Made-To-Order Wife

“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.

Chapter Two

Jessie tensed, automatically checking the kitchen clock when she heard the entrance buzzer sound. Exactly six o’clock. It had to be Max. Anticipation poured through her, jerking her to her feet.

Hastily she shoved her feet into her black slingbacks, wincing slightly as the fashionable shoes pinched her toes. Someday she was going to have enough money to retire somewhere peaceful and rural where she’d never wear anything but comfortable walking shoes again.

As she grabbed her purse off the counter, the pale-pink letter lying there caught her eye. Why had her mother written? Was she hoping to con Jessie into paying for her liquor? A surge of anger coursed through her as she remembered how her mother used to steal her babysitting money to buy alcohol. She’d been there and done that and she wasn’t going back. Not ever again.

All she had to do was to stand firm, she told herself as she got into the elevator and punched the button for the lobby. Once her mother realized that she wouldn’t allow herself to be used, she’d go away. At least, Jessie sure hoped she would.

The elevator came to its usual jerky stop on the ground floor, and Jessie stepped out. Her breath caught in her lungs as she caught sight of Max standing on the street outside. Even through the thick plate glass of the door she could see the impatient glitter in his blue eyes. As if he had worlds to conquer, and she was delaying him.

Max watched Jessie cross the small lobby toward him. Her face was composed and remote as if her mind was far away, occupied with more important things that having dinner with him. For some reason her preoccupation annoyed him. He wanted to swing her up in his arms, find the nearest bed and make love to her until she lost that infuriating aura of self-control that she radiated.

And the fact that he knew he couldn’t act on his sexual attraction for her only made it worse. Maybe what they said about forbidden fruit really was true, he thought wryly. Maybe it really did taste sweeter.

Hopefully his reaction to Jessie Martinelli would fade as quickly as it had appeared. It was much too intense not to burn itself out relatively quickly. All he had to do was to keep his mind firmly focused on what she could do to help him achieve his goals.

Praying the excitement she felt wasn’t visible in her face, Jessie pushed open the street door and stepped out into the warm summer evening.

“Hi,” she said, trying her best to sound impersonally pleasant.

Max gave her a brisk nod and said, “I’ve got reservations for six-fifteen at a restaurant not too far from here. I brought the car since taxi service can be chancy at this time of night.”

Jessie glanced at the shiny black Mercedes parked at the curb. Its dark, impenetrable windows added to its air of aloofness. The car fit him perfectly. Both were elegant, solidly built and expensive, with an underlying power that could squash the unwary.

“You get points for being on time.” She hoped that focusing on the reason why they were together would dampen the excessive pleasure she felt in his company.

“Don’t tell me. Promptness really is a virtue?”

“It’s also becoming very rare,” she said.

“I refuse to waste my time waiting for people to show up, so I extend the same courtesy to others.”

“A commendable attitude,” she murmured, surprised at his words. Most of the high-powered businessmen she worked with saw nothing wrong with keeping small-business people like herself waiting indefinitely to see them.

“I’m glad you approve,” he said dryly.

Taking her arm, he headed toward the car and opened the rear door. Hurriedly she climbed into the car and scooted across the leather seat to make room for Max.

“Jessie, this is Fred. Fred, Ms. Martinelli,” Max said, introducing his driver.

“Evening, Ms. Martinelli.” Fred pulled into traffic with a deft turn of the powerful car’s steering wheel.

“Good evening, Fred,” Jessie said, wondering how long Fred had worked for Max and how well he knew him. This job had one interesting side benefit. She had the perfect excuse to ask all kinds of questions that normally would be considered none of her business.

Unfortunately, the most burning question she had was one Max couldn’t answer, and that was why she reacted to him like he was the embodiment of her every masculine fantasy when her mind knew perfectly well he wasn’t. Her fantasies had always been about lean, debonair, sophisticated men. Maybe it was a result of her passion for vintage black-and-white movies, but from the time she’d been old enough to understand what sexual attraction was all about, her physical ideal had been men like Cary Grant or Sir Laurence Olivier. Sometimes she had the feeling that she’d been born out of time. She would have been much happier back in the twenties.

“I have reservations at a restaurant called Saretts. Have you been there before?” Max asked, curious about where her dates normally took her. If this were a real date, he’d take her to a five-star restaurant for dinner. Followed by a Broadway show and afterward he’d…

“No, I’ve never heard of it,” Jessie said. “Which is hardly surprising. Sometimes I think New York is wall-to-wall restaurants.”

Did that mean that she ate at a lot of them? Max wondered. And if she did, did she go with someone? A male someone?

“I intend to monopolize your time over the next six weeks or so. I hope no one will be upset.”

“No.” To his annoyance Jessie deflected his question without telling him anything. No could mean anything. It could mean that she was involved with someone who was willing to put up with her heavy workload. Or it could mean that she wasn’t involved with anyone on a personal level at the moment. Max felt an intense surge of frustration engulf him at his lack of any real personal information about her. Sam had rhapsodized for twenty minutes about her competence, her trustworthiness, her ethics and her solid record for results, but at no time in the conversation had he said anything about her personal life other than the fact that she had never done anything that would leave her open to blackmail.

“Here we are, sir,” Fred announced as he pulled up in front of the restaurant.

He could slip in a few personal questions over dinner, Max decided. He’d never found it particularly hard to get a woman talking. In fact, usually he couldn’t get them to shut up.

“I’ll page you when I want to be picked up, Fred,” Max said as the driver opened his door. Outside, he waited while Jessie got out, then took her arm and began walking.

“Is Fred the modern-day equivalent of an old family retainer?” Jessie asked.

“No. There is nothing old-fashioned about Fred. He comes from a security firm that specializes in drivers who know how to kill in unarmed combat.”

Jessie stopped dead on the sidewalk and stared at him in shock. “He what?”

“There are a lot of dangerous people out there, and a wise man takes precautions.”

Jessie shivered at the reminder of just how perilous the world had become, and at Max’s casual attitude toward it. “I never thought of it before, but there are distinct advantages in not having much money. Have you been threatened?”

“No, but I started taking precautions after an Italian friend of mine was kidnapped last year. Kidnapping seems to be a way of life in Italy these days, and I do a lot of business over there.”

“What happened?” Jessie asked.

“His son and I rescued him. We couldn’t take the risk they’d let him go after the ransom was paid.”

Opening the door, he ushered her into the restaurant. Despite it being early, the place was almost full.

“I have reservations for two under the name of Sheridan.”

“Of course, Mr. Sheridan.” The hostess gave him a bright, professional smile. “If you’ll just follow me.”

The woman led them to a booth set along the wall opposite the front window, and Jessie slipped into the plush velvet seat.

“Your waitperson will be with you shortly.” The hostess handed them each a menu and then left.

Jessie opened the menu and then asked, “Do you normally open doors for women?”

Max looked at her in surprise. “Why? Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

“Manners aren’t a question of right and wrong,” Jessie said. “Think of them as the grease that lubricates the friction of living in close proximity with other people. As far as I’m concerned, having a man open doors for me is a plus. However, some women feel that a man doing something for them that they can do for themselves is patronizing. It will turn them off. If you want to marry a woman who thinks like that, then you need to practice letting women open their own doors.”

Max stared off in the middle distance for a long moment and said, “Opening doors for women is just habit. I grew up in the South, and manners there tend to be a bit more traditional. But I have no real opinion either way.”