Judith Mcwilliams - Made-To-Order Wife

Jessie shivered slightly as his face hardened in determination. She sure wouldn’t want to get between him and what he wanted, she thought uneasily. It would be like trying to take a meaty bone away from a starving pit bull.

“The country-club set have some pretty rigid dress codes,” she warned him. “Even when they’re playing. What do you normally wear in your spare time?”

“I don’t have any spare time. If I’m awake, I’m working. This will be the first time I’ve ever cut back. But I do have some jeans and T-shirts and sweats for working out. And one golfing outfit,” he added.

“I suggest that you pay a visit to wherever you buy your suits and pick out some casual clothes.”

“I have a better idea. We’ll both pay a visit to my tailor, and you can make suggestions,” he said.

“I’m free tomorrow morning—say, ten? What about where you live? A good address is very important to a lot of people. Your future wife might be among them. Although, with as much money as you have, we could always try passing you off as eccentric.” She frowned slightly as she considered the idea. “It’s too bad you aren’t an actor.”

“An actor! Why would a sane person want to be one of the Hollywood crowd?”

“Because no one seems to hold them to the normal rules of behavior.”

“That is blatantly obvious. But forget passing me off as eccentric.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. “There’s a thin line between eccentric and just plain weird, and it’s too easy to inadvertently cross it. Where do you live?”

“I have an apartment on East Seventy-Fourth, and a town house I picked up last year, which I was told would be suitable for a family. As I recall, it has over fourteen thousand square feet.”

Jessie blinked. Fourteen thousand square feet! Just how big a family was he planning?

“Where is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Jessie stared at him. “You bought a house, and you don’t remember where it is!”

“I never actually saw it. It was part of a package deal in a company acquisition. My business manger said it had a lot of potential.”

Jessie shuddered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Words like potential and quaint are terms to avoid when buying property.”

“You think?” he asked.

“I know. I have a friend in real estate, and I’ve listened to her write copy on occasion. Real estate ads definitely come under the heading of creative fiction.”

“I’ll get the address and the key from my lawyer, and we can stop and look it over tomorrow after we order my casual wardrobe. If you think it wouldn’t appeal to a woman, then I’ll find something else.”

“Okay,” she said, suppressing an envious sigh at the thought of being wealthy enough to simply go out and buy a piece of New York City.

“Also, I have an invitation to a cocktail party this Friday night at Edwin Biddle’s,” he continued. “I’d like to start my search for a wife there. You are free Friday night, aren’t you?”

Jessie bit back the urge to tell him that just because he didn’t fancy her didn’t mean she didn’t have a social life. This was business, she reminded herself. Potentially very profitable business. Until she managed to get him engaged, her own social life, such as it was, was going to have to be put on hold.

“As long as it’s just a cocktail party, it should be okay.”

“You like cocktail parties?” he asked curiously.

“It’s not that. It’s that I won’t have time to teach you much by Saturday, but you’ve probably had plenty of practice at cocktail parties. It may be trite, but it’s also true that you only get one chance to make a good first impression.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll also pick you up tonight at six.”

Jessie got to her feet, correctly assuming she’d just been dismissed.

“Six will be fine. And please don’t change.”

Max frowned slightly. “Why not?”

“Because I want the kids to see what a real employer looks like. In fact, you can give a couple of practice interviews, if you would,” she said hopefully.

“All right, but be warned that I haven’t interviewed anyone for an entry-level job in fifteen years.

“Until tonight, then.” Max held his office door open for her, and Jessie hurried through, feeling as if she were escaping from a relentless force of nature.

She didn’t begin to relax until she was safely outside the building on the sidewalk. She spent the bus ride home trying to sort out her impressions of Max Sheridan and the job she’d taken on. Having met him, she wasn’t surprised at his unorthodox method of choosing a wife instead of waiting for love to strike as most men would.

Jessie frowned, trying to remember if he’d said anything about love. She was almost positive he hadn’t. Did that mean he didn’t expect to find love in his marriage? Or did it mean that he didn’t think his emotions were any of her business? It could be either. Or neither. She had no way of knowing.

But even if his marriage started out as a cold-blooded bargain, she very much doubted that it would stay that way for long. She swallowed as she remembered the sensual line of his mouth, and the strength in his long fingers as they had gripped hers. Max Sheridan was a compulsively attractive man, and his attraction owed nothing to his net worth.

Jessie got off at her bus stop and walked down the block to her apartment house.

Letting herself into the lobby, she picked up her mail and sorted through it on the elevator ride up to her apartment on the fourth floor. She bypassed the bills and flyers in favor of a pale-pink envelope with her address neatly typed on it. Curiously, Jessie studied the uneven keystrokes. It looked as if it had been typed on a typewriter and not a computer.

Ripping it open, she pulled out a single sheet of pink stationery. When she saw the handwriting, a volatile mix of pain and anger swamped her, making her want to throw up.

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, willing her stomach to behave. When she finally felt marginally in control, she forced herself to read the words on the paper. What she really wanted to do was rip it to shreds and then stomp on the pieces.

The elevator doors opened and she got out, automatically heading toward her apartment, her movements feeling stiff and unnatural.

Once she was inside, she went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She desperately needed a strong shot of caffeine to counteract the shock she’d just had.

Kicking off her heels, she set the letter in the middle of her gray granite countertop and then stood there, staring down at it as if it were a snake about to strike.

“Damn!” she muttered. “How could she write to me? And why now? Why not last year when she first got out of prison?”

Too agitated to sit still, Jessie began to pace as she waited for her coffee to brew. She didn’t want to hear from her mother. They didn’t have any good memories to share. Not a single solitary one. Thanks to her mother’s alcoholism, Jessie had had a childhood straight out of a Kafka nightmare. And now her mother had the nerve to write to her and suggest meeting, as if nothing had ever happened.

Hell would freeze over before she’d ever have anything to do with her mother again, Jessie thought grimly. She had built her own life. It was a good life. A normal life. And there was no place in it for her mother’s destructive presence.

No place at all.

Jessie tensed, automatically checking the kitchen clock when she heard the entrance buzzer sound. Exactly six o’clock. It had to be Max. Anticipation poured through her, jerking her to her feet.

Hastily she shoved her feet into her black slingbacks, wincing slightly as the fashionable shoes pinched her toes. Someday she was going to have enough money to retire somewhere peaceful and rural where she’d never wear anything but comfortable walking shoes again.