see about that.”
And that’s when it hit her. Max might be extremely charismatic, but he was also a loner. He didn’t let anyone in, not even her. If he couldn’t trust her after five years, would he ever?
“Give me ten minutes,” Dana said over her shoulder Monday morning as Max followed her into her apartment.
He ripped his gaze from her butt, but not before registering her nice shape in a pencil-slim black skirt.
What was his problem? Finding her in his kitchen early this morning wearing skimpy shorts-and-camisole pajamas with her dark hair rumpled and streaming over her shoulders had clearly messed up his thinking. She’d been waiting for the coffee to brew or, more likely judging by her worshipful expression, praying to the coffeepot gods to send deliverance from her boss’s brand of evil.
Maybe having her stay at his place wasn’t such a good idea. He liked his space and his privacy. But they were getting more accomplished than they would have in the office.
He checked his watch. “We have a conference call in two hours.”
“Max, I’ll have my suitcase packed in no time.” She dropped her purse and keys on an entry table made from glass and irregularly shaped but sturdy grayed branches. Driftwood? “Come in and make yourself comfortable.”
He did a whip pan of the apartment, soaking up details in a flash. He never would have taken his superefficient executive assistant for the relaxed beach-cottage type, but her rustic white-painted furniture with its bright blue cushions and citrus colored pillows combined with the box-framed seashells and artwork on her walls definitely looked as if he’d just walked in from the beach. Even the straw mats on the hardwood floor resembled the types he’d seen in coastal homes.
Not that he’d had time to see a vacation home recently.
He tried to sync the casual decor with the woman he knew and it didn’t work. He was used to seeing Dana in conservative suits with her hair tightly pinned up—like she was now. He crushed the memory of her long, bare legs, flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. But damn, she’d looked sexy in his kitchen.
Forget it, Hudson.
Easier said than done. No matter how hard he tried to erase the memory, it kept popping up on his mental movie screen.
He ran a finger under his tight collar. “Did you rent this place furnished?”
She turned in her small living room, her brown eyes finding his. “No, it’s all my stuff. Did you want something to drink while you wait?”
She spoke quickly, as if she were uncomfortable having him in her home. They’d decided to carpool today, since her apartment complex was on the way to the Hudson Pictures studios. It was too hot to wait in the car, so he’d followed her in.
“No thanks.”
“Have a seat then. I’ll be right back.” She hustled down a short hall, and his gaze stayed focused on her hip-swinging gait until she turned a corner out of sight.
The golden, orange and red hues of a large beach scene hanging behind the sofa drew him closer. He could practically feel the warmth of the setting sun reflecting off the water and glistening on the ivory sand. He moved on to a second painting on an adjacent wall of a bright yellow hang glider sailing above the blue ocean. A third picture had caught the infectious grin of a child in a ruffled orange swimsuit playing on the beach with buckets and shovels beneath a colorful umbrella. The pictures, similar in style and technique, were well executed and looked so real he could almost hear the waves and smell the salt air.
He checked the artist’s signature. All three were by a Renée Fallon. Fallon? A relative of Dana’s? He’d have to ask.
A cluster of twenty or so framed photographs drew him to the opposite wall. He recognized a much younger Dana with an older man and woman and a preadolescent boy. She looked enough like the trio that he guessed they were her family. He turned back to the painting of the child, noting the similarities, the same big brown eyes, same smile and same coltish legs and long, dark hair. Dana without a doubt. So the artist did know her.
He scanned each photograph, and it was as if he were watching a much less serious Dana grow up in front of him. It wasn’t until she hit what he would guess were her college years that her expression turned serious and her smile looked forced. What had caused the transition from carefree girl to serious woman?
In the next photo a group of young men in football jerseys surrounded a guy in his late twenties or early thirties. The guy grinned up at the camera, a trophy in his hands. He had Dana’s coloring and a more masculine version of her features. She’d said her brother was a football coach. This had to be him. And then Max realized the boys crowding around him almost obscured a wheelchair. Her brother was disabled? She’d never said.
His gaze returned to the previous pictures where the guy had been a tall, muscle-bound athlete wearing a football uniform. What had happened?
You don’t need to know. Your employees’personal lives are none of your business unless they impact their work.
But Dana had said a wake-up call from her brother sparked her decision to leave Hudson. That made the topic fair game.
A yawn surprised him. He blamed it on lack of sleep combined with Dana’s decor. The space with its pale blue walls and beachy furniture made him think of kicking back barefooted with warm sand trickling between his toes and a cold tropical drink sweating in his palm. The room was surprisingly soothing.
Exhaustion hit him hard and fast. When had he had a vacation last? Maybe after Honor was finished…. No, after his grandmother…He snuffed the thought, rubbed a hand across his face and sat on the sofa. He didn’t want to miss any of his grandmother’s remaining days.
He glanced at his watch and leaned his head against the tall backrest. He’d give Dana two more minutes and then he’d yell for her to hurry up.
But visiting her apartment had stirred his curiosity. Who was the real Dana Fallon? The hyperefficient quiet assistant in business suits or the sexy, mouthy, tank-top-and-jean-wearing woman who’d arrived at his house on Sunday?
He suddenly had a strong desire to find out.
The urge to kiss Max awake was almost too strong for Dana to resist. Too bad almost didn’t count.
“Max,” she called quietly.
He didn’t stir.
Two hours ago she’d come out of her bedroom and found him asleep. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him so relaxed before. He’d practically dissolved into the cushions of her couch. But she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d be shocked if he’d had more than two hours’ sleep last night. He was pushing himself too hard—exactly the way he had after he’d lost his wife.
Why did men always think drowning themselves in work would cure a problem? It didn’t. It only delayed dealing with the issue. And exhaustion made any problem much harder to handle.
While watching Max sleep, something inside her had melted, and she’d known she was in trouble. She’d wanted to cover him, tuck him in and kiss his smooth-for-the-first-time-in-forever forehead. Instead, she’d studied the shadows beneath his eyes that even his tan couldn’t hide and decided
