Dream Man (3 page)

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 “was withdrawn several weeks ago.”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 And since, as I mentioned, the ad has been withdrawn, I see no need to discuss it.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 birds 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.

He lifted his gaze to her face once again, and she saw that his eyes were now expressionless.

“Do I what?” he asked.

“Blame them.”

“Blame who?”

“The chickens.”

“For what?”

She frowned. What was wrong with him all of a sudden? Was he bored with this conversation? Probably. It was pretty inane. But it was his work they were talking about, for heaven's sake. “For trying to get away,” she said patiently.

“Oh.” He blinked and seemed to come back from wherever it was his mind had drifted to. “Yes. Of course.” He smiled and his eyes came to life again. “I mean, no, of course I don't blame them. I'd flap and squawk, too, if anyone ever grabbed me by my feet and tried to stuff me into a cage.” Then, he added, as if compelled, “I hate cages.”

There was a moment's silence during their smiles faded and their gazes met in grave contemplation of his words, and then she nodded. “Yes. I do, too.”

It was true. She had always avoided relationships that might have led to something permanent. She'd told herself it was because she'd wanted a business of her own and had been working hard to create one. The couple of men she might have made a life with had wanted her to be someone else, and she'd had enough grief watching Sharon try to change to ever want to do it herself.

Maybe that was a cage of sorts, but it was one of her own making, and it wasn't the kind of cage she and Max McKenzie had both tacitly referred to. She was glad they had both laid those cards on the table. She was aware of his interest in her and knew he was male enough to read her responses. Her initial interest in him had been purely for her sister's benefit. His initial interest in her had been because of that ridiculous ad.

Any further curiosity they might be feeling toward each other was going to have to be curbed after their luncheon was over. But it wouldn't hurt to enjoy this short time in his company, she decided.

“What … what other strange jobs have you researched so far?” she said, caught up in a need to fill the heavy silence.

“Oh …” He appeared startled by her question. “Pig shaving.”

She laughed. “I'm not sure I believe you.”

“It's true,” he protested. “Someone advertised for an experienced pig shaver. That really caught my attention.”

Jeanie lifted her elbows and sat back so the waiter could refill her coffee cup. When he had topped off Max's as well, she asked, “And did you take that job for the experience too?”

He shook his head. One black curl fell forward on his brow. He shoved it back absently. Her fingertips tingled. Her insides quivered. She frowned and made a fist in her lap, pressing it against her lower abdomen where the quiver had been worst.

“When a job calls for experience I don't have, I level with the employer, explain what it is I'm doing, and sometimes get permission to observe the one who is hired. The chicken-catching position didn't demand experience, so I gave it a try.”

“What does a pig shaver do? I mean, I realize it sounds pretty self-explanatory, but how do you get the pig to stand still, and why would anybody want one shaved?”

“Dead pigs don't wiggle,” he said, and for some reason, maybe his deadpan delivery, her laughter gurgled up uncontrollably, making him scowl.

“I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. Not really. It was your… delivery. So profound.” To her disgust, another spurt of laughter broke free. “Dead pigs don't wiggle,” she said. “Sounds like the title of a bad mystery novel. Do you write fiction, too, Max?”

“No,” he said, “not so far, anyway.” Then, after pouring several envelopes of sugar into his coffee and stirring briskly for several moments, he looked up and caught her gaze.

“Tell me,” he said, leaning back and looking at her quizzically. “With that ad, and the way it was phrased, to say nothing of your placing it on the ExecNet instead of in the classifieds of the daily papers, did you have any takers at all?”

She sighed. “You're determined to talk about the ad, aren't you?” He nodded. “Do you always get your own way?”

“Not always,” he said, but she doubted the truth of that. He probably did—with those eyes and that smile, almost assuredly. “Am I going to, this time?”

“Yes,” she said resignedly. Why not tell him a little about it, just to help him with his research? Maybe then he'd drop the subject. “I—we—got more than a dozen the first week we ran it; after that, it tapered off a bit, but it still garnered responses every time I sent it out.”