The Boss's Proposal (6 page)

Dylan glanced at Max with a raised brow that had her resisting the urge to grind her teeth.

“So you'd like a more modern effect on the out side?”

“It'll set the tone,” Fischer agreed. “It'll be the first thing people see when they come in. Make sure it doesn't fight with the look of the main building, though.”

“I have in mind something that will bring the two together,” Dylan assured him. “Inside, we can go with something a little more modern and open, as well. If we push the rooms on the first two floors to the outside, we can create an open concourse down the middle, for example. It will give a sense of light and space.”

“Sounds very impressive,” said Fisher.

“The heating bills will probably be impressive, too,” the head of facilities grumbled.

“Not with the right design. We'll use energy-efficient materials, maybe even look into geothermal heating.”

“BRS is accredited for green design,” Max put in. “We'll deliver a green-certified structure that will minimize your operating costs. We can save you money.”

“On operation, maybe. We need to know how you can save us money on the construction,” said the CFO, Leighton Barnes. “Our last major building project ran way over budget and schedule. We have to get this project put out for bids by the end of the year so we can get permits and materials and be ready to
start building as soon as it warms up enough to break ground.”

“Then start with a firm that knows how to work around the weather,” Dylan said. “BRS has been designing buildings in the northeast for thirty-two years. You'll get a team that can work with your schedule and meet your deadlines.”

Down at the end of the table, one of the nurses shifted impatiently. “Excuse me?” She put up her hand. “Susan Harding, oncology. You know, we've been talking for at least half an hour here, and I've hardly heard the word ‘patient' come up once.” She wore a smock covered with little explosions of fire works that matched her short red hair. And her personality, Max thought. “I know cost is important, but it doesn't matter if we get the cheapest or the most modern-looking building in the world if it doesn't let us take care of the patients, does it?” She looked around the table. “I mean, isn't that why we're here?”

Ardsmuir cleared his throat. “Well, obviously we want a design that addresses our needs—”

“Our needs? What about the patients' needs?” Harding cut in.

“We're going to have state-of-the-art treatment rooms.”

“That's good, but if we're serious about this center of excellence thing, we've got to go the extra distance. There are facilities that provide all kinds of extra care options—massage therapists, counselors,
support groups,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Emotional well-being increases patient survival rate, all the studies support that. If we want Portland General to be a center of excellence, support programs have to be a part of it.”

Max put her pen down. “What about something like a meditation garden?”

“Absolutely. I mean, I know not everyone is going to be well enough to go out there but even if they could just look, that would be something. Maybe family members or staffers could help them go out.”

“Family support is important, isn't it?” Max asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dylan straighten.

“It makes a huge difference, especially when patients are really ill. And the family members go the distance. Some of them spend practically every waking hour here, for days at a time. I don't know how they do it, quite frankly. I mean, all we've got is a twelve-by-twelve waiting area and I swear the chairs are out of a torture chamber. We need some thing better for these people.”

Bingo, Max thought. “What would you say to having a few rooms where family could stay in urgent-care situations?”

Harding's eyes lit up. “That's exactly the kind of thing I mean. It's a whole new level of patient care.”

“I thought I saw something about that in one of the
earlier proposals, now that you mention it,” Fischer said. “How hard would that be to do?”

“And how expensive?” The CFO's voice was dry.

“It's a matter of trade-offs,” Max replied, warming to her topic. “You set your priorities and our job is to make it happen.”

“Very good.” Fisher glanced at his watch. “I see we're just about out of time. I think we've gone through all of our concerns. Are there any questions that either of you have for us?”

“Well, I—” Max began.

“No questions,” Dylan cut in, rolling back his chair as Fischer adjourned the meeting. “But someone's sure as hell got some explaining to do,” he added under his breath.

 

“I don't know what you're so upset about,” Max said, hurrying through the lobby after Dylan.

“You've got to be kidding.” He stalked out of the medical center's front doors, those long strides of his eating up ground. Outside, the day was gorgeous, sunny and clear—in direct contrast to Dylan's thunderous expression.

“You're the one who was talking about designing for the client. One of the clients had concerns that we could address. I thought it made sense to throw out some ideas, particularly ones they had already seen and liked.”

He rounded on her so abruptly that she almost
collided with him. “Don't you ever go against my direction in a client meeting again, do you understand me?” He stared at her a moment, expression tight with anger, then turned and strode away, leaving Max to chase after him.

“It's not like we were in the actual proposal presentation. I didn't contradict anything you said and I never promised anything.”

“Your family suites are not happening.” He bit off the words one at a time. “I already told you, we don't have room.”

“And I told you they were on the preliminary proposal that got us onto the short list,” Max retorted, weaving through the parking lot in his wake. “Clearly, Fischer saw it or he wouldn't have remembered today. Anyway, I told them it was a matter of trade-offs and prioritizing.”

“Trade-offs?” Dylan gave a bark of laughter. “Trade-offs are our problem, not theirs. As far as the client is concerned, our job is to give them what they want, period. They don't care how. The minute you show them an idea they like, it's in their head for good, and if our proposal doesn't have it, you can bet they'll go looking for one that does. And you ought to know that.” He gave her a scathing look. “You had no business bringing that concept up in front of the client.”

“So I'm supposed to sit there and keep my mouth shut even when I know there's a way to address their problems?” Max demanded. “And what, we're
supposed to cross our fingers that no one else comes up with it? This was supposed to be about brainstorming, Dylan. We need to know how they respond to the idea. We need to know what they want.”

“We already know what they want—”

“Or
you
think you do.”

“I know I do.” He stopped at his car and swung around to face her, furious with her for breaking ranks, furious with the situation and most of all furious with himself because despite the issues at hand, all he could do was look at her mouth and want her.

She took a step toward him. “I've been working on this proposal for four months. Maybe I know something, too.”

“In case you've forgotten, I'm the one who sets direction for this team.”

“Team?” Her eyes flashed. “A team of one maybe. If you didn't want any input, why didn't you just ask Hal for a couple of drafting slaves? That's all you're interested in, having everything your way.”

“Everything my way? You're the one who always wants to orchestrate everything. You just won't give up trying to manipulate what I think, what happens on the project, what happens between us, will you?”

“
You're
the one who won't take no for an answer,” she said hotly, stabbing a forefinger into his chest to punctuate the words. “
You're
the one who's always coming on.
You're
the one who's always telling me I
want something to happen between us when it should be perfectly obvious that
I'm not interested.
”

“Yeah? Let me show you what's obvious.” And goaded beyond his limit, he dragged her into his arms and clamped his mouth over hers.

Hot and furious, fierce and urgent. Dylan knew it wasn't smart but he just purely didn't give a damn. Not this time. He made no attempt at seduction, just gave in to the frustration and desire that had been riding him almost from the first moment he'd seen her. Her computer bag thudded to the pavement. He heard the surprised catch of her breath. He just took, satisfying himself and somehow knowing he would take her with him.

Her mouth felt as lush as he'd imagined, her taste as addictive. Licking that dip in her lower lip, he savored it, drawing it in to his mouth, tightening his teeth until he heard her faint groan.

And her arms came up around him.

He'd known the passion was there, but that was like knowing the amount of charge needed to demo a building versus feeling the explosion shake the ground as the walls tumbled down. Her mouth was greedy against his. Her fingers twined through his hair. She twisted that luscious body against him, matching him demand for demand as she did every minute of the day. It was part of her, that need to challenge, that drive to plunge heedlessly into every experience. It was the part of her that intoxicated him every bit as much as it infuriated. And just as
the clash of two storms gave rise to the fury of a tornado, so their desire whirled together into a furious passion.

Max thought she'd experienced all the kinds of desire a woman could, but she'd never encountered anything like this. It stunned her, it dazzled her, making a mockery of any other arousal she'd ever felt. There was no measured embrace, no time to think. It swamped her, it overwhelmed her so that she was swept along by her own response, as though her body belonged to the moment. As though her body belonged to him.

His hands ranged over her, fusing the two of them together so that she could feel the hard muscle and sinew of that lean body against her. When he drew her head back and feasted on her throat, the warmth of his lips against her skin made her gasp. Desire drummed in her veins. Control was just a memory. It was exhilarating, delicious, delightful, divine. And she wanted more—that clever mouth everywhere on her, his bare skin against hers, those nimble fingers taking her to the edge.

But beyond the edge lay the abyss.

Max tensed, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with arousal. What in God's name was she doing?

In instinctive defense, she brought her hands down to his chest, wanting to put some kind of barrier between them, any kind of barrier. And waited for the whirlwind to stop. When she could, she turned away,
sucking in deep breath after deep breath and taking one step, then another. Because surely if she got some distance from him, even a small amount, her head would clear. Surely then this demand that raged through her would abate, this ache of desire would ease.

When she circled back, she found Dylan watching her. For an instant, she felt her body yearning toward his again.

Ignoring it, she leaned down to pick up her computer bag. “We need to get back to the office.”

“We need to do lots of things.” He gazed at her, eyes dark with intensity. “Just say where and when.”

“How about not here and not now? Not ever,” she corrected herself. “We are not doing this.”

“We already are.”

“No.”

“Is this where you start talking about work and professionalism again?” he asked. “That's what you do when you get nervous.”

“I'm not nervous.”

“Sure you are. I'm not sure why. One of these days you'll have to tell me. But the next thing you're going to do is tell me to back off.” He shook his head. “You know, you can pretend all you want that this didn't affect you—”

“Of course it affected me,” she snapped, “but it doesn't matter. I keep my personal life out of the
office. I don't do colleagues.” She circled around to the passenger door.

“We're not colleagues.” He followed her. “I'm on a one-time consulting gig. I don't live here and in three weeks, I'll be gone. There's no reason we shouldn't take this wherever we feel like taking it.”

“Sorry to bruise your ego, but I don't feel like taking it anywhere. I'm not interested.”

“No?” He moved swiftly to pin her between the car and his body, one hand against the roof on either side of her. He leaned in just a bit, pressing his body lightly against hers, staying there until against her will she began to tremble.

Until she began to want.

“I'm sorry to hear you're not interested. You'll let me know when you change your mind, won't you?”

He opened her door and turned to walk back to the driver's side, leaving her shaking with what she desperately wanted to think was anger.

“Y
ou want us to do what?” Henry Singer, the stocky, sixtyish head of the BRS structural engineering department stared at Dylan across the conference table.

“Cut three months out of the production schedule,” Dylan repeated.

Singer was shaking his head before Dylan even got the words out. “No way.” He glanced at the stack of renderings, floor plans and spec sheets on the surface between them. “Not possible, not for a project this size.”

“You haven't even looked at the summary.” Dylan slid a folder across to Singer.

Singer caught it before it stopped moving and
sent it back the other way. “I know the details. I've been shadowing this project since we made the short list.”

“We want to make an even shorter list, Henry,” Max said from where she sat at the end of the table.

He shook his head. “A couple weeks, maybe even a month, I could do. But not this.”

“Portland General wants the structure under roof before next winter starts,” Dylan said. “That means putting it up for bids by the end of this year in order to break ground as soon as the snow melts.”

“And doing design and engineering in less than five months? You're setting yourself up for a world of hurt.”

“Well, you'd better start figuring a way around it.” Dylan's voice held an edge. “Our only chance of winning this project is to bring them a proposal that will let them make that schedule.”

Singer folded his arms over his chest. “I've been in this business for almost forty years. I know how long it takes to get a design specced out for build. I keep to my schedule and I'm not going to put some numbers down on paper just to get a contract when I know those numbers aren't going to be good.” His voice rose.

“Are you saying you can't do it?” Dylan shot back.

Singer slapped his hands on the conference table
and stood. “I'm saying if you're not going to listen to me, then maybe you need another struc—”

“Of course we're going to listen to you, Henry, you've got more experience than the rest of us combined,” Max cut in, rising to put a hand on his arm. “Not to mention the fact that you're a wizard. I mean, remember the cantilever on the front of the Casco Bay Credit Union building? Everybody said you couldn't do it but you figured out a way, didn't you? You're one of the best engineers out there. Maybe it can't be done, but don't count yourself out. If anybody can figure out a way, Henry, it's you.”

“I didn't say I couldn't do it,” he interrupted irritably. “I just have concerns about it.”

“That's why we're talking to you. It's a big job.”

“I've done bigger, but not in this time frame. There are only so many hours in a day, you know, and when you get tired, you make mistakes. We can't afford that. It's not like screwing up a drawing. You screw up here and the building comes down on people's heads.”

“Right.” Max nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “What if we spread the work out? We could get an intern or even hire a temp. You could offload the basic stuff onto them, free you and the rest of the staff for the trickier calculations.”

He considered. “I'd need a lot of help.”

“You tell us. We'll get you whatever you need. You're a smart guy, Henry. You can do this.”

Henry reached out for the file that sat in the middle
of the conference table. “Let me look it over and I'll tell you what I think this afternoon.”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “I knew you'd come through for us.”

“I haven't figured out a way to do it yet,” he warned.

“You will,” she assured him. “By the way, how's that granddaughter of yours?”

Henry's eyes lit up. “Sophia? Ah, she's a pistol.”

“She takes after her grandpa,” Max told him as she walked him out the door. “Don't forget to send me some new pictures. My last ones are two months old. She's probably looking at prom dresses by now.”

Leaving him laughing, she ducked back into the conference room to gather her files. Dylan walked beside her as she headed back toward her office. “I suppose you're going to tell me that's an example of how to work with people,” he said.

“BRS isn't like your giant New York agency. We don't stand on ceremony or live for hierarchy,” Max said as she walked into her office. “My way or the highway might work in Dubai, but it doesn't go over so well here in Maine.”

“So I hear.” Dylan stepped in after her, closing the door behind them. “What does go over well here in Maine?”

“Keeping the door open, for one,” Max told him crisply, walking toward it. Dylan caught her hand in his. For a moment, she froze, but all he did was hold it.

“Thank you. You took what could have been a problem situation and you made it work.”

“Henry's a good guy, and professionally speaking, he's one of the best. If you've got him in your corner, he'll work miracles for you. He just has to know you respect him.”

“I do respect him. And I respect you.” His gaze was steady on hers, and for once there was no mischief in it. “I looked over your portfolio. You've got talent, a lot of it.”

She wasn't going to blush, Max told herself. “Does that mean I qualify to stay on the show until next week?”

“It means I appreciate the work you've been doing and I value your input,” he said. “It doesn't mean I'm always going to take it, but I value it and I want you to keep it coming.”

His gaze locked on hers and it was like the moment at the gala, that sense of connection, like a line of communication humming between just the two of them. She moistened her lips. “Thank you.”

The telephone rang, startling them both. For a moment, Max didn't move. Then she stepped over to the desk hurriedly, her eyes still on him. “This is Max.”

Telephones, Dylan thought in suppressed annoyance, were an overrated technology. He was sure of that an instant later when her face lit up.

“Oh, hey, sweet thing.” Lips curved in pleasure, she sat, all her attention focused on the telephone.
Then she laughed. It wasn't like the freewheeling peals of laughter the morning he'd seen her with Carl. This was the husky, intimate laugh of a shared joke and a shared life.

A strange, uncomfortable little twinge ran through him as he stepped outside and closed the door to give her privacy.

“Of course I can meet you, honey,” he heard Max say as he walked away.

And Dylan Reynolds realized that for the first time in his life, he was jealous.

 

Summers, Max thought, were entirely too short in Portland. And she hadn't been doing nearly enough to take advantage of this one. She sat at the little metal table at the edge of the outdoor café by the doors of the BRS building, savoring the feel of the sun on her shoulders. She'd spent so much time working on the Portland General proposal over the past weeks that she'd practically ignored the fact that the warm weather had arrived. No more. As soon as the proposal deadline passed, she was going to make it a point to get out as often as possible.

Of course, she had actually been outside a couple of times in the past week and a half. But weather had been the last thing she'd focused on.

Dylan Reynolds was beginning to become an issue, she reflected as she took a sip of her iced tea. Part of the problem was that she liked him. It wasn't just that moment in her office, it was a whole host
of moments added up. But it was more complicated than just liking, because above all there was the kiss, that terrifyingly, deliciously wonderful kiss that had emptied her will and left her dizzy and weak with longing for him.

Max stirred the tea with her straw to form a little whirlpool, watching it deepen. Sometimes, Dylan infuriated her with his assumption that all he had to do was touch her to take her over. Especially since it was frighteningly close to the truth. Like a whirlpool, that type of desire could swallow a woman up. And if she weren't careful, she might never get her head back above water. Max had been through it once before and it had almost destroyed her. But she knew better now.

And hadn't she shown him—and herself—that it didn't have to be that way, that she could manage her feelings and respond as she chose? Why couldn't he accept that? How many times did a woman have to turn the man away before he got it through his head? Was it just his innate cockiness that made it impossible for him to believe a woman might exist who didn't want him?

Max scowled into her tea. All right, maybe she did want him a little. No great surprise there. He was attractive. And she was attracted, but it wasn't the first time in her life and it wouldn't be the last. As strong as the attraction was, she didn't have to follow it. She could decide what she wanted and act accordingly, she'd demonstrated that already. And
now that she was on her guard, he wouldn't get to her again.

“Hey, baaay-be,” sang a voice and Max glanced up to see a little redhead in jeans and a pale green T-shirt.

“Cady!” Max rose to hug her younger sister. “Good to see ya.”

“Good to see you.” Cady kissed Max's cheek. She sat, checking her watch as she did. “Don't let me lose track of time. The meter only gave me an hour.”

Max made a face. “Sorry I had to make you come down to parking hell. It's just that I've got a two o'clock meeting I have to get back and prep for.”

“That's okay, we'll just eat fast. It's not like we aren't going to see each other this weekend, anyway.”

Max flagged down the waitress, who stood by while they hastily selected their meals and whisked away, promising that the food would arrive yesterday.

“I hope she's serious about that,” Cady said. “I'm starving.”

“Like that's news? So tell me, how are plans going for the wedding of the century?”

“Wedding?” Cady grimaced. “I'm about ready to just elope.”

“That's kind of a drastic decision.”

Cady took a swallow of the Coke the waitress brought her. “It's driving me crazy. You wouldn't
believe all the stuff you've got to do to put on a wedding.”

“Your parents own an inn and your fiancé runs the restaurant. It can't be that hard.”

Cady eyed her. “That's what you think. It should be easy, right? A guy, a girl, some vows and dinner, right? Wrong. This weird thing happens. You start out with a list of five things, you cross one off and next time you look, it's ten things long. And it gets even longer the next time. We have to pick flowers, we have to pick corsages, tablecloths, a song for our first dance. Pearl earrings. And invitations. Do you know you even have to pick the color of ink to use on the invitations?” she demanded. “Tell me why, in the name of God, anyone gives a hoot what color the ink is on their invitations.”

Max fought keep from smiling. “Um, because their guests might be colorblind?”

The waitress brought their food, a spinach salad for Max, and a hoagie for Cady, who seized it and took a sizable bite. “And don't get me started on the wedding dresses,” she continued after swallowing. “Do you know that you have to actually make an appointment to go in and try on wedding dresses? An appointment to go shopping,” she repeated, affronted. “So I finally get in there and I almost run away because there are, like, fifty million dresses. But I stick it out—”

“Very brave of you.”

“Thank you. I find a dress to try and I go to the
changing room. And the clerk comes in all upset that I did it on my own and insists on coming in with me. In the dressing room! I'm standing there in my underwear and she just marches in and gets the dress all bunched up to lift over my head.”

She'd keep a straight face if it killed her, Max told herself. “What did you do?”

“What do you think I did? I grabbed my shirt and jeans and got out. Except that the sash of the dress had gotten hooked to me, so she was squawking and grabbing at me as I went….”

Max made a strangled noise.

Cady narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing?”

“No.” Max struggled to keep her face from twisting.

Cady glowered. “You're laughing. I'm telling you about what is possibly the most traumatic experience I have ever had in my life, being terrorized while I was completely defenseless, and you are
laughing.
”

Max lost it then, flopping back in her chair and cackling until tears streamed from her eyes. After a moment, Cady joined in.

“You should've seen me, trying to walk out of there. I still had the veil on and they were running after me, waving their hands.” She took a meditative bite of her sandwich. “I guess I'm not going back there again.”

“You think?” Max dabbed at her eyes. “But listen, nothing says you have to go through all that hoopla just to get married.”

“That's right.” She brightened. “We could go to Vegas.”

“Seriously, please don't. I really think that would hurt Mom and Dad's feelings. They're so looking forward to being there. I mean, when Walker got married, Elise barely let us show up at the ceremony. Mom and Dad want to be a part of this.”

“I know,” Cady said.

“But nothing says that it's got to be the full production in three-part harmony,” Max reminded her. “If it's getting to be too much, scale it back. Invite just the immediate family. Do it in the afternoon. Wear jeans, serve cake.”

“I'm marrying a James Beard award-winning chef. I can't serve just cake.”

“Okay, but it can still be small.”

“I suppose, but there are people I'd like to have there and people Damon would like to have there.”

Max's lips twitched. “And the jeans?”

“I want to look nice for him.”

“So what you're telling me is you're really just here to complain.”

“Well, of course.” Cady grinned. “Mom and Tania have threatened me with duct tape if I don't stop ranting.”