The Boss's Proposal (3 page)

Sitting in his Manhattan office the Friday before, fresh back from Dubai, the last thing Dylan had expected was an SOS call from his father. An important project, a vanished team leader and an assistant who had never won a contract solo. Come to Portland, Hal
Reynolds had said, and bring your star power with you. Dylan had imagined a skinny, midtwenties guy who still lived with his mother, not this golden, curvy woman who could make his mouth go dry with just a glance.

He'd arrived in town before his parents had returned from Munich. At loose ends, he'd seen the gala tickets on the refrigerator and figured he'd go and see what he could discover. What he'd discovered was that charity fundraiser crowds were the same everywhere: older, well-heeled, sedate. And then he'd seen Max.

She might have chosen a conservative dress but nothing about her had been sedate, particularly the glint in her eye. It had spoken of ambition, a thirst for challenge, a taste for adventure.

Of course, the glint currently in her eye reminded Dylan more of a lioness stalking her prey.

His father continued, thankfully unaware. “Dylan will be here full-time until the proposal deadline. You'll be working with him the same way you did with Jeremy.”

“Of course,” Max said after a beat. Her smile held something Dylan didn't entirely trust. Max was many things, but he knew already that working with her would never be easy.

“Dylan will eventually have to go back to Dubai, of course.” Hal's BlackBerry buzzed and he silenced it impatiently. “When the project goes into the construction documents phase, Max, you'll be our point
person here. Dylan will just consult as necessary. Any questions?”

“No questions,” she said.

“Good. I know you two will do a great job. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get this call.”

“‘When the project goes into construction,'” Max repeated, giving Dylan a sidelong glance as they rose. “Better get working on that rain dance, Your Highness.”

C
ats had nine lives because they were good at landing on their feet, Max reminded herself as she punched the call button for the elevator. And as soon as she got her breath back after being sucker punched, she'd land on her feet, as well. So things had turned out differently than she'd hoped. It had happened before and she'd survived. She'd managed Jeremy and she could certainly manage Dylan Reynolds.

Assuming she didn't strangle him first.

She heard the sound of footsteps on the polished maple floor at her back. “Taking a break?” someone asked.

It didn't surprise her even remotely to turn and find him there. “Thinking.”

“About the project?”

“About what constitutes justifiable homicide.” With a ping, the elevator arrived.

He raised a brow. “Should I be scared?”

“Why, do you feel guilty?” She stepped into the empty car.

He followed and gave her an amused glance as he stood by the control panel. “Where to?”

“Me? Or you?” The doors rolled shut.

“Us. I'm pretty sure I already know where you'd like to tell me to go.”

“Oh, but it would be so fun. Your Highness,” she added. In the dim confines of the elevator, he was too close, but she refused to give in to her impulse to step back. Instead, she reached past him to push the button for the ground floor. “Does your father know that you've gone native and bought a title? Or is that just our little secret?”

He caught her hand as she withdrew it. “You were the one who jumped to conclusions.”

A jolt of heat and surprise ran up her arm. Her pulse began to hammer.

Max raised her chin. “You've got my hand.”

“I know.” He took his time inspecting it. “No rings.”

“No.” She tugged but he held on. For a breathless instant, he raised her hand toward his mouth, then turned it to sniff at her wrist, inhaling her scent. “Nice perfume.”

Max snatched her hand away. This time, she did
step back. Her breathing had sped up, she realized in annoyance. “So this is all my fault? I didn't make up the name. You should try for something a little better, by the way. Sheik Al-Aswari is a little over-the-top.”

“Prince Muhammad Akbar Al-Aswari is a real, actual, flesh-and-blood sheik. And I don't recall ever telling you that was my name. You just assumed.”

“You signed that name on the auction sheet.”

“I represent some of his business interests and occasionally operate in his name. Like when I'm buying a painting I know he's going to like.”

Her brows lowered. “Bad enough you stole my painting for sport but you bought it for some person halfway across the world who's never even seen it?”

He reached out to toy with her earring. “Who knows, I may keep it just for the memories.”

Max batted his hand away as the elevator doors opened. “So why the whole masquerade once you realized what I thought?” she demanded as she stalked across the broad flagstone lobby toward the coffee bar in the corner. “Why not say who you were? Or is that just how you get your kicks?”

“I was there in what you would call an unofficial capacity. I figured I'd hang around, see what I could learn.”

“And what did you learn?”

“A lot.”

“About the project?”

“About you.”

“Really.” She turned to face him. “Well? Go on, amaze me.”

“All right.” His teeth gleamed. “You start out measured. You have a strategy, or you like to think so. But you let your temper get the best of you. You get so focused on your opponent that you forget to win.”

Her amusement at his initial words turned into annoyance. “You should be careful about making snap judgments. Iced coffee,” she added to the girl behind the counter, then turned back to Dylan. “You can get in a lot of trouble that way.”

“Only if you're wrong.”

It was that note of laughter in his voice that got her. “You want to know what I learned at the auction?” she challenged. “You're not above fighting dirty to get what you want. You're also lucky, but you can't depend on luck all the time. It'll turn on you, especially when you get cocky.”

“You decided all that at the gala?”

“That's right, during the gala, when you were busy trying to hit on me.”

“Funny, I had the distinct impression that it was a mutual effort,” he said.

Max picked up her drink and walked away to the little shelf that held sugar and cream. “I might have been interested in passing, but only because I didn't know who you were. Now that I do, it needs to stop.”

“Really.”

Max tore open a packet of sugar and dumped it into her cup. “We're going to be working together. That means that we act like professionals and get the job done. That means no more games. No more stunts like in the elevator.” She turned from the counter to find him right behind her. The breath backed up in her lungs. “You're in my way.” It took work to keep her voice steady.

“I intend to be,” he said. “Get used to it.”

He was trying to provoke a reaction, Max told herself, trying her best to ignore the fact that he was doing a damned good job of it.

“I know how to build a proposal,” he said. “I've been winning contracts since before you graduated from the U of O.” His mouth curved as Max's eyes widened in surprise. “Oh yes, I've checked. I'm very thorough. And I'm good. We'll win this project, I'll make sure of that. I might even refrain from touching you during business hours. As for what happens when we're off the clock, well…”

And whether it was the heat in his eyes, the nearness of his presence, the memory of his touch, Max suddenly had a very vivid picture of what could happen off the clock.

Get a grip, she told herself as she looked at that mouth. This was not about the personal. If she kept control, it could all work to her advantage. She'd managed to get her way to a certain degree with Jeremy via a well-timed smile or a bit of flattery, and Jeremy had been as dried up as an Egyptian
mummy. Imagine what she could do with someone as obviously…attentive to her femininity as Dylan. Max smiled in spite of herself. Oh yes, the situation had possibilities.

Dylan studied her. “So it looks like we might be in agreement. Maybe this little partnership holds promise after all.”

“You know, I think it does,” Max purred. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

 

The baseball darted across home plate and landed in the catcher's club with a smack.

“Ball,” the umpire said crisply.

“Oh, come on, ump, ring 'im up,” begged a fan.

Dylan sat behind home plate at Portland's Hadlock Field and watched the hometown Portland Seadogs battle it out with the Harrisburg Senators. The arc lamps flooded the grass and red clay of the field with light. Hot dogs and popcorn scented the air. In the row ahead of Dylan, a young daughter sat in her father's lap, energetically waving a puffy hand.

Dubai had golden sand beaches, turquoise water, beautiful women and near year-round sun. The thing it didn't have, Dylan thought, was baseball.

The batter got a third strike to end the inning and the players filed off the field. The sound system swung into “YMCA.” On the dugout roofs, two members of the entertainment staff led the dance while around the stadium, children stood to join in.

You had to love the minor leagues, Dylan thought.

“I see you at least kept the score reasonable until I got here,” said a voice from beside him. Dylan looked up to see Neal Eberhard, his friend since fourth grade, hands full of hot dogs and beer. “Sorry I'm late,” Neal added.

Dylan reached up to take the food carrier from his friend so he could sit. “No problem. I figured you couldn't get your hall pass validated.”

“No, even better. We got everybody fed and I was just getting ready to go when Ronnie puked all over himself.”

“Sorry to hear he's sick. Nothing serious, I hope. Or contagious.”

“Nah, he just coughed too hard.” Neal grinned and handed Dylan a hot dog. “He's gotten to be quite an expert at it. I think he has a future in Will Farrell films. So how'd we score?”

“Two-run double by Kalish. And the kid pitcher's looking pretty good.”

“At this point, they're all starting to look like kid pitchers.” Neal took a swallow of beer while the first Seadogs batter flied out to left field. “So, what brings Lawrence of Arabia back from lounging around with desert babes, an irate harem master?”

Dylan thought of the Al-Aswari project, where twelve-hour days were the norm. “The prince backing the project is having a little cash flow problem. We're on hiatus. Dad wound up short staffed on a proposal,
so I figured I'd show up and see what I could do to help.”

“Timing's everything.” Neal took a bite of his hot dog.

It wasn't a question of timing, Dylan thought, although circumstances had certainly made it easier. The reality was, he would have figured out a way to make it happen no matter what. Especially since it was the first time his father had ever asked him for a favor.

And Dylan owed him.

In Hal Reynolds's late twenties, he'd been the boy wonder of architectural circles. He'd been at a top New York firm, working on projects around the globe. Then came love, then came marriage and then came Dylan in a baby carriage. That had led to the decision to move back to Portland, Arianne Reynolds's childhood home. For Hal, the choice between flying around the world to work on important buildings and being there to see his son's first steps was a no-brainer.

When it proved that nature had decided they would remain a family of three, that hadn't swayed Dylan's parents. Hal had already established a practice in Portland, and if it was more modest than his early career hopes, he'd never complained. So when he called all those years later, Dylan hadn't even taken time to debate before replying.

“And does the prince know you're gone?” Neal asked as the third batter hit into a double play to end
the inning. “Don't those guys kind of like having people hanging around at their beck and call?”

“The prince is too busy worrying about finances to notice I'm not at his beck and call. Besides, right now, he can't pay his becking bills. When the money comes back, I'll be back, too.”

“What if the money comes back before you're done here?”

“Unlikely, but I'm working to get the proposal done as quickly as possible, just in case.” And keeping his fingers crossed, Dylan added to himself. “Fair enough.”

A team employee dressed in a T-shirt and khaki shorts ran onto the grass to officiate a battle between people dressed in inflatable sumo wrestler costumes.

“Hey, before I forget, Sandra says come over for dinner while you're here. She hasn't seen you in forever and you've never even met the younger two kids.”

“Do they vomit, too?”

“No, that's just Ronnie's game. How's next Friday?”

“Why the rush?” Dylan gave him a glance, then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. You're planning something, aren't you?”

On the field, the sumo wrestlers took a run at each other. Neal suddenly began studying them intently. “Nope, not me,” he replied.

“Sandra, then.”

Neal squinted at the field. “They've got to be pretty danged hot in those outfits, don't you think?”

“She's trying to fix me up again, isn't she?”

“Who, Sandra?” Neal did his best choirboy imitation. When Dylan just looked at him steadily, he sighed and relented. “Well, she might have this friend from her book group…”

“Would you please tell her I don't need to be fixed up?”

“Do you think she listens to what I say?” Neal snorted. “She keeps thinking that if you just met the right woman, you'd settle down instead of living in hotels and running around exotic parts of the world that she knows I've never been to. And probably won't now until we're at least sixty.”

“They're very nice hotels,” Dylan told him.

“And I bet you like the exotic women, too.”

Dylan raised his eyebrow. “Are you pumping me?”

“No, my imagination does nicely, I think. And if your stories didn't match up, I'd lose all respect for you.” Neal clapped as the Seadogs returned to the field. “But if you ever change your mind…”

“I'll let you know.”

Dylan liked women, as individuals and as a breed. He liked talking with them, watching them, being around them. He dated often, though seldom exclusively—it was hard to sustain a serious relationship when a man was rarely in the same city for more
than a month or two, and he didn't believe in creating expectations he couldn't fulfill.

Someday, yes, he wanted a wife and kids. But he had things he wanted to accomplish professionally first. His father had gotten it right, Dylan figured—focus on the career first, then settle down and raise a family. For the time being, he liked living in hotels, he liked seeing the world and he liked a variety of women in his life.

Especially one woman, in particular, who made up a whole variety on her own.

“You're freakin' amazing.” Neal shook his head.

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“No wonder you don't want Sandra to fix you up. Sure, you've been here, what, three days? I bet you already have someone on the hook. Where'd you meet her?”

“Watch the ball game,” Dylan replied.

Neal gave him a reproachful look. “I can follow more than one sport at a time. Come on, tell.”

Dylan wasn't sure what there was to tell. He was working a tricky project on a tight timeline that threatened to shrink without warning. And success was mandatory. He had no business getting distracted by the very delicious Max McBain. But there was more to her than just her looks, he'd known that within the first five minutes. There was intelligence,
stubbornness, ambition and that underlying challenge that he found downright irresistible.