”

  What right did he have to be so damned perceptive? Did he have a Gypsy great-great-grandmother somewhere in his background too? She assumed her most professional demeanor. “And again I must point out that I am under no obligation to tell you why or whom or what or anything further about it. And I resent your harping on it, Mr. McKenzie.”

  He looked contrite. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you’d let me explain?”

  “Why don’t you?’ she agreed. “Tell me what makes a man like you apply for such a job.”

  He leaned back as the waiter set her salad before her and his clam chowder before him. Picking up his spoon, he said, “A man like me?”

  For just a second, he thought he detected chagrin in her expression, but she quickly and successfully masked it. Damn! Would he ever be able to effectively read her? And why was it so important that he do? After he found out about that dumb job offer, he wasn’t going to see her again. Was he?

  “Surely,” she said, “you have no difficulty in finding women. You’re not ugly, I haven’t noticed that you smell bad, and you have a pleasant manner. Most of the time.”

  He smiled. “Did you expect to get ugly, unpleasant, and smelly applicants, Ms. Leslie?”

  To his delight, she laughed and her eyes lightened. “Touché, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “Max. And I came to discuss that ad because I’m a free-lance writer.”

  “Ahh…” Sympathy and understanding flashed across her face. He realized she thought he had foolishly and prematurely given up his day job.

  “No, it’s not like that,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t need extra work. In fact, I don’t want the job you offered at all.”

  She was incapable of replying. He didn’t want to meet Sharon? He wasn’t interested in being a hero like the one she’d dreamed up, ready and eager to rescue her sister from all manner of perils? He wasn’t looking for a wife? She didn’t know which emotion was uppermost, relief or disappointment. She could only stare at him, feeling buffeted by winds of doubt and confusion. She had changed her mind, dammit! She had withdrawn the ad! Why should she feel so let down to know that he wasn’t interested in the position?

  After a moment, she said “Fine. Then there’s nothing to discuss, is there? There’s no job, and if there were, you wouldn’t want it. What’s your favorite vacation spot, Mr. McKenzie?”

  “It’s true I’m not applying for the job. If there were a job. And call me Max.”

  “Of course. If.” Her tone was as dry as his had been, but her gray eyes sparkled with sudden, silent laughter. She did not call him Max.

  “But I do want to know about it,” he went on as if she hadn’t interrupted. “I’m doing an article on strange jobs and intriguing job offers. And,” he added with a smile, “you must surely admit that a job description calling for someone capable of making a long-term commitment, then saying that the length of employment would be three weekends, certainly qualifies as odd.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose it does.” Her voice sounded rough-edged. She cleared her throat and said, “It’s an interesting idea, that article of yours. How long have you been working on it? Have you always been a writer? What other strange job offers have you researched so far?”

  She knew she was talking too much, that she wasn’t giving the man a chance to answer. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then forced herself to pick up her fork and start in on her turkey salad.

  “Chicken catching, for one,” he said, his gaze still on her face.

  “What?” She laughed, realizing that his intent gaze no longer made her quite so uncomfortable. It probably was just the way he looked at everyone. Maybe she was getting used to it. She hoped so. She wanted to get used to it. To him. She wanted to be able to get tired of him. To be able to turn her back on him, forget her erstwhile plans for Sharon. Maybe now that she’d met him, he’d get out of her dreams. She ate some more, while he spooned up his thick chowder and broke a piece off the small hot loaf in a basket between them. He offered her some, but she shook her head and slid the dish of iced butter curls closer to him.

  “Someone hires people to catch chickens?” she asked. “And what do you do with them once you’ve caught them?”

  “Stuff them into cages so they can be taken to market. It pays surprisingly well, but the chicken growers over in the Fraser Valley still have a hard time keeping competent staff.”

  “Why is that?”

  He wrinkled his nose as if remembering. “It’s a lousy job.”

  That piqued her interest. “Did you actually do it? Do you take on every job you want to learn about?” Was he willing to go and meet Sharon? At that very moment she realized she did not want him to meet her sister—because she wanted him all to herself. The realization was so startling, she scarcely heard his next words and had to force herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

  He shook his head. “Not every one, but that one I did for two nights, just for the experience. It has to be done at night, of course, because the chickens are slow and stupid with sleep.”

  She laughed softly again. “I thought chickens were slow and stupid at the best of times.” Of course he wouldn’t want to meet a woman “just for the experience.” She knew a nice man when she met one.

  “Probably are, but they’re more-so at night. I can understand why it’s hard to keep staff, though. You grab the b
irds by their feet, two in each hand, and stuff them into wire cages, all the while trying to keep the ones you’ve already crammed in there from getting out again. It’s a messy, smelly job, and the damn things squawk and flap and try to get away.”

  She had to say something to hide the crazy spinning of her mind. She had to appear normal and rational and intelligent. She laughed lightly again and said, “Well, really, do you blame them, Max?”

  He could only stare at her, wordless. She had said his name. At last, she had said it. And it had sounded as good as he’d thought it would, soft and warm and husky. He wanted to ask her to whisper it. He wanted what? Was he out of his everlovin’ mind? He pondered that idea. Maybe he was. Maybe that would account for the odd things happening to him, the odd notions that had kept popping into his head ever since he’d set eyes on Jeanie Leslie. He smiled into her eyes, thinking about how his name had sounded on her lips. For some reason he couldn’t think about anything else.

  Max swallowed hard as he saw the front of her suit jacket gape slightly, revealing the curve of her breasts under her pink silk blouse, a vee of delicate skin, the fine gold chain that disappeared down under her blouse. He wanted to trace that chain and see where it went. He wanted—

  He forced himself to lift his gaze back to her face. Jeanie Leslie was too much a lady to like being ogled in public. He didn’t know how he knew that or why he’d let it stop him, but in the past half hour he hadn’t seemed to be too smart at all. About anything.

  “Max? Are you all right?” Her voice, his name again, came from far away. He had to look down so she wouldn’t see in his eyes the surge of lust that rose in his body.

  “Mmm-hmm.” His reply was just a rumble of sound, no words. He stared at the table as intently as he’d stared at her. Jeanie felt relieved. More or less. So she’d been right. He did look at everyone the same way. Maybe everything. Even tables?

  “Well, do you?” she prompted him when he remained silent.