Fine Madness Page 7

  Thank God for the battery of Japanese industrialists determined to master the elements of public speaking before they mastered the English language. Without them the prospects for juicy employee bonuses might have been in serious jeopardy.

  As she'd expected, Sean called mid-afternoon to say he'd made it to Los Angeles in time for his appearance on a local television show.

  "Residuals come in the end of January," he said, his voice once again the mellifluous tones his fans adored. "You'll have your money, Kelly--with interest. I'll tell you all about it at dinner Tuesday night. Il Duce, my treat."

  "I'd settle for fewer rescue missions," she'd said, then hung up before he could make another empty promise.

  The afternoon stretched on and she welcomed the unending stacks of paperwork begging for her attention. At least with her concentration focused on this year's reports and next year's budget she couldn't waste time wishing her father were half the man he was on screen.

  Or wishing Max Steel would call.

  Not that she expected him to. She didn't know quite what that Hawaiian blitzkrieg was all about but it seemed clear now that whatever it was, it was over.

  Discovering who she was and what she did for a living was no mean feat; any newcomer to the poolside revue at the Kaanapali Inn was subjected to CIA-type questioning by eager pleasure-seekers before the first suitcase was unpacked.

  He'd simply been cleverer than the average Joe and attacked along her path of least resistance: business.

  Business! What business was conducted on the beach at Maui or over drumsticks at Thanksgiving dinner?

  None, that's what, and any normal red-blooded American woman would have recognized that the second she looked into his gorgeous green eyes and felt the heat rising between them.

  He had no use for her business acumen--what a fool she'd been to think otherwise. What he'd wanted was a flirtation to wile away an evening and she'd been too tunnel-visioned to ssee it.

  If she'd had one-tenth the brain power she'd been born with, she would have given him her very best smile then surrendered to the seduction of tropical breezes and throbbing pulses and all the other wonders she'd been doing her darnedest to forget even existed.

  For all she knew, Max Steel really was one of Natalie's soap opera hunks. He definitely had the requisite tall-dark-and-handsome looks the job demanded, but whatever it was he did for a living there was no doubt it paid handsomely.

  His clothes, his grooming, the Rolex on his wrist all screamed success. He understood the fine points of fabric and tailoring and the glorious art of understatement that seemed to baffle even her most upwardly-mobile clients.

  Even his accent was a plus. Being marked as a child of Flatbush or Upper Sandusky might keep a wunderkind off the fast track, but a sexy, upper-class Brazilian accent added a sheen of sophistication most business types would sell their Filofaxes for.

  What could she possibly offer him beyond a few techniques that could make him better in the boardroom? His packaging was perfect; there was nothing in Madison Dynamics' repertoire that even came close.

  And definitely nothing in her own.

  How depressing.

  Even more depressing, though, was the fact that he'd been in her hotel room, gorgeous and charming and obviously interested, and she'd played it dumb and distant and then gone running the moment Sean called for help.

  What on earth was the matter with her?

  She'd traveled to Hawaii to relax and have fun and maybe kick up her heels and the first time a man worthy of notice came upon the scene she froze like a pint of Chocolate-Chocolate Chip. How could Sean Ryan's daughter not recognize excitement when she saw it? Had she become such a nine-to-five drudge that fun was a foreign notion?

  "Admit it," she said aloud. "You're a grade-A coward."

  Even if Sean hadn't picked that moment to call her, she knew in her heart she would have managed to come up with something to break the sexual tension building between herself and Max Steel. That wasn't what she was looking for. It wasn't what she wanted at this time of her life.

  He wasn't a man like most of the men she'd known; and he certainly wasn't like Sean or her ex-husband. In her experience, men were the weaker sex and a beautiful woman could easily have her way before he knew what she was up to. If the woman were smart as well as beautiful, the situation was hopeless.

  Not so with Mr. Steel.

  No woman bossed Max Steel around. The thought was laughable. She couldn't imagine him driving a car pool or mowing the back yard or serving a term at the Brazilian equivalent of the Kiwanis club.

  Beneath that polished exterior beat a renegade heart and she'd seen enough of her father's movies to know renegades bowed to no one.

  But renegades existed in fiction; they flourished on film. They had no place in real life--certainly not in hers.

  #

  The percussion section of the New York Philharmonic launched into another eight bars inside Sean Ryan's brain and he winced and reached for his whiskey.

  That conversation with Kelly had taken more acting skill than all his Captain Blood and Masked Avenger movies combined.

  The Long Island skies over Quogue were heavy and dark and they matched his mood completely. Pretending he was in sunny L.A. when a cold November rain fell outside his window was a true exercise in imagination.

  The enormity of what he'd done so impulsively some fifteen years ago seemed to grow with every day that passed. When they passed him up to Viktor six months ago, he knew his attempts to break free had been futile. God forgive him, but it had seemed almost innocent when he started back in those days when the United States and mainland China were dancing around a political reconciliation.

  Eastern Europe had nervously watched the mating ritual and Sean had believed the papers he carried were nothing more than speculations on America's position.

  No one ever said he was very bright.

  An afternoon talk show droned on behind him. He turned at the word "spy" to see an earnest-faced writer with a book to sell.

  "All spies aren't James Bond," she said in her flat Wonder Bread voice. "Look at the Walkers--who would have ever suspected?"

  He took a sip of gin and shuddered as it slid down his throat.

  "Who indeed?" he muttered.

  Film of an innocent member of the Walker family flashed on the screen and he watched as the woman fielded hostile questions from eager reporters, her self respect crumbling with each second.

  Suddenly her plain face became his Kelly's beautiful one and he saw the pain in her eyes and the disappointment--and the utter inevitability of his own Greek tragedy ending. Oh, they were sly, he'd grant them that. Sly and cunning and deadlier than any weapon born of man's darkest nightmares. Over the years they'd come to know him better than he knew himself; they knew his weaknesses and his desires; they knew the places he'd run to when left to his own devices.

  Somehow they managed to imbue him with a spurious sense of freedom that dovetailed splendidly into their scheme. How pathetic that his pattern was so predictable, so abominably perfect for their plans.

  When he had no money, when the pain grew too great to bear, he called for Kelly. He knew no other way.

  And to his sorrow and delight, she always came.

  His daughter...his good daughter... The child he'd sired and might one day destroy.

  What torment had the Almighty in mind when He created this hell-on-earth?

  He'd kill himself right now and put an end to the torment his soul was under except that would leave his daughter wide open and vulnerable to them.

  It would be a way out for him but, dear God, how it would hurt her.

  And hadn't he hurt her enough already.

  Chapter Ten

  Natalie Stryker rushed into Kelly's office a few minutes after five o'clock waving Time and People overhead like twin banners.

  "I knew it!" she crowed, presenting the magazines with a flourish. "I knew I'd heard that name before."

  Ke
lly didn't bother to play coy with her; the woman knew her too well. "Max Steel?" she asked, hitting a series of computer keys to save her work. "Don't tell me, let me guess. He's Brazil's answer to Mel Gibson."

  "Very funny," said Natalie. "Forget Mel Gibson and try Donald Trump."

  "Trump?" Kelly grabbed for People and her mouth dropped open in surprise. There, looking up at her, was Maximilian Steel in all his glory. "Photogenic devil, isn't he?" she murmured.

  Natalie perched on the edge of the desk. "That's not the half of it. Read on."

  The Man of Steel, the imposing headline blazed. Brazilian mystery man Maximilian Steel is ready to out-Trump Donald.

  "It's time to conquer America," said the thirty-five year old business genius from his home near Rio de Janeiro. "Europe, Japan and South America are already on my mantelpiece. The Big Apple is next."

  Her dinner companion, it turned out, was even richer than his Queens-born rival. The child of a U.S. foreign correspondent and a Brazilian debutante, Steel had parlayed a modest inheritance into an empire that was shaking up the big boys from New York to L. A.

  His New Year's Eve "millionaire's only" party in Rio had moved into legend. The international set was up in arms that he wouldn't be holding it this year.

  She skipped over three dense paragraphs detailing his real estate holdings.

  "He's not married," Natalie said, laughing.

  "That's not what I was looking for--" She stopped and grinned. "Well, not the only thing."

  Natalie got up and leaned over the desk to take another look at the photo spread.

  "Look at the way the princess is smiling up at him," Natalie said. "If I were the prince, I'd be worried."

  She glanced at Kelly who found it impossible to tear her gaze away from a picture of Steel windsurfing off Ipanema. He wore a tight little Speedo suit that left little to the imagination. What it showed was even more intriguing: narrow hips, flat belly, a large muscular chest with just the right amount of dark hair tapering down toward his waistband and...

  "Man of Steel indeed," she said with a sigh. "He could be the Jack La Lanne poster boy."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  Kelly froze.

  It couldn't be.

  It absolutely could not.

  "Oh, my God!" Natalie breathed. "It's--"

  "Mr. Steel." Kelly rose and extended her hand in greeting. Stay calm. He was only a man. "We didn't hear you come in."

  His grip was warm and strong and all she could think of was the way he looked in his swim trunks.

  "There was no one in the anteroom," he said, smiling at Natalie who looked as if she were about to swoon at his feet. "I heard voices and took it upon myself to come in."

  Kelly removed her hand from his and motioned behind her back for Natalie to stash the magazines. "Natalie and I were going over a few papers."

  "Yes," said Natalie, neatly sweeping the evidence into the middle drawer of Kelly's desk. "Work piled up while Ms. Madison was away."

  There was that almost-American grin again. At least now she knew where it came from.

  "Did you like the pictures?" he asked.

  Next to her Natalie coughed and sputtered ruining Kelly's last chance for a cover up. Thank God they weren't private investigators.

  "Yes, we did," she said, motioning him to a seat and reclaiming her own behind the desk. "You're extremely photogenic."

  "A trick of the lighting," he said, his manner offhanded.

  "Our lighting is awful," piped up Natalie, "and you look pretty terrific to me."

  It was all Kelly could do to keep from strangling the woman with her silver chain.

  "It's late," she said sweetly, her eyes promising storm clouds for the morning. "Why don't you go on home now, Nat. I'll close up."

  Natalie hesitated. "I still haven't managed to duplicate the Myles tapes yet. I thought I might--"

  "It's been a long day," Kelly said, her voice growing more forceful. "The Myles tapes can wait until morning."

  Natalie looked from Kelly to Max then back to Kelly. "You're sure?"

  "I'm positive."

  With a wink in Kelly's direction, Natalie left them alone.

  "I apologize," Kelly said after they heard the outer door close behind the woman. "She's not usually that...exuberant."

  "No need for apologies." Did nothing ever ruffle the man? "Her candor was refreshing."

  "Natalie is star-struck. People Magazine is her Bible and when you walked in that door--well, you can just imagine."

  "I'm familiar with your clientele. I'm surprised she hasn't become accustomed to celebrities."

  "So am I. You should have seen her the day both Sean Connery and Harrison Ford showed up."

  He laughed with her and she noticed a starburst of fine lines around those incredible eyes of his. Even flaws looked perfect on him.

  "You don't believe in phoning ahead, do you, Mr. Steel?"

  "Not when I have unfinished business." He leaned back in his seat and, if it weren't for the fact that she was the one behind the desk, she'd think he owned the place.

  She started to make a flip remark about dinner and dessert but held her tongue. The way he made her feel it would probably sound like an invitation to seduction.

  "So what can I do for you?" she asked instead.

  "As I said five thousand miles ago, I need your help."

  "Not according to the article I just read. You don't seem to need anybody's help."

  "Don't believe everything you read, Ms. Madison. The truth usually rests between the lines."

  Gorgeous and a philosopher to boot. Definitely an unfair combination.

  "Call me Kelly," she said. "Do you mean to tell me you're not out to take a bite from the Big Apple?"

  "A bite isn't large enough. I want the whole thing."

  "Three continents aren't enough for you, Mr. Steel?"

  "Max," he said, "and why should it be?" "I usually leave conquering cities to the Marines." She pulled the magazines from the center drawer and shamelessly pored over the stories about Steel. "You're Brazilian and American?"

  "Yes."

  "Own the three largest private corporations in the world?"

  "Guilty."

  "A doctorate in economics."

  "Not a popular choice when I attended school."

  "And it's true you give a millionaire's only party every New Year's Eve in Rio?"

  "Four years running." His smile was as enticing as his voice. "This year, however, the millionaires must fend for themselves. I have other plans."

  "So far I haven't had to read between the lines to get at the true story. It's right there in black and white."

  "Not all of it."

  "What else could there be? They practically gave us your birth weight and dental history." She closed the magazines against that disconcerting photo of him half-naked. "Unless you're in the market for a Brooklyn accent, I don't see what I can do for you."

  He was handsome, rich, intelligent and successful. Any more attributes and he could be declared a natural resource.

  "I cannot speak," he said in that glorious smoky voice of his.

  "Excuse me?"

  "In public. I cannot speak in public."

  "But there's a picture of you lecturing at a University in Brazil."

  "Fake," he said.

  Once again she flipped open the magazine and pushed it toward him. "That is you, isn't it?"

  He glanced down. "Yes, but I am only accepting an award. I did no more than express my thanks. My publicist created the lecture."

  "I don't get it. With all you've accomplished, why on earth would you need to fabricate a lecture?"

  "Success in your country is as much showmanship as it is gamesmanship. Your Iacocca and Trump created their fame before the cameras and the people. Until I can do that, I will not seize the power I'm working toward."

  He was right. Mega-success in America was equal parts media hype and hyperactivity. She listened as he described public speaking prob
lems that ranged from poor delivery to abject terror.

  "...and I have learned you are the one who can best help me, Kelly Madison." His problems were classic ones--problems she'd dealt with a thousand times and would deal with a thousand more.

  "It shouldn't be difficult," she said, scanning the assignment sheet printouts on her desk. "We have three instructors free at the moment."

  "And you are one of them?"

  "I usually work with dialects not speech making. Bill Dwyer would be a superb teacher to work with."

  "I have no doubt," he said smoothly, "but I work with no one but you."

  "I'm flattered but I'm needed here."

  "Not between now and the New Year." His smile was devastating. "That is, after all, why you vacationed, yes?"

  "Don't confuse the issue. There are many others who would--"

  "I trust you," he said, leaning forward, all male intensity and charm, "and that is paramount."

  "You don't like to be told no, do you, Max?" She had the feeling of being drawn inexorably into his plans and the sensation was as exciting as it was unnerving.

  "No is not in my vocabulary," he said. "Not in any language."

  He was the first man she'd met who had the power to bend her to his will and the prospect of working with his one weakness intrigued her. It was hard to imagine Max Steel vulnerable to anything at all. "I'm interested," she said after a moment.

  He explained that his timetable called for an emergence into the limelight after the first of the year. The articles in People and Time were the start of a media blitz that would culminate in a huge New Year's Eve celebration at his home in Rio de Janeiro, heralding his departure for New York.

  "So this is a private visit?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Probably the last time I'll be able to move about freely."

  "That's a high price to pay for fame," she said, thinking about her father and the sad underbelly of celebrity.

  "Everything in life exacts a price." His voice held a darkly ironic tone that made her cast a sharp look at him. "That should not surprise you."