Chameleon

by Courtney Henke

  Well, he thought without humor, that door was gone. He had put his fist through the rainbow the day they'd told him his blindness was permanent. Five years seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Max ruthlessly stamped down any bitterness, as he always did. He accepted himself the way he was, just as he had accepted his parents' deaths, just as he had accepted his girlfriend's desertion after the accident that had cost him his sight. Emma Machlen was wrong, he thought. Life wasn't a lottery, it was a poker game. You were dealt your cards, but it took skill to make them work, to come out the big winner. And sometimes it was smarter to stack the deck.

  Yet for the first time in years he felt like playing a questionable hand. What was it about Emma that brought out that old streak of recklessness? Women came and went in his life all the time. Why was she different?

  He shook himself, knowing he could think in circles before he understood any of it. He didn't need anyone, especially someone who'd managed to make him act completely out of character at every turn.

  He focused on her business proposal, on the bewitching fragrance that had enticed him to step out of his reserve, even if for a moment. That's what it was, he told himself. Her perfume. It had absolutely nothing to do with getting personally involved with Emma Machlen. It had nothing to do with her throaty, evocative voice, one that slipped into German or Gullah. It had nothing to do with an underlying sensuality that hovered between them like a steamy Louisiana summer.

  "It's just business," he murmured, and reached to his drawer for a shirt, checking the Braille color code automatically. Socks were in the next drawer, all meticulously arranged and sorted by Benno. His briefs weren't coded, but Benno could be trusted not to peek to see if they matched his shirt.

  Would Emma peek, he wondered with a strange, fleeting ache.

  "Now, that," he muttered, "is really adolescent."

  After dressing. Max called Dixie and worked his way down the stairs, his traitorous mind giving him an uncomfortably voluptuous image of Emma Machlen. He missed a step, caught himself, and cursed silently as he strove to concentrate on where he was going.

  "Mr. Morgan?"

  Max froze, praying she hadn't seen him trip. "What?"

  "I'm sorry, but I can't stay for dinner. I—I have things to do."

  "But—" He cut himself off, squaring his shoulders. He would not reveal how much he wanted her to stay. "Fine."

  "Don't look so relieved. Sherman had it easier than you!"

  He heard her swish away like a breeze, heard the door open and close, and he gripped the banister painfully. Silence settled once more in his home, the peace he had fought for all his life. No one telling him what he should do, what he should be, how he should think. No one turning every situation around to his or her benefit. No one threatening his control.

  The big, empty house had never felt so hollow. It was as if someone had sucked the life out of it.

  "Come on, Dixie," he called, forcing a hearty tone he was far from feeling. "Let's have that dinner." He swallowed a tight knot In his throat and whispered, "We have the place all to ourselves."

  Max paused in the library early the next morning, rebelting his robe, his senses fully awake. Her perfume lingered in the air. He allowed himself one unguarded moment to dream, then scoffed at his foolishness. His muscles shrieked from his late, frenetic session on the rowing machine, but he ignored their protest. His gut wrenched as he thought of her gentle voice, caressing him like fingers, and he mentally shoved the thought away.

  But there was something he couldn't shake off.

  "This is stupid." he told the faithful Dixie as she snuffled his hand. "She left. She walked right out without a backward glance." He smiled sadly. "At least, I think she did."

  Dixie whined, as if trying to tell him something. "You can't possibly miss her. The woman is a lunatic! She broke into our house!" And stole his peace.

  He sighed and moved into the kitchen. His questing hands found the familiar items, and he measured the water, poured it into the coffee maker, and slid the paper filter into the basket.

  As he absently pulled out the coffee can and began to scoop the grains, he finally identified the pang of emotion he felt—the same pang he'd felt when she hadn't come back the night before. Disappointment. She'd given up too easily. Somehow he'd thought she was a fighter, yet she had walked out without even trying to convince him to buy her perfume.

  As he moved around the kitchen seeking cooking utensils, something tugged at his distracted mind. He paused. Where was the smell of coffee? His hands told him the carafe was hot, very hot, but…

  Max pulled out the basket. It was empty! When he discovered the small pile of grounds on the counter, he hung his head and chuckled, knowing he'd deposited them beside the basket.

  After making the coffee, he decided to take a swim. His entire Saturday stretched before him like a dusty country road.

  His jaw firmed. He would not let one woman defeat him. Instead of feeling sorry for himself, wishing she hadn't left, he would grab his tape recorder from his desk and work until he dropped. Martha would have a heart attack on Monday when she found a pile of dictation.

  Once in the library, he reached into his top drawer for the recorder—and froze.

  "No, Danny, I want…" The rest of the slurred phrase trailed off into a mumble.

  His heart seemed to leap in his chest. It couldn't be! "Emma?" he called softly, but there was no answer. The voice seemed to have come from the computer. He moved toward it, stepping on an unfamiliar object. A wallet, his fingers told him, but it wasn't his. He placed it on his desk and turned, stubbing his toe painfully on an out-of-place chair. Someone was definitely there.

  Then he found her.

  She was slumped over the keyboard, her head not quite resting on the pillow of one arm, the other arm trailing down. His light touch roused her slightly, and she mumbled again before her breathing evened out.

  When did she come back, he wondered, and ran his fingers over the Braille printout. "Good Lord," he whispered. She'd redone her entire proposal! A jacket had been draped over the printer to muffle its loud clacking. Next to it rested a piece of clay shaped into what seemed to be her unusual bottle design. She'd even created a box with a raised picture on it. Emma must have been up all night!

  He swallowed, but the lump in his throat refused to dissolve. He'd been right about her. She was a determined woman.

  His hands returned to her almost against his will. Her hair was a mess, he noted with an odd twist in his gut, but it was so very, very soft. His fingers pressed closer as he knelt beside her, rippling its thick mass like a stone does the surface of a pond. He wondered fleetingly if it was the color of corn silk, since it had the feel.

  His thumb traced the outline of her lips. They were full and velvet-soft, and he couldn't resist their lure. He leaned close and pressed his mouth against hers. She sighed in her sleep, her breath warm and moist on his lips. Her fragrance wrapped him in a calm sea that quickly became stormy. Fire shot through his loins.

  Gasping, he jerked back and rubbed his palms down his robe, but the rough terry cloth couldn't erase the feel of her.

  "Ms. Machlen?" he called, then louder, "Emma!"

  She mumbled something that sounded like "Not a shadow, Danny." Max sighed and reached out to what he hoped was her shoulder. It was, he noted with relief, and he shook it gently. Then he pulled his hand back, but not before her satin skin had seared his senses. Nothing but a thin strap had covered it. "Ms. Machlen?" His voice cracked, but she stirred. "Wake up."

  "Mmm…" Her groan sent shivers up his spine, then she hissed in pain, and his concern overrode anything else. He dropped to his knees beside her and reached out to touch her.

  "What's wrong, Emma?"

  "I hurt," she said, sobbing. She groaned again, and he felt the muscles tense under his hand. Sliding both hands to her neck, he buried his fingers in her hair and supported her head. His thumbs cradled her cheeks, and he felt the rectangular indentat
ion of the keyboard on one of them.

  His heart twisted, and he began to rub the tight muscles of her neck. "Why did you do this to yourself, you little idiot?" he whispered, surprised by the catch in his voice. "You could have asked me. I could have helped you. Why are you so desperate?"

  She whimpered. He eased the pressure of his fingers, his emotions jumbled inside of him. "And why are you doing this to me?" He moaned and rested his forehead on her for a moment, then pulled back sharply. "Dammit, I don't want you here, lady! You disrupt my life!"

  "Sssorry," she said, breathless.

  He hesitated but continued the massage, feeling his anger flow away as her knots unwound. "You are the most exasperating woman I've ever known."

  "Runs in the family."

  He chuckled, and his strokes became softer.

  She sighed. "Thank you, Max," she whispered.

  "For what?"

  "F' chasing him away."

  Max frowned. "Who? Danny? Is he your brother?"

  She gave a halfhearted, unladylike snort. "Hardly. Fiancé."

  The world spun under his knees. "You're engaged?"

  "Not anymore." A single tear rolled to his thumb. "He never listened to me. Always…" She yawned, and her voice trailed off. "Always wanted everything his way… Like everybody else… You always…"

  His breath caught. "He's gone now, honey. Don't worry."

  "So sleepy," she mumbled, and he heard her breathing even out.

  He shook her. "Emma, you can't sleep here. Don't you have a hotel to go to?" No answer. She couldn't drive in this condition anyway, he rationalized. "Come on, Emma, I'll take you to bed." He gulped. "I mean, to the guest room."

  "Jus' a minute. Mama. So tired…"

  "Emma." He shook her again. "Emma!"

  " 'Cept the consequences," she muttered. "Max, I did it again. Nobody had the right kind of printer. Am I goin' to jail?"

  "No, honey. I couldn't send you to jail."

  She sighed and snuggled into him. "And you'll be able to see my pr'posal now, hmmm?"

  He gasped as his manhood surged against his robe. If she only knew how much his mind was letting him see. "Yes. Emma. I'll look it over in a minute."

  "You have to buy it, 'cause…"

  "Why. Emma? Why do I have to buy it?"

  She yawned. "Wanna go to bed."

  Good Lord, he had to control himself. She wasn't even awake! All he could think about was her in his bed, not the one in the guest room. "Then stand up." He stood and raised her to her feet. She swayed under his hands. She was taller than he thought she'd be but so fragile. "Come on, Emma. You have to walk."

  "I can walk by myself."

  Her knees immediately buckled, and he grabbed her shoulders. "You have to help me, honey. I can't carry you." Visions of him tripping on the stairs with her in his arms brought the panic he hated. "Emma! Do you hear me? You have to walk."

  " 'Kay."

  Trustingly she pulled away, and her hand nestled in his. He swallowed convulsively, then squared his shoulders and led her toward the door. "Talk about the blind leading the blind," he muttered, but managed to lead her up the stairs at a snail's pace without incident. "Here's your door, Emma. Go get some sleep." As he heard the lock rattle and her door open, he turned away in relief.

  "I can disappear," she said suddenly, clearly.

  "Just not from my house," he muttered.

  She yawned. "Max?"

  He paused and sighed. "Yes, Emma?"

  "Were you ever in love?"

  He gripped the banister. "Once."

  "What happened?"

  "I went blind."

  " 'S a rotten excuse." Her door closed softly.

  "Yeah, it is," he whispered.

  Three

  "She broke into the house? For heaven's sake, Max. Did you have her arrested?"

  "Of course not." Max rubbed his scar, wondering why he'd called his friend and associate in New York instead of waiting until Monday for his return. "I told you, Adam, she only wanted to present her campaign. Martha told me she didn't realize the poor woman was so desperate that she'd follow her to my house. I can't fault Emma for persistence."

  "Poor woman? The last thing you need is another charity case!"

  "I didn't mean that literally." He frowned. "At least, I don't think I do. I'm the boss, here, remember? I'm perfectly capable of judging the situation."

  "That's not what I meant, and you know it. I've never known you to make a bad business decision. But you have to admit this whole thing stinks. And not with perfume."

  "Something is wrong, that's for sure. She's almost frantic about selling us this scent, and I can't figure out why."

  "Which means you can't leave it alone." It wasn't a question. "Hiring a bunch of bums is one thing, Max. This is a big chunk of money."

  "You were an outfielder not a bum."

  "Mot? I was speaking of Martha and Benno, not my amazingly virile self."

  Max heard the hint of sarcasm that always crept into Adam's voice when he spoke of himself. "And what is your amazingly virile opinion on the subject?"

  "Depends on the lady's legs." His laughter died. "Maybe this perfume's stolen," he said gently. "Remember that problem last year?"

  "She's not a felon." Absolute certainty rang in his voice.

  Adam chuckled. "A strange woman breaks into your home, and you tell me she's not a felon?"

  Max couldn't help but smile. Adam Daniels twisted his words around with the ease of long practice. "I'm convinced that her formula is her company's, and that it's real."

  "So now what?"

  "I'm going to buy it."

  Adam groaned. "I've just finished the biggest campaign in our history, and you want another one? You're going to kill me, Max, and deprive all those sexy as yet unmet single ladies out there of the experience of a lifetime."

  "Can it, Adam. You'll have to do very little with this one. She's got the whole damned thing mapped out!"

  "You're kidding. It's that good?"

  "It's kind of raw, but yes, it's good. The woman is amazing! Did I tell you she made the bottle out of clay? And wait until you smell this stuff! You'll imagine you died and went to heaven."

  "I hope she's not standing next to you. She'll up the price."

  "She's in bed. And I'm not—"

  "She's where?" Adam's shock was clear. "You haven't had a woman there since Shan—"

  "Not my bed!"

  "Really? Why not?"

  "She's asleep, Adam. She's been that way all day." And he'd been bored to tears for the first time in his life. "I haven't touched her." Much, he amended in his mind.

  "All right, Max, if you say so. Now what? Do we buy an untested formula outright?"

  Max knew Adam was trying to subtly guide his judgment, and for once he didn't resent it. It kept him on an even keel. "No. I have a different plan…"

  An hour later Max put the finishing touches on the aromatic coq au vin, and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. He brought down the crystal wineglasses he rarely used and took them to the table, placing them carefully. His hands ran over the settings, the vase filled with fresh-cut roses, the lighted candles, and he nodded. Everything was perfect.

  Perfect for business, he told himself firmly. He'd gone to such trouble only to create a relaxed atmosphere in which to discuss her proposal. And, he thought, he'd set the table with all the trimmings only because he'd fallen out of practice over the years. He usually cooked only for himself or Adam. Dinner between them was always very informal.

  Max checked the silverware placement, and swore when he realized it was the fourth time he had done so. He took a deep breath to quell the irritating flock of butterflies that had suddenly decided to jitterbug in his stomach and went to awaken Emma.

  The doorbell rang as he hit the first stair and, frowning, he turned. "Who is it?" he called.

  "It's Barry, Mr. Morgan."

  Barry Lawton was a young policeman, one Max had encountered often on his evening walks aroun
d the quiet, well-patrolled neighborhood. He opened the door, a puzzled smile on his face. "Is something wrong?"

  "That's what I was going to ask, sir. I saw your lights and wondered…"

  "Everything's fine, Barry. I—I have a guest."

  "Oh. I didn't see a car, so I thought… shoot, I thought maybe you had a burglar."

  Max worked to keep a straight face. "Not anymore."

  "You mean you chased someone off?" Barry asked eagerly.

  "It was a joke," Max said, immediately regretting his impulsive words. "Sorry to disappoint you."

  He sighed. "I remembered the trouble you had last year at the plant, and I—never mind. Have a good evening, sir."

  Max's stomach tightened. "I will, Barry. Good night."

  "Good night, sir."

  After locking the door, Max paced upstairs and to his left. Good grief, he felt like a teenager on his first date. Why didn't that thought anger him now as much as it had last night?

  He knocked on the door but received no answer. He entered, calling her name softly. Only the even sounds of her breathing told him she was still there and dead to the world.

  He moved to the bedside, his fingers sliding over the cotton sheet, reaching out to shake her shoulder. His hand met something soft instead of the delicate bones he remembered.

  Emma moaned in her sleep. The skin at his fingertips puckered. Hot blood ebbed and flowed to every inch of his body as he realized he'd touched her bare breast.

  He gasped and jerked his hand back, cursing his rapid reaction. Pavlov's dog could have taken lessons from his body, he thought. Emma Machlen had to leave, the sooner the better.

  His hands clenched, but he decided against waking her. She was much safer in sleep, out of his way.

  Once downstairs, Max hesitated only a moment before blowing out the candles.

  Emma awoke to the muffled sound of birds chirping and the ever-present drone of the air conditioner. She blinked several times to clear the fog from her eyes. Her body floated on a cushion of eiderdown. Where was she? Was this heaven? No, it couldn't be. Ol' St. Peter wouldn't let her mouth taste like old gym socks.