“You have the softest skin,” Max murmured against her hair. “Like satin.”

Jessie struggled to drag air into her lungs past her constricted throat. Her eyes instinctively slid shut to better savor the sensations flowing through her.

Disoriented, she stumbled slightly as his hands tightened and he turned her around to face him.

Jessie risked a look up and was immediately lost in the swirling depths of his eyes. They seemed to glow with some emotion that her mind was too confused to decipher. She watched with an escalating hunger that threatened to consume her as his mouth came closer. Instinctively her entire body strained upward, desperate to make physical contact with him.

As his mouth brushed lightly against hers, she felt the remaining threads of her self-control snap, freeing her to move deeper into his embrace. Hunger tore through her. A hunger that was primal, drawn from the very core of who and what she was.

Dear Reader,

Just as the seasons change, you may have noticed that our Silhouette Romance covers have evolved over the past year. We have tried to create cover art that uses more soft pastels, sun-drenched images and tender scenes to evoke the aspirational and romantic spirit of this line. We have also tried to make our heroines look like women you can relate to and may want to be. After all, this line is about the joys of falling in love, and we hope you can live vicariously through these heroines.

Our writers this month have done an especially fine job in conveying this message. Reader favorite Cara Colter leads the month with That Old Feeling (#1814) in which the heroine must overcome past hurts to help her first love raise his motherless daughter. This is the debut title in the author’s emotional new trilogy, A FATHER’S WISH. Teresa Southwick concludes her BUY-A-GUY miniseries with the story of a feisty lawyer who finds herself saddled with an unwanted and wholly irresistible bodyguard, in Something’s Gotta Give (#1815). A sister who’d do anything for her loved ones finds her own sweet reward when she switches places with her sibling, in Sister Swap (#1816)—a compelling new romance by Lilian Darcy. Finally, in Made-To-Order Wife (#1817) by Judith McWilliams, a billionaire hires an etiquette expert to help him land the perfect society wife, and he soon starts rethinking his marriage plans.

Be sure to return next month when Cara Colter continues her trilogy and Judy Christenberry returns to the line.

Happy reading!

Ann Leslie Tuttle

Associate Senior Editor

Made-To-Order Wife
Judith McWilliams

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Books by Judith McWilliams

Silhouette Romance

Gift of the Gods #479

The Summer Proposal #1562

Her Secret Children #1648

Did You Say…Wife? #1681

Dr. Charming #1721

The Matchmaking Machine #1809

Made-To-Order Wife #1817

Silhouette Desire

Reluctant Partners #441

A Perfect Season #545

That’s My Baby #597

Anything’s Possible! #911

The Man from Atlantis #954

Instant Husband #1001

Practice Husband #1062

Another Man’s Baby #1095

The Boss, the Beauty and the Bargain #1122

The Sheik’s Secret #1228

JUDITH McWILLIAMS

began to enjoy romances while in search of the proverbial “happily-ever-after.” But she always found herself rewriting the endings, and eventually the beginnings of the books she read. Then her husband finally suggested that she write novels of her own, and she’s been doing it ever since.

An ex-teacher with four children, Judith has traveled the country extensively with her husband and has been greatly influenced by those experiences. While not tending the garden or caring for her family, Judith does what she enjoys most—writing. She has also written under the name of Charlotte Hines.

Dear Reader,

The idea for Jessie’s occupation as a manners expert came to me one snowy late December day when my son suddenly asked, “Are there manners police?”

I glanced over to where he was sitting at the kitchen table, spared a quick look at the so far totally blank sheet of stationery in front of him and said, “Why do you ask?”

“Because I can’t figure out why grown-ups would torture little kids by making them write stupid thank-you letters unless it was a law or something.”

I briefly considered giving him the standard-issue mom lecture on how “if people care enough about you to run all over town tracking down an obscure toy that you said you wanted, the least you can do is write them a thank-you note,” before discarding the idea. Instead, I took the easy way out and said, “Yes, there are manners police, only we call them experts, and yes, they have decreed that you can’t play with your gift until you’ve written a thank-you note to the giver.”

“But what does a manners expert look like, Mom?”

“Look like?” I repeated as into my mind suddenly popped the image of a laughing redheaded woman. To my surprise she looked exactly like the heroine of a book.

I shoved the turkey to the back of the counter, grabbed a pencil and paper and hastily started to jot her description down. And thus was born Jessie Martinelli, manners expert, whose story is told in Made-To-Order Wife.

I hope you enjoy reading her adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Judith McWilliams

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Prologue

He’d finally done it, and the proof was there in black and white for the whole world to see!

With a sense of exultation, Max Sheridan studied the article in Forbes that annually listed the richest Americans. For the first time his name was listed among the billionaires. Just eleven letters, but those eleven letters represented the culmination of seventeen years of single-mindedly working eighteen-hour days.

Reaching into the pants pocket of his custom-tailored gray suit, he pulled out a plain, stainless-steel key ring. Separating a small brass key, he unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer of his massive antique Regency desk. Pushing aside a pile of contracts, he pulled out a battered spiral-bound notebook. Carefully he set it on his desk and opened it to the only page that had any writing on it.

A complex swirl of remembered pain and hope engulfed him at the sight of the words penciled there. He’d been sixteen when he’d made that list of things he was going to accomplish in his life. A scared, defiant sixteen who had just buried his parents.

As he’d stood over their graves, he’d vowed that never again would he allow himself to be at the mercy of other people’s decisions. And he’d kept that vow. He’d run away from the crowded foster home the state had dumped him in after his parents had died, determined to make so much money that no one would ever again have power over him.

His gaze swept the elegantly restrained grandeur of his office with its priceless antiques and original artwork, perched fifty-two stories above the bustling New York City streets. It was as far removed from the squalor he’d grown up in as he could ever imagine.

Picking up the gold fountain pen on his desk, Max deliberately drew a thick, black line through the third-to-last item on his list, which read, make a billion dollars.

His blue eyes narrowed as he studied the final two entries. Marry and have a family.

Marriage to the right woman would be the final step in his long journey toward respectability. It would be visible proof that he’d made it. That he was no longer “that woman’s brat,” but someone who was accepted in the highest levels of society.

Acquiring the perfect wife should be a lot like masterminding a hostile takeover in business, he reasoned. First you identified your objective and then you came up with strategies to achieve it.

He turned to a blank sheet in the notebook and, for the first time in seventeen years, began to write in it.

“Objective—wife,” he wrote at the top of the page. He thought for a moment then added a slash beside the word wife and wrote “mother.” Her role as the mother of his children would be every bit as important to him as her role as his wife.

Max stared blankly at the Monet on the wall to his right as he marshaled his thoughts.

Since he knew nothing about parenting, he was going to have to depend on his wife to show him how to recognize and nurture his children’s emotional needs. She would have to teach him the basic dynamics of family life that most people instinctively absorbed during their own childhood.

Max snorted. The only insight he’d absorbed growing up was the danger of getting too close to either of his parents when they’d been drinking. That and the futility of counting on them for anything.

So, one of his most important requirements in a wife was that she have firsthand knowledge of a happy, normal childhood herself.

She should also appeal to him physically. Common sense told him that his marriage would have a better chance of success if he were sexually attracted to his wife.

An image of his last girlfriend, an internationally famous model, formed in his mind. She certainly wasn’t his idea of a wife, but she definitely appealed to his libido with her tall, slender body, flawless features and long, blond hair.

Tall, blond, beautiful, he added to his list, paused, thought a moment, and then crossed out beautiful and substituted attractive. Looks weren’t all that important in a wife, and he didn’t want to limit his choices by being too restrictive.

Although she absolutely had to be intelligent since she was going to pass her genes on to his children. And she should be a college graduate to balance the fact that he hadn’t even finished high school.

And she should like him. He didn’t expect her to love him any more than he intended to love her. In his experience, love was at best an excuse for indulging in emotional excesses and at worst a humiliating, degrading trap.

Max winced as he recalled his father’s self-pitying voice claiming that he couldn’t do anything about his wife’s flamboyantly adulterous behavior because he loved her.

No, he wanted no part of the insanity called love. Besides, from what he’d seen, marriages based on love were very high-maintenance affairs. Women in love expected a man to be totally wrapped up in them, and he didn’t have time for that nonsense. He was far too busy running his business. And while he did intend to cut back on work once his first child was born, he also intended to spend most of his newfound free time with his children. He was determined to be a hands-on dad. His children were going to be the most important things in the world to him, and he needed a wife who understood that. A wife who wouldn’t expect to be the focus of his life. A wife who would find her emotional satisfaction in their children and not in him. A wife who would be satisfied with his respect and affection and not expect vows of undying devotion.

But even if he didn’t want a lot of messy emotions cluttering up his marriage, he also didn’t want to be married for his money. A woman whose only interest in him was his net worth might decide to bail out at the first hint of a problem, and a divorce accompanied by a bitter custody battle would be devastating to his children’s emotional health. Even someone with his nonexistent parenting skills could figure that one out.

He could protect both his children and himself to some degree by having his future wife sign a prenup, he decided. He added a notation to his list. A prenup wasn’t a foolproof solution to fortune hunters, but it was probably the best he could do.

And last, he wanted a wife from a socially prominent family that his children would be proud to belong to, unlike his own. He wanted his wife to reflect the fact that he’d arrived—financially and socially.

Max studied his list with a sense of satisfaction. It was the perfect blueprint for what he wanted in a wife.

But what might his prospective wife want in a husband? The unsettling thought occurred to him. Would he appeal to the kind of woman he wanted to marry? Unconsciously his fingers rubbed over the three-inch scar on his right jaw, which was the result of a barroom fight he’d gotten caught up in when he was eighteen.

Would his wealth be enough to overcome his rough-and-ready background for the type of woman he wanted to marry?

It depended, he finally decided. Depended on a lot of factors, some of which he had absolutely no control over.

And that being so, it was imperative that he seize control wherever possible. One of the things he could do would be to polish his social skills to a fine gloss. To learn to move with ease in the society his prospective wife would have been born into.

He frowned slightly as he suddenly remembered something he’d overheard at a cocktail party last month. One of the women in the group standing behind him had made a crack about Bunny Berringer, the twentysomething runway-model trophy wife of Sam Berringer, a business associate of his. Something to the effect that Bunny had undergone a transformation. That the liberal use of Sam’s money had turned the socially clueless Bunny into a clone of the late Diana, Princess of Wales. But despite the women’s speculation, no one had had any idea how Bunny had done it.

Max frowned slightly. While he didn’t doubt that Bunny had worked hard to learn the necessary skills, someone had to have taught her what to do and when to do it. And whoever that someone was had kept his or her mouth shut or those social piranhas at the party would have heard about it.

Maybe he should talk to Sam and ask him who he’d used. He’d always gotten along well with the older man. If he explained why he needed the information… Max nodded decisively. The worst Sam could do would be to refuse to give him the information. Sam wouldn’t tell anyone that he’d asked. Sam was far too smart to betray a confidence.

Picking up the phone, he asked his P.A. to get Sam on the phone. He needed to put his plan into action as soon as possible. It was already July, and he wanted to be in his own home with a wife, preferably pregnant with the first of his children, by Thanksgiving.

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A timetable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Max asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Call me Max.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

Jessie shuddered.

“What’s the matter?”

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

“You think?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like cocktail parties?” he asked curiously.

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

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

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

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

Max frowned slightly. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No place at all.

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.”

“Good,” Jessie said. “Once you focus in on a woman you intend to court, you can simply follow her lead.”

“Yes,” Max said as he tried to imagine what his final choice would look like. But the only image that formed in his mind was of Jessie. Proximity, he told himself.

“What would you like to eat?” Max asked.

“I’m still thinking about it,” she said.

“Well, think faster. The waitress will be here in a minute.”

“Waitperson. Political correctness is very important with the social crowd you’ll be moving in. Or, at least, lip service to it is.”

Max eyed the waitress serving the couple at a table about ten feet from them. “My imagination isn’t equal to the task of thinking of someone like her in sexless terms,” he said.

Jessie turned to follow his gaze and found herself staring at a tall blonde wearing slim black pants that highlighted her long, slender legs and a white blouse that fitted snuggly over her well-developed breasts.

As Jessie watched, the woman turned slightly and aimed a dazzling white smile at the man at the next table. Not only was the woman built like a Playboy centerfold, but she was gorgeous, too.

“I see the problem.” Jessie tried to get a handle on her own feeling of inferiority in the face of such blatant feminine perfection.

“Is that what you envision your future wife looking like?” Jessie asked.

Max took a second look at the waitress, his eyes lingering on the sexy pout of her collagen-enhanced lips. He tried to imagine her holding a wiggling toddler in her arms and failed utterly. She’d probably be too afraid the kid would mess up her hair. Even worse, she’d undoubtedly object to spoiling her figure by having a baby in the first place.

“Not particularly,” he said. “Besides, beautiful women tend to be very high maintenance. Over the long haul that would get real old real fast. And marriage is for the long haul.”

“You wouldn’t know it to look at the divorce statistics these days. Half of all marriages fail.”

Max studied the somber shadows in her eyes, wondering what had put them there. Could she have been married herself and gone through a messy divorce?

“Look at the bright side. That means that half of all marriages are a success,” he said.

Jessie grinned at him, and Max had the oddest feeling that he’d just stepped out of the shadows into brilliant sunlight.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re one of those people who see the glass half full instead of half empty?”

“No, I’m one of those people who immediately starts negotiating for water rights so I don’t have to worry.”

Jessie’s grin dissolved into a chuckle. “Practicality is so much more appealing.”

“Not to everyone,” he muttered, remembering his last girlfriend’s numerous complaints about his lack of romantic gestures. “Some women infinitely prefer the romantic approach.”

“But what’s romantic varies depending on whom you’re talking to. Personally, I think a man who can provide the necessities of life is very romantic, but then, I’m willing to admit that I have a practical bent of mind. You just need to find a woman who thinks like you do.”

“You don’t believe in opposites attracting?” Max asked.

Pain speared through her as she remembered her mother’s many lovers. “Take it from one who has been there, it’s much too risky. Offbeat habits that seem endearing at the beginning can become major stumbling blocks later on.”

“I’ll have the Dijon chicken with a tossed salad, house dressing on the side, and a glass of white wine,” Jessie said, changing the subject as the waitress approached their table.

Surreptitiously Jessie studied the waitress’s perfect features, searching for a flaw. She couldn’t find one. If anything the woman looked better up close than she did from a distance.

Jessie tensed as the woman addressed Max by name.

“I’m so honored to meet you, Mr. Sheridan.” The woman gave him an adoring look that made Jessie want to gag. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper many times, but I never thought I’d get to meet you in person.” She gave a throaty laugh that Jessie would have been willing to bet she practiced three times a day in front of a mirror.

Jessie ignored such blatant behavior in favor of watching how Max responded to the woman. To her surprise he didn’t react. At least, not outwardly. He simply nodded as if to acknowledge her words, and proceeded to order.

Undaunted by his reserved manner, the waitress continued to flirt with him. Almost as if she couldn’t believe that he wasn’t captivated by her looks.

When she finally left, Jessie said, “Well done.”

He shot her a sharp glance and said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean how you resisted the impulse to respond to her blatant come-on while with another woman, even if that woman is simply a business colleague.”

Max’s smile held a cynical edge that chilled Jessie. “It wasn’t hard. She wasn’t flirting with me. She was flirting with my money.”

Jessie frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“She knew my name,” he said flatly. “In my position you learn to recognize the obvious hangers-on. It saves a lot of trouble in the long run.”

“I guess. So how do you tell if someone likes you for yourself?”

“I don’t. That’s why I need you to listen in on my prospective wife’s conversations for me. Hopefully, your input will give me a better idea of what a woman really thinks about me.”

The bleak expression that suddenly darkened his eyes to navy tore at her heart. For a second he had looked so alone. So terribly alone. As if he didn’t have a friend in the world. Which was ridiculous, she told herself. Max was a fascinating man. He probably had lots of friends, and despite what he obviously believed, she didn’t have the slightest doubt that he’d attract women in droves even if he didn’t have a dime to his name. He’d simply attract a different type of woman. Women who, in her opinion, were probably worth a whole lot more than the fortune hunters after him now.

She leaned back in the seat as the young man who’d been tending bar brought them their drinks, gave them a harried smile and hurried back to the bar.

Jessie sipped the excellent white wine and then asked, “What about religion?”

Max eyed her narrowly. “You can’t be a religious fanatic, because you’re drinking alcohol.”

“My religious beliefs are irrelevant. Yours aren’t. Do you have any religious requirements in a wife?”

Max thought about it for a moment and then said, “No specific requirements, but children need the stability of going to church on Sunday.”

“No, children need the stability to being taken to church on Sunday,” Jessie corrected him. “What’s more, if you’re going to join a church, you’d better be prepared to live up to the teaching of whatever denomination you choose, because nothing will mess kids up quicker than being exposed to hypocrisy.”

Max blinked at her acerbic tone. “That caveat sounds very personal. What happened? Did your parents let you down?”

“No,” Jessie said, telling herself that it wasn’t exactly a lie. Her mother’s behavior had been absolutely predictable. She’d make promise after promise. Big promises such as she’d quit drinking, and little promises such as she’d come to Jessie’s school’s open house. And her mother had broken every one of them. Without fail.

To Jessie’s relief the waitress arrived with their salads, distracting Max. She was going to have to be careful to keep a tight rein on her responses, she realized. Max was a very astute man. She didn’t want him curious about her background. If he were to find out just how bad it was, he might decide she wasn’t the right person for the job of steering him through the tricky shoals of his courtship. A feeling of panic swelled in her at the thought of Max firing her. But only because she really wanted the bonus he’d promised, she assured herself. To say nothing of the fact that she was looking forward to making some very useful business contacts. The social circles Max was going to take her into should be teeming with potential clients.

As Jessie ate, she surreptitiously watched Max. To her relief, he had perfect table manners. She wouldn’t have to teach him the basics like she tended to have to do with a lot of the new college hires in her workshops.

“What’s the verdict?” Max asked as he set his napkin down.

“Verdict?” Jessie repeated.

“You’ve been watching me like a hawk through the entire meal. Did I pass muster?”

“Yes.” Jessie saw no reason to lie about what she’d been doing. “Have you attended many formal dinners?”

“No. I avoid them like the plague.”

“Then you probably haven’t been exposed to things like fish forks and the like. We’ll go over fancy place settings and exotic silverware to make sure you have them down pat before you get in too deep with the country-club set.”

“We,” he corrected. “Don’t forget, you’re coming along as my on-scene consultant.”

Jessie felt an odd mixture of anticipation and foreboding swirl through her. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said.

“Do you want dessert?” he asked.

“No, thanks. We don’t have time. Since one of the things I stress to the kids is the absolute necessity of being on time for a job, it would hardly look good if I were to show up late.”

“All right.” Max pulled his pager out of his pocket, pushed the button and then gestured toward the waitress, who was keeping them under surveillance.

The woman arrived at their table so fast it was a wonder she didn’t leave skid marks on the floor, Jessie thought acidly.

“May I have the check?” Max asked her.

“Certainly, Mr. Sheridan.” With a sultry smile the woman handed him a small leather folder containing the bill and left.

Max opened it, looked it over and then dropped several bills on it.

Jessie’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the white piece of paper on the side opposite the bill. It appeared to have a name and phone number written on it. The waitress’s? A flash of rage sizzled through Jessie. How dare that blasted woman try to pick up Max while he was with another woman?

“Coming?” Max said as he got to his feet, trying not to let his annoyance show at the way Jessie kept retreating into her thoughts.

Jessie hurriedly got to her feet and followed him out of the restaurant, inordinately glad that he had left the paper with the waitress’s name and number on the table.

Fred and the Mercedes were double-parked at the curb, and Jessie quickly climbed into the backseat.

“Evening, Fred,” she greeted the taciturn driver.

“Evening, Ms.,” he said absently as his eyes continuously swept the area around the car.

“I feel like someone should yell lights, camera, action,” she muttered.

“Fred takes security very seriously,” Max said.

“Damn right I do,” Fred said flatly as he pulled out into traffic. “Where to?”

“Jessie?”

Jessie gave him the address of the youth club.

“Not the best neighborhood,” Fred said in obvious disapproval.

“Not the worst, either,” Jessie said.

“We’ll be fine, Fred,” Max said. “Don’t worry.”

Jessie shot a quick look at Max out of the corner of her eye, her gaze lingering on the firm line of his lips, and longing welled through her.

Max might be fine, but she was beginning to have serious doubts about herself.

Chapter Three

“If I had money, I sure as hell wouldn’t want no job.”

“I see.” Max studied the short, thin teenager sprawled in the chair in front of him.

“And I tell you, man, it ain’t all that much money to start with.” Luis shoved his fingers through his overlong black hair. “Nobody pays much over the minimum.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Max said dryly.

He glanced over his shoulder at Jessie, who was sitting in the back of the room, watching the interview with a serene expression. She gave him an encouraging smile that inexplicably warmed him.

“Luis,” Jessie said, “you should never, ever tell a prospective employer that you only want a job for the money.”

Luis gave her a disbelieving look. “Nobody’s dumb enough to believe that I’m working for the fun of it, Jessie.”

“I know, but it’s just one of those things that you don’t say,” she continued with the same unflagging patience she’d shown all evening.

She’d make a great mother, Max thought idly. She’d never lose her air of calm competence no matter how annoying her kids got. Her kids wouldn’t have to learn to duck flying fists the way he had.

“It’s like when your girlfriend asks you if you think she’s gained weight,” Jessie said. “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to say yes, would you, even if it’s obvious she has?”

Luis scowled as he considered her words. “Guess not,” he muttered. Clearly it was a comparison he could relate to.

“If I ain’t supposed to tell the truth, Jessie, what kind of lie do I tell ’em?” Luis finally asked.

“Whatever half-truth works to get your foot in the door,” Max said.

“Max Sheridan!” Jessie yelped. “You can’t tell him that.”

“Wrong. I not only can, I just did.”

“But that’s dishonest,” she said.

“No, that’s the way the game is played. The only caveat, and it’s an important one, is never claim to be able to do something you can’t do or to have credentials you don’t have. Sooner or later an outright lie will trip you out, and then your credibility will be in the toilet.”

“I do whatever I gotta,” Luis said.

“Why do you want a job so much?” Max asked, and then wished he hadn’t. He most definitely didn’t want to get any more involved with Jessie’s strays. He’d already wasted most of an evening when he could have been focusing on his own concerns. He stole a quick sideways glance at Jessie to find her studying Luis with a worried expression on her face. Max frowned. He didn’t want her thinking about anything but finding him a wife.

“To buy food. My ma was operated on ’cause a couple of her arteries was blocked, but she can’t go back to work for months yet. The company she works for says she’s gotta be outta work for six months before she can get disability, and the government takes months and months to get welfare. And what’s m’little brothers supposed to eat till then….” Luis gulped as if trying to slow down the torrent of words pouring out of him. “I went to the food pantry over at the church, and they gave me some stuff, but they said they ain’t got enough for everybody who needs it. What they did give me ain’t nothing like what that nurse said Ma was supposed to be eating.”

Max winced as he saw the stark fear that momentarily peeped out from behind Luis’s tough-guy facade. He didn’t bother to ask where Luis’s father was. He knew the statistics.

For a moment Max remembered how he’d felt at seventeen, scared and defiant with no place to go and no one to turn to for help. But at least he hadn’t been responsible for anyone else.

“Then my friend Stuts told me ’bout how Jessie was having this thing tonight, so I came.”

“What kind of skills do you have?” Max asked.

“Whatcha mean?”

“What can you do that an employer would be willing to pay you money for?” Max rephrased.

“I do anything. Ain’t particular. Just don’t want to get caught,” Luis said.

“Come by my office first thing tomorrow morning and we’ll fix you up with something.” Max heard the words emerge from his mouth with a feeling of disbelief.

“Really, man?” Luis eyed him with hope heavily tinged with suspicion.

“Really.” Max squashed his doubts with a monumental effort. Hiring one of Jessie’s social misfits wouldn’t be that big a deal, he told himself. Human Resources would find him something to do in a quiet corner, and Max would never hear from or about him again.

Max reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a business card, jotted a note to his Human Resources manager on it and then handed it and a folded hundred-dollar bill to Luis.

“The money is an advance on your salary,” Max told him. “It will be deducted from your first paycheck. Take the card to Human Resources, and they’ll find you a job.”

Luis snatched up the card and the bill almost as if he was afraid that Max might try to take it back. Jumping to his feet, he backed toward the door. “Thanks, man. Thanks, Jessie.” He ducked his head as if embarrassed and then bolted through the door.

“Why did you do that?” she asked uncertainly. “You didn’t offer a job to the other kids you interviewed and without a doubt, Luis is the most hopeless one of the lot.”

“Maybe he’s got hidden qualities.” Max rubbed the back of his neck, not wanting to admit that he’d done it because, for an instant, he’d seen his own youthful self in Luis’s panicked eyes. If Jessie thought he was a soft touch, she’d be after him to employ more of her lame ducks.

He watched as Jessie headed to the desk in the front of the room to get her notes. She had the most graceful walk, he thought. As if she were moving to music that only she could hear.

“How often do you volunteer down here?” he asked, using words to try to quell his instinctive reaction to her. “Most of the kids seem to know you by name.”

“I’m here three to four times a week. Mostly I tutor in the after-school program for the younger kids. There’s never enough money to pay for staff.

“Tell me, where do you visualize Luis fitting into your organization?” she asked.

“Fortunately, that’s not my problem. It’s for Human Resources. But I’m warning you right now, whether or not he keeps the job is up to him.”

Jessie grimaced. “I hope Luis is up to the challenge. He doesn’t have much experience to call on, and he certainly doesn’t have any role models at home.”

“If Luis wants to keep the job, he’ll learn fast. If he doesn’t, he won’t, and he’ll be history,” Max said flatly. “I’m willing to give him a hand up, but I won’t give him a handout.”

Jessie studied Max’s eyes, looking for signs of softness, but she couldn’t find any. He appeared to mean exactly what he said. But he had given Luis that hundred-dollar bill, and he had to know that there was a good chance he’d never see either Luis or his hundred dollars again. So Max couldn’t be as hard as he was trying to appear. He had to have a softer side. He just kept it very well hidden.

“Are we done here?” Max’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“Yes. Luis was the last.”

Pulling his pager out of his pocket, Max summoned Fred and then took her arm, steering her toward the center’s front entrance.

Jessie felt the warmth from his fingers through the thin material of the jacket she was wearing, and she shivered. What was it about this man’s touch that affected her so? she wondered uneasily.

“What time should I pick you up tomorrow morning?” Max’s deep voice broke into her muddled thoughts.

“Tomorrow?” she repeated blankly.

Max looked down into her confused features, feeling a flash of annoyance at her preoccupied expression. For what he was paying her she would damn well keep her attention firmly focused on him.

“We’re scheduled to acquire my casual wardrobe and then to inspect the townhouse I own.”

“That’s right. The one you don’t know the address of.”

“Didn’t. My lawyer sent a key and the location over to my office late this afternoon.”

“Good,” Jessie said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up at your apartment. Say, ten o’clock?”

“Ten is fine,” Jessie said as she followed him out of the youth center. By tomorrow she should have regained her sense of equilibrium and would be able to view Max Sheridan as just one more client. At least, she certainly hoped so.

Jessie’s first sight of Max as she emerged from her apartment building the following morning shattered her hopes. He was wearing a pair of worn black jeans that molded his flat hips and muscular thighs like a second skin. After one covetous glance that sent her body temperature skyrocketing, Jessie jerked her gaze up past the black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest to land on his face.

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