Fine Madness Read online

  "Kelly, I swear, if you don't--"

  "Save it, Nat! In forty-eight hours you can lecture me in person."

  "I can hardly wait."

  "Neither can I," Kelly said dryly. "But until then tell the service to make certain to get the name of everyone who calls--especially if the caller is a man with a fascinating accent."

  "We get nothing but fascinating accents here. What accent in particular?"

  "Brazilian with a touch of the Continent thrown in for good measure."

  "Interesting," said Natalie in the matchmaking tone that set Kelly's teeth on edge. "Suave, elegant, bright, gorgeous--"

  "See you on Monday, Nat." Click.

  There would be hell to pay Monday morning for hanging up on her assistant but, at the moment, Kelly was willing to take her chances. Natalie Stryker was a happily-married grandmother who believed Noah had the right idea when he embarked on the first couples-only cruise. She'd been with Kelly since Madison Dynamics opened six years ago and there was little about Kelly's personal life that the woman didn't know.

  And that included Sean.

  It would be impossible for anyone to work closely with Kelly and not be aware of her painful relationship with her father. From the first SOS phone call during her second week of business to the last one two years ago, Sean Ryan and his problems had been an integral part of Kelly's existence.

  Natalie--God bless her forever--was miraculously able to put aside the vivid images of Captain Blood and the Masked Raider and focus on the poor wreck of a man he'd become.

  "My Uncle Charlie was a drinker same as your dad," Natalie had said in her matter-of-fact way, "and I'm telling you one thing, honey: you can bail him out of trouble and give him money to pay his bills, but the one thing you can't do is change him. That he has to do himself."

  Wise words from a wise woman and over the years Kelly had come to rely upon Natalie Stryker for good advice as well as a good day's work.

  And if Natalie was an incurable matchmaker--well, it was a small flaw on an otherwise perfect canvas.

  Male laughter rumbled through the hotel room door and she thought she picked up the telltale squeak of the room service trolley heading her way.

  Racing into the bathroom she tossed her bath towel over the shower rod and slipped into a kimono of lustrous jade silk. Bending over, she brushed out her slightly damp hair then caught it up into a loose and slightly lopsided ponytail.

  "Room service!" The words were punctuated by a series of three sharp raps on the door, a decidedly more aggressive approach than she'd encountered up to now in "hang loose" Hawaii.

  A transplant, she figured as she hurried toward the door. Someone who obviously hadn't been on the Islands long enough to drop the Mainland obsession with clocks and schedules and timetables that had pegged her as a tourist the moment she arrived.

  Another series of three sharp raps on the door. If she didn't know better, she'd think she was back in New York.

  Tying the sash on her kimono, she flung open the door and found herself face-to-face with the gorgeous stranger from that afternoon.

  Chapter Five

  "Room service," he said with a smile that flashed white against his deeply tanned skin.

  She refused to smile back on principle. He was simply too good-looking to be encouraged. "If you don't mind, I'll wait until the real thing comes along."

  His smile widened and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. She'd always been a sucker for men with dimples, her ex-husband being a case in point and this dimpled man made no move to leave.

  "I admire your tenacity, but you do realize your chances of working with Madison Dynamics are dwindling fast, don't you?"

  His elegant brow wrinkled. "Dwindling?"

  "Disappearing." She gave another tug on her belt. "And that's something I intend to do right now." Unfortunately it was difficult to close the door with a 6'2" man in the way.

  He turned away from her and she figured he was about to acknowledge defeat when she again heard the squeaking of a food trolley.

  "This way," he called out, motioning toward her room. "Ten minutes late but acceptable by local standards."

  She glanced at the time on his pricey gold watch. "Try thirty minutes late. I called my order in over an hour ago."

  "I canceled that order."

  "You did what?"

  Two beaming room service waiters approached, each with a cart piled high with silver-covered platters.

  "I canceled that order and placed another," the man said.

  If the waiters hadn't been there as witnesses for the prosecution, she might cheerfully have strangled him.

  "Just who do you think you are?" she hissed as the waiters smiled their way into her hotel suite.

  "Maximilian Steel," he said, extending his hand. "Happy Thanksgiving."

  She stared, dumbfounded, as a third waiter appeared bearing a huge roasted turkey, all dark gold and luscious looking and, to her regret, not destined to stay.

  "This is crazy!" She tried to block the turkey waiter's way into the room but Maximilian Steel--why did that name sound so familiar?--waved him in to join his compatriots. "I ordered a drumstick and some white meat and you've manufactured Big Bird."

  Again the frown. "Big bird?"

  "An esoteric American concept that I absolutely refuse to explain to you until you send this food back."

  "I had believed Thanksgiving was a big American holiday."

  "It is."

  "I had believed a turkey was central to the celebration."

  "Yes, but--"

  "And I had believed it was customary to share the holiday bounty with others."

  "I'm impressed that you've done your homework, Mr. Steel, but I fail to see what it has to do with anything."

  "You are a perceptive woman. I'm surprised you haven't figured it out."

  She glanced over her shoulder. The three smiling waiters were turning her balcony into a lush dining alcove complete with flowers and candles and champagne.

  For two.

  "And you're a very determined man, Mr. Steel."

  Again that quicksilver smile. "Some would say it's my best quality."

  "I may not number among them."

  "Perhaps after dinner you will change your mind."

  "I haven't said I would have dinner with you."

  "The question, Ms. Madison, is whether you will ask me to have dinner with you."

  The waiters smiled and nodded, pushing their empty carts out of her suite and back down the hallway.

  "It seems a moot point right now."

  "It isn't," he said. How odd that he understood a word like moot. "The decision remains yours."

  She gestured toward the elaborate display of Thanksgiving bounty on the balcony. "You must admit you've tipped the balance heavily in your favor."

  "Good business," he said with a shrug. "One cannot be blamed for that."

  The aroma of roast turkey and chestnut dressing wafted through the room, weakening her resolve. Unfair tactics. He might be smarter than she'd first thought.

  "I'm still on vacation," she warned, "and I refuse to talk business."

  He nodded. "I bow to your wishes."

  He really had no business having such beautiful bottle-green eyes. "And I intend to keep the door to the room wide open." She was, after all, a New Yorker through and through.

  "It is your decision."

  He watched her, that gaze of his heating her blood despite the chill of air-conditioning.

  She had the feeling things were not as they seemed, that he was being too agreeable--that she might someday regret this--but she invited him in anyway.

  "Come on," she said, waving him inside. "I hope you like cranberry sauce."

  "I wouldn't know," he said following her out onto the balcony. "This will be a first."

  "Interesting." She motioned for him to take a seat. "Is this your first Thanksgiving in America?"

  "The first I've celebrated, yes."

  She fiddled wi
th the belt on her kimono. "And what makes this Thanksgiving special?"

  "You. I--"

  "I knew it!" She stormed to the other side of the balcony and glared at him. "This is a come-on, isn't it?"

  "Come on?" His elegant accent made it sound rather appealing.

  "You can knock it off right now, Mr. Steel. Game's over. I'm on to you."

  His expression was bland as boiled rice. "Idiomatic expressions were not part of my instructions in your language."

  "What I meant was, I believe this elaborate feast is your way of making a date with me."

  He leaned back in his chair and laughed out loud. "Had I wanted a date, Ms. Madison, I would have picked up the phone and asked for one."

  Kelly's cheeks flamed the color of the cranberry sauce on the table. Accusing him of coming on to her had been foolish enough; explaining what it meant was humiliating.

  "You're blunt, Steel. I'll grant you that."

  "You would like it better if I had asked to see you socially?"

  "Yes--I mean, no." She slumped down into the chair opposite him. "Why the heavy-duty hustle then? Why didn't you just wait until Monday morning when I'm back in the office?"

  "Because Monday will be too late."

  "Why?" She crunched into a celery stalk. "Are you wanted by the police for something? You're making me very suspicious."

  "Is suspicion a part of your personality, Ms. Madison?"

  "Yes." She placed her dinner napkin on her lap. "And I get extra-suspicious when a man answers my questions with a question of his own."

  "I do that?"

  She looked up, ready to fling the chestnut dressing on his expensive shirt and jacket and was surprised to see a huge smile on his face.

  "So you have a sense of humor." She speared a candied sweet potato with her fork. "I'm surprised."

  He helped himself to some sliced turkey. "At times it does not translate as well as I would like."

  Across the table she met his eyes. "So this is strictly business, Mr. Steel?"

  He nodded, his dark chestnut hair glinting red and gold in the setting sun. "Strictly business, Ms. Madison."

  A perverse rush of regret washed over her like the ocean beyond the balcony. "But I still won't talk business during Thanksgiving dinner, Mr. Steel," she said fiercely. "I won't yield on that point."

  "Agreed." He eased out the champagne cork and filled their glasses. "Bon appetit," he said with a continental smile. She considered him for a moment then raised her glass in salute. "Happy Thanksgiving."

  Natalie, she thought as they clicked glasses, you should only see me now...

  #

  Liar.

  Ryder O'Neal and PAX could call him whatever they wanted but, at that particular moment, liar seemed to fit the bill pretty well.

  Pretending to be a Brazilian multimillionaire was one thing.

  Pretending he'd never tasted cranberry sauce before was something else entirely.

  Five years of intensive, eighteen hour days had prepared him to handle the maitre d' at Maxim's and shoptalk with Malcolm Forbes, but it had left him wide open when it came to the reality of everyday life in America.

  Despite his training he wasn't an actor and forgetting the thirty-six Thanksgiving dinners he had under his belt had proved tougher than pretending he understood international finance.

  Once a Yankee, always a Yankee. He wouldn't be surprised if Benjamin Franklin had said something to that effect two hundred years ago over his own Thanksgiving dinner.

  "Coffee?" Kelly Madison asked.

  "Please." At least he didn't have to pretend American coffee was alien to him. He doubted he'd ever acquire a taste for cafezinho, the Brazilian blend of thick sugar syrup and black, tar-like coffee.

  "Cream?"

  He nodded.

  Ryder was going to kill him.

  He'd spent the past two hours sharing a holiday meal with her and they were no closer to striking a deal than before he knocked on her hotel room door.

  Blame it on biology.

  Somewhere between the celery and the drumsticks, Kelly Madison's guard had dropped. He liked to think it had something to do with his wit and charm, but he had the strong feeling satiety had more to do with it.

  They talked easily about the whaling village of Lahaina and the splendors of the Io Valley and Hana and, as they talked, PAX and all its attendant needs slipped away from him and they were just a woman and a man enjoying dinner.

  Oh, she was no less beautiful, no less physically daunting than she'd been that afternoon by the pool in her scrap of a red bikini. The cheekbones were still high and elegant, the jaw cleanly angled, her nose straight and delicately made. But wrapped in that oversize silk kimono with her palomino mane looped up into a loose ponytail, she was infinitely more vulnerable, more accessible.

  More touchable...

  "Damn!" He dropped his coffee cup with a clatter and splashed hot liquid over his hand.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, leaping to her feet. "Did you burn yourself?"

  He choked back a string of oaths in English and Portuguese. "No," he lied, his scalded hand blazing with pain. "I just remembered a call I need to make. May I use your phone?"

  The look she gave him was so acutely assessing that he wondered if he'd blown his suave businessman cover all to hell.

  "Be my guest,"she said finally, gesturing toward the sitting room through the French doors. "Just don't expect there to be any pumpkin pie left when you get back."

  He gave her his best PAX-bland smile and beat a hasty retreat, making sure to close the doors behind him. Decidedly un-suave beads of sweat trickled down his back as he punched in the local access number that would forward the call to Ryder.

  "722 O'Neal. Who's speaking?"

  "415 Steel. I'm losing it, pal, and fast."

  Ryder's oath was strictly Anglo-Saxon. "Back it up a few reels and tell me what's been going on."

  Max synopsized the disaster in the making as quickly as he could, keeping one eye on Kelly as he talked.

  "You haven't broached the main topic yet?" Ryder sounded incredulous and Max couldn't blame him. "Everything's going wrong," he said, raking a hand through his perfectly barbered hair. "Why didn't you tell me how hard it was to stop being an American?"

  "All this because you got snagged on some cranberry sauce?"

  "I don't think you're catching my drift, O'Neal. Cranberry sauce today--who knows what tomorrow. It's never going to work."

  "You're right. It's definitely not going to work if you don't get your butt back out on that balcony and start pushing."

  "She's sharp, O'Neal. She's already caught two variations on my accent. I'm running out of prep schools to blame it on."

  "Remember who's in charge," Ryder cautioned. "You're there to hire her, not the other way around. Everything hangs on you, pal. Don't blow five years of work because right now we're clean out of options."

  The responsibility was squarely on Max's shoulders.

  Great news for a man who'd spent his adult life convinced responsibility wasn't his long suit.

  A blast of memory threw Max back in time to another time, another place.

  "Ammo up!" The red-haired kid's scream split the heavy air. "Cover your butt, air force! He's outta my range…"

  An epic failure in a stinking stream of failures that had followed him from that bloody moment on.

  Kelly watched him from the balcony, her pale hair lit by the fiery orange glow of a Maui sunset.

  Her life was in his hands.

  How had it come to that? Those dark blue midnight eyes looked toward him for something Max Brody couldn't provide.

  Something that might be beyond even Maximilian Steel and PAX and all the angels at their command.

  He replaced the phone in its cradle and, because she was more beautiful than that sunset--and he didn't know what else to do--he decided to stick with it a little bit longer.

  Chapter Six

  Kelly watched him rise from the str
aight-back chair near the phone table, all fluid grace and strength. He ran a hand around the waistband of his perfectly tailored trousers as if to tuck in his pale cream shirt, but of course his shirt needed no tucking in, any more than his hair needed combing or his pants, a sharpened crease.

  There had to be something wrong with him but except for a certain macho aggressiveness that she secretly found attractive, Kelly was hard-put to figure out what.

  This whole evening was too perfect; their conversation too easy. In fact, Max Steel was too handsome, too smart and too obviously successful to be real. It was as if somebody in Central Casting had sent down an order for a "drop-dead gorgeous businessman-type, thirtysomething with outrageously sexy accent" and Max Steel had been conjured up from a combination of female fantasies and impeccable grooming.

  To make it worse, he was a man of his word.

  Not once did he bring up business in any shape or form. In fact, the more studiously he avoided the topic, the more avid her curiosity grew and by the time he strolled back out to the balcony once again, she was ready to burst.

  "Everything taken care of?" she asked, delighting in his easy walk.

  "Yes," he said, taking his seat. "Thank you for the use of the phone."

  She picked up the silver coffee pot. "Your coffee's cold. I'll pour you a new cup."

  Those sleepy-sexy green eyes of his narrowed. "Anxious for dinner to be over, Ms. Madison?"

  "Am I so transparent?"

  He smiled and sipped his coffee and she had the strong sensation of being manipulated by a master.

  "You didn't answer my question, Mr. Steel."

  "I assumed it to be rhe--" he hesitated, a frown creasing his tanned brow.

  "Rhetorical?"

  "Rhetorical."

  "It wasn't."

  His smile returned. "Then the answer is yes. Your curiosity is obvious."

  "I can relax and be myself?"

  "As you wish."

  She leaned across the remains of pumpkin pie and turkey and looked him straight in the eye.

  "Then tell me, Mr. Steel, before I go crazy: what on earth do you want?"