скачать книгу бесплатно
Mad About Max
Penny McCusker
“Embarrassment burns a lot of calories.”
Sara followed that statement with another spoonful of ice cream. “I’m thinking of writing a diet book.”
“I don’t think your diet will catch on,” Janey said.
“It’s not the most pleasant way to lose weight.”
Janey shook her head. “It’s just that most women can’t stick to a diet for six days. You’ve been embarrassing yourself over Max for what, six years now?”
Sara dropped her spoon into the carton and sat back in her chair. Having the last half decade of her life boiled down to that one basic truth made her feel like throwing up.
“I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But it’s only a matter of time before someone’s seriously injured or you’re completely bankrupt or both.”
“Yeah, a short time,” Sara agreed. “I almost wish I could stop loving Max. The only problem is how do I do it?”
Dear Reader,
I’ve always believed that humor is an essential part of love and marriage. After eighteen years, three kids and numerous pets, there’ve been times when my choice was to either laugh or scream. You know what I’m talking about, right? The kids give each other haircuts or the new puppy chews a hole in the living-room carpet and everyone else finds it hilarious, so you just have to laugh along with them.
Sara Lewis is having a lot of those moments lately, except she doesn’t need dogs or kids to be accident-prone. All she needs is Max Devlin. One look at him and she can’t remember she has feet, let alone what to do with them. Before she knows it, she’s involved in some sort of accident, and Max is laughing along with the whole town. Worse yet, everyone in the small, eccentric community of Erskine, Montana, knows she’s in love with him—everyone but Max!
When she confesses the truth, Max discovers just what she’s been going through—because suddenly he’s having accidents of his own. Can he overcome the messy divorce in his past and open his heart again before Sara leaves town for good—not only for his and Sara’s sake, but for the good of his eight-year-old son?
I hope you love Sara, Max and Joey, and their story, as much as I enjoyed bringing it to life. And look for the story of Sara’s best friend, Janey Walters, coming in September 2005.
Penny McCusker
Mad About Max
Penny McCusker
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Mom and Dad; it started fifty-five years ago. Nine kids, seventeen grandkids and eight great-grandkids later it’s still going strong. That’s love. And maybe a little insanity.
Contents
Chapter One (#uddeb5765-437f-552c-9ca0-61f7403a037a)
Chapter Two (#u067d0d88-1cf1-53c8-8c18-706515ded95b)
Chapter Three (#u367b385b-2033-5fa5-a781-7cd95a54883a)
Chapter Four (#u0de155e9-58ae-5ec4-93c0-265f365ac63f)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“Please tell me that wasn’t superglue.”
Sara Lewis tore her gaze away from the gorgeous—and worried—blue eyes of Max Devlin, looking up to where her hands were flattened against the wall over his head. Even when she saw the damning evidence squished between her right palm and her third-grade class’s mangled Open House banner, she refused to admit it, even to herself.
If she admitted she was holding a drained tube of superglue in her hand, she might begin to wonder if there’d been any stray drops. And where they might have landed. That sort of speculation would only lead her to conclusions she’d be better off not drawing, conclusions like there was no way a stray drop could have landed on the floor. Not with her body plastered to Max’s. No, that kind of speculation would lead her right smack-dab into trouble.
As if she could have gotten into any more trouble.
She’d been standing on a chair, putting up the banner her third-grade class had created to welcome their parents to Erskine Elementary’s Open House. But her hands had jerked when she heard Max’s voice out in the hallway, and she’d torn it clear in half. She’d grabbed the tube of glue off her desk to save the irreplaceable strip of laboriously scrawled greetings and brilliant artwork, and jumped back on her chair, only to find Max already there. He’d grabbed one end of the banner, then dived for the other as it fluttered away. Now he was spread-eagled against the wall, clutching both ends of the banner, trapped by Sara and her chair.
She’d pulled the ragged ends of the banner together, but just as she’d started to glue them, Max had turned around and nearly knocked her over. “Hold still,” she’d said sharply, not quite allowing herself to notice that he was facing her now, that perfect male body against hers, that heart-stopping face only inches away. Instead, she’d asked him to hold the banner in place while she applied the glue. The rest was history. Or in her case infamy.
“Uh, Sara…” Max was trying to slide out from between her and the wall, but she met his eyes again and shook her head.
“Just a little longer, Max. I want to make sure the glue is dry.”
What she really needed was a moment to figure out how badly she’d humiliated herself this time. Experimentally, she stuck her backside out. Sure enough, the front of her red pleather skirt tented dead center, stuck fast to the lowermost pearl button on Max’s shirt—the button that was just above his belt buckle, which was right above his—
Sara slammed her hips back against his belly, an automatic reaction intended to halt the dangerous direction of her thoughts and hide the proof of her latest misadventure. It was like throwing fuel on the fire her imagination had started.
Max’s breath whooshed out, hot and moist against the inner slopes of her breasts. She didn’t waste time wondering how she could feel his breath right through her heavy angora sweater. It made perfect sense, considering that his face was buried between her breasts, his mouth right at the bottom of her breastbone.
Too bad the sweater wasn’t a V-neck, Sara caught herself thinking, a low, cleavage-baring V-neck. Her front-clasp bra would have posed no problem to a talented man like Max Devlin, and his mouth was there anyway. Blood rushed into her face, then drained away to throb deep and low, just about where his belt buckle was digging into her—
“Sara!”
She snapped back to reality, noting the exasperation in his voice, even muffled as it was by the regrettably turtle-necked sweater. Reluctantly, she arched away from him. The man had to breathe, after all.
“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” she said in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. In fact, that tone amazed her, considering that she was pressed against a man she’d been secretly in love with for the better part of six years.
“There always is, Sara,” Max said, exasperation giving way to amusement. “There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for how Mrs. Tilford’s cat wound up on top of the church bell tower.”
Sara grimaced.
“There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Jenny Hastings went into the Crimp ’N Cut a blonde and came out a redhead. Barn-red.”
Sara cringed.
“And there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the new stained-glass window in the town hall looking more like an advertisement for a brothel than a reenactment of Erskine’s founding father rescuing the Indian maidens.”
She huffed out a breath, indignant. “I only broke the one pane.”
“Yeah, the pane between the grateful, kneeling maidens and the very happy Jim ‘Mountain Man’ Erskine.”
“The talk would die down if the mayor let me get the pane fixed instead of just shoving the rest of them together so it looked like the Indian maidens were, well, really grateful.”
“People are coming from miles around to see it,” Max reminded her. “He’d lose the vote of every businessman in town if he ruined the best moneymaker they’ve ever had.”
Sara huffed out another breath. It was a little hypocritical for the people of Erskine, Montana, to pick on her for something they were capitalizing on, especially when she did have a perfectly good reason for why it had happened, why bad luck seemed to follow her around like a black cloud. Except she couldn’t tell anyone what that reason was, especially not Max. Because he was the reason.
One look at him and all she could think about was how it would feel to have his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, the long, solid length of him pressing her down into a soft mattress or a haystack or against a wall…Sara glanced away from the white-painted cement block just inches from her face, but she couldn’t hide from the truth.
She loved a man who’d closed off his heart, a man who tossed up a barrier whenever a woman got too close to him. Except for her, Sara thought. He seemed perfectly content with her friendship, and she was too afraid of losing it to ask him for anything more, so she did her best to hide her feelings and, while she was concentrating on that, something embarrassing always happened.
But that wasn’t really the point, Sara reminded herself. The point was that she was superglued to Max Devlin.
“I’m sorry, Max.”
She didn’t have to elaborate. He looked down to where her skirt and his button were getting up close and personal, then at her face again. His expression, raised eyebrows and half smile, said it all.
“At least the superglue isn’t dripping anymore.”
“Sara, Sara, Sara,” he said with a chuckle that resonated through her ribs and did serious damage to her heart. “What am I going to do with you?”
She could have told him, if her breath hadn’t backed up in her lungs, if the thought of what she wanted him to do to her didn’t have all the blood draining out of her brain so she couldn’t even put words to the images that haunted her nights and dazzled her days. She would have told him, if she’d had the courage.
“Unstick me,” she said, then found herself almost wishing she was talking about more than her skirt.
Six years was a long time to love a man who only considered her a friend, a long time to love that man’s son as if he were her own. A long time to dream…Without Max there would be a huge hole in her life, but Sara wanted more than a friend. She wanted a man to sit down to dinner with each night, a man to share her joys and sorrows, a man to give her children of her own. The longer she held out for the impossible, the longer she would be ignoring the possible.
She stared down into Max’s laughing eyes and accepted that she was just too stubborn to believe anything was impossible.
“Is the banner all right?” Max asked.
Sarah took one last rewardingly deep breath and glanced up. Somehow she’d managed to repair the off-center tear so well, even she could barely see the seam from less than a foot away. “Move your hands,” she said.
Max dropped his arms, rolling his shoulders and whistling out a breath.
Sara eased her hands off the banner, first one, then the other, keeping them within easy slapping distance, just in case. The paper sagged a bit in the middle, then settled. She let out her pent-up breath. “It’s holding.”
“I’m sure glad to hear that.”
She let her arms drop, forgetting that she was standing on a child’s classroom chair. Max caught her around the hips just as she lost her footing on the slippery wooden seat.
Sara froze. Not just her body—her heart stopped, she quit breathing and time, as she knew it, ground to a halt. Her eyelids fluttered down, her gaze accidentally colliding with Max’s, eyes as blue as the flame of a Bunsen burner. He flexed his fingers, and every nerve in her body shrieked back to life. Her heart lurched into an unsteady rhythm, the blood pounding where his fingers bracketed her hips. Purely out of self-defense, she braced her hands on his shoulders and tried to climb down from the chair. Away from him.
The wash of cool air on her thighs stopped her. Of course, she thought, closing her eyes and heaving out a shaky breath, she was still joined to Max by the bonds of holy superglue. She longed to get naked with him, but not in her classroom, mere moments before twenty-five third-graders and their parents were due to arrive for Open House. She had to get out of this embarrassing situation before someone saw her. If that meant giving Max a close-up of her shockingly unteacherlike black satin panties, so be it.
Max wasn’t as anxious to put her modesty on the line as she was. “Uh, I think you should stay where you are,” he said, his hands tightening on her hips, his wary eyes on the way her hemline rose when she tried again to step down from the chair.
“Half the town is going to walk in that door in a few minutes.” Or a few seconds, Sara corrected, as the sound of voices and footsteps drifted in from the hallway, reminding her that her clock was at least five minutes slow.
Peep show and Max’s hands be damned, she jumped down from the chair and leaned to the right, grabbing the scissors off her desk. Max’s mouth dropped open, but Sara didn’t give him time to react to seeing a lethal weapon in the hand of someone who couldn’t walk straight half the time. She snipped, and in a show of grace and balance the likes of which no ballet dancer could have duplicated and no one in Erskine would have believed her capable, she raced to the peg across the room, grabbed her art apron off the hook and slipped it over her head, tying it and turning just as sixty pounds of eight-year-old launched himself into her arms.
“Hi, Sara—I mean, Miss Lewis,” Joey said, his arms tight about her waist.
Sara’s heart melted, all her self-consciousness draining away. “Hi yourself, Mr. Devlin.” She hugged Joey back, then let him go, her smile coming more easily and sincerely as she welcomed the students and parents streaming into the classroom. This was where she belonged, where she felt competent and confident, no matter what.
She didn’t look at Max again, didn’t have to assure herself that he’d found a way to cover that damning swatch of red pleather sticking to his shirt button. If anyone saw it and figured out why she was wearing a paint-blotched apron, he’d be just as embarrassed as she would.
“Hey, Sara—” Joey tugged on her sleeve, too, just in case his exuberant words didn’t get her attention.
“Hey, Joey.” She ruffled his sandy-brown hair, so much like his father’s. Max Devlin had it all in the looks department—sun-bleached hair that made her hands itch to brush it from his brow, sparkling blue eyes and a smile that always made her breath catch. His son was going to be just as big a heartbreaker when he grew up.
“Dad let me sleep over at Jason Hartfield’s last night.”
“Good for you.” And for Max, Sara thought as she hunkered down. Joey was the only family Max had; he rarely let the boy out of his sight for anything other than school. She was glad he’d realized that Joey was old enough to go farther afield than the old bunkhouse she rented on their ranch. And that he’d been wise enough to let him go. “Did you have a good time?”
“The best. We went hiking and had a bonfire and stayed up late watching scary movies and eating popcorn. It was almost ten o’clock before Mrs. Hartfield made us turn off the light.”
“Ten o’clock. Wow,” Sara said, suitably impressed. “And I’ll bet you were still up at five in the morning to help Jason with his chores ’cause that’s the kind of friend you are.”
He blushed, his grubby tennis shoe tracing the ribbons of color wound through the dark blue background of the new carpeting. “It was no big deal,” he mumbled. “Hey, did Dad tell you he gave me a colt of my own? He says I’m old enough now.”
He was growing too fast, Sara thought, her heart aching with love and pride, and a slight pang at how quickly time was passing. Not long ago he’d been a toddler she’d sung lullabies to, then a preschooler with such an appetite for knowledge that she’d had to teach him to read so she wouldn’t spend every spare minute reading to him. She’d battled back the same tears of pride and joy on his first day of school, and every milestone since, that she was experiencing now.
If there’d been any justice in the world Joey would have belonged to her instead of a woman who wanted fame and fortune badly enough to trade in a good man and a wonderful son for minor roles in B movies. But life didn’t work that way, and Sara counted herself lucky just for the blessings she’d been given.
Joey tugged on her sleeve, waiting until she focused on him again. “I named my colt Spielberg, Sara. He’s six months old and Dad’s going to help me raise him. I get to feed him and brush him—Dad says that’s so he’ll get used to me and start depending on me. And when Spielberg is two, Dad’s going to help me saddle-break him.”
“What a lucky kid you are.” Sara smiled and nudged him with her elbow, eight-year-old style, so he wouldn’t get embarrassed again. “If you want, I’ll lend you my video camera and you can document the whole thing.”
Joey’s eyes widened. His fondest wish was to become a movie director—which explained the colt’s name. “Would you really do that?”
