Mr. Personality (4 page)

Max could hardly believe what he was hearing. The woman’s face was flushed, her blond hair ruffling around her face. Despite her brilliant smile, anger glinted in her eyes. Surprisingly, there were no tears, no hint of fear.

Interest rose in him despite the realization that he now had no candidates for the vital position of typist.

“Since I’m so mean and heartless, why are you still here?” He took a step toward her, wondering if she was really as gutsy as she seemed. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to say something terrible and horrifying to you? Insult your father and, possibly, his little dog, too?”

He allowed his most menacing smile to glimmer across his face, moving closer.

The Cavanaugh woman sent him another bright grin in response, not noticeably impressed by his deliberate attempt to intimidate her. Folding her arms across her chest, she cocked her head to the side and said witheringly, “Of course, I would be afraid of that, except for the saving fact that he doesn’t have a dog.”

She didn’t scare easy, Max noted, intrigued despite his frustrated hope of finding clerical help.

“You’re here all alone with me in my lair.” His words were soft.

Something flickered in her eyes, but she stood her ground. She didn’t even step back when he drew closer, a mere half dozen inches between them.

She smelled good, his brain registered. Clean and not too flowery, unlike some of the typists he'd had to endure.

“I came here to straighten out this mess my father made.” She gave him back stare for stare.

Max thought he heard a thread of awareness mixed with the defiance in her voice. She was conscious of him as a man. Good, because he sure as hell was aware of her, now that he’d taken a good look at her.

For a contentious daughter of a doddering plagiarist, she was easy to look at. He didn’t usually care for blond women, thinking them all too ordinary with their carefully streaked hair. This woman, however, had green eyes and a truly pure complexion.

A bolt of male interest sang through him, but Max was long used to disregarding inconvenient bodily urges. The really interesting thing about the woman was standing toe-to-toe with him, challenge and speculation in her eyes. Despite the fact that she’d come here to get something from him, she wasn’t taking a very conciliatory tone. He had to respect her in that. She also wasn’t dissolving into tears. Why couldn’t any of his assistants be as thick-skinned?

He wondered if she’d falter if he applied a little more pressure.

“I could do anything I want to you right now…and get away with it. Didn’t you hear that woman who just left? I’m a great—that is to say—famous, wealthy man.”

“Yes, and that still doesn’t give you the right to act like a schoolyard bully.”

“But I hold your father’s financial fate in my hand.” Even in the middle of their confrontation, his body grew conscious of the warmth of her, standing so near in front of him.

Her lip curled. “You don’t scare me. I can take care of my father. Go ahead and bankrupt him. We’ll still be fine.”

Max noted her strong, steady voice, but he saw, too, the shadows that gathered in the back of her eyes. She loved her father and didn’t want him to suffer, even though he had stupidly perpetrated an act of literary theft that put her somewhat at Max’s mercy.

“You won’t get upset and cry, even if I said your father is a dolt? An old, imbecilic fool who doesn’t know enough to steal from a lesser-known author instead of plagiarizing books that are read by millions? He’s a fool who doesn’t recognize irony when he reads it. He actually thought a work of fiction was a business how-to.”

Her words were crisp. “My father is a man full of love and kindness. You, with all your money and fame, are insignificant beside him.”

Max almost smiled. She stood there, shoulders straight, eyes meeting his unflinching—everything about her proclaimed her willingness to meet him on an even battlefield. But she still might have a fatal weakness that would invalidate the possibility now gripping his brain.

He knew enough. He’d been a pupil longer than he liked, Max reflected briefly, noting with satisfaction that she’d taken his insult well. He found himself liking the woman despite her invasion of his home. She had guts.

“Teachers work their butts off. If it weren’t for us teaching kids how to read and become productive members of society, you wouldn’t have anyone to buy your work.” She placed a hand on one hip.

“You’re on your summer break? That’s why you could come to New York from--where, Chicago?” he rapped out the questions, the possibility of solving at least one of his problems quickening the flicker of his thoughts.

“That’s completely unimportant to this conversation.”

“Yes, you are on summer break,” he concluded with satisfaction. “Then, Ms. Cavanaugh, if you know how to type, I think we are faced with an interesting possibility.”

She frowned at him. “Of course, I know how to type. Who doesn’t these days? But what do you mean ‘interesting possibility’?”

“Why don’t we sit down?”

“Why? Isn’t it more your style to throw me out like you did that woman a few minutes ago?” Her eyes narrowed, she looked at him suspicion.

He gestured to a nearby seating cluster with a satisfied smile. “You want to find a way to get your father out of this lawsuit, don’t you?”

It occurred to Max that she might be an English teacher and, if so, might attempt the annoying task of trying to “correct” his style. Still, he didn’t doubt his ability to squelch any such efforts.

“Mr. Tucker, my father is a retired gentleman. He spent most of his life working in retail—my grandfather’s small general department store. It’s closed now and my father’s been filling his time writing his ideas on business. He apparently ran across an excerpt of your book on a web site—“

He raised his hand to stem her words. “You mistake. I’m not suggesting you perform sexual acts for me, although I’m sure you’d be good at that, too. But I’m not currently in the market for a sex slave. The role I’m trying to fill is that of
secretarial
slave.”

“Secretarial…slave?” Staring at him, she sat back down in the chair. “Wow. I’ve heard about people who get so rich that they’re isolated from the world and they lose touch with all reality, but come on.“

“That’s enough!” He got up and walked around behind his chair, leaning forward, hands braced on the chair back. “I’m proposing a settlement to resolve your father’s infringement on my rights to the literary work he plagiarized.”

“He made a mistake. He made no real profit from it, which the courts would consider.”

Max smiled again, letting his pleasure at finding a typist override her crack about his isolation from human contact. “Regardless, mistakes come with a price.”

“So I’m supposed to become your secretarial slave? You’re threatening to continue this lawsuit against my father if I don’t turn my life over to you—“

“For a few weeks.” Just when he’d thought he had the conversation heading where he wanted it, the woman said something else annoying. As if he wanted responsibility for anyone’s life.

Max smiled again. “To assure your father’s well-being. Six weeks of typing in exchange for years of unruffled peace of mind for you and your father. Not such a bad deal, certainly.”

She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “You want me to stay here in New York and type your latest book. And if I agree to do this, you’ll sign a release dropping the lawsuit against my father?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him for a long moment. For the first time in a long while, Max found himself wondering what someone else was thinking. Standing there waiting for her response, he knew he had all the power, but he was also aware of a pent-up, waiting feeling in his lungs.

“First off,” she said finally, “I’m not sure I should agree to what is essentially blackmail and, secondly, I can’t afford to live in New York for six weeks. Teachers do a more important job than novelists, but we don’t get paid as well.”

“That’s irrelevant. If money is an issue, you can stay here. I’d prefer you to be available when I want you, anyway.”

At least, having a typist on tap would take care of his lesser problem and leave his attention to the issue of finding where the hell his writing talent had gone.

“Here? I don’t think so. I’m not living with you.”

“What’s the matter? You feel I might trespass on your lovely body? If I’m so removed from human contact, how can I be any threat to you?”

“It’s because you’re removed from human contact--”

Her immediate chagrin was so obvious Max felt a smile tugging at his lips. Without question, his attractive green-eyed pest was aware of him sexually.

She looked at him. “So the satisfaction thing is a no-win situation. Now if you’re talking straightforward typing, I guess…I could do it, but don’t think I’m giving you cart blanche to be a pain in the ass.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need your permission to be a pain in the ass. But I will need you to sign a non-disclosure contract promising you won’t talk to the press about our business relationship. Once you sign it, we’ll be set to solve both our problems…,slave.”

Nicole sent him a steady smile that made him do a double-take. “I’d tell you to go to hell, but I’m pretty sure you’re already there.”

* * *

After the irritating, amusing blonde left, Max wandered into the office where his typists worked. There sitting on the desk was his necessary enemy, the screen glowing a lucerifus blue.

He hated the damned thing.

Ignoring the gleefully mocking computer, he trailed into the kitchen and leaned against the wall nearest the phone there. Ruth and Cynthia’s numbers were on speed dial, as were the numbers for the deli down the street, his investment brokerage and half a dozen restaurants. That was the beauty of life in this city. Press a button and
wham
, a car appeared at the curb waiting for him. A ham sandwich at two in the morning? There, with little more than a phone call and a credit card. Office supplies, exercise equipment—hell, breath mints—all delivered in double time. It was a nice, compact life. He rarely had to stir outside his door.

“Yeah.” He was relieved to have solved one problem, but the larger one loomed dark and ominous over his head. Still, no matter how good a friend, he couldn’t confess to Cynthia that he’d done no real work on this project. She was his editor, too, which put her in a damned tough spot if he failed to meet his deadline. Hell, he didn’t even have a decent plot or characters.