The Boss's Proposal Read Online Free Page B

design architect. She’d been licensed for going on five years. Her résumé held plenty of experience. She knew the project inside and out. All she wanted was a chance.
    And then she was approaching the door, which she could see was open. Max stopped just outside of view and took a moment to run her hands down her suit, straightening wrinkles that probably weren’t there. Then, with a deep breath, she took a step forward and knocked on the door frame. “Hi, Hal, how—”
    She stopped on the threshold. Hal’s Herman Millerchair sat unoccupied, its owner nowhere in sight. At first glance, the office itself appeared empty, until she looked to one side to see a man in the corner, staring out the window.
    â€œOh, sorry,” she began and froze as he turned to face her.
    She’d been wrong, Max thought as something skittered around in her stomach. The light of day did nothing to take away the attractiveness. Nothing at all. Sheik Al-Aswari looked just as good by Hal’s window as he had under the light of the chandeliers.
    Better, in fact. Gone was the casual fashion renegade. This man looked sharply stylish in black linen slacks and a crisp, silver-gray shirt fastened up to the neck. One of the buttons in the center of his chest was red and it kept drawing her gaze. He’d trimmed the Vandyke so that it accentuated his mouth and jaw more sharply than ever. But his eyes remained the same, studying her with that same indolent amusement.
    Sheik Al-Aswari, first at the Portland General gala, now in the BRS offices.
    Max folded her arms. “Boy, I can’t wait to hear this one.”
    Just then, Hal hurried up behind her. “Max. I guess your ten minutes is faster than mine. Come on in.” He moved to his desk, gestured to his visitor. “I want you to meet my son, Dylan. Dylan, this is Max McBain.”
    If she’d been invited to offer ten guesses, that certainly would not have been among them. Hal’s son? The sheik? Of course, he hadn’t looked much like a sheik. Then again, he didn’t look like Hal, either, nor like the fresh-faced kid in the high school graduation photo Hal kept stuck on a shelf. Dylan Reynolds. An architect in his own right, Max recalled, with an international reputation. An architect who’d just happened to show up at the gala. An architect who’d seen her card, knew she worked for his father, and had said nothing.
    The slow burn started.
    Max didn’t believe in coincidences and she didn’t much care for games. Especially games that left her looking the fool.
    She turned to Dylan with a warmth only slightly less artificial than her smile. “Why, Dylan, nice to meet you. What an…unexpected pleasure. Hal has said so many wonderful things about you. Gosh, I feel almost as if we’ve already met.” Out of habit, she reached out to shake hands with him.
    Max met people in a business context all the time. She’d never viewed a handshake as anything other than a professional greeting. She’d never thought it could scatter her thoughts. She’d never expected it to weaken her knees. But there was an electric intimacy to the slide of palm against palm when her hand touched Dylan’s that had her taking a surprised breath. His hand was tougher than she would have expected for a man who made his living at a desk,and stronger. He held on a few moments longer than absolutely necessary, watching her. Then Max saw the corner of his mouth twitch and visions of mayhem ran through her head.
    â€œWelcome to Portland.” She gave him her blandest professional smile and turned to Hal. “Don’t let me interrupt if you two are visiting. I can come back.”
    â€œNot at all. Please, have a seat.” Hal gestured to the client chair next to Dylan. “How did the gala go?”
    Max took her time sitting down, crossing her legs with a whisper of hosiery. When she caught the turn of Dylan’s head