Neesa Hart - Who Gets To Marry Max?

“I’ll go with you. I’ll drive you.” She started to shake her head. His fingers tightened on her hand. “I want to.”

The quiet insistence chipped away at her resolve. “You have guests.”

“So?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised her. Social niceties generally eluded him. “If this weekend is as important as you say, you should be here to entertain them.”

“My guests expect to sleep until eleven-thirty, then take advantage of my pool, my tennis courts and my bar. If we leave early, I’ll be back for the important stuff. No one will miss me.”

There was something profoundly sad in that statement. Max had everything money could buy, and none of the things that mattered. Not for the first time, Sidney wondered how, and why, he’d surrounded himself with such superficial people. When Max entered a room, he immediately took up all the available space. Dynamic and compelling, he left a vacuum in his wake. Anyone who failed to notice was a self-absorbed fool. Deliberately, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “You aren’t going to give up, are you?”

“I rarely do.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Say yes, Sidney.”

She hesitated. Why, oh why, did he have this effect on her? What was it the man did that made her want to simply melt into the floor? She’d seen him less than ten times since she’d come to live with her uncle Philip, and every time, he had the same, unnerving effect on her. “Max—”

He held her gaze with intense scrutiny. “Say yes.”

It was that boyish charm that did her in. It had never ceased to amaze her that people found Max Loden irascible and ruthless when she found him so irresistible. “Are you sure you can get someone to stay with uncle Philip tonight?”

He squeezed her hand. “Not a problem. I’ve got a full staff of people in the city who love Philip. In fact, I’ll get Gertie to go over there with some chicken soup. Unless I miss my guess, she’s got a soft spot for your uncle.”

“He likes her, too.” Her uncle spoke often and warmly of the older woman who took care of Max’s New York penthouse.

“See? Problem solved. Do you want Charlie to pick up your stuff?”

“Yes, no—oh, I don’t know. This is too complicated. I can’t think this fast. I like to plan things more than five minutes in advance.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated. Just let me take care of everything.”

Just like he always did, she thought. Max Loden, general manager of the universe, caretaker of the downtrodden. She thought of all the reasons she shouldn’t—even prepared a quick list in her mind—but as she prepared to tell him no, he trailed the tip of his index finger along the back of her hand. “Sidney,” he said, his voice a rumbling whisper that set off a fluttering of butterflies in her belly. “I thought you were a customer service fanatic.”

She was going to lose, she realized. He was going to captivate her, just like he did everyone else. “I am,” she blurted, more to herself than to him.

If he sensed her inner turmoil, he ignored it—or rather, capitalized on it. “Then make the customer happy.” His thumb found the pulse in her wrist. “Make me happy, Sidney.”

She could no more resist that pleading tone in his voice than she could fly to the moon. Waging silent war with the warning bells in her head, she hesitated for long seconds, then nodded. Max’s gaze flared with satisfaction as he brushed her hand from the phone and again punched the numbers. With a few efficient words, he set the wheels in motion to take over her life—or her weekend, at least.

When he pressed the receiver into her hand a few seconds later, she couldn’t meet his gaze as she explained the change in plans to her uncle. He seemed relieved. She frowned at the sound of his racking cough. “Uncle Philip, are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

“Fine, fine,” the older man told her. “Gertie’s soup can cure anything. How’s Max?”

Sidney glanced at him. “Stubborn as ever.”

“Good. I told you that you should stay there. Max is going to need you.” He coughed again. “You can’t imagine how much, Sidney.”

That made her smile. “I’ll never be able to replace you, you know.”

“You’ll do fine. Make sure someone pays special attention to Greg Loden.”

“I know. Keep him away from the gazebo.” According to her uncle, the younger Loden’s favorite seduction spot was the picturesque gazebo in the grove of apple trees near the foot of the estate.

“And keep the women away from him.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Don’t let Max turn into a tyrant.”

“Too late for that.”

His slight laugh warmed her. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right. We’ll be there by nine. Good night, Uncle Philip. Promise you’ll call if you need me.”

“My word, my dear. Good night.”

“Good night.” Sydney slowly replaced the receiver. She raised her gaze to Max’s. “You win.” He still had that probing look that made her feel oddly transparent. She drew a deep breath.

“Good.” He pushed open the pantry door. “I guarantee that I’m always in a much better mood when I win. Do you want Charlie to bring you some clothes or not?”

“I guess not. I can make do for tonight.” Sidney followed him back into the kitchen. Her assistant, Kelly, could lend her whatever she couldn’t scrounge in Philip’s apartment.

He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as he turned to face her once more. “I’m glad we settled that. And I meant what I said, I’ll double your fee just for giving in.”

His voice was a sultry whisper that reminded her of a hot summer wind: strangely welcome, and more than a little disconcerting, as if a storm was sure to follow in its wake. Worse, he smiled at her. At the sight, her heart skipped a beat. Max Loden’s smile, she’d long ago determined, was like a well-preserved piece of art: he displayed it on the rarest occasions and it never failed to impress. “I’ll see you later, Sidney.”

And then he left.

The room went suddenly still. The vacuum caused by his absence, she mused. Like the aftermath of a hurricane, unnatural silence settled on the bustling kitchen. Sidney turned to find her staff watching her with wary eyes. “What?” she prompted.

Kelly Lars, her assistant and best friend, shot her a grin. “That was him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Sidney nodded. “Yes. That was Mr. Loden.”

One of her pastry chefs, a young woman who’d joined Sidney’s team several weeks ago, leaned one hip against the counter and exhaled an audible breath. “Wow.”

Chip Meyers, who’d worked for Sidney for several years, gave the girl a sympathetic look. “It’s not usually like this, Becky. Most of the places we work, we never even see the people we work for. This is a little different because Sidney is friends with the guy.”

Kelly laughed. “I’m not sure I’d say that exactly.”

Sidney shot her a warning glance. “Kel—”

“Well, you’re not,” Kelly insisted. “You’ve talked to him—what? A dozen times in twelve years?”

Sidney suppressed an irritated retort. “My uncle is his butler,” she explained to her overly curious staff. “Uncle Philip has been with the Loden family for forty years. He’s known Mr. Loden all of his life. You’re here this weekend because my uncle hired you to augment Mr. Loden’s staff. I’m here because uncle Philip couldn’t be.”

Becky was busily wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “You didn’t mention, when you asked me if I wanted this assignment, that we’d be working for a human stick of dynamite.”

“You’re not.” Sidney’s voice was sharper than she’d intended. “You’re working for me.” The dynamite, she silently added, is my problem.

Chip frowned. “You know, Sid, when you told me the guy made his living making toys, this wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Toys?” Becky asked.

Sidney exhaled a slow breath. “Max Loden makes his living making money. AppleTree Toys is just a part of the Loden Enterprises empire.”

Becky’s eyes widened. “AppleTree—oh my God! Max Loden. That Max Loden?” Her expression changed to awe. “I can’t believe I’m in Max Loden’s house. And that he looks like that.”

Kelly laughed. “What did you expect him to look like?”

“Well, I expected he was like, sixty at least.” Becky leaned against the counter. “I had no idea he was such a—well—such a stud. My kid sisters love those dolls.”

Chip laughed. “So do the rest of the girls in America. That’s how we ended up working in digs like this. Who knew a guy could make billions selling dolls.”

Becky warmed to the topic. “I remember when the Real Men collection came out. I was so jealous of my sisters. When I played with Barbie dolls, all we had were Ken and Alan to date Barbie and all her friends.”

“That was a man’s kind of world,” Chip countered.

Becky glared at him. “Then along came AppleTree Toys with the Real Men collection. How many are there? Six?”

“Eight,” Sidney supplied. “Max got the idea from watching his friend’s daughters play with their dolls. There were never enough males to go around.”

Kelly snorted. “Very insightful.”

Becky nodded. “Lucratively insightful. I remember reading that. So he conceived this entire line of male dolls. Each one has his own personality. There’s a stockbroker, a park ranger, a football player, a doctor—I can’t remember the rest. Anyway, the Max doll is the central figure. Supposedly, his staff named the doll after him.”

“They did it without his knowledge,” Sidney said quietly. “By the time he found out, the ad slicks had already gone out. At the time, AppleTree toys was operating on a shoestring, and Max didn’t feel like he could justify the expense of pulling the ads.” She paused. “He doesn’t like it.”

“Yeah, well,” Becky continued, “like it or not, the Max doll, and all his friends, are phenomenally popular. My sisters have a zillion of them, and all their accessories.”

Chip raised his eyebrows. “They have accessories? No guy I know would be caught dead with anything that could be called an accessory.”

Becky laughed. “Not even if the accessory is a twin-engine airplane?”

“Well—”

Kelly came to his rescue. “What she means, Chip, is that the Real Men dolls have an entire line of fashions and play sets that suit their individual personalities. I have it on very good authority that when the Max doll pulls up in his Jag roadster, it sends any self-respecting Barbie doll into a swoon.”

Chip flexed his biceps beneath his white chef’s jacket. “I’ll bet he doesn’t have Chip the super chef.”

Becky swatted him with the dishtowel. “Those dolls are so popular, the advertising slogan for the line is Who Gets To Marry Max? When little girls drag their dolls out to play, that’s the first question they ask.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Kelly quipped. “Every society reporter and fortune hunter in the country keeps asking the same question about who’ll marry the real Max Loden.”

Chip shook his head. “So that’s how ‘Mad Max’ made his millions.”

Sidney lost what was left of her indulgence. “Don’t call him that,” she said firmly.

The three looked at her, wide-eyed. Kelly placed a hand on her arm. “He didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Sidney assured her, and managed a slight smile at Chip. “I know you didn’t. But I don’t want to hear that name again while we’re here.” She paused. “For that matter, I don’t want to hear it after we leave, either. Max Loden inherited his father’s company on the verge of bankruptcy. Thanks to the success of the Real Men dolls, he earned enough capital to bail out some of Loden Enterprises’ less successful public ventures. He took an ailing company, put his mind and effort behind it, and made it grow. Just because his methods are a little unorthodox, and just because some of his adversaries think he’s a little—eccentric—doesn’t mean we’re going to disrespect him. I trust I’ve made that clear.”