The Boss's Proposal (2 page)

Debating between a spa day and a gift certificate
for her favorite furniture store, Max wandered a bit farther, then stopped and let out a little breath of pleasure.

It stood on an easel, an abstract painting in blues and greens and a flush of rose-gold. And yet not an abstract, for the washes of color formed themselves into a landscape even as she looked, a painting that evoked a feeling as much as an image: Portland's Casco Bay at sunset, with the water turned golden and the offshore breeze bringing in the tang of salt water and the cries of the gulls.

“Perfect,” she murmured, already picturing it on her wall. A glance at the bid sheet had her raising her eyebrows, though. The current price would put a serious dent in her bank account. Certainly, there would be no more shopping for a few months if she bought the painting. Still, it was a long-term investment, not a pair of boots that would be out of fashion in a year. It only took one more look at the painting to decide her; she bent to fill in her initials and her bid on the sheet.

Her first impulse was to drag Glory over to admire the painting, but a quick glance showed her the artist was still surrounded by admirers. As for Max, she wanted to celebrate, but doing it at the gala felt a bit like trying to cut loose at the office. There were way too many people around who were part of the professional network in Portland, not to mention representatives of competitive firms or contractors hoping for a part of the project. Like many such events, it had
turned into a constantly shifting food-chain exercise of schmoozing and being schmoozed. And after two hours, she was sick to death of it all. What she itched to do was grab Glory and head out to the Old Port for complicated cocktails and maybe some live jazz. Soon, she promised herself. Once the silent auction ended, they would be free to go.

In the meantime, she wandered over to the wall of windows that overlooked the real Casco Bay, trying on for size the idea of finally being a project manager. Just the idea gave her a thrill. She could do what was best for the project, instead of always looking for a work-around. She could talk without trying to sugarcoat her words to suit Jeremy's idea of hierarchy. She could forget about office politics and focus on creating buildings that would change people's lives.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the waters of the bay turned to fire in the last rays of the setting sun. Portland might have been frigid and snowbound for much of the year, but in high summer, its beauty was unrivaled. Sure, in her heart of hearts Max had ambitions of working for one of the big international firms, designing buildings all over the world. At times like this, though, there was no place else she'd rather be.

“Here's to ya, baby,” she murmured, raising her glass for a sip.

“Thanks,” said a voice behind her. A male voice.

Not another contractor hoping to network with BRS, Max thought impatiently. She was done with it. So she didn't bother to turn around, just glanced back as briefly as possible.

And found herself looking back again.

He was tall and dark, with skin that spoke of time spent in sunnier climes. His face had the requisite hollow cheeks, square chin and rugged jaw that made up your average good-looking guy, but this guy wasn't average. There was something about him, a gleam in those almost black eyes as though the two of them shared some private joke, a devilish set to his mouth that was only enhanced by a Vandyke. With his swarthy skin and the gleam of gold at his ear, it gave him a vaguely piratical air. His thick dark hair was long on top and disordered as though he habitually had his hands in it. Amid the suits and tuxedos, he wore a black jacket over jeans and an open-collared violet dress shirt.

Definitely not a local contractor.

Out of ingrained habit, Max glanced at his left hand and found it bare.

“Don't you know it's rude to interrupt when a person's talking to herself?” she asked.

“Sorry, I didn't realize it was a private conversation. Are you finished or do you need more time?”

Her lips twitched. “I think we're good.”

“That's a relief.” He stepped up beside her.

Max was used to standing eye to eye with men but she found herself tilting her chin to meet his gaze. He
had a rangy build, broad shouldered without being bulky. “Fleeing the networkers?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the ballroom.

“Admiring the view,” he replied. But when she looked back, she found him watching her.

“The bay is that way.” She pointed toward the windows.

“I know.”

For a moment, she felt oddly breathless. Silly, Max told herself. She'd heard plenty of lines in her life and this was just one more. Except it seemed to be coming from a guy who studied her as though he knew some special secret. And she couldn't help but look at that mouth and wonder how he kissed.

She gave herself a mental shake. “Well, if you're going to admire the view outside, you'd better look fast. The sunset doesn't last long around here.”

“It takes a while to get to it, though. I forgot how far north Portland is. Nine o'clock at night and it's practically broad daylight.” Outside, the water threw up glints of gold; the islands of Great Diamond and Little Diamond glowed beyond.

“You're not from here, are you? I didn't think you were a Mainer.”

“No?” He studied her. “What gave me away?”

Her mouth curved. “Where do you want me to start? Not knowing when the sun sets, for one.”

“Do you keep track of it?”

“Keep track of it? If I had my way, we'd celebrate the summer solstice as a national holiday, or at the
very least a state one, since it gets dark here at noon, practically, in winter.”

“Celebrate it as a personal holiday for now. Or do you already?”

Max slanted him a glance. “You mean do I go out to the woods and dance by the light of the moon with flowers in my hair?”

“You do have a way of painting a picture, don't you?”

She felt her cheeks warm. “I didn't say I actually do it.”

“That's a shame. It's a pretty thought.”

He looked at her with that dark, intimate gaze and for just that flicker of time, the rest of the room faded away. It was just the two of them; she was alone with a man with eyes the color of midnight.

Then the sound system crackled. They glanced over to see an expensively dressed matron with frosted hair standing at the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Friends of Portland General annual fundraiser. Just a reminder, the silent auction closes in fifteen minutes, so get in there and make your final bids. It's all for charity, folks, so be generous.”

Relieved and yet somehow disappointed, Max turned toward the line of tables. “I should go check my bids.”

“Bids?” He walked alongside her easily. “I guess you've been busy.”

“Charitable,” she corrected, the strange moment
dissipating with the distance. “Anyway, they're mostly presents.” And, she discovered, mostly successful. She had the earrings by a comfortable margin. The competition for the fishing gear was closer than she'd like, but the latest overbid had only beaten her by ten dollars. She tacked on another twenty and figured she'd keep an eye on it, then turned to the painting.

It was even more arresting than she remembered, the colors more vibrant, and she wanted it even more than she had before.

“Nice.” He stood beside her. “It's the bay, right?”

“The same view we were just looking at, practically. Look, you can see Great Diamond and Little Diamond island, right there.”

“Are you bidding on it?”

Max nodded and stepped to the table. “I've been following the artist for a while. Tim Pritchard. His first major New York show last year sold—” Then she looked at the bid sheet and made a noise of frustration.

“I take it someone outbid you.”

She shook her head ruefully. “I knew I should have stayed here and watched it. The increases were getting small enough that I figured if I made a big jump, I'd scare them all off.”

“Maybe they don't scare that easily.”

“Maybe they should,” she tossed back. Perhaps it was the news about the project, perhaps it was flirting with an attractive stranger, but something made her
reckless. She added a hefty bump to the bid. “That ought to do it. Mr., um—” she looked more closely at the sheet “—Al-Aswari had better get used to disappointment. No matter how deep his pockets are.”

He stepped a little closer to glance down at the bid sheet. “They might be pretty deep.”

“I'll find a way.”

“Are you always so determined?”

“When I want something? Absolutely single-minded.”

“Single-minded,” he repeated. “And everybody else has to try to keep up with you?”

She felt her cheeks warm. The champagne, of course. “So far, no one's been able to. You never told me where you were from, by the way.”

“Didn't I?” His teeth gleamed. “Dubai.” He reached past her for the pen, leaning over to write on the line below her name.

Max stared at the sheet of paper. “You just bid on my painting.”

“It's not your painting yet. The auction still has—” he checked his watch, “—two minutes to go. And
Sheik
Al-Aswari
is
going to get your painting. I'm not big on disappointment.”

Max blinked. “Sheik?”

“Indeed.”

It wasn't often that she got surprised. She shouldn't have been now, Max thought. Certainly the coloring was right. He spoke without any accent she could distinguish, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

And sheik or no sheik, she wasn't about to let him beat her.

A slow smile spread over her face. “Sheik, hmm? Does that mean I should call you Your Highness?”

He looked amused. “If you like. But—”

“Good.” Without even taking time to debate, she leaned in to scribble a new number on the sheet and slapped the pen down. “Then I believe it's your bid. Your Highness.”

Behind them, the band swung into “You Can't Always Get What You Want.”

“Are you used to getting what you want?” He stepped closer.

Max could feel the sudden thud of her pulse. She raised her chin. “Most of the time. And you?”

“Always.” Then he took the pen and wrote a higher number on the line below hers.

He was baiting her, she knew, but it didn't stop her from reacting. “I hope you don't think I'm going away that easily,” she told him.

He reached out to brush his thumb down her cheek. “I don't want you to go anywhere.”

It stilled her for an instant. His touch shivered through her, setting up an answering response throughout her body. Something in her system fluttered a little then, as from a tiny vibration down deep.

Until she saw the slight curve of his smile.

The hell with her bank balance, Max thought,
picking up the pen. She wasn't about to lose the game now.

But the moment she'd stood frozen had been one moment too long. Even as she reached out for the bid sheet, it was whisked out from under her fingers. She looked up to see the monitor add it to his stack with an apologetic smile.

“I'm sorry, bidding is closed.”

Max stared, openmouthed, at the rapidly disappearing bid sheets.

“I guess that means I win,” the sheik said.

She turned. “You are a dog.”

“Careful where you say that. It's quite an insult in Dubai.”

“Your point?” She put her hands on her hips. “You stole my painting.”

“I did warn you.”

She set her jaw. “You're just lucky.”

“No,” he corrected, “I'm good. Have dinner with me.”

“After what you've done?”

“I'll take you to Hugo's. You can glower at me the whole time if you want.”

“On Friday night? Hugo's?” She snorted. “You couldn't get a reservation two weeks from now.”

His expression was half pitying, half amused. “I'll take you to Hugo's,” he repeated. “I'll even— Excuse me.” She watched while he pulled out his phone and scanned what she assumed was a text message. He looked up. “It looks like I have to go. Why don't you
give me your number and we can make plans for later in the week.”

She thought it over as he tapped in a quick reply to the text, then put his phone away. Lecturing herself, she pulled out one of her business cards. “Max McBain,” she said, handing it to him.

He glanced at her card, then looked more closely. “You're an architect?”

“Why? Do you need a palace built?”

“Maybe a bomb shelter.” He shook his head. “Listen, I've really got to go. I'll talk to you later.”

M
ax stepped out of the elevator into the BRS lobby, her heels clicking on the polished, narrow-planked wood floor. In the center, a blonde sat behind a semicircular workstation of golden oak and beaten copper. Behind that rose a divider of frosted glass emblazoned with the BRS obelisk logo.

“Happy Monday, Brenda,” Max said to the blonde.

“Morning, Max. Nice suit.”

“Thanks.” She'd worn a fitted nubby silk number with a yellow and black windowpane pattern. In architecture, clothes didn't just make the man—or woman—they telegraphed an architect's design philosophy. The job was all about the visuals, and on
a day like this one, she was putting her best stiletto forward. “How did Kelly's birthday party go this weekend?”

“A sleepover with a dozen eight-year-olds and you have to ask? I'm still getting crushed Pop Tarts out of the rug in the family room.”

Max grinned. “Fun, then.”

Brenda grinned back. “Exhausting, but fun. Kelly loved the High School Musical charm bracelet, by the way. You'll be getting a thank-you note as soon as I have the energy to badger her into it.”

“I'm glad she liked it. Until I have nieces and nephews to spoil, Kelly's going to have to be my surrogate.”

“She'll be happy to hear it. So how was the Portland General benefit? Did anybody interesting show up?”

Before she could stop it, Max thought of a man with dark eyes and a devilish smile. And of that one unsettling moment when he'd traced his fingers down her cheek and jolted her system.

It didn't mean anything, she reminded herself, doing her best to ignore the little roll and shiver the memory conjured in the pit of her stomach. Chalk it up to champagne and the mood of the night. When she saw him in the light of day, the attraction would be gone. If she ever saw him, that was—so far, he hadn't bothered to call.

Which was just fine with Max. It wasn't as though she was on the lookout for a man. She didn't need
the shivers, she didn't need the hassles, she didn't need the distractions. Oh, dates were fun—dinner, some cocktails, a little dancing. But it never went any further than that. They never got any deeper than her skin, she made sure of it.

And always, always, she was the one who walked away.

“The gala was all right,” she said aloud. “There was nobody special there. They had a great turnout, though. I think the medical center did pretty well, between donations and the auction.” The auction where she'd lost to a man with a pirate's smile. Max dragged her thoughts back to the present. “Is Hal in yet?”

“Early. He was back there swearing at the computer when I got here.”

“He's probably still jet-lagged,” Max said. Or trying to figure out what to do about the Jeremy Simmons situation. “Okay, I should get to it. Don't forget to show me the photos of the party when you get a chance.”

“When I get the energy.”

Max winked. “I hear chocolate's a good cure for that.”

“In my experience, chocolate's a good cure for everything,” Brenda said as the switchboard chimed and she picked up a call.

Laughing, Max skirted the divider, passing exposed brick walls hung with renderings of the firm's better-known buildings. More than twenty-five years
before, Hal and his partners had bought the Victorian-era warehouse in Portland's dilapidated waterfront area, keeping the top floor for themselves. In the time since, urban renewal had turned the Old Port section fashionable and the BRS building had become among the city's most sought-after business addresses.

Beyond the divider, the open expanse of the office spread out before her. And as always, the exhilaration hit, that sense that she could breathe deeper, stand taller. Good architecture could do that.

Sunlight flooded in through the rows of enormous windows on either side. The ceiling soared fifteen feet overhead. In the center, long white tables topped with brushed aluminum lamps and sleek flat-panel displays provided workspace for the draftspeople and interns, the lower-level engineers and design architects. Offices and conference rooms lined the perimeter of the back half of the floor, their frosted glass walls making them look more like glowing cubes lit from within.

She headed toward her office. Okay, so it was small and in a nook that had no window, but it did boast a door. And with Jeremy leaving, maybe she could trade up for his office. After all, she'd need the extra space if—

“Max.”

She turned to see Hal stepping out of his corner office, a lean, energetic man with a white brush cut and startlingly blue eyes. As always, he had dressed impeccably. Which didn't hide his fatigue, Max saw.

“Morning, Hal,” she said. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks. Stop by my office when you get settled—let's say, in ten minutes. I want to go over the Portland General project.”

This was it, Max thought, nerves tightening her stomach. For all that the situation seemed promising, she knew it was a long shot for someone of her age and experience to be named project manager. Except for the wunderkind, advancing in the profession of architecture was a notoriously slow process.

But her experience went beyond the seven years she'd spent at BRS, she thought as she stashed her purse in her desk. One way or another, she'd been working in architecture since junior high, when her parents had added a wing to the family's inn. It had fascinated Max, watching the project go from a few sketched lines to rooms she could walk through. She'd followed the architect everywhere, haunting him until he'd begun to allow her to work for him a few hours a week. As she'd become more skilled, she'd moved from simple tasks like copying blueprints to rendering his sketches in CAD programs, and eventually taking plans and change orders down to planning offices for approval.

Getting into a top school had been easy; acing her classes had been even easier. As a freshman, she'd even scored a summer internship at a top firm. And maybe she'd pancaked there, but it hadn't had anything to do with her work. She'd learned from the experience—God knew, she'd learned—focusing
twice as intensely, graduating a year early to go on to her master's degree. She'd learned and vowed to never, ever make the same mistake again.

And so here she was, potentially at the point where her career might be taking off. Max left her office, closing the door behind her. Under normal circumstances, one of the partners likely would assume command of the Portland General project. But these circumstances weren't normal. Hal and Leo were swamped with important commissions already. Someone had to handle Jeremy's other projects, several of which were in the final design stages and took priority over a mere proposal. BRS would eventually replace him, but hiring architects at that level took months. Getting someone on board by the proposal deadline was impossible.

Hal would probably take over as project manager, just for appearances' sake, Max figured as she walked. But he might just give her the post of lead design architect. She'd been licensed for going on five years. Her résumé held plenty of experience. She knew the project inside and out. All she wanted was a chance.

And then she was approaching the door, which she could see was open. Max stopped just outside of view and took a moment to run her hands down her suit, straightening wrinkles that probably weren't there. Then, with a deep breath, she took a step forward and knocked on the door frame. “Hi, Hal, how—”

She stopped on the threshold. Hal's Herman Miller
chair sat unoccupied, its owner nowhere in sight. At first glance, the office itself appeared empty, until she looked to one side to see a man in the corner, staring out the window.

“Oh, sorry,” she began and froze as he turned to face her.

She'd been wrong, Max thought as something skittered around in her stomach. The light of day did nothing to take away the attractiveness. Nothing at all. Sheik Al-Aswari looked just as good by Hal's window as he had under the light of the chandeliers.

Better, in fact. Gone was the casual fashion renegade. This man looked sharply stylish in black linen slacks and a crisp, silver-gray shirt fastened up to the neck. One of the buttons in the center of his chest was red and it kept drawing her gaze. He'd trimmed the Vandyke so that it accentuated his mouth and jaw more sharply than ever. But his eyes remained the same, studying her with that same indolent amusement.

Sheik Al-Aswari, first at the Portland General gala, now in the BRS offices.

Max folded her arms. “Boy, I can't wait to hear this one.”

Just then, Hal hurried up behind her. “Max. I guess your ten minutes is faster than mine. Come on in.” He moved to his desk, gestured to his visitor. “I want you to meet my son, Dylan. Dylan, this is Max McBain.”

If she'd been invited to offer ten guesses, that certainly would not have been among them. Hal's son? The sheik? Of course, he hadn't looked much like a sheik. Then again, he didn't look like Hal, either, nor like the fresh-faced kid in the high school graduation photo Hal kept stuck on a shelf. Dylan Reynolds. An architect in his own right, Max recalled, with an international reputation. An architect who'd just happened to show up at the gala. An architect who'd seen her card, knew she worked for his father, and had said nothing.

The slow burn started.

Max didn't believe in coincidences and she didn't much care for games. Especially games that left her looking the fool.

She turned to Dylan with a warmth only slightly less artificial than her smile. “Why, Dylan, nice to meet you. What an…unexpected pleasure. Hal has said so many wonderful things about you. Gosh, I feel almost as if we've already met.” Out of habit, she reached out to shake hands with him.

Max met people in a business context all the time. She'd never viewed a handshake as anything other than a professional greeting. She'd never thought it could scatter her thoughts. She'd never expected it to weaken her knees. But there was an electric intimacy to the slide of palm against palm when her hand touched Dylan's that had her taking a surprised breath. His hand was tougher than she would have expected for a man who made his living at a desk,
and stronger. He held on a few moments longer than absolutely necessary, watching her. Then Max saw the corner of his mouth twitch and visions of mayhem ran through her head.

“Welcome to Portland.” She gave him her blandest professional smile and turned to Hal. “Don't let me interrupt if you two are visiting. I can come back.”

“Not at all. Please, have a seat.” Hal gestured to the client chair next to Dylan. “How did the gala go?”

Max took her time sitting down, crossing her legs with a whisper of hosiery. When she caught the turn of Dylan's head out of the corner of her eye, she smiled faintly to herself. Two could play the game, she thought.

“The gala went well,” she told Hal. “Paul Fischer and Avery Sherwin spent quite a bit of time talking over the project with me. They liked the meditation garden idea, by the way, and Glory Bishop's sculpture.”

“Good. And the proposal is due Friday after next.”

“Yes. I've done a fair amount of background work and Mindy and I have been pulling some of the proposal material together. We're in good shape, I think, as long as I can tap the drafting team and structural guys.”

Hal nodded. “That's why I wanted to talk to you. We made the short list for the project, but that list includes a couple of pretty heavy hitters. The New York
group, in particular, has a substantial track record in the health care sector. We don't have any. We've got the advantage of being local but that will only carry us so far.”

“I think we also have some design innovations to offer, and we're going all green,” Max argued. “A track record can cut both ways. It's easy for them to fall into the same patterns because they've done it so many times before. We're walking in with a fresh eye.”

Hal leaned forward and folded his hands together. “It isn't a matter of whether offering either innovation or experience. The winning team is going to have to bring both. Jeremy's résumé gave us health care design experience, but now he's gone. If we're going to win the Portland General project, we need a rainmaker. That's why I brought in Dylan.” Hal paused. “He's going to be your new project manager.”

 

Dylan had to give her credit, she played it very cool. She had to have wanted the spot, making his father's announcement a disappointment. And yet, the only evidence of any agitation was the faint beat of a pulse on the side of that pale gold throat.

Today, she was every inch the polished professional in her edgy suit, that tumble of glossy blond hair caught up in a clip. Her chin spoke of determination, her posture, of total focus. There was little she could do to camouflage that mouth, though. Her mouth didn't evoke professionalism. Full and soft, it
was pure invitation. The indentation in her lower lip made him itch to trace it with fingertip and tongue, made her look as though every word she said was a delicious secret. Her scent drifted over to him, sandalwood and spice.

“You're a rainmaker?” Max glanced over at him. “Does that mean there's a chance of showers?”

A cold one, for him, if he didn't get focused. “If we have the right team, we can win this thing.”

“Dylan designed the new surgical unit at the Parker-Woodward clinic and the biotech lab at the Carstairs School of Medicine,” Hal put in. “He's been working on an office tower and resort complex in Dubai, but it's on hold for the time being. Which is a good thing for us because he gives us exactly what we lack right now. He's agreed to come on board as design principal and lead design architect.”

This time, Dylan did see the reaction, a faint tightening of the muscle in her cheek.

“The man of a thousand personas,” Max murmured in a tone of voice that Dylan knew was intended for his ears only. She was hopping mad, he realized. Outwardly, she appeared relaxed. Only the jiggling of her foot at the end of that lovely calf betrayed her.