Who Gets To Marry Max?. Neesa Hart

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      Chapter One

      She looked good in black.

      Sidney studied her reflection. She hadn’t thought she’d like it, but now that she wore it, she had to admit she was glad she’d splurged on the outfit. Auspicious occasions, her uncle Philip claimed, demanded auspicious clothing. And being in the Hudson River valley home of Max Loden, financial guru and world’s most enigmatic bachelor, she supposed, was just about as auspicious as it got.

      The luxurious fabric, which had seemed so incredibly impractical, highlighted the best aspects of her figure with exquisitely tailored perfection while somehow managing to downplay her flaws. It skimmed her hips and fell gracefully to the floor, giving her an air of sophistication she suspected she was going to urgently need. The short jacket, with its structured shoulders and waist-trimming fit, inspired her Miracle Bra to new levels of achievement.

      Perhaps, she thought whimsically, she might survive this encounter after all.

      “What the hell is going on here?”

      Or, maybe not. Sidney took a deep breath before she turned to face him. At the fierce look on his face, she had to stifle a grin. She could easily picture him saying, fee, fi, fo, fum. Sidney schooled her countenance into an appropriately solemn expression. “Hello, Mr. Loden.”

      “Mad Max,” as his enemies and even some of his friends called him, was everything she remembered and more. Elegantly clad in a black tuxedo, he towered over her. His melt-her-kneecaps gaze swept her from head to foot. “Sidney.” He sounded simultaneously baffled and annoyed. “Where’s Philip?”

      She straightened the lapels of her catering jacket to disguise the customary nervousness she felt in the presence of the indomitable Max Loden. It was his eyes, she’d decided years ago. They had a way of dismantling her. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” she said. “Uncle Philip’s not here.”

      His razor-sharp gaze darted around the spacious kitchen of his Hudson River home—although, Sidney mused as she thought of the sprawling structure, the term was loosely applied. Her staff had seized the kitchen, and were functioning at their usual peak efficiency. Rows of hors d’oeuvre trays lined the stainless steel countertops. Three of her pastry chefs put finishing touches on an assortment of desserts and handmade chocolates. Champagne glasses, freshly polished, stood in neat rows, and her assistant busily rushed about making careful notes of each procedure. Evidently done with his inspection, Max met Sidney’s gaze. “What do you mean he’s not here?”

      “Uncle Philip isn’t well.”

      That turned his generally fierce expression into a full-blown scowl. “Not well? He’s ill? What’s wrong with him?”

      She refused to let the bulletlike pace of the interrogation rattle her. “He has the flu.”

      “The flu—are you sure?”

      “Very. He was extremely upset that he couldn’t be here for you this weekend.” She clasped her hands behind her back to keep from fidgeting.

      “Hell.” Max rubbed at the muscles of his neck. The motion, she noted, spread his black jacket open to emphasize a broad chest that had been rumored to make women swoon.

      Sidney made a mental note to thank Philip for encouraging her to abandon the jeans and sweatshirts she usually wore when she supervised a party this size. Although she spent her time behind the scenes, and would generally remain invisible to Max’s guests, both the cut and the cost of the black jacket and trousers boosted her confidence. “Uncle Philip sends his regrets,” she told Max.

      “His—” He swore. “Is he going to be all right?”

      The question would have surprised many, she knew. Max Loden had something of a reputation. People called him all sorts of names—compassionate was not generally one of them. Had it not been for her uncle’s long relationship with him, Sidney, too, might never have seen behind Max’s implacable facade to the heart of this amazing, if daunting, man. She tilted her head to one side to study him. “I’m sure he will be.”

      “Does he need anything? Has he seen a doctor?”

      Not for the first time, Sidney decided that every story she’d ever heard about “Mad Max” Loden was completely unfounded. No man could inquire after the health of his butler with that rough and tender voice and be missing his heart, no matter what his critics said. “Yes, he has. And he’s quite fine. I stocked his refrigerator and his pantry before I left.”

      “The flu can be dangerous for a man his age.”

      Heartless indeed, she mentally scoffed and felt her inner knot of tension begin to unwind. Even Philip’s home was another of Max’s flagrant generosities. While most butlers lived in their employers’ homes at their employers’ whims, Max had provided Philip with a personal retreat for his off-duty hours. “Yes, it can. That’s why his doctor confined him to bed.”

      “Is someone with him?”

      “A neighbor.”

      “You’re all the family he has.”

      “Except you,” she said quietly.

      He stared at her for long, disconcerting seconds, his silver gaze searching her face. Everything else about him was dark. His hair, his expression, his countenance, even his voice. But those eyes were positively brilliant. “Shouldn’t you be taking care of him?” Max prompted.

      “He wanted me to take care of you instead.”

      Max lifted one eyebrow in an expression she was willing to bet sent his employees scrambling. “That sounds like Philip.”

      “He knew this weekend’s house party was exceptionally important to you. He briefed me that your brother, Greg, is considering an engagement to Lauren Fitzwater. That, with any luck, Greg will finally muster the nerve to ask the young lady to marry him—and that you hope the relationship will further your efforts to merge Loden Enterprises with Edward Fitzwater’s electronics company.”

      Max’s eyebrows lifted. “Philip’s in top mental form, I see.”

      Sidney nodded. “He also explained that the younger Mr. Loden probably wouldn’t respond favorably to that information, and that you’d prefer discretion from the staff. Without Philip here to command them, he was worried they might not understand the importance of decorum. Since the Fitzwaters and several of your investors will be present this weekend, this particular event could prove both profitable and beneficial to your long-term goals.”

      “It could,” he agreed.

      “And, knowing that, Philip was extremely concerned. He knew how much you have riding on this event. He’d already employed my staff to assist your own for the weekend, and, in his absence, he asked me to supervise.” She finished the speech and breathed a mental sigh of relief.

      Max studied her for long seconds. “Philip told me you’re in business for yourself now.”

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