Dream Man (11 page)

“Who are the kids whose picture I had to move to put the flowers on the table?”

She smiled over her shoulder as she filled a large pot with water for boiling the noodles. “My niece and nephew. Roxanne's six and Jason's nearly ten.”

“Good looking children, but neither of them is like you at all.”

“No. They take after Sharon. She's the one who inherited all the Gypsy blood from our dad's family. Their father had dark hair, too, so maybe that helped.”

“Had?”

She twisted her mouth sideways. “All right. Has. Unless he's been run over by a bus sometime in the last three years, or shot or strangled or otherwise met his just deserts.”

“You aren't fond of your brother-in-law.”

“Ex-brother-in-law,” she said, and thumped the pot onto the stove, then slapped a lid on it.

Max had the good sense to recognize that she had also slapped a lid on the topic of discussion.

“Smells good,” he said as she stirred sour cream into the already rich meat sauce, then set the dish back into the oven.

“That'll whet your appetite. It'll be another half hour or so, if you'd like a drink.”

“Show me where and tell me what, and I'll tend bar. You take off that apron so I can whet my appetite on the dress you're wearing as well as the aromas from the kitchen.”

Sliding an arm around her shoulders, he led her into the living room, then turned her and untied her apron himself. “Oh, those appetites you arouse in me,” he whispered in her ear.

“I … thought it was the scent of the food that was going to whet your appetite,” she whispered, feeling the heat of his breath across her cheek as his mouth approached hers.

His eyes were half-closed, just tiny, glittering slices of indigo between thick, black lashes. Even so, she saw the laughter in them. “So I lied. I missed you, Jeanie. I need to kiss you.”

“You saw me only five or six hours ago.” She needed to kiss him, too, but was enjoying the anticipation too much to want to hurry. She touched his lips with her fingertips, holding him off. “And you kissed me then. When do you get enough, Mr. McKenzie?”

“Start kissing me and don't stop until I tell you,” he said in a rough, yet quiet voice, his fingers touching each of the tiny covered buttons that marched down the back of her red dress from neckline to the narrow gold belt at her waist.

He wasn't undoing them, or even trying to. He was merely toying with them, maybe counting them for future reference, she thought. Another of those delicious little thrills he was capable of inducing raced right along under those very buttons. “Then you'll know it's enough.” His moving lips slid down her fingers to her palm. The tip of his tongue pressed insinuatingly against her skin, then moved into a groove between two fingers while his gaze held hers. “Your eyes go silver and shiny when I do that,” he whispered huskily. “There's something in their depths that moves like smoke from a campfire rising against a winter sky. It makes me feel hot and primitive and so full of wanting that I could take you right here on the living room floor.”

She drew in a sharp breath that did nothing to alleviate the sudden stab of exquisite physical pain that struck her deep inside. “Max … stop saying those things.”

“Then kiss me so I can't talk.”

She smiled, sliding her hand around the back of his head, his dark curls wrapping around her fingers. “I guess that's the best solution, isn't it?”

“The only one,” he agreed, and covered her mouth with his, hard and hot and wet and full-blown like one of his roses. It was the kind of kiss she knew she had been born to share in. It was full of his taste, full of his scent, full of his power.

It answered something in her that was just as full-blown, just as potent, just as needful. Their tongues met and moved together. Small, glad sounds came from two throats. Two pairs of hands explored muscle and skin and shapes and textures, and two hearts hammered in rapid unison. It was a voluptuous kiss, laden with portent, demanding a deeper penetration than a mere tongue into a hot, wet mouth. It was a kiss that should have been shared by two naked people already in bed, intending it to be a mere preliminary to what their bodies both cried out for in ever-increasing intensity.

“Max…” Jeanie pulled away first, leaning her forehead against his chest. “Lord, I… Oh, Max!” Her breath came in great, heaving gasp. She rolled her head back and forth, trying to clear it of the reeling dizziness their kisses had created.

“I know. I know.” His hands trembled on her back. She felt his legs shaking against hers. “How the hell can something like that happen so fast, each and every time we touch?”

“It has to stop. That's all there is to it. Or we'll never get any dinner.”

He dragged her face up to stare down into her eyes. “Do I look as if I care?”

She shook her head. “But you should. I invited you for dinner, Max. Not for… anything else.”

“I know that. I knew it when you asked me.” Gently, he released her. “And Jeanie, believe me, that's all I came for.”

“Whew!” She blew a breath of air up over her face. “Well, I must confess I'm glad someone was sure of what I meant when I invited you. Because I sure as heck wasn't.”

He laughed softly. “I really like your candidness, Jeanie Leslie. Among other, er … attributes. Now, let's get that drink you offered me before I forget everything my mother taught me about being a gentleman. I need it.”

“The drink or the lesson?”

“Both.”

He poured her the glass of burgundy she asked for and a straight rye for himself then sat down opposite her, taking the wing chair rather than joining her on the sofa.

She sipped. He took a hefty slug, then set the glass on a leather coaster. “Listen,” he said, looking not at her but into the dancing flames in the fireplace. They highlighted the planes and angles of his face, shadowing his eyes, gilding the tips of his lashes and the touches of gray at his temples. “You're right. What's going on between us does have to stop. Or at least slow down, unless you're willing to give me what I want from you.” He looked at her now, his expression serious, his mouth a firm straight line with a tight band of pale skin around it. “And that's not simply sex, as great as I know it's going to be.”

“Max, I—”

“No. Please, let me finish. I want more from you than a quick roll, Jeanie. And I know you're not the kind of woman to give a man that anyway, so what flares up between us whenever we're together isn't fair to you.”

“You mean you realize you might tempt me toward immoral actions?”

“You're laughing at me,” he accused, looking rueful.

“Only a little. I'm grateful for your consideration, Max. I want you to know that. And you're right. I don't have casual affairs. And I don't want one. As wonderful as I know making love would be with you.” At least she didn't think she wanted an affair, but after a few more kisses like the ones they'd shared, she could very easily change her mind.

“Of course I'm right. And I don't want any more casual affairs either. I've had enough of those to last a couple of lifetimes. I want permanency, marriage, and I want it with you. So, until you can agree to my terms, we'll cool the heated embraces.”

“I'm not going to agree to those terms. I don't want marriage, Max. It would be all wrong for me under the circumstances.”

“And those are?”

“That I don't love you. That you don't love me. That you believe there's no such thing as love. I happen to disagree. I think that it does exist, but since it doesn't between us, then I won't marry you.”

“If you thought you loved me, would you?”

She noticed he didn't say “If I loved you,” or even “If you thought I loved you,” and it was a telling omission. He wasn't kidding when he said he didn't believe in love.

“No, I wouldn't. One-sided love would be as bad as no love at all.” That much she knew from her sister's experience. Besides, she didn't think she could bring herself to take that step even if they were both in love with each other. It just wasn't in her plans for the future.

“I'm glad you see it that way. One of the things I hate most is having to hurt women who think they're in love with me, when there is no way in the world I can return that depth of emotion.”

She nodded, wondering if her disappointment showed. What was the matter with her, anyway? Was she one of those horrible women who liked the idea of a man falling for her even when she wasn't in love with him herself? She frowned slightly. She didn't think she was one. But it still rankled that a man could want her as much as he claimed to and not profess some kind of affection. Although, she recalled, he had said that he cared, that he'd felt some kind of primitive, possessive anger when that man in the garage had touched her. Cared? What did that mean? To him? To her? She wished for wisdom she didn't possess.

“Fine,” she said, getting to her feet. “Then we're in complete agreement. I'll finish getting dinner ready. Help yourself to another drink and put more wood on the fire if it needs it.”

She might know he was right, but it hurt nonetheless to have him say it. He wanted marriage; she did not. Impasse. And to him impasse meant no more wild kisses, no more fiery embraces, no chance that one of those embraces would carry them right over the edge and into the kind of relationship he no longer wanted with a woman unless he had her tied up in bonds so tight there'd be no escaping. So, she would feed him his dinner, wish him a friendly good night, and send him on his way. From this moment on their relationship would be one of casual business acquaintances, and that, she decided, vigorously stirring noodles that should have been treated gently, was going to be that.

“Right,” she said briskly after the dinner dishes had been cleared away from the small, gate-leg table in the living room. She wished she hadn't had that second glass of wine. It made it more difficult to force her mind to business. “You brought the letter for my client?”

“Yes.” He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a neatly folded paper. “I'll read it for you.”

“No!” She felt herself flush as she yelped out the word, but some traitorous part of her curled and twisted pleasurably at the thought of actually hearing his voice read the words. She wouldn't be able to stand it. “That won't be necessary,” she added quickly. “As long as it's handwritten and you've followed the guidelines set out by the client, I'm certain it'll be fine. I'll just send it out in the morning.” She reached out her hand for it, but he withheld it.

“You might not be able to read my writing.”

“If I can't, then the client won't be able to either,” she said with dismay. “Your writing can't be that bad.”

“Wanna bet? See for yourself.”

She groaned as she tried to decipher his impossible scribble. It was illegible. “Max, you have to do better than this! Didn't you learn the McLean's Method of writing in school? I thought it was an absolute in every curriculum in the entire country.”

“I did, but my mind works faster than my fingers can go, so when I write, I scribble. The only person who can read it is Freda.”

Jeanie felt her eyes widen as the thought crossed her mind that if that were the case, then Freda had definitely read the first letter Max had sent. “Oh, my Lord…” she whispered.

He laughed, reading her mind again. “No, she didn't type that one for me. I can type, you know. I do all of my work directly on my computer. Freda just guards my gates and does the research and scut work.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, you're just going to have to slow down your mind as well as your hand and do this letter over again.”

She walked to the desk in the corner of the living room, pulling out a drawer and laying a pad of notepaper on top with a pen. “Here, sit down. It won't take you long, I'm sure.”

“No,” he said cheerfully, “not long at all. Well, maybe longer than usual, because I'll have to try to write carefully and slowly and legibly. But you can put up with my presence another hour or so, can't you?”

She agreed that she could. “I'll do the dishes while you work.”

“No. No, stay and keep me company. It'll go easier if I can look up and see your face now and then.” He smiled that smile she could never turn away from. “Inspiration, Jeanie.”

“I don't suppose you'll need it. After all, you're a professional, aren't you? Don't words just come naturally to your mind?”

His smile turned into a grin. “Not always. And certain inspiration does have its place. So sit where I can see you. Please?”

She told herself she'd do it because she wanted the damned letter written. She could load the dishwasher later, just as she'd intended all along. She hated people who insisted on cleaning up their kitchens while their guests languished in the living room or felt obliged to help.

Max sat down, angled the paper before him, and picked up the pen. For the first time she noticed he was left-handed and wondered why she hadn't seen it before. After all, they'd shared two lunches and a late night snack, plus dinner. Probably during those times she'd been too busy trying to keep her mind from skittering off on little side trips into fantasyland. And at dinner all she'd been aware of was the way his eyes had shone in the light of the candles she'd been rash enough to set on the table between them.

“ ‘Dearest,' ” he said aloud as he wrote. “ ‘Tonight was the most wonderful evening I've spent. To be with you, to touch you, kiss you, look into your eyes through the gleam of candlelight and see the light reflected there, all silver and shining, thrilled me …' ” He looked up. “Thrilled me how? What do you think?”

“You're writing this, not me.” Jeanie leafed through a magazine, pretending to read. So he'd noticed her eyes through the candlelight had he?