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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

"Hey, look! Here's that nutty one again." Rolph McKenzie held the fax sheet by one corner as he walked from his office into his brother's. "I think you should go for it this time, Max."

Max laughed, shook his head, and scanned the familiar words. The ad hadn't shown up for several weeks, but there it was again. Listed under Executive Employment Opportunities, sent out on what was called the ExecNet, by J. Leslie & Associates, Career Consultants, a fairly new but rapidly growing career counseling and job placement firm, the ad should have been in the Companions Wanted section of the daily paper instead.

Wanted: Tall, mature (35 -- 45) man, heroic in nature, preferably dark haired and blue eyed, capable of making long-term commitment. Must like children, country life, and classical music. Ability to play one or more instruments an asset. Term of employment three weekends. Apply in person to Ms. Leslie.

"Yes sir, that's some long-term commitment," Max said, laughing again.

Listening to the soft rumbling of his brother's laughter, Rolph knew the sound would have warmed any female heart -- had there been a female around to hear it. That was one of Max's problems, Rolph thought. Everything about him was attractive to women. And he was one of the world's most determined bachelors. It did create conflict in his life, having to beat them off with a bat. Rolph sighed silently. He should have such problems! All he attracted were "good friends" who wanted nothing more from him than to talk about his brother, maybe get a few insights, tips on how to capture the uncapturable.

Max let the paper slide onto his desk where it sat atop the messy pile of newspaper tear sheets, books and pamphlets, and scribbled notes on yellow paper. "You really think I should answer it?"

"I told you to answer it when it first appeared last month."

"And I told you then it wasn't for me."

"Yeah? Why not? It fits the only criterion you set down for researching your article. It's a weird job offer."

"Sure, but the woman is probably serious about it."

"So was the guy who advertised for an experienced pig shaver. You answered that ad, went and observed the man who was ultimately hired, and wrote a lot of good copy." '

"Well, a couple of paragraphs, anyway. But this one -" he shook his head. "Nah. This woman's looking for a husband, a daddy for her kids. She just hasn't got sense enough to run the ad where it would do the most good."

"Yeah, maybe. But you wouldn't have to take the job. Just go and be interviewed, ask a lot of questions, find out what it's all about."

Max nodded. "That three-weekend clause really intrigues me. I wish - " he shook his head again. "Nah. It's not fair to mess with someone like that."

"You wouldn't be messing with her. You'd have no intention of taking the job. After you find out what you can about it, you prove to her somehow that you're all wrong for her, and she'll say no. Looks as if she's been doing that all along anyway, considering the number of times she ran the copy last month. And now she's started again."

"I guess you're right... unless she hasn't had any takers at all." Max was weakening.

"And the term of commitment Is about what you usually manage," Rolph pointed out with a grin, moving the fax out of the sunlight. "You're thirty-eight, so age-wise, you qualify. Your hair is as black as coloring can make it, except at the temples where you leave that bit of silver for contrast, and your eyes are blue. You spend as much time as you can at your cabin. You've always said you'd like to raise kids if it didn't mean having to have a woman around to produce them, and you play a mean trumpet."

Max leaned back, propped his heels on the desk, linked his hands behind his head, and said, "Coloring! I oughta poke you for that one, little brother. You're the one turning gray, not me. Silver temples don't count. They merely add distinction."

"My gray hardly shows, since my hair is blond. But if I am showing my age, it's because I worry about you," Rolph said sanctimoniously. "You need some stability in your life: A wife, kiddies, lawns to mow, hedges to clip, a station wagon, a mortgage. Picket fences and leaky roofs."

"Picket fences and leaky roofs, huh?" Max swung his feet to the floor, looking mildly interested. "How do you figure that as being good for me?"

"I didn't say it would be good for you to have all that. But it might be good for me."

"Then you go for it!" Max offered his brother the fax.

"What I'm saying is that it would be good for me if you got married."

Max cocked his head to one side. "Yeah? How so?"

"You're older than I am. It's time you got married. Maybe then I'd be able to get a woman to look at me for more than thirty seconds after she meets you."

"Hell," Max snorted, realizing Rolph was joking -- or hoping he was. "You do okay. You just need to try harder, that's all."

"Yeah. And you don't have to try hardly at all."

Max gave his brother a sharp look, catching a pensive expression on his face. Maybe he wasn't joking? Was he still feeling sore about that bimbo who'd come on to Max so strongly a few weeks ago? Rolph hadn't been serious about her, had he? Max gnawed on his lower lip. Dammit, too many of Rolph's dates had deserted him, once they'd set eyes on his older brother. It had been happening virtually all their lives. They'd always joked about it. But, at thirty-six, maybe Rolph wasn't finding it funny anymore. And maybe he was right. If Max was out of the running, things might change. But, hell! He hadn't yet met the woman who turned him on so powerfully that he'd even think about marriage. He didn't believe such a woman existed. And even if she did, it wasn't up to him to run interference for his brother, was it?

"...so why not go tootle on your trumpet in front of the lonely lady and see what might fall into your lap?"

Max suddenly became aware that Rolph was speaking again. It took him a moment or two to catch up with the trend of the conversation again. "Oh!" he said when his brother's words penetrated. "The lady said 'classical,' and there ain't nothin' classical about the way I play my trumpet." He held the paper up and scanned it again, then shook his head, laying the ad on the desk. "And I'm anything but heroic. No -- It's a crazy idea."

Rolph stepped into the next room, ran off a copy of the fax, picked up a highlighter, and outlined the ad in bright yellow. "There," he said, returning and dropping it onto the desk in front of his brother. "Don't lose it. I can tell you're tempted."

Max grinned. "Yeah? And how can tell that?"

Rolph returned the grin. "You said it was a crazy idea. Are you going to have Freda phone for an appointment?"

Max slapped his palms on his desktop and stood, suddenly all business. "No. It says 'apply in person.' And that is exactly what I'm going to do."

"Great. You do that. I'll see you when I get back from San Fran. I'll want a full report." Rolph left, chuckling and muttering to himself.

Freda, Max's research assistant looked up from her word processor. "What's that you said?" She had heard Rolph perfectly. She was only two years away from retirement but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. It was just that it was wise to have some of the outlandish things these boys said confirmed, in case she was asked later. Once, she'd been their nanny. Then, their mother's personal assistant. Now, she worked for Max. But in reality she belonged to the whole family, and they belonged to her.

Rolph just shook his head, bent and kissed her wrinkled cheek, and said, "Forget it. Look after the idiot, Freda. See you in a week or two."

Freda nodded, brushed a lock of gray hair back from her forehead, and watched fondly as the younger McKenzie brother strode out of the huge home they shared with their parents and in which they had their offices as well. Typical McKenzie male, she thought. Long-term commitment? Three weeks? What had the boys been talking about?

* * *

"Do you have an appointment, Mr. McKenzie?" The breathless voice and the adoring expression in the eyes of the young receptionist suggested that if he didn't, she'd see to it that he soon would -- with her. Their twenty-year age gap appeared to be no barrier to her.

"No, I don't, Ms." -- he glanced at the nameplate on the desk -- " Ms. Harrison."

"Cindy," she said, and smiled as she turned the nameplate facedown. "Ms. Harrison's away having a baby. I'm filling in. I could ask Ms. Leslie if she'd spare you five minutes. Actually, she's just on her way out for lunch, and since I know for a fact that she's lunching alone today, her client having canceled at the last minute I'm sure -- " The girl broke off as the door to the inner office opened and a tall, slender woman stepped through, then came to a dead stop, staring.

Max stared back. The woman was beautiful. Her skin was pale, iridescent gold with just a hint of peach on her cheeks. Her eyes, set wide apart and framed between thick, dark lashes, were a cool, smoky gray. As they swept over him, he believed he read fear in them, but it was so quickly masked, it was easy to persuade himself it had never been there.

Besides, why should she be afraid of him?

They had never met before; he would have remembered! And even if they had, there was nothing remotely frightening about him. As Rolph said too frequently and with unfortunate accuracy, women automatically liked him. And this person standing before him was definitely all woman. She was intensely female, even If she was trying to hide her femininity behind a tailored suit, detract from it by pulling her hair straight back, and deny it by falling to return his smile.

If this was J. Leslie, career consultant, then he was in the wrong career and needed to consult her immediately.

* * *

Jeanie stood rooted for an instant, staring at the man as if seeing a ghost -- or a dream come to life. Her heart began to beat again; only then did she become aware that it had stopped for a moment or ten.

Dream men do not come to life, she told herself sternly, trying to control the wild hammering of her heart. This man's resemblance to the man she d been dreaming about off and on for the last ten months was pure coincidence. There were plenty of tall, lean men with curly black hair and blue, blue eyes that crinkled up in a network of lines when they smiled -- in women's dreams and out of them.

"Oh." The receptionist's short word brought her back to earth and suggested that only seconds had passed since she'd come through the door and seen him. Jeanie tore her gaze from the man and glanced at Cindy, who was saying, "Ms. Leslie, this is Mr. McKenzie. He doesn't have an appointment, but I was about to ask if you could spare him a few minutes."

"Uh..." Jeanie forced herself to look at the man again. It was no easier this time, still just as shocking to see him in person right before her. If he'd been going to come to life before anybody, then it should have been her sister Sharon. After all, it was for Sharon that she'd dreamed him up and for Sharon that she'd advertised for the man she'd seen so often in her dreams.

"Max," he said, and his voice was exactly as she'd known it would be. He extended his hand, and she took it automatically. It was warm and dry and firm and everything she had expected. She wanted to step even closer and see if he smelled the way she imagined he would. And, idiotically, she wanted just as badly to run from him, not because she had decided not to go through with her crazy plans for Sharon -- which she had, weeks ago -- but because seeing him there almost made her change her mind again. He was the one. He was perfect. Otherwise, why had her interfering ancestor, her father's Gypsy great-grandmother, Grandma Margaret, who was reputed to poke her nose in when she became aware of anyone in search of a mate, put him into her dreams all those months ago?

Or had she? After all, it was only legend that Grandma Margaret's six golden bangles would tinkle and jingle when a woman refused to listen to reason -- Grandma Margaret's reason -- about Mr. Right. It was ridiculous to think that, simply because she wore three of those bangles most of the time, they'd affect her dreams!

Sharon was the one supposed to have inherited all the Gypsy blood, along with the big dark eyes and the sleek black hair. Jeanie had no Gypsy characteristics, and the fact that she had been doing the dreaming about the man, and hearing the jingle of those bangles even when they were safely closed away in her jewelry box, had no bearing on anything she told herself. Maybe Grandma Margaret's supposed powers were weakening, and she'd screwed it up, put the dreams into the wrong sister's head. It was Sharon who needed a husband, not Jeanie!

The practicality she'd inherited from her mother's side of the family told her that she had held the man's hand quite long enough. She pulled free, but she saw in his eyes his reluctance to let her go. Because she prided herself on being sensible, she ignored his look.

"Just a few minutes of your time?" he asked in that soft, velvety voice that wrapped itself around her heart and warmed her from the inside out. Oh, yes! He'd make the ideal...brother-in-law, if she'd still been searching for a man for her sister. But she was not! And she had never been searching for one for herself.

"No," she said, hoping he wouldn't guess that the high-pitched, ragged tone was not her normal speaking voice. "I don't have time right now. I'm meeting someone for lunch." Grandma Margaret, why are you tempting me this way?

"But she canceled," said Cindy. "Remember? I told you just a few minutes ago that Mrs. Anthony wouldn't be able to make it and --" As if finally noticing her employer's eloquent stare, she clapped her hand over the lower half of her face for a moment before saying, "I'm sorry, Ms. Leslie. Me and my big mouth, huh? I'm trying to do the right thing, but I mess it up all the time, don't I?"

Jeanie sighed ruefully at the girl's flushed, guilty face. "I know you try hard, Cindy."

She also suspected that her pesky ancestor might have put the words into the girl's mouth. She switched her gaze to Max. Was this destiny speaking, after all? Was Somebody up there other than Grandma Margaret telling her to go with her first instincts and take this man to Sharon against all better judgment?

What should she do? If he was the answer to Sharon's needs, did she have the right to refuse to hear what he had to say? After all, because she didn't really believe in any old Gypsy predictions and superstitions, her own must be the mind that had conjured him up in the first place. Maybe she should get to know him a little bit, see what he was all about, before she made a firm decision. She drew in a deep breath and nodded. "All right, then, Mr. McKenzie. Please come in. I can spare you a few minutes."

"Max," he corrected her once more. "Maybe we could talk over lunch," he suggested.

She froze inside. Would that be wise? No! Absolutely not. "No, thank you. I prefer to conduct business in my office," she said pleasantly. Why he had come, why he wanted to see her, she had no idea, but she doubted it was to tell her that he'd been dreaming about a woman who looked exactly like Sharon for most of the past year. She doubted just as strongly that he was there to tell her that he wanted to meet her sister and bring her out of her depression, to make her into a whole and happy human once again, to become the father Jason and Roxanne needed. But whatever it was he wanted from her, she'd feel safer hearing it with the barrier of her big oak desk between them. She flicked another glance at him and he smiled a smile she was utterly powerless to resist. She thought for a crazy moment that if he'd held out his arms to her just then, she'd have walked right into them.

"Since you were on your way out to lunch, obviously you need to eat. So do I. Wouldn't it be so much easier and save time, if we did it together?" he asked.

Jeanie hesitated. The man's logic was irrefutable. She had to eat. She had a table booked already. And she was a big girl, thirty-one years old. She could look after herself, and maybe she'd learn more about him in a less formal atmosphere than her office. She knew she should be as nice to him as possible. After all, she mustn't forget that someone looking just like Max McKenzie had been peopling her dreams, filling her with the certainty that somewhere, sometime she'd find him, and he'd put Sharon's world back together again the way she and all the king's horses hadn't been able to do.

From somewhere, she was certain she heard the faint tinkle of golden bracelets jingling together. She glanced at her wrist. No bangles. But, despite that, she knew she had no choice. If he wanted to have lunch with her, then that was what would happen. Maybe Grandma Margaret was in charge of her mind and events after all, scary as the though might be. "All right, Mr. McKenzie," she said. "I can spare you an hour, but no more. This way, please."

She held the door open for him. Behind them, the receptionist said wistfully, "Have a nice lunch, Ms. Leslie. And don't hurry. Remember, you have no more appointments today."

"An hour, huh? No more?"

Jeanie had to laugh as she led her companion past the elevator doors and toward the stairs. "Cindy Is a temporary maternity-leave replacement," she said. "But the girl does try very hard. It's just that she's young and impulsive and says anything that comes into her head. I hope to teach her some discretion."

"I'm sure time will, if you don't," he said easily as they started down the four flights of stairs. "The elevator worked fine when I came up a few minutes ago."

"Did it?" she asked. "Exercise is good you, Mr. McKenzie."

"Max," he said, taking her arm, drawing in deep breaths of the delicate scent that wafted up from her hair.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked as if she hadn't heard him.

"My name Is Max." He wanted to hear her say his name in that sexy, husky voice of hers. Never had he wanted so much to hear a woman. say his name, but she seemed determined to be all business.

"Yes, I know." She slipped her arm out of his clasp, swung her shoulder bag in between them, and returned his warm smile with a small, cool one of her own. She was, he realized with a slight sense of shock and a large dose of curiosity, completely impervious to that so- called natural charm his brother envied. Why? When his body chemistry reacted so wildly to her, wasn't the feeling supposed to be mutual? She was also, he realized, not going to offer her first name in response to his.

"My car's just around the corner," he said as they came down the last flight of stairs and into the building's lobby

"Mine's right out here," said Jeanie, pushing open the door to the staff parking area at the rear of the building, stepping out into a swirl of golden leaves from the autumn-gold poplars between the lot and the sidewalk. Dream man or not, she wasn't getting into a car with a man she had never met before and knew absolutely nothing about. Not unless she was behind the wheel and in control.

Sharon had taught her that much -- and considerably more, Jeanie mused as she drove through the crowded streets of downtown Victoria. It hadn't been easy for Sharon, at eighteen years old, to take up the rearing of a little sister in a small apartment in downtown Toronto, all the two girls could afford while Sharon attended the Royal Conservatory of Music after their parents had died, she and her sister had survived some rough times together.

Her passenger broke into her thoughts. "Nice car. I've always admired Nissan Altimas."

"Thank you. I find it comfortable to drive."

"Yes. I can tell. You're a very smooth driver." She glanced at him, pleased with the comment, but did not reply. She felt vaguely surprised to learn that he wasn't one of those dinosaurs who hated to have a woman drive him. Sneakily, she watched from the corner of her eye as he sat back, his gaze switching from small glances at her face to the passing scenes of Government Street. When she parked the car, he was out his door and around to her side in a few long-legged paces. He opened her door and helped her out, his hand large and warm on her elbow. As she had on the stairs, she pulled away quickly. She was determined to keep this luncheon on a businesslike plane, especially because the mere touch of his hand had the extraordinary ability to turn her Insides to butterscotch pudding. Things like this did not happen to Jeanie Leslie.

When they were seated, had been served ice water with lemon slices, and steaming cups of coffee, and their orders taken, she leaned back in her chair and smiled, hoping her professional calm properly masked her deepening interest in him.

Who was he? Had she seen him somewhere before? She had an active social life. Maybe they'd attended the same party once or twice, she'd seen him across the room and had subconsciously remembered him. That could account for his having figured so largely in her dreams these last months. But even as she thought it, she knew she was trying to fool herself. If she'd seen Max McKenzie, even across a crowded room, she'd have remembered with more than her subconscious. Extreme caution was called for here, she thought. Maybe even a little chicken-hearted cowardice.

"Now, Mr. McKenzie," she said briskly, wanting to get this meeting over with fast, "how can I help you?"

He considered telling her, but it was far, too soon in their relationship for him to say what was uppermost in his mind, that his brother had given him the germ of an idea, and meeting her had given that little seed a helluva big dose of growth hormone. Besides, he was certain that if he gave himself a day or two to reflect, he'd realize the idea was one of the dumbest he'd ever entertained. So what if she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, with her pink and gold skin, tawny-colored hair, smoky eyes? So what if the scent she exuded made his head reel? So what if she walked as if she wore a tiara and long, ermine-trimmed robes? So what if he had, for one wild moment, suddenly felt as though there might be such a thing as love at first sight?

It was impossible because love itself was impossible. No, this was purely the worst case of lust he'd ever suffered, exacerbated by her failure to respond to him as women always did. Some devil in him demanded that he break through that cool reserve of hers, make those smoky eyes flare with flames of excitement. Ah, yes. Good, old-fashioned lust. There was nothing to do but wait it out. It would go away in time, especially if he didn't see her again.

He remembered once when he was in college he'd gotten so dizzy over the sight and scent of a flight attendant that he'd wanted to ask for oxygen. At least the experience had proven to him that he was capable of going off the deep end momentarily, but that it would also pass. So he said what he'd come to say before he'd had it wiped from his mind by the sight of her tall slender body and slate-gray eyes.

"You can start by telling me your first name."

"Jeanie." She gave a tiny shrug, more impressed than she liked to admit when he didn't automatically respond with the usual, "Jeanie with the light brown hair." It amazed her how that phrase from a long-ago song hung on in the modern vernacular.

"I'd like to know more about the job that requires a mature man who likes children, country life, and classical music, Jeanie."

To his surprise, her cool facade broke for an instant, and her eyes flared not with excitement or pleasure but with that hint of fear he'd seen before.

She stared at him, reared back slightly in her chair, and said sharply, "No! Absolutely not."

Chapter Two

Jeanie felt her mind go blank for a moment, then fill with tangled thoughts. She had known. On the most basic of levels, she had known the moment she saw him that he had come to her for one reason only, weeks late, maybe, but who was she to argue with destiny? Except that now she found she didn't want him to know she had placed that ad personally, or why. What held her back she couldn't say, but maybe it was because he was so right it terrified her. But she realized Sharon would never be able to handle a man like him, not in her present state of mind. He was too strong, too overwhelming. Too...male.

"No!" she said, shocked to hear the incipient panic in her voice. She shook her head to clear it, forced the fear down, and brought herself under tight control. "I'm sorry," she said pleasantly, but firmly, keeping her gaze on his face, "but that job isn't being offered any longer."

"Oh?" His brows lifted. "It came over the ExecNet this morning on my brother's fax machine."

"It did?" Her shock was evident again, but she controlled it even more quickly than before. "If so, then it was sent out by mistake." She pulled a wry face and sighed dramatically, rolling those gorgeous gray eyes heavenward.

He smiled. "Cindy?"

With a small laugh, she nodded. "I guess so. Poor Cindy."

"Why not poor you? You have to put up with her."

She gave him a level stare. "I do not have to put up with her. I choose to. If you had ever been a young woman looking for office work, you'd understand why. So many ads read, Junior office clerk wanted. Must have at least two years' experience. And then they offer a rate of pay so insultingly low that no male would ever be expected to live on it. I used to wonder how and where young women were supposed to gain experience if no one would hire them until they had some. So I take them on right out of school and train them whenever I get a chance and encourage my clients to do the same."

He smiled and reached across the table to touch the back of her left hand, drawing a blunt, white nail from the base of her ring finger to the tip. "You're a nice woman, Jeanie Leslie."

She withdrew her hand slowly and looked at him, wondering why she was so fierce in her determination to keep Max and Sharon apart. She didn't usually feel quite so strongly about things of this nature. She was being protective, that was all. She dragged her mind back to their conversation. "Thank you. But I don't do it to be nice. I do it because it's right."

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. 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 the agitation she was feeling. "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 read her successfully? And why was it so important that he be able to? 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 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.

Jeanie was lost in the intensity of his stare for several minutes before she gave herself a mental shake and took another mouthful of broken lettuce. She chewed it, swallowed, then pushed her plate away. She'd never much cared for cardboard with oil and vinegar dressing. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table as she pulled her coffee cup toward her, wishing Max McKenzie would quit looking at her like that, that he'd say something anything to break the sudden tension between them.

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. 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 tried to stuff me into a cage." Something compelled him to add with deadly seriousness. "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 and floated around him, taking his breath away, delighting him with its beauty. He scowled for a moment. He was getting far too interested in this woman for his own good.

Women came on to Max McKenzie. He did not come on to women. He didn't have to. There was no conceit in the knowledge, just an acceptance of facts. And regardless of what Rolph had suggested, he had no intention of putting himself out of circulation, because there were times when he enjoyed his easy popularity with the opposite sex. Getting interested in one specific woman, getting tied up in any permanent legal or emotional way would not just curtail that, it would stop it in its tracks.

"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 on his face.

"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. He was determined to talk about the ad, wasn't he? Did he always get his own way? Probably, she realized. With those eyes and that smile, almost assuredly. "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."

"You ran it weekly. None of the candidates were suitable?"

She chuckled. "Wildly unsuitable, if you want the truth, though not one actually smelled bad."

"Maybe you got unsuitable candidates because of where you placed the ad. I wondered what your reasoning was, there. I mean, the personals would have seemed more appropriate."

"No." She shook her head and a fine froth of curly, light brown hair that had sprung free from her severe style caught the sunlight behind her, outlining her face with a golden glow. He immediately remembered the Christmas tree angel in his grandmother's home. "I deliberately didn't put it in the Companions Wanted section of the newspapers because it was to be a paid position, and I thought executives looking for other employment might be intrigued enough by the phrasing to reply."

He laughed. "Oh, you got that right! it drove my brother, Rolph, crazy. He subscribes to ExecNet because he's expanding his boat brokerage firm and is on the lookout for just the right man for the number two spot."

Jeanie lifted her brows. "Or woman, I hope," she said dryly.

"Oh, yes. Of course." That idea, in itself, was novel. Had Rolph ever considered a woman as second in command? He had to laugh silently at the idea. As much as Rolph liked women, had more women as good friends than he really wanted, he also had definite ideas about women in positions of power. Women, as far as Rolph was concerned, should be lilies of the field.

"Anyway," he went on, "Rolph's the one who prodded me to reply when your ad came out again today. Tell me, if you can without breaking any confidences, do you -- does your client, rather -- really believe that three weekends constitutes a long-term commitment?"

Again, she laughed. Again, he felt the magic of it wrap itself around him. He swallowed hard. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. He was thirty-eight years old, and he hadn't felt this way in the presence of a woman for more than twenty years! He had to stop his libido from getting out of control. It was as simple as that. Except, where Jeanie Leslie was concerned, controlling his libido wasn't simple. It reminded him of a game they used to play with a greased watermelon in the lake as kids. The minute you thought you had a grip on it, it went slipping and sliding and bobbing away completely out of your command.

"Of course not," she said, replying to his question and snatching his attention back where it belonged -- on their conversation, and off her incredible, sexy charm. "But three weekends was all I -- we -- were willing to pay for. If the man we chose hadn't decided by then that he wanted to see my...client again without being paid, he wasn't the right one. At least, that was the theory. I admit it was an ill-conceived idea and one I was glad to drop."

"Did the client ever find someone who fitted her?"

Jeanie shook her head. "No. In fact, she never even met any of the candidates. I was in charge of...selection. And none of them was even remotely possible."

"What do you think accounts for that?"

None of them looked like you . .

* * *

Back in the car he asked, "If my brother advertised with you, would he be likely to find what he needs? Would I?"

"Yes, of course, but he should use other sources, too. I don't demand exclusivity of my clients, just... honesty. As I require of the people who apply for the jobs."

"Everything up-front and straightforward, huh?"

She flicked a glance at him and caught sight of his incredible smile again. Every little part of her responded to it. It made her mad even while it excited her so much, she almost drove into the back of a bus. It wasn't fair! No woman should have to try to drive sensibly with a man like Max McKenzie smiling at her from the passenger seat. Maybe if she stopped, told him to get into the backseat and crouch down so she couldn't see him, they'd both be safer. Except then he'd know how crazy he was making her.

"Of course they're straightforward," she said. "What I meant was, if you spread the word around about what you're looking for, maybe you'll have better results. No point in relying on one source."

"I won't. But if you do find something you think might be right for me, will you call?" He reached into his breast pocket and took out a card, placing it on the dash just as she swung the car into the parking lot behind her building.

She stared at the little white rectangle as she pulled up on the hand brake and turned off the ignition. Then, almost against her will, she reached out and took it, dropping it into an outside pocket of her purse.

"Yes," she said. "Of course, Mr. McKenzie."

"Hey," he said, "you called me Max just a few minutes ago. Why the return to formality?"

Jeanie opened her door, stepped out, and looked at him across the car roof when he had alighted. "Good-bye, Mr. McKenzie. Thank you for the lunch." She couldn't begin to explain to him why she felt the need to hide behind what he called formality. She couldn't even explain it to herself. But she felt it was better that they stay several arms' lengths away from each other even when they were saying good-bye. And why not be formal? It wasn't as though she intended to see him again.

He didn't stay one car width away, let alone an arm's length. He came right up to her, smiled at her, bent his head, and brushed an impudent kiss over her lips. Then, lifting his hand in a little salute, he said, "See you, Jeanie," and strode away along the sidewalk, around the corner, and out of sight.

Jeanie stood there for several minutes, gripping her purse so tightly, her hands ached. Her insides shook. Her head spun. Her knees quaked. She would not, under any circumstances, see that man again. She wondered bleakly as she climbed the four flights of stairs to her office if there were some way she could ensure that she would never go to sleep again. Because if she did, she knew she would see him -- in her dreams.

* * *

"It's not fair!" Why should the perfect "weird" job offer come in now, a week after she'd first met Max McKenzie, six days after she'd firmly -- several times a day -- put him out of her mind. "It simply is not fair."

"Did you call me, Ms. Leslie?"

Jeanie looked up to see the girl in the doorway. "No, Cindy. I was talking to myself. It's all right. Go on home now. It's late."

"Yes, ma'am. I was just going."

Jeanie scarcely heard the younger woman. She sat with her hands in her hair, staring at the letter before her. Talk about an odd job request! And why had it been sent to her, of all people? Was it to tempt her? She lifted her head and gazed at the ceiling. "Grandma Margaret, is this your doing?" Nothing. No response of any kind. Well, she hadn't expected one, had she? She didn't really believe that she'd inherited any of Grandma Margaret's Gypsy characteristics. If anything, she'd inherited something far more valuable: her own mother's practical streak. And it was that very practically that had made her file Max's business card in her Rolodex instead of tossing it in the garbage as she probably should have a week ago. She never threw out anything like that, just in case she might need it one day, and dammit -- this was the day she would have to call him.

She wracked her brains. Did she know of any other freelance writer who might be capable of coming up with what the client wanted in the time he wanted it? Did she know any other writers at all? Unfortunately, no. She frowned, flipping through the Rolodex and found the "Mac" section.

There it lay, tucked into its little plastic pocket. Max McKenzie's card. Although it was plain white and not at all fancy, it still had a look of understated elegance about it. Old money, or something. Slightly raised black letters and numbers formed his name, telephone number, and the address to which she'd sent the brief and polite thank-you note after his unostentatious but beautiful floral arrangement had arrived the day after their lunch. Of course, the fact that it was a Beacon Hill address had certainly added to the impression of old money.

But for this, a note wouldn't do. She had to call him. She stood, paced to the window, looked out, leaned her forehead on the glass for a few moments then stood erect and squared her shoulders. She marched back to her desk and sat down. With her hand on the phone, she rehearsed what she would say. When the phone rang right under her palm. she leapt about two feet out of her chair, her eyes so wide her eyeballs nearly fell out, and every hair stood on end.

"Jeanie Leslie," she said into the phone.

* * *

A few moments after leaving Jeanie Leslie in the parking area at the rear of her building. Max had convinced himself quite firmly that he was fully in control, not only of his libido, but of his future, and that she, as lovely as she was, had absolutely no part in it. The next morning, after a night of pursuing her through his dreams, he was less convinced but determinedly put her out of his mind, concentrating instead on one of the articles he was currently working on -- but not the one dealing with strange job offers.

By noon, he was ready to tear his hair out. She would not stay out of his mind. He remembered her scent. He heard over and over her husky, soft voice speaking his name. What would it be like to hear it again? He stared at the phone, then looked resolutely away. No, dammit, she had made it clear that she didn't want anything more to do with him. There were plenty of women in the world who did want him. More than he cared to count. He took his personal phone directory and opened it at random, lifted the phone, and began to punch in numbers. There was that redhead who lived over in Saanich. She'd always been ready for anything. Hearing the splatter of rain against his window, he remembered she was spending the wet season in Palm Springs. He set the phone down.

The next name that leapt out at him was that of a rather sweet woman who claimed quite openly to be in love with him. He'd stopped seeing her because it wasn't fair to give her hope of anything more than friendship. Still, her adulation had been damned good for the ego, and Jeanie Leslie, with her obvious immunity to him, had certainly not been. Lifting the phone again, he dialed the florist his family had dealt with for years, ordered an arrangement sent to Jeanie at her office, dictated a brief note of thanks for her help on his article, and decided that would be that.

And later he had gone upstairs and dreamed again of Jeanie Leslie.

It was intolerable, he decided a week later. He picked up the phone, punched in numbers he had no need to look up, and was startled to hear her answer before even half a ring had sounded in his ear.

Chapter Three

Jeanie nearly slammed the phone down when Max McKenzie said, "Hello, Jeanie Leslie," in that voice that did things to her traitorous Insides. "This is Max McKenzie. I know it's short notice, but are you free for dinner tonight?"

Her heart slammed hard inside her, once, twice, then slowed to a regular beat as her eyes rolled heavenward, and she slumped back in her chair, suddenly resigned. Only...resignation didn't usually feel like this, did it? All tingling tummy, flighty head, and curving smile that just would not quit no matter how hard she tried?

"I...uh, yes, as a matter of fact, I am," she said, careful to keep her voice calm and contained. All right, Grandma Margaret. Why don't you let me in on what's happening before it happens? Isn't there some kind of sign you could have sent me before you sicced the man on me again?

"Great!" He sounded as if he really meant it.

Inside her, something fluttered like one of his chickens getting shoved into a cage. But it didn't squawk even a tiny bit in protest, she noticed.

"Eight o'clock? May I have your address so I can pick you up?"

Jeanie bit her lip. Like getting into a car with a strange man, giving out her address to someone she didn't know was something Sharon had warned her against over and over. Once, she had thought her sister was unduly cautious, but the older she grew, the more she became aware of the things that could happen. And she had to admit that being responsible for the care and well-being of three other people tended to make her less intrepid than she had once been. "I'd rather meet you somewhere."

In a puzzled tone he said, "All right. If that's what you prefer." He named the restaurant where he would book a table, and Jeanie hung up, watching as her hand trembled on the pale blue phone.

At home, she dressed in a cowl-necked green silk dress, looked at herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, shook her head, and muttered, "No." The dark brown velvet skirt and cream silk blouse she tried next weren't right either. They joined the green silk dress on the bed. After three more attempts, she went back to the brown velvet skirt, but teamed it with a pale primrose angora sweater with satin and gold bead applique. Then she fixed earrings of gold and enamel to her lobes, and on impulse she couldn't explain, added her three of the bangles to her right wrist, tamed her hair with two combs that matched the earrings. With a quick spritz of perfume, she was ready. She glanced out the window, noting that it was still raining, and added a good coat of hair spray to keep the kinks at bay.

Maybe, she thought in disgust ten minutes later, feeling the frizz start to puff out around her temples as she got into her car, she should consider moving to New Mexico or the Sahara desert. Would her hair then be sleek and manageable like Sharon's? Oh, dammit, why did it have to matter so much how she looked for Max McKenzie? She was seeing him tonight for one reason only: to tell him about that job. This was not a date in the usual sense. At least, not on her part. She experienced a moment's light-headedness as she realized that he had never said exactly why he had called her.

Did he think of it as a date?

And if he did, what did it mean to him?

And even more to the point, what did it mean to her?

* * *

Jeanie drove by the restaurant. Both sides of the street were filled with cars; every parking meter taken in a three-block radius. Slowly, she circled several blocks looking for a spot that was close to the restaurant so she wouldn't have to walk too far in the rain, but her luck failed to improve. With a grimace, she drove into a parking garage and circled up, up. and up some more, before finding a small slot she could just manage to shoehorn her car into.

Grabbing her keys and umbrella, she slid out of the car and looked around. Cold, damp, lonely garages were not among her favorite places and the sooner she got out of this one, the better. Quickly, she walked to the stairs, aware of the way the heels of her shoes rang out in the concrete cavern, saying, "Woman alone, woman alone, woman alone..."

"Oh, quit being paranoid!" she told herself as she headed for the red-painted metal stairwell door. She changed her pace, causing her heels to ring out, "Woman in charge! Woman in charge! Woman in charge!" instead. She laughed aloud at her own bravado and reached out to push open the stairwell door. Her laughter died into a rattling gasp that caught in her throat as a large, dirty hand closed over her wrist, jerking her away from the door. The man, nothing more than a large, dark shape from the shadows, tugged on her, pulling her off balance, swinging her into the deeper darkness at the side of a van. "Come on, girlie," he said. "Don't be scared. You and me can be friends."

"Get away from me! You want my money, don't you? Sure. Money. Take your hands off me. Let me go. I'll give you money."

His fingers tightened. He dragged her farther into the shadows. "Maybe I take your money. Maybe I take something else, too, huh?"

"No!" Jeanie wrenched her arm, nearly twisting free, stabbing out with her keys, but he caught her with his other hand, spinning her up against a wall. She screamed then, a loud, full-bodied yell that filled the echoing passages of the garage, reverberating off the concrete surfaces as she fought with the man, slowly losing to his superior strength but not giving even one inch willingly. She screamed again, the sound cut off by the slap of his filthy hand over her mouth, and then she was falling backward, her keys scraping down the side of his face and neck while darkness came up all around her. She gasped, fighting it -- and the man.

Struggling, kicking back with her heels, she struck out, missing the shins she was aiming at and managing to lose one of her shoes. In desperation, she reached up with her left hand, her keys still clutched in her fingers. and raked the sharp point of a key down the man's face. He shouted, jerked his head back, and while he was shifting his grip on her, she sank her teeth into his hand.

He gave another guttural shout and snatched his hand free, then shoved her back hard against the corner of the pillar. The world spun. Reeling her back toward him, he smacked her with the back of one hand.

Through the red-tinged darkness that swirled around her, she caught sight of an unshaven face with dirty teeth as headlights swept into the cavern of the garage and brakes squealed loudly. There was more shouting. Who was it, she, herself, someone else, the mugger, his accomplice?

She didn't know; she knew only that the heavy weight of the mugger was off her. She slumped at the bottom of the pillar, her wobbly knees failing to support her. She huddled, hands over her face, listening as the sound of flesh meeting flesh came twice, three times, followed by the dull thud of a body slamming onto the floor. When hands touched her again, she fought frantically against their hold until the words the man was saying penetrated. "Jeanie, Jeanie, stop fighting me! It's Max!"

"Max? Max! Oh, Max, hold me! Help me!"

He crouched there, holding her close, rocking her from side to side, one hand stroking her hair back from her face while she clung to him. "My God! You're bleeding! I'll call an ambulance."

"No. No ambulance. It's just a bump. Max, he was so dirty! He touched me. He was going to --"

"Hush, hush. It's all right. He won't hurt you again." He put her shoe on, and said, "Come on, come up here. Let me help you."

Warm hands lifted her. Warm arms cradled her again. A warm body provided shelter. She shook so, she could barely walk. She burrowed against his broad chest, feeling no surprise at all that Max McKenzie was there, just immense gratitude, safety, and security in his embrace. just as in every dream she'd had about him, he was a hero.

"He said we could be...friends. He said he'd take my money. He said he'd take something else, too!"

"I know, but stop it. Stop reliving it. He didn't do anything. He won't. Can you move now? I want to get you into the car. I have to call the police." He put her tenderly on the front seat and let her go only long enough to dash around and get behind the wheel. Then, sliding his arm around her again, he pulled her close, oblivious to the grime on her hands and face and clothes, dirt she was just becoming aware of. He absorbed her shivering with his body as he placed his call, explained the situation curtly, and hung up. "I should go back over there and make sure he stays put if he comes to," he told her, rubbing the palm of his hand gently over her icy cheek. "Will you be all right now?"

"Don't leave me," she said, her teeth chattering. "Please don't go." Her fingers grabbed onto the lapels of his raincoat. "I know Grandma Margaret gave you to me as a hero for Sharon, but she won't mind If I hold onto you for just a few minutes. I was so scared, Max. So -- I thought he was going to rape me!"

As she continued to tremble uncontrollably, he held her, murmuring soothing phrases without meaning until the shaking finally stopped. Jeanie was too limp to move but continued to lean trustingly against Max's shoulder. He bent to give her a kiss of comfort. The moment his lips touched hers, though, their kiss escalated into something more.

"Ah, Jeanie, Jeanie," he murmured, lifting his mouth from hers for a second before returning for more of the sweetness he had found there. "I knew it was going to be like this," he told her moments later, his lips skimming over the sensitive skin of her throat. All he could think of was that he had her in his arms at last, and she tasted as wonderful as he had known she would. She responded hotly, pressing herself to him, her mouth hungry, greedy, seeking. Small, passionate sounds emanated from her throat, like purring he could feel as well as hear when he pressed his lips to the racing pulse there.

"I've needed to touch you," he said. "Needed to see you, kiss you. For the last week I've been going crazy, wanting to forget I'd ever met you, but still tasting you in my dreams."

It was as if his words brought her out of an enchantment. She went stiff against him, her hands on his chest, her eyes wild. "No, stop!" she cried, pushing him away.

"What?" He stared down at her, blinking his eyes, her agitation dragging him abruptly out of his sensual daze. He remembered what had happened to her, realized where they were and why. "Lord, Jeanie!" He took his hands off her, felt sticky blood on one, saw it matting her hair and took a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, pressing it to her wound. "I'm sorry! Oh, hell, that should never have happened. Forgive me!" He pounded his fist on the steering wheel. "Of all the things to do to you after what you've been through. Please believe me, I didn't mean for it to happen."

Jeanie found it difficult to speak, even more difficult to think. She ran a hand through her hair, felt a large, painful lump on her scalp above and behind her left ear. Her hand came away smeared with blood. She winced. It was a bitter reminder of what had gone before and how she had come to be in Max McKenzie's arms.

"It's okay. Okay. I know you didn't mean it. It's all right." She was trembling again, but unsure what caused it; the fear or the unexpected passion. "It was as much my fault as it was yours. Maybe it was an excess of adrenaline in both of us." Drawing in a ragged breath, she fumbled in her purse for a tissue and tried in vain to wipe some of the dirt from her face and hands, then attempted, with about as much success, to put her hair back in order. All the while Max kept pressure on the compress.

One of her combs was missing. Biting her lip, she looked over at the dim corner where her attacker had dragged her. He still lay there, a mere shape at the edge of the light. Her comb would be there, she knew. And there it would stay. Nothing would make her go back into that corner, not even once the police had come.

Where were they? She shuddered convulsively again until Max turned her face away from the sight of her attacker, tucking her head back down against his shoulder. She didn't try to escape his embrace. It felt too good. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm keeping an eye on him. He hasn't moved. Don't look at him. Don't think about him."

"No," she said, lifting her head again, but not looking into the dark corner by that van. "Thank you. And I'm sorry for falling apart."

"You had every right to fall apart," he said reassuringly, stroking her cheek with the side of a curved finger. That, too, felt good. "Most women I know would have been having screaming hysterics complete with gallons of tears."

"I seldom cry," she said. "And just as seldom let myself get caught in a situation as dangerous as that one. The rain made parking the street anywhere near the restaurant impossible."

"So I discovered too. I'm only glad I had to park up here as well and came along when I did. But when I realized it was you that creep had dragged into the corner, I came close to killing him." Now, he was the one to shudder.

Putting her hand on his shoulder, she said, "No, Max, don't you think about it either. It's all over. You came in time. Remember that."

"I'm trying to. But when I think --" He broke off as sirens echoed in the parking garage. "Here come the police. You stay in the car." He got out, only to lean back in the window a moment later. "They'll want to talk to you, you know, Jeanie. You'll have to press charges." He sounded almost apologetic. Jeanie nodded, steeling herself.

* * *

"I'm going to drive you home," Max said after her head had been cleaned up and sprayed with liquid bandage, which stung like crazy. But at least she hadn't required stitches. The police had called an ambulance on general principles, they'd said, when Max used the word "mugging." The paramedics had insisted on taking her into the ER.

"But my car -- " she began, only he hushed her, not touching her now but still giving her the feeling of being enfolded by warmth and safety.

"I'll get someone to pick it up and deliver it to your house, if you'll give me your keys," he went on as he drove toward the street. "You won't want to go back to the garage."

She shuddered and shook her head. He reached out to take her hand, holding it warmly in his. "You'll have to tell me your address," he said, nosing the car out onto traffic.

It no longer seemed to matter that he was stranger. Maybe, she thought, because he really wasn't one. He had been there when she needed him. He had held her in his arms. He had comforted her. He had given of himself to her. She told him her address.

"Thank you, Max," she said as he pulled into the visitor parking area at the front of her building. "I'm sorry about dinner. Send me your dry-cleaning bill. You're covered with blood." She kept his hankie clutched in her left hand as she reached for the door handle with her right. "Good night."

"Not on a bet" he said firmly. "I'll see you in."

She might have argued, but the clasp of his hand around her elbow made that seem futile, as did the grim set to his jaw. He took her key ring from her, detached what were clearly her car keys, pocketed them, then unlocked the door and stepped back for her to enter. Silently, they climbed five flights of stairs to her floor.

"Would you... would you like to come in?" she asked.

He smiled and nodded. "I'd planned on it."

He followed her inside and closed the door firmly. She turned from him as she unbuttoned her coat and dropped it across the back of a chair in the entry. It was filthy and would have to go to the cleaners in the morning. "I could fix us an omelet or a sandwich or something," she offered tentatively.

He smiled again, his eyes crinkling up, glittering blue between his thick, dark lashes as he shrugged out of his tan trench coat. "That sounds great. Beating up bullies gives me an appetite. But why don't you point me in the direction of the kitchen, and I'll make the omelets while you get cleaned up. In case you haven't looked, Ms. Leslie, you're a wreck."

Her pantyhose were torn, one of her knees was scraped raw, and her velvet skirt was fit only for the garbage. Luckily, her sweater was unscathed. Her raincoat had caught all the blood from her head that hadn't ended up on Max's clothing.

"Thank you. I won't be long," she said, turning and moving too quickly across the living room. She staggered dizzily, clutched the doorframe, and pulled herself along the corridor. She was in the shower, standing under the hot spray, gingerly dabbing at the hair around her cut, when she remembered she hadn't pointed him to the kitchen. No matter, though. He would find it. He was a resourceful man -- as well as a hero.

* * *

"You hurt your hand," she said, glancing up from the light, fluffy omelet he had set before her. He must have used at least four eggs for each one, but she didn't mind. She'd smelled the delicious aroma of bacon, too, the minute she came out of the bathroom dressed in a warm, loose track suit. She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand near the bruised knuckles. "I'll put some antiseptic on it." She pushed her chair back and stood.

"It'll be okay," he said with a shrug, then spread honey thickly on a slice of toast. His hands moved deftly in spite of their size. A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the gentle way they had touched her, the tenderness, the caring in his softly stroking palms while he'd comforted her, then the quivering tension in them when she'd responded to his kisses.

"The skin is broken. The cuts might get infected," Jeanie said, ignoring his protest. Seconds later, she returned from the bathroom with the same tube of ointment she had used her own scraped knee after her shower. Gently, she smeared it on Max's hand, then dabbed up the excess with a tissue.

"Thanks," he said. "That feels better. It started to sting when I washed up before I started cooking."

She sat back down and picked up her fork "You could have said something."

"Uh-uh." He shook his head, grinning. "Heroes don't whine." Then, when she was busy biting into a slice of toast, he said, "Who's Sharon?"

Jeanie swallowed. "My sister. Why? Did she phone while I was in the shower?" There was alarm in her tone. "What did you tell her? Nothing about --"

"No, no! Relax. She didn't phone. I just wondered who she was."

"If she didn't phone, how did you know about her?"

"You mentioned her." He gave her a quick look, picked up a piece of bacon, bit it in half, and then said, "You told me I was supposed to be her hero, not yours. Something about your grandmother having said so."

Jeanie stared. "I did? When?"

"After the attack. When we were in the car."

"I don't remember." But suddenly she did -- and felt a flush rise up her cheeks. What a damn-fool thing to have said!

He shrugged. "No? Never mind, then. I guess it wasn't important."

"No." Jeanie shook her head. "No," she said again. "Not important at all." She forced herself to eat, but even while she devoured her omelet and toast, her stomach quivered and did a few double loops every time she looked up at him. His shoulders, under the pale blue of his shirt, were even broader than they had appeared under his trench coat and suit jacket. The coat and jacket now hung over the back of his chair, his top two buttons were undone, and his tie pulled loose, revealing a tuft of dark hair below the vee between his collarbones.

When they were both finished, he smiled, his gaze on her face, mesmerizing her. He took one of her hands in his, smoothing his thumb across her knuckles. "But my reason for inviting you out to dinner was important, Jeanie."

"Was it?" Her heart did extraordinary things inside her chest. Quickly, she took her hand back from him and avoided that very strange expression in his eyes. "So... so was my reason for accepting. I was just on the verge of calling you -- in fact, in the very act of lifting the phone -- when it rang and it was you," she said, talking too fast but unable to slow down. "I got the most interesting request today for someone to fill a temporary job, and I thought about you immediately." She flicked a quick glance at his face. No need to tell him that she'd done nothing but think of him since last Monday.

"Really?" He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned on the table. "What is it?"

"It's right up your alley, Max. A man, at least I think it's a man, wants someone to write -- er -- something for him."

He tilted his head to one side in that way she was beginning to find characteristic of him -- and charming and wonderful. It enhanced his good looks, sent interesting shadows over his craggy face, making him even more mysterious and enigmatic and intriguing. "Something? Can you be more specific than that? How long is that 'something' supposed to be? Is this a serious job offer for a free-lancer, or is it for my article on odd jobs?"

"Well, maybe both." Jeanie considered for a moment, then laughed, that soft yet rich sound that never failed to move Max. He hadn't thought he'd hear it tonight. That she could laugh said a lot about her strength and courage and her ability to recover from trauma. "Yes, I think definitely both," she went on. "As to length, a couple of pages each, minimum. Maybe three or four, and he wants half a dozen of them. Maybe more, he said. It depends on how the first ones are received."

"First what?"

Jeanie looked up at the ceiling, and then flashed him a twinkling smile. "Something I'm sure you're well versed in, Mr. Mackenzie," she said innocently. "Just a few little love letters."

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