Excerpt of Made-To-Order Wife by Judith McWilliams

Jessie glanced down at her small gold watch as she hurried across the almost deserted lobby of the large office building toward the bank of elevators. It was one fifty- three. Perfect. She would arrive in Max Sheridan's office five minutes early. Not so early that she would seem anxious, and yet early enough that it would be clear to him that this meeting was important to her.

Stepping into an empty elevator, she pressed the button for the fifty-second floor and then checked her appearance in the mirrors that lined the elevator's walls. Her black boxpleated skirt fell almost to her knees without a wrinkle and the matching fitted jacket had no lint on it. Her gaze dropped to her long, slender legs, searching for a run in her panty hose. Thankfully, she didn't find one. Nor were there any stray specks of dirt on the highly polished gloss of her black slingback heels or her slim black briefcase.

When the unexpected summons to see the normally inaccessible head of Sheridan Electronics had come yesterday, she hadn't been sure what to wear. Normally she dressed to project an image, and the image depended on who she was working for and what she was trying to accomplish. But since she had no idea why the enigmatic Max Sheridan wanted to see her, she had finally opted for a conservative, professional look.

When the elevator opened its doors with a restrained chime on the fifty-second floor, Jessie took a deep breath, ignored the butterflies in her stomach and walked briskly toward the well-groomed middle-aged woman sitting behind an elegant antique desk in the reception area.

"I'm Jessie Martinelli," she said. "I have an appointment with Mr. Sheridan at two."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Martinelli. Just a moment while I check with his P.A. and see if he's free."

Surreptitiously Jessie looked around while the woman made the phone call. A huge cream-and-blue Aubusson carpet covered the floor, and comfortable-looking chairs had been scattered around, presumably to give the appearance of a living room in a private home. The whole area spoke of good taste and the means to indulge it.

It was the first time she'd been on the executive level of Sheridans. She'd visited their human resources department one floor down last year when she'd given a presentation on her workshops to one of their managers, but since the shortsighted woman hadn't seen the need for teaching business manners to their account executives, she'd never had a reason to return.

Could that be what this unexpected summons was about? Had they decided to use her workshops, and Max Sheridan himself wanted to discuss them? A sense of excitement tore through her. Landing an account with a conglomerate like Sheridans would do wonders for her company's bottom line.

"Mr. Sheridan will see you now, Ms. Martinelli. If you'll come with me..." The woman gave her a bright, professional smile.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Jessie followed the receptionist.

"Ms. Martinelli, sir." The woman moved out of the open doorway, and Jessie forced herself to walk into his office, praying she didn't look as nervous as she felt. The sound of the door closing behind her echoed ominously in her ears.

Jessie instinctively tensed as the man behind the oversize mahogany desk slowly got to his feet. The office was huge, but Max Sheridan easily dominated the space. She'd seen pictures of him in the paper from time to time, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of his physical presence. He seemed to project a force field of energy that drew her like the proverbial moth to the flame.

Critically she studied him, trying to analyze her unexpected fascination with him in the hopes of minimizing its effect. He wasn't particularly tall. Probably no more than six foot, with a solid, muscular build that for some reason reminded her more of a dock worker than a business tycoon. Nor was he classically handsome. Not only were his features too bluntly chiseled, but the silvery scar on his right jaw suggested an aggressive masculinity than made mere beauty seem superfluous.

Jessie felt a tingling sensation skate over her skin as her gaze collided with his bright blue eyes. Somehow he made her aware of her femininity in a way that she'd never felt before, and she didn't like it. She was nervous enough without adding sexual tension to the mix.

Taking a deep breath, she tried a trick Maggie had taught her years ago of picturing your audience naked, to lose your fear of them. It was a mistake. An image of Max Sheridan's broad shoulders minus the expensive gray suit jacket he had on immediately popped into her mind. His chest would probably be covered with the same inky black hair that was on his head. Would it feel as silky as his hair looked or would it feel crisp? Her fingers began to itch as if they couldn't wait to find out.

"Good morning, Ms. Martinelli." His deep, smoky voice slammed through her fantasy, smashing it to pieces — pieces that immediately reassembled themselves to form an image of him bending over her, his bare shoulders...

Stop it! She hastily sliced off her thoughts. What was the matter with her? So he had a magnetic presence. That was no excuse for her to act like some half-wit groupie. She was here on business, and she'd better start acting like the competent professional she was or she could kiss any hope of landing the Sheridan account goodbye. Max Sheridan's reputation was that he didn't tolerate incompetence. And he didn't believe in second chances.

"Mr. Sheridan." Jessie reluctantly took the hand he held out. If just being in the same room with him sent her nervous system into disarray, what would touching him be like?

Mind-blowing. She had her answer as his hand closed firmly around hers. Heat seemed to pour off his strong fingers, permeating her skin and sending her heartbeat into overdrive.

Jessie gritted her teeth, praying that the heat boiling through her wasn't visible on her face. She absolutely had to keep her professional demeanor intact.

As quickly as good manners allowed, she dropped his hand and stepped back.

"Please have a seat." Max gestured toward the chair in front of his desk, and Jessie gingerly perched on the edge of it.

She watched as Max sat back down in his leather chair and silently studied her with a narrow-eyed intensity that made her want to get up and run. He probably wasn't even seeing her, she tried to tell herself. Chances were he'd been working on some high-powered deal when she'd arrived, and his mind was still on it.

Keeping a polite smile on her face, she waited for him to break the silence, knowing that rushing into speech would give him a tactical advantage.

Damn! Max thought in frustration as he stared at her. When he'd spoken to Sam Berringer last week, his glowing account of the fantastic job Jessie Martinelli had done in transforming his wife hadn't included a physical description: his use of words like solid background, absolute discretion and unimpeachable integrity had all suggested an older woman. He'd formed a mental image of a comfortable, grandmotherly type who was supplementing her social security check by giving etiquette lessons. And he couldn't have been more wrong. There was nothing the least bit comfortable about Jessie Martinelli.

On the contrary, there was something about her that put him on edge, and he wasn't quite sure exactly what it was. She wasn't beautiful. Her mouth was a shade too big, and her cheeks a bit too rounded. Although she did have good skin. Very soft and silky looking. He ignored his sudden compulsion to stroke it. And her eyes were intriguing. A clear, crystalline green that reminded him of emeralds. As for her hair... He studied the profusion of fiery red curls that framed her face and had an inexplicable urge to thread his fingers through them. He wanted to tug one of those curls and see how long it really was. He wanted to bury his face in the satiny mass and draw deep into his lungs the faint scent of flowers that clung to her.

For some reason that he couldn't begin to fathom, Jessie Martinelli fascinated him on a primitive level that owed nothing to rational thought.

So now what? he wondered in frustration. Did he jettison his plan because he had a totally unexpected case of the hots for his prospective consultant? But if he did that, where was he going to find someone else to help him? He could hardly advertise for an etiquette expert. It would be all over the gutter press the next day, and the last thing he wanted was publicity.

He would hire Jessie Martinelli and ignore his attraction to her, he finally decided.

"I imagine you're curious as to why I asked you to come in to see me," he said.

Max paused to allow her to say something, but she didn't. She simply gave him a small, encouraging smile and waited for him to go on. To his surprise he felt the urge to do exactly that. Jessie Martinelli had clearly mastered the technique of convincing people that she was fascinated by what they were saying.

"I want to impress on you that anything I say is to be treated with the utmost confidentiality. I would be seriously annoyed if you were to mention it to anyone else."

Jessie barely suppressed a shudder at the ice she could see glittering in his eyes. He didn't need to threaten her. Common sense told her that only a fool or a very desperate person would ever deliberately cross Max Sheridan. And she was neither. "I understand," she said, when it became clear that he was waiting for an answer.

"I got your name from Sam Berringer. He felt you might be able to help me." He stood up as if too restless to sit still. Walking around his desk, he perched on the edge of it.

Jessie's eyes were drawn to the way the expensive material of his pants tightened over the muscles in his thighs. With an effort she dragged her eyes away from the enticing sight and forced herself to focus on his face instead. It was tense, his mouth tightly compressed.

What kind of problem did he have, she wondered, not sure she wanted to know. If it worried a man as powerful as Max Sheridan, it would probably send her screaming into the night.

Jessie had never considered it bravery to stand firm in the face of overwhelming odds. As far as she was concerned, strategy that led to debacles like the Charge of the Light Brigade was singularly stupid.

"I have reached the point in my life where I'm ready to take a new direction," he finally said. "To put it bluntly, I have decided it's time I got married and started a family."

Jessie stared blankly at him. So why was he telling her? Unless... For one mad moment she wondered if he was going to propose to her, before her common sense kicked in. He didn't know her, even if he did know about her. And men didn't propose marriage to women they'd never met. At least, normal men didn't. Although...

Unconsciously she ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. By no definition could Max Sheridan be called normal. Any man who rose from abject poverty to billionaire status without even the benefit of a high school education was by definition abnormal. "Um...exactly where do I fit into your plans?" Jessie broke the silence.

"As my consultant, for want of a better word," he said.

"In what capacity?" she asked, ignoring the sharp stab of disappointment she felt.

Getting to his feet, Max walked over to the large window behind his desk. He stared down at the street far below for several moments. Then he turned and ran his long fingers through his dark hair. The action rumpled his hair, making him look younger and more approachable.

"Because of my background I don't know a lot of the finer points of social etiquette," he finally said. "I have no problem operating in a business setting. In business I know exactly what clothes and behaviors are acceptable. But on the social side, my knowledge has some gaping holes in it. Holes I need you to plug, like you did for Bunny Berringer.