Читать книгу Made-To-Order Wife - Judith Mcwilliams - Страница 11

Jessie glanced down at her small gold watch as she hurried across the almost deserted lobby of the large office building toward the bank of elevators. It was one fifty-three. Perfect. She would arrive in Max Sheridan’s office five minutes early. Not so early that she would seem anxious, and yet early enough that it would be clear to him that this meeting was important to her.

Stepping into an empty elevator, she pressed the button for the fifty-second floor and then checked her appearance in the mirrors that lined the elevator’s walls. Her black box-pleated skirt fell almost to her knees without a wrinkle and the matching fitted jacket had no lint on it. Her gaze dropped to her long, slender legs, searching for a run in her panty hose. Thankfully, she didn’t find one. Nor were there any stray specks of dirt on the highly polished gloss of her black slingback heels or her slim black briefcase.

When the unexpected summons to see the normally in-accessible head of Sheridan Electronics had come yesterday, she hadn’t been sure what to wear. Normally she dressed to project an image, and the image depended on who she was working for and what she was trying to accomplish. But since she had no idea why the enigmatic Max Sheridan wanted to see her, she had finally opted for a conservative, professional look.

When the elevator opened its doors with a restrained chime on the fifty-second floor, Jessie took a deep breath, ignored the butterflies in her stomach and walked briskly toward the well-groomed middle-aged woman sitting behind an elegant antique desk in the reception area.

“I’m Jessie Martinelli,” she said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Sheridan at two.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Martinelli. Just a moment while I check with his P.A. and see if he’s free.”

Surreptitiously Jessie looked around while the woman made the phone call. A huge cream-and-blue Aubusson carpet covered the floor, and comfortable-looking chairs had been scattered around, presumably to give the appearance of a living room in a private home. The whole area spoke of good taste and the means to indulge it.

It was the first time she’d been on the executive level of Sheridans. She’d visited their human resources department one floor down last year when she’d given a presentation on her workshops to one of their managers, but since the shortsighted woman hadn’t seen the need for teaching business manners to their account executives, she’d never had a reason to return.

Could that be what this unexpected summons was about? Had they decided to use her workshops, and Max Sheridan himself wanted to discuss them? A sense of excitement tore through her. Landing an account with a conglomerate like Sheridans would do wonders for her company’s bottom line.

“Mr. Sheridan will see you now, Ms. Martinelli. If you’ll come with me…” The woman gave her a bright, professional smile.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Jessie followed the receptionist.

“Ms. Martinelli, sir.” The woman moved out of the open doorway, and Jessie forced herself to walk into his office, praying she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. The sound of the door closing behind her echoed ominously in her ears.

Jessie instinctively tensed as the man behind the oversize mahogany desk slowly got to his feet. The office was huge, but Max Sheridan easily dominated the space. She’d seen pictures of him in the paper from time to time, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of his physical presence. He seemed to project a force field of energy that drew her like the proverbial moth to the flame.

Critically she studied him, trying to analyze her unexpected fascination with him in the hopes of minimizing its effect. He wasn’t particularly tall. Probably no more than six foot, with a solid, muscular build that for some reason reminded her more of a dock worker than a business tycoon. Nor was he classically handsome. Not only were his features too bluntly chiseled, but the silvery scar on his right jaw suggested an aggressive masculinity than made mere beauty seem superfluous.

Jessie felt a tingling sensation skate over her skin as her gaze collided with his bright blue eyes. Somehow he made her aware of her femininity in a way that she’d never felt before, and she didn’t like it. She was nervous enough without adding sexual tension to the mix.

Taking a deep breath, she tried a trick Maggie had taught her years ago of picturing your audience naked, to lose your fear of them. It was a mistake. An image of Max Sheridan’s broad shoulders minus the expensive gray suit jacket he had on immediately popped into her mind. His chest would probably be covered with the same inky black hair that was on his head. Would it feel as silky as his hair looked or would it feel crisp? Her fingers began to itch as if they couldn’t wait to find out.

“Good morning, Ms. Martinelli.” His deep, smoky voice slammed through her fantasy, smashing it to pieces—pieces that immediately reassembled themselves to form an image of him bending over her, his bare shoulders…

Stop it! She hastily sliced off her thoughts. What was the matter with her? So he had a magnetic presence. That was no excuse for her to act like some half-wit groupie. She was here on business, and she’d better start acting like the competent professional she was or she could kiss any hope of landing the Sheridan account goodbye. Max Sheridan’s reputation was that he didn’t tolerate incompetence. And he didn’t believe in second chances.

“Mr. Sheridan.” Jessie reluctantly took the hand he held out. If just being in the same room with him sent her nervous system into disarray, what would touching him be like?

Mind-blowing. She had her answer as his hand closed firmly around hers. Heat seemed to pour off his strong fingers, permeating her skin and sending her heartbeat into overdrive.

Jessie gritted her teeth, praying that the heat boiling through her wasn’t visible on her face. She absolutely had to keep her professional demeanor intact.

As quickly as good manners allowed, she dropped his hand and stepped back.

“Please have a seat.” Max gestured toward the chair in front of his desk, and Jessie gingerly perched on the edge of it.

She watched as Max sat back down in his leather chair and silently studied her with a narrow-eyed intensity that made her want to get up and run. He probably wasn’t even seeing her, she tried to tell herself. Chances were he’d been working on some high-powered deal when she’d arrived, and his mind was still on it.

Keeping a polite smile on her face, she waited for him to break the silence, knowing that rushing into speech would give him a tactical advantage.

Damn! Max thought in frustration as he stared at her. When he’d spoken to Sam Berringer last week, his glowing account of the fantastic job Jessie Martinelli had done in transforming his wife hadn’t included a physical description: his use of words like solid background, absolute discretion and unimpeachable integrity had all suggested an older woman. He’d formed a mental image of a comfortable, grandmotherly type who was supplementing her social security check by giving etiquette lessons. And he couldn’t have been more wrong. There was nothing the least bit comfortable about Jessie Martinelli.

On the contrary, there was something about her that put him on edge, and he wasn’t quite sure exactly what it was. She wasn’t beautiful. Her mouth was a shade too big, and her cheeks a bit too rounded. Although she did have good skin. Very soft and silky looking. He ignored his sudden compulsion to stroke it. And her eyes were intriguing. A clear, crystalline green that reminded him of emeralds. As for her hair… He studied the profusion of fiery red curls that framed her face and had an inexplicable urge to thread his fingers through them. He wanted to tug one of those curls and see how long it really was. He wanted to bury his face in the satiny mass and draw deep into his lungs the faint scent of flowers that clung to her.

For some reason that he couldn’t begin to fathom, Jessie Martinelli fascinated him on a primitive level that owed nothing to rational thought.

So now what? he wondered in frustration. Did he jettison his plan because he had a totally unexpected case of the hots for his prospective consultant? But if he did that, where was he going to find someone else to help him? He could hardly advertise for an etiquette expert. It would be all over the gutter press the next day, and the last thing he wanted was publicity.

He would hire Jessie Martinelli and ignore his attraction to her, he finally decided.

“I imagine you’re curious as to why I asked you to come in to see me,” he said.

Max paused to allow her to say something, but she didn’t. She simply gave him a small, encouraging smile and waited for him to go on. To his surprise he felt the urge to do exactly that. Jessie Martinelli had clearly mastered the technique of convincing people that she was fascinated by what they were saying.

“I want to impress on you that anything I say is to be treated with the utmost confidentiality. I would be seriously annoyed if you were to mention it to anyone else.”

Jessie barely suppressed a shudder at the ice she could see glittering in his eyes. He didn’t need to threaten her. Common sense told her that only a fool or a very desperate person would ever deliberately cross Max Sheridan. And she was neither.

“I understand,” she said, when it became clear that he was waiting for an answer.

“I got your name from Sam Berringer. He felt you might be able to help me.” He stood up as if too restless to sit still. Walking around his desk, he perched on the edge of it.

Jessie’s eyes were drawn to the way the expensive material of his pants tightened over the muscles in his thighs. With an effort she dragged her eyes away from the enticing sight and forced herself to focus on his face instead. It was tense, his mouth tightly compressed.

What kind of problem did he have, she wondered, not sure she wanted to know. If it worried a man as powerful as Max Sheridan, it would probably send her screaming into the night.

Jessie had never considered it bravery to stand firm in the face of overwhelming odds. As far as she was concerned, strategy that led to debacles like the Charge of the Light Brigade was singularly stupid.

“I have reached the point in my life where I’m ready to take a new direction,” he finally said. “To put it bluntly, I have decided it’s time I got married and started a family.”

Jessie stared blankly at him. So why was he telling her? Unless… For one mad moment she wondered if he was going to propose to her, before her common sense kicked in. He didn’t know her, even if he did know about her. And men didn’t propose marriage to women they’d never met. At least, normal men didn’t. Although…

Unconsciously she ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. By no definition could Max Sheridan be called normal. Any man who rose from abject poverty to billionaire status without even the benefit of a high school education was by definition abnormal.

“Um…exactly where do I fit into your plans?” Jessie broke the silence.

“As my consultant, for want of a better word,” he said.

“In what capacity?” she asked, ignoring the sharp stab of disappointment she felt.

Getting to his feet, Max walked over to the large window behind his desk. He stared down at the street far below for several moments. Then he turned and ran his long fingers through his dark hair. The action rumpled his hair, making him look younger and more approachable.

“Because of my background I don’t know a lot of the finer points of social etiquette,” he finally said. “I have no problem operating in a business setting. In business I know exactly what clothes and behaviors are acceptable. But on the social side, my knowledge has some gaping holes in it. Holes I need you to plug, like you did for Bunny Berringer.

“I also want you to accompany me to various social events, for two reasons. One, so you’ll be on scene to offer immediate advice should it become necessary; and two, so you can listen in on conversations in places I can’t go, like the women’s restroom. I’m hoping what you overhear will help me to eliminate women who are simply after my money.

“In exchange, I’ll pay for any clothes you’ll need, plus your usual hourly rate and a bonus of fifty thousand dollars when I actually become engaged.”

Max watched as her eyes widened. He’d thought the mention of a bonus would get her attention.

Attend social functions with him! Jessie tasted the words and found them very seductive. But dangerous. She was already far too aware of him. But that didn’t really matter, she assured herself. What mattered was that her feelings were not reciprocated by Max. She’d seen pictures of the women he’d dated, and the only thing she had in common with them was her sex. And as for his desire to have children…

Regret shivered through her. There was no way she could ever risk having children. Not only was there the huge problem of her family’s propensity for addictive behavior, but she’d probably make a ghastly mother. She might like kids in the abstract, but she had no clue about how one went about parenting them. Her own alcoholic mother certainly hadn’t been a role model she could emulate.

Nevertheless, she was a sharp, competent businesswoman who could see a great opportunity staring her in the face.

Not only that, but accompanying Max to social events would put her in a position to make some valuable business contacts, because Max would do his socializing with other wealthy, influential businessmen. No matter how she looked at it, Max’s proposition was a winner.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll do it. Do you have a timetable?” Jessie asked.

“A timetable?”

“For implementing your plan? I imagine that you’re pretty busy doing whatever it is you do.”

“It’s called making money,” he said dryly. “I intend to delegate a lot more of my work over the next several months, while I concentrate on finding a wife. By the way, how did you get into the business of giving etiquette seminars?”

“By accident. In college I had a job at a small African embassy. I was the general gofer. During the four years I worked there, I learned a lot about formal etiquette and entertaining. When I graduated with a degree in elementary education, I couldn’t get a job. So I signed up for substitute teaching and started giving seminars on etiquette to pay the bills. Somehow the business just grew, and I found I liked the freedom of running my own company more than I liked being tied to some bureaucrat’s idea of what I should be teaching.”

“Serendipity. Some of my most fortunate acquisitions have come about that way,” he said. “As for a timetable, I’d like to start as soon as possible.”

Why the sudden hurry when, from all accounts, he’d been a perfectly content bachelor for the past thirty-three years? Jessie thought better of asking him. They might be about to embark on a very odd relationship, but when you got right down to it, she worked for him, and his personal motivation was none of her business. As for starting immediately… Mentally, she reviewed her schedule. It wasn’t very full. Summers tended to be slow.

“I’m giving a workshop tonight at a local youth club on how to dress for job interviews. We could catch an early meal in a restaurant, and you could come to the workshop with me.”

“Why?” Max asked.

“Because I need to observe your behavior under a variety of different situations before I can decide where to concentrate our efforts,” Jessie said bluntly.

He grinned at her, and Jessie felt her breath catch at the intriguing sight of the dimple in his left cheek.

“You mean you need to find out which edges to polish?” he said.

“In a manner of speaking.” With an effort, Jessie hung on to her professional detachment.

“Tonight’s fine. Where do you want to eat, and what time’s your workshop?”

“The workshop starts at seven-thirty, so we’ll need to eat first, Mr. Sheridan. If we don’t, I’ll be starved by the time it’s over.”

“Call me Max.”

“Max,” Jessie obediently repeated. “Tell me—just how far are you willing to go in revamping your image?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to find the right wife,” he said flatly.

Jessie shivered slightly as his face hardened in determination. She sure wouldn’t want to get between him and what he wanted, she thought uneasily. It would be like trying to take a meaty bone away from a starving pit bull.

“The country-club set have some pretty rigid dress codes,” she warned him. “Even when they’re playing. What do you normally wear in your spare time?”

“I don’t have any spare time. If I’m awake, I’m working. This will be the first time I’ve ever cut back. But I do have some jeans and T-shirts and sweats for working out. And one golfing outfit,” he added.

“I suggest that you pay a visit to wherever you buy your suits and pick out some casual clothes.”

“I have a better idea. We’ll both pay a visit to my tailor, and you can make suggestions,” he said.

“I’m free tomorrow morning—say, ten? What about where you live? A good address is very important to a lot of people. Your future wife might be among them. Although, with as much money as you have, we could always try passing you off as eccentric.” She frowned slightly as she considered the idea. “It’s too bad you aren’t an actor.”

“An actor! Why would a sane person want to be one of the Hollywood crowd?”

“Because no one seems to hold them to the normal rules of behavior.”

“That is blatantly obvious. But forget passing me off as eccentric.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. “There’s a thin line between eccentric and just plain weird, and it’s too easy to inadvertently cross it. Where do you live?”

“I have an apartment on East Seventy-Fourth, and a town house I picked up last year, which I was told would be suitable for a family. As I recall, it has over fourteen thousand square feet.”

Jessie blinked. Fourteen thousand square feet! Just how big a family was he planning?

“Where is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Jessie stared at him. “You bought a house, and you don’t remember where it is!”

“I never actually saw it. It was part of a package deal in a company acquisition. My business manger said it had a lot of potential.”

Jessie shuddered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Words like potential and quaint are terms to avoid when buying property.”

“You think?” he asked.

“I know. I have a friend in real estate, and I’ve listened to her write copy on occasion. Real estate ads definitely come under the heading of creative fiction.”

“I’ll get the address and the key from my lawyer, and we can stop and look it over tomorrow after we order my casual wardrobe. If you think it wouldn’t appeal to a woman, then I’ll find something else.”

“Okay,” she said, suppressing an envious sigh at the thought of being wealthy enough to simply go out and buy a piece of New York City.

“Also, I have an invitation to a cocktail party this Friday night at Edwin Biddle’s,” he continued. “I’d like to start my search for a wife there. You are free Friday night, aren’t you?”

Jessie bit back the urge to tell him that just because he didn’t fancy her didn’t mean she didn’t have a social life. This was business, she reminded herself. Potentially very profitable business. Until she managed to get him engaged, her own social life, such as it was, was going to have to be put on hold.

“As long as it’s just a cocktail party, it should be okay.”

“You like cocktail parties?” he asked curiously.

“It’s not that. It’s that I won’t have time to teach you much by Saturday, but you’ve probably had plenty of practice at cocktail parties. It may be trite, but it’s also true that you only get one chance to make a good first impression.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll also pick you up tonight at six.”

Jessie got to her feet, correctly assuming she’d just been dismissed.

“Six will be fine. And please don’t change.”

Max frowned slightly. “Why not?”

“Because I want the kids to see what a real employer looks like. In fact, you can give a couple of practice interviews, if you would,” she said hopefully.

“All right, but be warned that I haven’t interviewed anyone for an entry-level job in fifteen years.

“Until tonight, then.” Max held his office door open for her, and Jessie hurried through, feeling as if she were escaping from a relentless force of nature.

She didn’t begin to relax until she was safely outside the building on the sidewalk. She spent the bus ride home trying to sort out her impressions of Max Sheridan and the job she’d taken on. Having met him, she wasn’t surprised at his unorthodox method of choosing a wife instead of waiting for love to strike as most men would.

Jessie frowned, trying to remember if he’d said anything about love. She was almost positive he hadn’t. Did that mean he didn’t expect to find love in his marriage? Or did it mean that he didn’t think his emotions were any of her business? It could be either. Or neither. She had no way of knowing.

But even if his marriage started out as a cold-blooded bargain, she very much doubted that it would stay that way for long. She swallowed as she remembered the sensual line of his mouth, and the strength in his long fingers as they had gripped hers. Max Sheridan was a compulsively attractive man, and his attraction owed nothing to his net worth.

Jessie got off at her bus stop and walked down the block to her apartment house.

Letting herself into the lobby, she picked up her mail and sorted through it on the elevator ride up to her apartment on the fourth floor. She bypassed the bills and flyers in favor of a pale-pink envelope with her address neatly typed on it. Curiously, Jessie studied the uneven keystrokes. It looked as if it had been typed on a typewriter and not a computer.

Ripping it open, she pulled out a single sheet of pink stationery. When she saw the handwriting, a volatile mix of pain and anger swamped her, making her want to throw up.

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, willing her stomach to behave. When she finally felt marginally in control, she forced herself to read the words on the paper. What she really wanted to do was rip it to shreds and then stomp on the pieces.

The elevator doors opened and she got out, automatically heading toward her apartment, her movements feeling stiff and unnatural.

Once she was inside, she went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She desperately needed a strong shot of caffeine to counteract the shock she’d just had.

Kicking off her heels, she set the letter in the middle of her gray granite countertop and then stood there, staring down at it as if it were a snake about to strike.

“Damn!” she muttered. “How could she write to me? And why now? Why not last year when she first got out of prison?”

Too agitated to sit still, Jessie began to pace as she waited for her coffee to brew. She didn’t want to hear from her mother. They didn’t have any good memories to share. Not a single solitary one. Thanks to her mother’s alcoholism, Jessie had had a childhood straight out of a Kafka nightmare. And now her mother had the nerve to write to her and suggest meeting, as if nothing had ever happened.

Hell would freeze over before she’d ever have anything to do with her mother again, Jessie thought grimly. She had built her own life. It was a good life. A normal life. And there was no place in it for her mother’s destructive presence.

No place at all.