Dream Man Page 8

  He broke the kiss long enough to say, “Yeah, and damn you, too, Jeanie-the-Gypsy Leslie.”

  Chapter Six

  “MAX, WHAT ARE WE DOING?” she said moments later, when she was able to speak.

  He cradled her head in his hands and smiled at her. “Getting in the mood.”

  “I was beginning to get the impression that you were always in the mood.” And, when you’re around, so am I. She pushed his arms away from her and got unsteadily off his lap. “Out,” she said. “Out of my chair.” He stood, and she sat down, immediately aware of the heat his body had left behind. “I should also say ‘out of my office,’ but I’m starving and that food smells wonderful.”

  Taking the visitor’s chair, he set it close to hers and opened the first of the bags on her desk, lifting out two round, foil-topped dishes. “Where you’re concerned, I am always in the mood,” he said, coaxing the lid off the first dish. The scent wafting up around her made Jeanie swiftly forget her cheese and crackers, and she eagerly delved into another bag, lifting out the flat, round dish and prying off its lid.

  They ate with their fingers and chopsticks, munching on egg rolls, dipping into chow mein, deep-fried prawns, and sweet-and-sour boneless pork, sharing the dishes as if they’d been picnicking together all their lives. While they ate, they talked and laughed and enjoyed each other, arguing sometimes, agreeing on most subjects, though, and discovering a mutual passion for Roy Etzel’s music.

  “Nobody, but nobody has ever played a trumpet like him. When I hear his Il Silenzio I put my life on hold until the last notes fade away,” Jeanie said.

  “I know. His music’s incredible.” He licked his fingers and began stuffing plum and soy sauce packages into one of the empty bags, then gave her a sheepish grin and a sideways glance. “I play the trumpet a little myself, you know. Sometimes I dream that if I keep on, I’ll find the magic he created, hit every note with the same absolute clarity. I’ll never make it, of course, but everyone’s entitled to a dream, no matter how crazy or futile it might be.”

  She was oddly touched that he’d revealed such an intimate facet of his personality. She laid her hand over his briefly before moving away; being close to the man was too tempting. Without any encouragement at all, she could find herself back in his arms. “Maybe, in time, you will. If you have the heart for it and the talent, then surely all it takes is practice.”

  “I have the heart, but I’m afraid I lack the talent. Besides, I only practice when there’s no one around for miles and miles.”

  Jeanie spoke over her shoulder from where she was dampening a paper towel in her private bathroom. “Where do you find that kind of privacy?”

  As she returned, he took the towel from her and began wiping the sticky spills off her desk. “Way up a mountainside about halfway up the Malahat, accessible only by air or along a long and winding private road fit only for mountain goats and four-by-fours, I’ve got a tiny cabin. It’s one room and a loft, perched on a bluff high over a little lake. There’s never anyone else around, and that’s where I play my trumpet.” He stopped what he was doing and looked out into space, a half-smile on his lips, his eyes seeing things only he could see, his ears attuned to something in his memory. “It sings for me there,” he added softly, “echoing out over the lake and bouncing back from the hills. Up there, it’s the only entertainment I need, the only companionship. There, I can almost believe I’m good.” He shrugged and his mouth twisted. “Sort of like singing in the shower, I guess.”

  She smiled gently. “Maybe you are good, Max. You must have had lessons. What did your teachers say?”

  “No lessons,” he said. “I can’t even read music. An old friend of my dad’s gave me his trumpet to play with one day when I was a kid. We were out on a boat. He showed me how to get sounds out of it. And I seemed to catch on right away. He was so amazed, he bought me one of my own and wanted me to take lessons. He wanted to give me lessons. I was eleven or so and thought music lessons were for sissies. Besides, it turned out I really didn’t need them in order to get music out of the horn. I just sort of play and the right notes … happen … at the right time and place. If I hear the tune a couple of times I can come up with a pretty close approximation of what the composer had in mind.”

  She stared at him. “I’d like to hear you someday.”

  “Then you’d have to come up to my cabin and visit me. I’ve never entertained anyone there, but I think I could stand sharing it with you.” The way he said it and the way he looked at her as he spoke made her quiver deep inside. If she went to his cabin, it wouldn’t be just to hear him play the trumpet, and they were both very much aware of that.

  She had to get her mind off the ramifications of her and Max alone in a remote cabin with only each other—and a trumpet—for entertainment. She didn’t think the trumpet would get much use.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But I lack the necessary ingredients for a trip to your cabin. I don’t have a four-by-four. Nor do I have wings.”

  He grinned. “Neither do I, but I do have a helicopter and a small landing pad. Would that do? I could take you and my trumpet and see what kind of music the three of us could make together.”

  “That,” she said, “sounds decidedly kinky, Mr. McKenzie.”

  His grin widened and his eyes danced. “Yeah. I thought so too.”

  “You’d fascinate my sister,” she told him.

  He raised his brows. “Your sister likes kinky trumpeters?”

  “I doubt it, but it would likely break her heart to know there’s a natural like you running around loose without any training at all. She’s a musician, a fine harpist. Trained at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto. She was a wonderful composer, too.”

  “Was?”

  “She … gave it all up.”

  “Why?” he asked, then grimaced. “Sorry. None of my business.”

  Jeanie sighed. He was right, of course, and she didn’t like to talk about Sharon’s having turned her back on her music, the stuff of her very existence. She hated even to think of it. Especially now, because it had been her desperate hope that a different interest in life—namely a man—might be the catalyst needed to turn Sharon around. That hope was what had introduced her to Max McKenzie.

  Moments of silence passed before he tilted her face up with one finger. “You look sad. Want to tell me about it?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing to tell.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to get back to work, Max, and I’m sure you do too. Or Freda Legree will be hot on your tail.”

  “I’m going to tell her you called her that.”

  “Go ahead. I don’t expect I’ll ever meet her.”

  “Yes, you will. And by the way, she has instructions that you can interrupt my writing any time of the day or night. Call, and you’ll be put right through, no arguments, no burning down the west wing, no pit bulls to fight off.” Cradling her face between her hands, he kissed her hard and deeply, sliding his hands into her hair, loosening it from its confining clips. When she was limp and compliant against him, he whispered against her lips, “You taste delicious.”

  “So do you.” She couldn’t stop herself from taking another taste. “Soy sauce, sesame seeds, and Max.”

  “Oh, no,” he murmured huskily moments later, “that’s soy sauce, sesame seeds, and Jeanie,” Then, as if he’d made a very firm decision, he added, “You will meet Freda, you know. And you’ll meet my brother, as well as my mother and father. Come home with me for dinner tonight, Jeanie.” It sounded more as if he were saying Come home with me to bed tonight, Jeanie … and she didn’t know which she was refusing when she shook her head.

  “Too soon?” he asked, his head tilted to one side.

  “It’s not that. It’s just that there’s no point.”

  “Ah, Jeanie, don’t keep kidding yourself. We belong together. And one way or another, we are going to be together.”

  She shivered, knowing he was right. It was inevitable. She, who resisted ca
sual affairs, seemed about to embark on one, although just how casual it would turn out to be was another question. The only thing she knew for sure was that no relationship she had was going to be of a legal nature. That way, if she needed out, she could just walk away. There’d be no male-dominated court system to take away everything she had ever worked for and award it to a man, simply because he had the money to hire the better lawyer.

  She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “You can come to my place tonight for dinner if you like.”

  Even as she said it, she wondered if dinner were all she meant to offer him.

  His smile had the power of a dozen suns. “What time?”

  “Eight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Okay. And in the meantime, will you redo the first letter for me? I’d really like to get it away to my client tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” he said easily. “I’ll bring it with me tonight, and you can okay it.” After another quick kiss, he turned and strode from her office, leaving the door ajar. Through the crack she heard Cindy giggle and wondered what he had said to the girl. No doubt it was something charming that would have her receptionist dreaming dreams of a black-haired hero with midnight blue eyes.

  She shut the door. “Sorry, Cindy,” she said. “He’s too old for you.”

  And too dangerous for you, she told herself.

  But only a very tiny, insignificant part of her even bothered to listen.

  “I forgot to ask,” Max said, entering her apartment with an armful of white roses mixed with purple flags and frothy greenery. “Can you cook?”

  She shrugged. “About as well as you write mash notes.”

  He grinned. “Wow! I’m impressed! What are we having, stuffed squab? Lobster thermidor? Pheasant under glass?”

  “Such an ego! I refuse to feed it. Instead, I’ll feed you beef Stroganoff, hot buttered noodles, and Salade Jeanie.” With a smile, she took the flowers and led the way into the kitchen where she placed the bouquet on the table as he rummaged under the sink for a large enough vase.

  “Artistic, too, I see.” Max watched closely as she twitched one of the irises into a slightly different position and added another tuft of feather asparagus the florist had included.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But an artist is only as good as her materials. I couldn’t have done it without the lovely flowers. You’re very generous.”

  “I’m also very rich,” he said easily, taking the vase from her. “I don’t say that to boast but to let you know in case you were wondering what you’d turned down.”

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “I recognized your Beacon Hill address as posh if not downright opulent.”

  What she didn’t say was that it was only a block or two from her maternal grandparents’ definitely luxurious mansion, one she had visited exactly once since her parents’ deaths.

  “But you weren’t impressed.”

  “Not particularly. I earn enough to keep myself comfortable. If I were the type to wear sable, I’d also be the type who wouldn’t value it unless I’d earned it myself.” She nodded at the vase of flowers he held. “Would you mind setting those on the little corner table by the windows in the living room? And while you’re there, you might like to put a match to the fire.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He was back seconds later, standing too close, taking up more than his fair share of the limited space in the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

  “Had?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Then kiss me so I can’t talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The drink or the lesson?”

  “Both.”

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

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

  “Max, I—”

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

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