Dream Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

one of her own making, and it wasn’t the kind of cage she and Max McKenzie had both tacitly referred to. She was glad they had both laid those cards on the table. She was aware of his interest in her and knew he was male enough to read her responses. Her initial interest in him had been purely for her sister’s benefit. His initial interest in her had been because of that ridiculous ad.
    Any further curiosity they might be feeling toward each other was going to have to be curbed after their luncheon was over. But it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy this short time in his company, she decided.
    â€œWhat … what other strange jobs have you researched so far?” she said, caught up in a need to fill the heavy silence.
    â€œOh …” He appeared startled by her question. “Pig shaving.”
    She laughed. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
    â€œIt’s true,” he protested. “Someone advertised for an experienced pig shaver. That really caught my attention.”
    Jeanie lifted her elbows and sat back so the waiter could refill her coffee cup. When he had topped off Max’s as well, she asked, “And did you take that job for the experience too?”
    He shook his head. One black curl fell forward on his brow. He shoved it back absently. Her fingertips tingled. Her insides quivered. She frowned and made a fist in her lap, pressing it against her lower abdomen where the quiver had been worst.
    â€œWhen a job calls for experience I don’t have, I level with the employer, explain what it is I’m doing, and sometimes get permission to observe the one who is hired. The chicken-catching position didn’t demand experience, so I gave it a try.”
    â€œWhat does a pig shaver do? I mean, I realize it sounds pretty self-explanatory, but how do you get the pig to stand still, and why would anybody want one shaved?”
    â€œDead pigs don’t wiggle,” he said, and for some reason, maybe his deadpan delivery, her laughter gurgled up uncontrollably, making him scowl.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Not really. It was your… delivery. So profound.” To her disgust, another spurt of laughter broke free. “Dead pigs don’t wiggle,” she said. “Sounds like the title of a bad mystery novel. Do you write fiction, too, Max?”
    â€œNo,” he said, “not so far, anyway.” Then, after pouring several envelopes of sugar into his coffee and stirring briskly for several moments, he looked up and caught her gaze.
    â€œTell me,” he said, leaning back and looking at her quizzically. “With that ad, and the way it was phrased, to say nothing of your placing it on the ExecNet instead of in the classifieds of the daily papers, did you have any takers at all?”
    She sighed. “You’re determined to talk about the ad, aren’t you?” He nodded. “Do you always get your own way?”
    â€œNot always,” he said, but she doubted the truth of that. He probably did—with those eyes and that smile, almost assuredly. “Am I going to, this time?”
    â€œYes,” she said resignedly. Why not tell him a little about it, just to help him with his research? Maybe then he’d drop the subject. “I—we—got more than a dozen the first week we ran it; after that, it tapered off a bit, but it still garnered responses every time I sent it out.”
    â€œYou ran it weekly. None of the candidates were suitable?”
    She chuckled. “Wildly unsuitable, if you want the truth, though not one actually smelled bad.”
    Max had to smile at her response. “Did you expect respondents to apply looking unkempt and with dirty feet?”
    â€œI certainly didn’t check out any feet.”
    He liked the sound of her laugh. Liked it more than he should, but still wanted to elicit it again. “How about finger nails? Behind the ears? Did you ask if they flossed