Dream Man (10 page)

“No, Max. Our relationship is purely business.”

“Right,” he said, then set the extinguisher on her desk and turned, closing the door quietly behind him as he left. Jeanie sighed, hid the pages of his letter in the bottom of a drawer, and went back to the résumé she'd been struggling with when he'd set Cindy's wastebasket on fire.

She had finished the résumé, taken a package of cheese and crackers from a shelf in the credenza, poured herself a cup of coffee, and was spreading crumbs across her desk when the letter somehow materialized on her blotter again. She reread it, wondering if the extinguisher was fully expended just in case it was needed, and started at the top once more. There was something about that letter that was too compelling for her to shove it through the shredder; it brought back too many of the previous night's sensations. Was that what a love letter was supposed to do? If it was, then Max McKenzie had missed his calling. He should have been a gigolo!

When the door of her office opened, she jumped and folded her arms across the incendiary pages, terrified of Cindy's reaction should she see them.

It was bad enough that she—along with several others from adjacent offices—had heard Max start quoting from the damned thing. The gossips must be having a ball. “What—” What is it? she had started to say to her receptionist, but her word choked off as Max, laden with Chinese food bags from the Golden Dragon around the corner, came in and dumped the packages on her desk.

“Lunch,” he said, and handed her another full-blown rose, this time, yellow. “Since you didn't comment on the red one, I thought maybe you hadn't liked it.”

Slowly, she stood. “I liked it,” she said through an oddly tight throat. “And I like this one too. Thank you, Max. And especially, thank you for returning my comb. It is something I value highly. It belonged to my dad's great-grandmother. She was a Gypsy.”

He came around to her side of the desk, sat down in her chair, and pulled her onto his lap, leaning around her shoulder to look at the papers only half hidden by her blotter.

“And you liked that, too, didn't you?” he asked with what barely missed being a smug grin.

“Damn you!” she said. “Oh, damn you, Max McKenzie!” But then she kissed him with all the scary, wonderful feelings that were growing inside her like the full-blown rose that was being crushed between their tightly melded bodies.

He broke the kiss long enough to say, “Yeah, and damn you, too, Jeanie-the-Gypsy Leslie.”

“MAX, WHAT ARE WE DOING?”
she said moments later, when she was able to speak.

He cradled her head in his hands and smiled at her. “Getting in the mood.”

“I was beginning to get the impression that you were always in the mood.”
And, when you're around, so am I.
She pushed his arms away from her and got unsteadily off his lap. “Out,” she said. “Out of my chair.” He stood, and she sat down, immediately aware of the heat his body had left behind. “I should also say ‘out of my office,' but I'm starving and that food smells wonderful.”

Taking the visitor's chair, he set it close to hers and opened the first of the bags on her desk, lifting out two round, foil-topped dishes. “Where you're concerned, I am always in the mood,” he said, coaxing the lid off the first dish. The scent wafting up around her made Jeanie swiftly forget her cheese and crackers, and she eagerly delved into another bag, lifting out the flat, round dish and prying off its lid.

They ate with their fingers and chopsticks, munching on egg rolls, dipping into chow mein, deep-fried prawns, and sweet-and-sour boneless pork, sharing the dishes as if they'd been picnicking together all their lives. While they ate, they talked and laughed and enjoyed each other, arguing sometimes, agreeing on most subjects, though, and discovering a mutual passion for Roy Etzel's music.

“Nobody, but nobody has ever played a trumpet like him. When I hear his
Il Silenzio
I put my life on hold until the last notes fade away,” Jeanie said.

“I know. His music's incredible.” He licked his fingers and began stuffing plum and soy sauce packages into one of the empty bags, then gave her a sheepish grin and a sideways glance. “I play the trumpet a little myself, you know. Sometimes I dream that if I keep on, I'll find the magic he created, hit every note with the same absolute clarity. I'll never make it, of course, but everyone's entitled to a dream, no matter how crazy or futile it might be.”

She was oddly touched that he'd revealed such an intimate facet of his personality. She laid her hand over his briefly before moving away; being close to the man was too tempting. Without any encouragement at all, she could find herself back in his arms. “Maybe, in time, you will. If you have the heart for it and the talent, then surely all it takes is practice.”

“I have the heart, but I'm afraid I lack the talent. Besides, I only practice when there's no one around for miles and miles.”

Jeanie spoke over her shoulder from where she was dampening a paper towel in her private bathroom. “Where do you find that kind of privacy?”

As she returned, he took the towel from her and began wiping the sticky spills off her desk. “Way up a mountainside about halfway up the Malahat, accessible only by air or along a long and winding private road fit only for mountain goats and four-by-fours, I've got a tiny cabin. It's one room and a loft, perched on a bluff high over a little lake. There's never anyone else around, and that's where I play my trumpet.” He stopped what he was doing and looked out into space, a half-smile on his lips, his eyes seeing things only he could see, his ears attuned to something in his memory. “It sings for me there,” he added softly, “echoing out over the lake and bouncing back from the hills. Up there, it's the only entertainment I need, the only companionship. There, I can almost believe I'm good.” He shrugged and his mouth twisted. “Sort of like singing in the shower, I guess.”

She smiled gently. “Maybe you are good, Max. You must have had lessons. What did your teachers say?”

“No lessons,” he said. “I can't even read music. An old friend of my dad's gave me his trumpet to play with one day when I was a kid. We were out on a boat. He showed me how to get sounds out of it. And I seemed to catch on right away. He was so amazed, he bought me one of my own and wanted me to take lessons. He wanted to give me lessons. I was eleven or so and thought music lessons were for sissies. Besides, it turned out I really didn't need them in order to get music out of the horn. I just sort of play and the right notes … happen … at the right time and place. If I hear the tune a couple of times I can come up with a pretty close approximation of what the composer had in mind.”

She stared at him. “I'd like to hear you someday.”

“Then you'd have to come up to my cabin and visit me. I've never entertained anyone there, but I think I could stand sharing it with you.” The way he said it and the way he looked at her as he spoke made her quiver deep inside. If she went to his cabin, it wouldn't be just to hear him play the trumpet, and they were both very much aware of that.

She had to get her mind off the ramifications of her and Max alone in a remote cabin with only each other—and a trumpet—for entertainment. She didn't think the trumpet would get much use.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I lack the necessary ingredients for a trip to your cabin. I don't have a four-by-four. Nor do I have wings.”

He grinned. “Neither do I, but I do have a helicopter and a small landing pad. Would that do? I could take you and my trumpet and see what kind of music the three of us could make together.”

“That,” she said, “sounds decidedly kinky, Mr. McKenzie.”

His grin widened and his eyes danced. “Yeah. I thought so too.”

“You'd fascinate my sister,” she told him.

He raised his brows. “Your sister likes kinky trumpeters?”

“I doubt it, but it would likely break her heart to know there's a natural like you running around loose without any training at all. She's a musician, a fine harpist. Trained at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto. She was a wonderful composer, too.”

“Was?”

“She … gave it all up.”

“Why?” he asked, then grimaced. “Sorry. None of my business.”

Jeanie sighed. He was right, of course, and she didn't like to talk about Sharon's having turned her back on her music, the stuff of her very existence. She hated even to think of it. Especially now, because it had been her desperate hope that a different interest in life—namely a man—might be the catalyst needed to turn Sharon around. That hope was what had introduced her to Max McKenzie.

Moments of silence passed before he tilted her face up with one finger. “You look sad. Want to tell me about it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing to tell.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to get back to work, Max, and I'm sure you do too. Or Freda Legree will be hot on your tail.”

“I'm going to tell her you called her that.”

“Go ahead. I don't expect I'll ever meet her.”

“Yes, you will. And by the way, she has instructions that you can interrupt my writing any time of the day or night. Call, and you'll be put right through, no arguments, no burning down the west wing, no pit bulls to fight off.” Cradling her face between her hands, he kissed her hard and deeply, sliding his hands into her hair, loosening it from its confining clips. When she was limp and compliant against him, he whispered against her lips, “You taste delicious.”

“So do you.” She couldn't stop herself from taking another taste. “Soy sauce, sesame seeds, and Max.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured huskily moments later, “that's soy sauce, sesame seeds, and Jeanie,” Then, as if he'd made a very firm decision, he added, “You will meet Freda, you know. And you'll meet my brother, as well as my mother and father. Come home with me for dinner tonight, Jeanie.” It sounded more as if he were saying
Come home with me to bed tonight, Jeanie
… and she didn't know which she was refusing when she shook her head.

“Too soon?” he asked, his head tilted to one side.

“It's not that. It's just that there's no point.”

“Ah, Jeanie, don't keep kidding yourself. We belong together. And one way or another, we are going to be together.”

She shivered, knowing he was right. It was inevitable. She, who resisted casual affairs, seemed about to embark on one, although just how casual it would turn out to be was another question. The only thing she knew for sure was that no relationship she had was going to be of a legal nature. That way, if she needed out, she could just walk away. There'd be no male-dominated court system to take away everything she had ever worked for and award it to a man, simply because he had the money to hire the better lawyer.

She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “You can come to my place tonight for dinner if you like.”

Even as she said it, she wondered if dinner were all she meant to offer him.

His smile had the power of a dozen suns. “What time?”

“Eight?”

“I'll be there.”

“Okay. And in the meantime, will you redo the first letter for me? I'd really like to get it away to my client tomorrow.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “I'll bring it with me tonight, and you can okay it.” After another quick kiss, he turned and strode from her office, leaving the door ajar. Through the crack she heard Cindy giggle and wondered what he had said to the girl. No doubt it was something charming that would have her receptionist dreaming dreams of a black-haired hero with midnight blue eyes.

She shut the door. “Sorry, Cindy,” she said. “He's too old for you.”

And too dangerous for you
, she told herself.

But only a very tiny, insignificant part of her even bothered to listen.

“I forgot to ask,” Max said, entering her apartment with an armful of white roses mixed with purple flags and frothy greenery. “Can you cook?”

She shrugged. “About as well as you write mash notes.”

He grinned. “Wow! I'm impressed! What are we having, stuffed squab? Lobster thermidor? Pheasant under glass?”

“Such an ego! I refuse to feed it. Instead, I'll feed you beef Stroganoff, hot buttered noodles, and
Salade Jeanie
.” With a smile, she took the flowers and led the way into the kitchen where she placed the bouquet on the table as he rummaged under the sink for a large enough vase.

“Artistic, too, I see.” Max watched closely as she twitched one of the irises into a slightly different position and added another tuft of feather asparagus the florist had included.

“Thank you,” she said. “But an artist is only as good as her materials. I couldn't have done it without the lovely flowers. You're very generous.”

“I'm also very rich,” he said easily, taking the vase from her. “I don't say that to boast but to let you know in case you were wondering what you'd turned down.”

“I wasn't,” she said. “I recognized your Beacon Hill address as posh if not downright opulent.”

What she didn't say was that it was only a block or two from her maternal grandparents' definitely luxurious mansion, one she had visited exactly once since her parents' deaths.

“But you weren't impressed.”

“Not particularly. I earn enough to keep myself comfortable. If I were the type to wear sable, I'd also be the type who wouldn't value it unless I'd earned it myself.” She nodded at the vase of flowers he held. “Would you mind setting those on the little corner table by the windows in the living room? And while you're there, you might like to put a match to the fire.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. He was back seconds later, standing too close, taking up more than his fair share of the limited space in the kitchen.