Who Gets To Marry Max?. Neesa Hart
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made her smile. “I’ll never be able to replace you, you know.”
“You’ll do fine. Make sure someone pays special attention to Greg Loden.”
“I know. Keep him away from the gazebo.” According to her uncle, the younger Loden’s favorite seduction spot was the picturesque gazebo in the grove of apple trees near the foot of the estate.
“And keep the women away from him.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Don’t let Max turn into a tyrant.”
“Too late for that.”
His slight laugh warmed her. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right. We’ll be there by nine. Good night, Uncle Philip. Promise you’ll call if you need me.”
“My word, my dear. Good night.”
“Good night.” Sydney slowly replaced the receiver. She raised her gaze to Max’s. “You win.” He still had that probing look that made her feel oddly transparent. She drew a deep breath.
“Good.” He pushed open the pantry door. “I guarantee that I’m always in a much better mood when I win. Do you want Charlie to bring you some clothes or not?”
“I guess not. I can make do for tonight.” Sidney followed him back into the kitchen. Her assistant, Kelly, could lend her whatever she couldn’t scrounge in Philip’s apartment.
He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as he turned to face her once more. “I’m glad we settled that. And I meant what I said, I’ll double your fee just for giving in.”
His voice was a sultry whisper that reminded her of a hot summer wind: strangely welcome, and more than a little disconcerting, as if a storm was sure to follow in its wake. Worse, he smiled at her. At the sight, her heart skipped a beat. Max Loden’s smile, she’d long ago determined, was like a well-preserved piece of art: he displayed it on the rarest occasions and it never failed to impress. “I’ll see you later, Sidney.”
And then he left.
The room went suddenly still. The vacuum caused by his absence, she mused. Like the aftermath of a hurricane, unnatural silence settled on the bustling kitchen. Sidney turned to find her staff watching her with wary eyes. “What?” she prompted.
Kelly Lars, her assistant and best friend, shot her a grin. “That was him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Sidney nodded. “Yes. That was Mr. Loden.”
One of her pastry chefs, a young woman who’d joined Sidney’s team several weeks ago, leaned one hip against the counter and exhaled an audible breath. “Wow.”
Chip Meyers, who’d worked for Sidney for several years, gave the girl a sympathetic look. “It’s not usually like this, Becky. Most of the places we work, we never even see the people we work for. This is a little different because Sidney is friends with the guy.”
Kelly laughed. “I’m not sure I’d say that exactly.”
Sidney shot her a warning glance. “Kel—”
“Well, you’re not,” Kelly insisted. “You’ve talked to him—what? A dozen times in twelve years?”
Sidney suppressed an irritated retort. “My uncle is his butler,” she explained to her overly curious staff. “Uncle Philip has been with the Loden family for forty years. He’s known Mr. Loden all of his life. You’re here this weekend because my uncle hired you to augment Mr. Loden’s staff. I’m here because uncle Philip couldn’t be.”
Becky was busily wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “You didn’t mention, when you asked me if I wanted this assignment, that we’d be working for a human stick of dynamite.”
“You’re not.” Sidney’s voice was sharper than she’d intended. “You’re working for me.” The dynamite, she silently added, is my problem.
Chip frowned. “You know, Sid, when you told me the guy made his living making toys, this wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“Toys?” Becky asked.
Sidney exhaled a slow breath. “Max Loden makes his living making money. AppleTree Toys is just a part of the Loden Enterprises empire.”
Becky’s eyes widened. “AppleTree—oh my God! Max Loden. That Max Loden?” Her expression changed to awe. “I can’t believe I’m in Max Loden’s house. And that he looks like that.”
Kelly laughed. “What did you expect him to look like?”
“Well, I expected he was like, sixty at least.” Becky leaned against the counter. “I had no idea he was such a—well—such a stud. My kid sisters love those dolls.”
Chip laughed. “So do the rest of the girls in America. That’s how we ended up working in digs like this. Who knew a guy could make billions selling dolls.”
Becky warmed to the topic. “I remember when the Real Men collection came out. I was so jealous of my sisters. When I played with Barbie dolls, all we had were Ken and Alan to date Barbie and all her friends.”
“That was a man’s kind of world,” Chip countered.
Becky glared at him. “Then along came AppleTree Toys with the Real Men collection. How many are there? Six?”
“Eight,” Sidney supplied. “Max got the idea from watching his friend’s daughters play with their dolls. There were never enough males to go around.”
Kelly snorted. “Very insightful.”
Becky nodded. “Lucratively insightful. I remember reading that. So he conceived this entire line of male dolls. Each one has his own personality. There’s a stockbroker, a park ranger, a football player, a doctor—I can’t remember the rest. Anyway, the Max doll is the central figure. Supposedly, his staff named the doll after him.”
“They did it without his knowledge,” Sidney said quietly. “By the time he found out, the ad slicks had already gone out. At the time, AppleTree toys was operating on a shoestring, and Max didn’t feel like he could justify the expense of pulling the ads.” She paused. “He doesn’t like it.”
“Yeah, well,” Becky continued, “like it or not, the Max doll, and all his friends, are phenomenally popular. My sisters have a zillion of them, and all their accessories.”
Chip raised his eyebrows. “They have accessories? No guy I know would be caught dead with anything that could be called an accessory.”
Becky laughed. “Not even if the accessory is a twin-engine airplane?”
“Well—”
Kelly came to his rescue. “What she means, Chip, is that the Real Men dolls have an entire line of fashions and play sets that suit their individual personalities. I have it on very good authority that when the Max doll pulls up in his Jag roadster, it sends any self-respecting Barbie doll into a swoon.”
Chip flexed his biceps beneath his white chef’s jacket. “I’ll bet he doesn’t have Chip the super chef.”
Becky swatted him with the dishtowel. “Those dolls are so popular, the advertising slogan for the line is Who Gets To Marry Max? When little girls drag their dolls out to play, that’s the first question they ask.”
“They’re not the only ones,” Kelly quipped. “Every society reporter and fortune hunter in the country keeps asking the same question about who’ll marry the real Max Loden.”
Chip shook his head. “So that’s how ‘Mad Max’ made his millions.”
Sidney lost what was left of her indulgence. “Don’t call him that,” she said firmly.
The three looked at her, wide-eyed.