Who Gets To Marry Max?. Neesa Hart
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She paused. “For that matter, I don’t want to hear it after we leave, either. Max Loden inherited his father’s company on the verge of bankruptcy. Thanks to the success of the Real Men dolls, he earned enough capital to bail out some of Loden Enterprises’ less successful public ventures. He took an ailing company, put his mind and effort behind it, and made it grow. Just because his methods are a little unorthodox, and just because some of his adversaries think he’s a little—eccentric—doesn’t mean we’re going to disrespect him. I trust I’ve made that clear.”
Chip looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, Sidney. I didn’t know you—”
“It’s all right. He’s heard the name before, I’m certain. But I don’t want him to hear it from us. Mr. Loden is paying every member of this staff extraordinarily well for their service.”
Becky nodded. “I’m getting twice what I did for the last house party I worked.”
Sidney tugged at the points of her jacket. “Most of you are. So in addition to your service, he’s going to get your respect, too. I’d like you to alert the rest of the staff to that. If I hear anything that even hints at disrespect, I won’t hesitate to let someone go.”
Becky and Chip stared at her, astonished. Kelly alone seemed to sense the volatile nature of her mood. “Chip,” she said, with the soft authority Sidney had always admired. “I think now would be a good time for you to find Mr. Loden’s chef and decide how the two of you want to divvy up the kitchen responsibilities. Do you have the punch list I gave you?”
He nodded. Kelly waved him away with a sweep of her hand. “Good. Becky, I’d like you to gather the rest of our staff in about ten minutes so we can brief them.” She scanned the kitchen, then tucked her clipboard under her arm. “We’ve got two hours,” she continued, “and I’m going to make sure the guest rooms are up to spec.”
As Kelly picked up a tray of chocolates, Sidney gave the confections a final, assessing glance. The shaped candies were Sidney’s personal trademark. Individually made, each candy represented a guest’s personal interests. Before a major event, she interviewed her clients to determine how best to serve their guests. The chocolates, which her staff placed on the pillows of the guest room beds or at each place setting for meals, were a special touch her clients usually raved about.
Kelly paused on her way to the door. “Sidney, would you like to instruct the rest of the staff, or shall I?”
Sidney gave her a grateful look. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” At her friend’s dubious look, Sidney laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve delivered my last avenging angel speech for the day.”
“All right,” Kelly agreed. “I’m going to deliver the chocolates, then.” She inspected the tray. “You know, these look really good, Sid,” she said. “Even if you did make them at three this morning. No one makes them as well as you do.”
Sidney shrugged, unwilling to discuss why she’d been unable to sleep the night before, and had decided to personally make the chocolates—a duty she generally would have delegated. “I enjoy doing it. I hadn’t done them in a while, and I wanted to make sure I hadn’t lost my touch.”
Kelly gave her a shrewd look, but silently hoisted the tray of chocolates to her shoulder. As she strolled past Sidney, she whispered, “Sure you don’t want me to put the Cupid on Max’s pillow, Sid?”
Sidney frowned at her. “Did you listen to a word I just said?”
“Every one of them. That’s why I asked.”
“Kel—”
“Okay, okay. He sure is cute, though.” She sailed out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Sidney almost laughed out loud. Max Loden was many things. Daunting. Charming. Elegant. Ruthless. Brilliant. Maybe even handsome. But never, ever had anyone described him as cute. Sidney sometimes doubted that Max had even entered the world as a baby. Instead, he seemed to have walked onto the stage of his life full-grown and ready for battle.
When his parents died, leaving a twenty-five-year-old Max full responsibility for his brother, his two sisters and his father’s struggling corporation, Max had taken the reins like a man born to lead. He’d made a lot of money, and a lot of enemies along the way. Sidney’s uncle, Philip Grant, had seen him through all of it. And while the world found Max’s eccentricities, razor-sharp business acumen and incomprehensible ability to take the wildest risk possible and make astounding profits from the venture both infuriating and intimidating, Philip adored him. His adversaries and even his colleagues claimed he had no heart, that he placed profits above people and that he’d step on anyone who got in his way. “Mad Max,” they called him. And as far as everyone could tell, he liked it.
But Sidney had never believed it, for reasons she’d told no one—not even Philip. On a cold rainy evening, years ago, not long after she’d come to live with her uncle, Max Loden had given her a gift so generous, so unthinkably extravagant that she’d tucked it close to her heart and used it whenever her confidence had needed it most.
He would never remember the incident, she was sure. She’d been fifteen. He was a college student bound for glory. Everyone agreed it was his destiny. She’d been afraid of him, and hadn’t known why. In those days, however, it seemed she had feared everyone. Even then people talked about him. He had what Philip called presence. He always seemed to be involved in terribly important, terribly serious business. While his brother and sisters were enjoying the carefree life afforded them by wealthy parents, Max appeared to know, somehow, that his destiny would be different—that, too soon, he would bear responsibilities far too heavy for most men’s shoulders.
Yet on that night, for reasons she might never know, he had stepped off his constantly spinning world to give Sidney’s self-esteem a desperately needed transfusion. And, in that instant, she’d mentally cast aside his critics as shallow fools and envious naysayers. And “Mad Max” had become, forever known to her alone, as “Max the Magnificent.”
Chapter Two
When Philip Grant recovered from the flu, Max decided two hours later, he would kill him. He stood in his study where he scanned the assembled guests on his terrace. The only light in this third-story room he used as a refuge came from the festive lanterns and mini-lights Sidney’s staff had strung through the trees. Dark clouds blotted out the crescent moon.
Which, he thought in a burst of grim humor, seemed wildly appropriate. The clouds of his temper had begun gathering earlier that day. His mood had rapidly progressed from foul to rotten. Greg, who had trouble committing to wearing the same tie all day, was predictably balking at the idea of betrothing himself to Lauren Fitzwater. Never mind that Greg had made certain promises—promises that Lauren had every reason to believe would lead to marriage. Greg was experiencing a very predictable bout of jitters. Max had been prepared for that. Max liked to think he was prepared for just about everything.
He had assured Greg, and meant it, that Lauren was the best thing in his life. Max’s desire to see Greg settled went far beyond the simplicity of a multimillion dollar corporate takeover.
Everyone needed stability.
Max should know. He’d spent his whole life without any. Stability, he’d learned, was the remedy for loneliness. So he’d strengthened his brother’s resolve, and considered it all part of a day’s work.
And while Greg’s burst of misgivings had proved mildly irritating, the beginning of his descent into hell hadn’t happened until later. His gaze narrowed and found Alice Northrup-Bowles downing a glass of champagne as she flirted with Max’s senior vice president. Damn the shrew. Her presence alone was enough to rattle him.
And then there was Sidney Grant. Sidney with her wise, intelligent eyes and that cocky little smile that made him want to kiss it right off her full mouth. What the hell was Philip thinking?