The bosss proposal, p.2
The Boss's Proposal, page 2
“You’re the artist?” another woman interrupted, tugging her companion to a stop before a piece of steel I-beam that Glory had turned into a lacy bench. “This is incredible. How do you do it?”
Max smiled faintly. She knew how this went. Another person would stop, then another, and soon Glory would be surrounded by a collection of people destined to become fans. It looked like that toast would have to wait.
Instead, Max plucked a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and wandered along the tables of the auction to see what she’d been missing. An interesting collection, and far too tempting. The Bahamas cruise was an unnecessary extravagance, she decided. Instead, she bid on a pair of Swarovski crystal earrings she thought her mother would like and a saltwater fishing rod she hoped would encourage her father to take a little bit of time away from running the family’s inn on Grace Harbor. Buying presents didn’t count as an extravagance, she maintained. Even so, she’d earned the right to celebrate the good news of the night by buying herself a little something.
Debating between a spa day and a gift certificate for her favorite furniture store, Max wandered a bit farther, then stopped and let out a little breath of pleasure.
It stood on an easel, an abstract painting in blues and greens and a flush of rose-gold. And yet not an abstract, for the washes of color formed themselves into a landscape even as she looked, a painting that evoked a feeling as much as an image: Portland’s Casco Bay at sunset, with the water turned golden and the offshore breeze bringing in the tang of salt water and the cries of the gulls.
“Perfect,” she murmured, already picturing it on her wall. A glance at the bid sheet had her raising her eyebrows, though. The current price would put a serious dent in her bank account. Certainly, there would be no more shopping for a few months if she bought the painting. Still, it was a long-term investment, not a pair of boots that would be out of fashion in a year. It only took one more look at the painting to decide her; she bent to fill in her initials and her bid on the sheet.
Her first impulse was to drag Glory over to admire the painting, but a quick glance showed her the artist was still surrounded by admirers. As for Max, she wanted to celebrate, but doing it at the gala felt a bit like trying to cut loose at the office. There were way too many people around who were part of the professional network in Portland, not to mention representatives of competitive firms or contractors hoping for a part of the project. Like many such events, it had turned into a constantly shifting food-chain exercise of schmoozing and being schmoozed. And after two hours, she was sick to death of it all. What she itched to do was grab Glory and head out to the Old Port for complicated cocktails and maybe some live jazz. Soon, she promised herself. Once the silent auction ended, they would be free to go.
In the meantime, she wandered over to the wall of windows that overlooked the real Casco Bay, trying on for size the idea of finally being a project manager. Just the idea gave her a thrill. She could do what was best for the project, instead of always looking for a work-around. She could talk without trying to sugarcoat her words to suit Jeremy’s idea of hierarchy. She could forget about office politics and focus on creating buildings that would change people’s lives.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the waters of the bay turned to fire in the last rays of the setting sun. Portland might have been frigid and snowbound for much of the year, but in high summer, its beauty was unrivaled. Sure, in her heart of hearts Max had ambitions of working for one of the big international firms, designing buildings all over the world. At times like this, though, there was no place else she’d rather be.
“Here’s to ya, baby,” she murmured, raising her glass for a sip.
“Thanks,” said a voice behind her. A male voice.
Not another contractor hoping to network with BRS, Max thought impatiently. She was done with it. So she didn’t bother to turn around, just glanced back as briefly as possible.
And found herself looking back again.
He was tall and dark, with skin that spoke of time spent in sunnier climes. His face had the requisite hollow cheeks, square chin and rugged jaw that made up your average good-looking guy, but this guy wasn’t average. There was something about him, a gleam in those almost black eyes as though the two of them shared some private joke, a devilish set to his mouth that was only enhanced by a Vandyke. With his swarthy skin and the gleam of gold at his ear, it gave him a vaguely piratical air. His thick dark hair was long on top and disordered as though he habitually had his hands in it. Amid the suits and tuxedos, he wore a black jacket over jeans and an open-collared violet dress shirt.
Definitely not a local contractor.
Out of ingrained habit, Max glanced at his left hand and found it bare.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt when a person’s talking to herself?” she asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was a private conversation. Are you finished or do you need more time?”
Her lips twitched. “I think we’re good.”
“That’s a relief.” He stepped up beside her.
Max was used to standing eye to eye with men but she found herself tilting her chin to meet his gaze. He had a rangy build, broad shouldered without being bulky. “Fleeing the networkers?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the ballroom.
“Admiring the view,” he replied. But when she looked back, she found him watching her.
“The bay is that way.” She pointed toward the windows.
“I know.”
For a moment, she felt oddly breathless. Silly, Max told herself. She’d heard plenty of lines in her life and this was just one more. Except it seemed to be coming from a guy who studied her as though he knew some special secret. And she couldn’t help but look at that mouth and wonder how he kissed.
She gave herself a mental shake. “Well, if you’re going to admire the view outside, you’d better look fast. The sunset doesn’t last long around here.”
“It takes a while to get to it, though. I forgot how far north Portland is. Nine o’clock at night and it’s practically broad daylight.” Outside, the water threw up glints of gold; the islands of Great Diamond and Little Diamond glowed beyond.
“You’re not from here, are you? I didn’t think you were a Mainer.”
“No?” He studied her. “What gave me away?”
Her mouth curved. “Where do you want me to start? Not knowing when the sun sets, for one.”
“Do you keep track of it?”
“Keep track of it? If I had my way, we’d celebrate the summer solstice as a national holiday, or at the very least a state one, since it gets dark here at noon, practically, in winter.”
“Celebrate it as a personal holiday for now. Or do you already?”
Max slanted him a glance. “You mean do I go out to the woods and dance by the light of the moon with flowers in my hair?”
“You do have a way of painting a picture, don’t you?”
She felt her cheeks warm. “I didn’t say I actually do it.”
“That’s a shame. It’s a pretty thought.”
He looked at her with that dark, intimate gaze and for just that flicker of time, the rest of the room faded away. It was just the two of them; she was alone with a man with eyes the color of midnight.
Then the sound system crackled. They glanced over to see an expensively dressed matron with frosted hair standing at the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Friends of Portland General annual fundraiser. Just a reminder, the silent auction closes in fifteen minutes, so get in there and make your final bids. It’s all for charity, folks, so be generous.”
Relieved and yet somehow disappointed, Max turned toward the line of tables. “I should go check my bids.”
“Bids?” He walked alongside her easily. “I guess you’ve been busy.”
“Charitable,” she corrected, the strange moment dissipating with the distance. “Anyway, they’re mostly presents.” And, she discovered, mostly successful. She had the earrings by a comfortable margin. The competition for the fishing gear was closer than she’d like, but the latest overbid had only beaten her by ten dollars. She tacked on another twenty and figured she’d keep an eye on it, then turned to the painting.
It was even more arresting than she remembered, the colors more vibrant, and she wanted it even more than she had before.
“Nice.” He stood beside her. “It’s the bay, right?”
“The same view we were just looking at, practically. Look, you can see Great Diamond and Little Diamond island, right there.”
“Are you bidding on it?”
Max nodded and stepped to the table. “I’ve been following the artist for a while. Tim Pritchard. His first major New York show last year sold—” Then she looked at the bid sheet and made a noise of frustration.
“I take it someone outbid you.”
She shook her head ruefully. “I knew I should have stayed here and watched it. The increases were getting small enough that I figured if I made a big jump, I’d scare them all off.”
“Maybe they don’t scare that easily.”
“Maybe they should,” she tossed back. Perhaps it was the news about the project, perhaps it was flirting with an attractive stranger, but something made her reckless. She added a hefty bump to the bid. “That ought to do it. Mr., um—” she looked more closely at the sheet “—Al-Aswari had better get used to disappointment. No matter how deep his pockets are.”
He stepped a little closer to glance down at the bid sheet. “They might be pretty deep.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Are you always so determined?”
“When I want something? Absolutely single-minded.”
“Single-minded,” he repeated. “And everybody else has to try to keep up with you?”
She felt her cheeks warm. The champagne, of course. “So far, no one’s been able to. You never told me where you were from, by the way.”
“Didn’t I?” His teeth gleamed. “Dubai.” He reached past her for the pen, leaning over to write on the line below her name.
Max stared at the sheet of paper. “You just bid on my painting.”
“It’s not your painting yet. The auction still has—” he checked his watch, “—two minutes to go. And Sheik Al-Aswari is going to get your painting. I’m not big on disappointment.”
Max blinked. “Sheik?”
“Indeed.”
It wasn’t often that she got surprised. She shouldn’t have been now, Max thought. Certainly the coloring was right. He spoke without any accent she could distinguish, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
And sheik or no sheik, she wasn’t about to let him beat her.
A slow smile spread over her face. “Sheik, hmm? Does that mean I should call you Your Highness?”
He looked amused. “If you like. But—”
“Good.” Without even taking time to debate, she leaned in to scribble a new number on the sheet and slapped the pen down. “Then I believe it’s your bid. Your Highness.”
Behind them, the band swung into “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”
“Are you used to getting what you want?” He stepped closer.
Max could feel the sudden thud of her pulse. She raised her chin. “Most of the time. And you?”
“Always.” Then he took the pen and wrote a higher number on the line below hers.
He was baiting her, she knew, but it didn’t stop her from reacting. “I hope you don’t think I’m going away that easily,” she told him.
He reached out to brush his thumb down her cheek. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
It stilled her for an instant. His touch shivered through her, setting up an answering response throughout her body. Something in her system fluttered a little then, as from a tiny vibration down deep.
Until she saw the slight curve of his smile.
The hell with her bank balance, Max thought, picking up the pen. She wasn’t about to lose the game now.
But the moment she’d stood frozen had been one moment too long. Even as she reached out for the bid sheet, it was whisked out from under her fingers. She looked up to see the monitor add it to his stack with an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, bidding is closed.”
Max stared, openmouthed, at the rapidly disappearing bid sheets.
“I guess that means I win,” the sheik said.
She turned. “You are a dog.”
“Careful where you say that. It’s quite an insult in Dubai.”
“Your point?” She put her hands on her hips. “You stole my painting.”
“I did warn you.”
She set her jaw. “You’re just lucky.”
“No,” he corrected, “I’m good. Have dinner with me.”
“After what you’ve done?”
“I’ll take you to Hugo’s. You can glower at me the whole time if you want.”
“On Friday night? Hugo’s?” She snorted. “You couldn’t get a reservation two weeks from now.”
His expression was half pitying, half amused. “I’ll take you to Hugo’s,” he repeated. “I’ll even— Excuse me.” She watched while he pulled out his phone and scanned what she assumed was a text message. He looked up. “It looks like I have to go. Why don’t you give me your number and we can make plans for later in the week.”
She thought it over as he tapped in a quick reply to the text, then put his phone away. Lecturing herself, she pulled out one of her business cards. “Max McBain,” she said, handing it to him.
He glanced at her card, then looked more closely. “You’re an architect?”
“Why? Do you need a palace built?”
“Maybe a bomb shelter.” He shook his head. “Listen, I’ve really got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
Chapter Two
Max stepped out of the elevator into the BRS lobby, her heels clicking on the polished, narrow-planked wood floor. In the center, a blonde sat behind a semicircular workstation of golden oak and beaten copper. Behind that rose a divider of frosted glass emblazoned with the BRS obelisk logo.
“Happy Monday, Brenda,” Max said to the blonde.
“Morning, Max. Nice suit.”
“Thanks.” She’d worn a fitted nubby silk number with a yellow and black windowpane pattern. In architecture, clothes didn’t just make the man—or woman—they telegraphed an architect’s design philosophy. The job was all about the visuals, and on a day like this one, she was putting her best stiletto forward. “How did Kelly’s birthday party go this weekend?”
“A sleepover with a dozen eight-year-olds and you have to ask? I’m still getting crushed Pop Tarts out of the rug in the family room.”
Max grinned. “Fun, then.”
Brenda grinned back. “Exhausting, but fun. Kelly loved the High School Musical charm bracelet, by the way. You’ll be getting a thank-you note as soon as I have the energy to badger her into it.”
“I’m glad she liked it. Until I have nieces and nephews to spoil, Kelly’s going to have to be my surrogate.”
“She’ll be happy to hear it. So how was the Portland General benefit? Did anybody interesting show up?”
Before she could stop it, Max thought of a man with dark eyes and a devilish smile. And of that one unsettling moment when he’d traced his fingers down her cheek and jolted her system.
It didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself, doing her best to ignore the little roll and shiver the memory conjured in the pit of her stomach. Chalk it up to champagne and the mood of the night. When she saw him in the light of day, the attraction would be gone. If she ever saw him, that was—so far, he hadn’t bothered to call.
Which was just fine with Max. It wasn’t as though she was on the lookout for a man. She didn’t need the shivers, she didn’t need the hassles, she didn’t need the distractions. Oh, dates were fun—dinner, some cocktails, a little dancing. But it never went any further than that. They never got any deeper than her skin, she made sure of it.
And always, always, she was the one who walked away.
“The gala was all right,” she said aloud. “There was nobody special there. They had a great turnout, though. I think the medical center did pretty well, between donations and the auction.” The auction where she’d lost to a man with a pirate’s smile. Max dragged her thoughts back to the present. “Is Hal in yet?”
“Early. He was back there swearing at the computer when I got here.”
“He’s probably still jet-lagged,” Max said. Or trying to figure out what to do about the Jeremy Simmons situation. “Okay, I should get to it. Don’t forget to show me the photos of the party when you get a chance.”
“When I get the energy.”
Max winked. “I hear chocolate’s a good cure for that.”
“In my experience, chocolate’s a good cure for everything,” Brenda said as the switchboard chimed and she picked up a call.
Laughing, Max skirted the divider, passing exposed brick walls hung with renderings of the firm’s better-known buildings. More than twenty-five years before, Hal and his partners had bought the Victorian-era warehouse in Portland’s dilapidated waterfront area, keeping the top floor for themselves. In the time since, urban renewal had turned the Old Port section fashionable and the BRS building had become among the city’s most sought-after business addresses.
Beyond the divider, the open expanse of the office spread out before her. And as always, the exhilaration hit, that sense that she could breathe deeper, stand taller. Good architecture could do that.
Sunlight flooded in through the rows of enormous windows on either side. The ceiling soared fifteen feet overhead. In the center, long white tables topped with brushed aluminum lamps and sleek flat-panel displays provided workspace for the draftspeople and interns, the lower-level engineers and design architects. Offices and conference rooms lined the perimeter of the back half of the floor, their frosted glass walls making them look more like glowing cubes lit from within.
She headed toward her office. Okay, so it was small and in a nook that had no window, but it did boast a door. And with Jeremy leaving, maybe she could trade up for his office. After all, she’d need the extra space if—
