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.
