The soft sound of a latch clicking galvanized her mind. Her gaze snapped to the hazy shape entering her bedroom. "Max!" she said with a gasp, and sat bolt upright, grabbing her head as it swam with her sudden movement. The bright quilt pooled around her waist, and the cool air hit her bared breasts. Her eyes widened as she glanced down. How did she get naked?
"Good morning," Max said warily as he opened the door wide.
She sneaked the sheet over her breasts in a gesture of defense, its caress triggering a memory. . . of hands?
"Good morning," she managed to croak.
Instinctively drawing that veil of hers around her, easing into the white sheet, she scanned frantically for her clothes. The room looked like something out of Gone With the Wind, she thought: polished, heavy furniture, a four-poster, even an armoire. Except for the trail of garments running from her bed to the door across the cream carpet, it was perfect.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Fine. Except for the Kleenex on my teeth."
"That's a nauseatingly vivid image."
She stiffened. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty."
Her gaze shifted to him, and her breath caught. Max's golden hair was slicked back, he wore nothing but a tantalizing strip of black cloth one could laughingly call a bathing suit, and she smelled the faint odor of chlorine. His shoulders nearly spanned the doorway, and the reddish hair on his chest arrowed down a flat belly.
"Did you touch my—" She cut herself off with a fiery blush.
He shifted his feet, a sheepish grin on his lips. "I, uh. tried to wake you up earlier. I was aiming for your shoulder."
Emma's eyes narrowed. He'd known exactly what she was talking about. "Why do I get the idea that's a convenient excuse?"
"You talk in your sleep."
"And you're trying to put me on the defensive." It suddenly occurred to her that neither her veil nor the sheet was protecting her from Max, that the second effort was because the first hadn't worked. She defiantly dropped both, and she squelched an odd, wistful wish that he could see her.
He shrugged. "Are you hungry?"
Her stomach rumbled. "Yes."
"I'll be down after my shower." He turned away.
In all her mother's lectures on the proper behavior of a lady, she couldn't remember a single one for this situation, but good manners stirred. "Should I start coffee or something?"
"No!" He spun around. "Don't you dare set foot in that kitchen!"
Taken aback, Emma could only gape as he fought his outburst.
"Sorry. You're my guest. Emma. I like to cook." He closed her door behind him.
What was that all about, she wondered, but forced his actions away as she tried to remember the previous night. Letting her head sink to her palms, she worked to piece the fragments of memory together. She'd been to a crafts shop, she remembered. She'd made a collect call to her friend Cissy, who'd cackled outrageously at her antics. Then she'd eaten greasy french fries at an all-night diner while she'd worked on the mock-up. After a quick trip to the bathroom to change her clothes, she'd reentered the house through the door she'd left unlocked. She also remembered typing, the muffled printing, and then… a kiss? Or was that just wishful thinking?
She touched her lips automatically, achingly aware of the phantom caress. It had been so sweet, so comforting. It hadn't demanded one-sided love. It hadn't been a contest of wills, a battle for her identity. The kiss had given approval, acceptance for who she was, and had chased the ghost of Danny like a blazing torch chased darkness.
There had been a conversation, hadn't there? About Danny and something Max had said.
You disrupt my life, his voice echoed.
"This is crazy," she whispered. She felt as if she'd been on a bender, but she hadn't touched liquor since that one and only time after high school graduation. But if she really talked in her sleep, there was no telling what she'd told him. Dammit, she didn't want him to buy Chameleon out of pity!
Emma shifted uncomfortably as her body made known a neglected duty. She'd been afraid to use Max's bathroom when she wasn't even supposed to be there. With a groan she stumbled from the bed, snagged her clothes, and fumbled into them as she ran out her door. Something pressed into her thigh, and she fleetingly remembered the knife Cissy had given her for "protection" that Emma had promptly put into her suitcase and forgotten until she'd needed it to help carve the bottle.
She found the bathroom easily, hurried to finish, then slipped out and flew down the stairs as she heard another door open somewhere. Max, she thought, on his way to his shower.
If she worked quickly, she could present her proposal to Max in plenty of time before she had to catch her plane at noon—if he wasn't ready to throw his unwanted houseguest out the door.
She smelled fresh coffee as she ran through the library, and her stomach surprised her with a violent hunger pang. She slowed her pace, glancing around the rooms she'd seen only in shadow before. The breakfast nook was decorated with a modern blue and white sofa and chair, and a glass-topped table with chrome chairs. A bright yellow and orange, very updated kitchen was off in the far corner, delineated by a continuous counter running around it. A sliding glass door led outside to a huge flagstone patio, which was scattered with planters overflowing with lush summer flowers. Max's house was absolutely lovely.
At least she'd remembered her shoes this time, she thought as she slipped them on. Then she sank to a stool at the counter that linked the kitchen and breakfast nook. Water began to run. The shower.
Her stomach rumbled, and she gazed longingly at the loaf of bread and canteloupe beside the sink, her head whirling. Why was she so hungry?
As the shower continued to run, Max's warning took on the tones of a dare. Her spine stiffened. "Who does he think he is?" she asked a copper pot. "He can't order me around!"
But It's his house, a little voice whispered.
"But I'm so hungry," she shot back.
"He told me not to set foot in the kitchen," she said aloud. Her eyes narrowed, then a wide grin spread across her face. "So I won't!"
Reviving childhood instincts, Emma climbed up on the spotless counter and crawled on her hands and knees. She found baking soda in a cabinet above the sink and scrubbed her teeth clean with a wet finger, grimacing at the taste. After replacing that, she popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and stuffed another into her mouth. Inching farther, she reached the canteloupe but realized the knife rack was too far away. Undaunted, she pulled out Cissy's gift, an ivory-handled lock-back with a wicked-looking blade. She sliced the melon neatly in half, rinsed the knife, clicked it shut, and replaced it in her pocket, resisting the urge to bury her mouth in the juicy orange flesh of the fruit.
"A spoon," she muttered, and glanced around. No spoon on the counter, but maybe he kept the silverware in the drawer beside the stove.
On her elbows and knees, the precious melon cradled in her hands, Emma crawled to the stove, then reached over and opened the drawer. "Ah-ha!" She grabbed a spoon and dug in. Juice dribbled from the corner of her mouth as she ate greedily. "Ambrosia," she mumbled, and dug out another hunk.
The toaster clicked behind her, signaling the near end of its cycle. She frowned, her mouth full. "Hmm, a small logistics problem." She could hardly grab it with her toes, so she inched backward again, her blue tank top bunching up underneath her breasts. When the cold metal of the sink touched her bared belly, she giggled. This was too easy!
Footsteps echoed in the hall with a sound like thunder, and Dixie entered, followed by a damp-haired Max clad in skintight jeans and a shirt. Emma froze, her eyes wide with apprehension.
"Ready for breakfast, girl?" he asked, ruffling Dixie's ears. "Emma, what about you?"
You disrupt my life.
No, she groaned mentally as Max headed for the kitchen. If he found her stretched out on the counter like some prime roast, he'd slice her into little pieces.
"Emma?" he called with a puzzled frown, th
en he shrugged. "Did she go outside into the garden, Dixie? Huh? Can you capture the wind?"
Though his voice sounded quite strange, Emma didn't have time to analyze his odd choice of words. She began to inch slowly backward, praying as she hadn't in years. Watching Max open a cabinet for Dixie's food, she breathed a small sigh of relief as the crackle of paper hid her retreat. She even spared a quick glance of appreciation as he bent over. His tight jeans did nothing to disguise a wonderfully firm backside and long, muscular legs. And the open-throated yellow polo shirt emphasized his broad shoulders and perfect tan.
Realizing she'd paused in breathless admiration, she scoffed at herself and began moving again. When she felt her feet dangle into empty air, she smiled. She would make it.
The toast popped.
Max froze, then turned toward her with a frown. "What in the heck was that?" he muttered.
He walked toward the toaster, his hand outstretched. Her heart raced, and she glanced under her arm at the betraying appliance with an indignant mental expletive. Then Max paused, puzzled.
"Emma?"
The jig was up. Accept the consequences.
"It's my toast, Mr. Morgan. I couldn't wait." She sighed and slid quickly to a stool. His head followed her noisy movement, his amber eyes lit with an emotion she couldn't place.
"I see."
To her amazement, his lips twitched. But he turned quickly away and began to feed Dixie. She braced herself, waiting for the ax to fall.
"You didn't set foot in my kitchen," he said, trying to disguise the humor in his voice.
"No, Mr. Morgan. I didn't."
"Don't you think we're on a first-name basis by now?" he asked.
"Are we?"
He poured kibble into Dixie's bowl. "I think so. Hurricane Emma."
She shrugged, fighting remorse. She had acted like a hurricane, but he made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl. Just like old Mr. Wyler.
"Would you like to discuss my proposal now? I—I have to go soon." She sighed. "I have a plane to catch."
He poured her a cup of coffee, buttered her toast, and handed it all to her. "You do?"
Emma would have liked to think that disappointment shadowed his voice. "I do," she said softly, surprised at her own desire to stay. "That's why I worked all night."
Max frowned, turned to the refrigerator, and pulled out eggs, then groped on the counter, pausing for a moment before setting them down. "Emma? What day is it?"
"Saturday, of course."
He shook his head. "It's Sunday.".
The room spun before her eyes. Disoriented, Emma could only think that she didn't have enough money to buy another ticket. And the cheap rental car was sitting around the corner, racking up time.
Her hands trembled. What would she tell everyone? Her parents wouldn't worry, since Cissy was covering for her, but her old friend would be frantic. She'd slept more than twenty-four hours! "No wonder I was so hungry," she whispered.
He turned away but didn't quite hide a fleeting smile. "I hope you like scrambled eggs. I don't do them any other way." He grabbed a small bowl from a high cupboard. "Oh, and Emma? Save some canteloupe for me."
Emma groaned and let her head thump to the counter.
"You'll need your strength over the next few days," he said gently.
Her head shot up. "Why?"
"Because I want you to duplicate the formula in a controlled environment." He paused. "Before I buy it."
"You—you're going to buy it?" Emma fought back a shout of joy. She'd done it! Everything was going to be all right! "Oh, Max, thank you!"
"Don't thank me," he said as he broke the eggs into the bowl and beat them savagely. "I'm not going to pay your price."
Dismay flooded her. "I can't go any lower, Max."
"I'm not asking you to. I want to buy it on a percentage-of-sales basis. You'll make ten times the amount you're asking in the first year if it does as well as I think it will."
"But—" She couldn't tell him she needed the money almost immediately. Her pride wouldn't let her. If it was good enough for Daniels Cosmetics, someone else would snap it up. "Then I'm afraid I can't sell it to you."
"Emma," he said with a sigh. "No one is going to risk money on an untested product."
"It's been tested! My sister Diana is a pharmacognostic researcher. I have the documentation for allergic reactions, chemical breakdown, the works! She—"
"I mean market tested."
"Oh." Her mind worked quickly. Whether he was right about the other companies or not, the fact was that she didn't have enough money or time to try again. "How long before we realize a profit?"
"It depends. Market testing shouldn't take long, and we could be in full production by the time we get the results back."
Emma realized what a gamble he was willing to take with that statement. He was trusting his instincts; surely she could trust hers—and him. "Can we begin immediately?"
"Of course. We'll start first thing tomorrow morning."
Why did things have to be so complicated, she wondered wistfully. She glanced up, watching Max for several moments as he poured the eggs into the pan and stirred them. The muscles in his back rippled with his slightest movement, and she found herself staring with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. His hair had dried touseled, the morning lighting the golden strands with fire.
Her pulse quickened. There was beauty in his soul, she knew instinctively, though he was good at hiding it. She was an expert on concealment, but she didn't want to hide from him. She felt connected to him in a way she'd never been before.
She wanted to stay, to explore these new feelings. "Max, I—"
"What are your plans for the day?" he asked quickly, as if sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere. He stood rigid, and she knew he had no intention of inviting her to spend it with him. Irrationally it hurt. Did he shut everyone out? Or just her?
You disrupt my life.
She swallowed a tightness in her throat. "Sightseeing," she said with a forced cheerfulness. "I have a lot of ground to cover."
"Good." He dished up the fluffy eggs and set them before her, nearly slamming the plate to the counter. "Eat fast or they'll get cold."
Emma's ire rose. What he meant was "Eat fast and get the hell out of my life."
Her gray eyes narrowed. How could she ever have thought there was any softness in him? How had she ever supposed there was something between them, something magical? She wouldn't stay if he begged her to! If she had to sleep in that filthy wreck of a car, and she probably would, she'd be damned if she ever showed him how vulnerable she really was to him. "I just lost my appetite." She stood and turned quickly. "See you tomorrow, Max."
She ran from the house as If all the demons of hell were chasing her.
Max spent half the morning cursing his outburst and the other half telling himself it was for the best. He wondered why she was so desperate, then told himself it wasn't important. He began to erase any trace of Emma Machlen from his house by stripping the sheets from the bed in which she'd slept.
Her scent lingered on the soft cotton, and his mind gave him a vivid image of her breasts under his fingertips. His body tightened. "Damn!" he whispered.
Why couldn't he forget her? Why had it hurt so much to chase her out this morning? Why didn't he just give in to his urges and get her out of his system once and for all? Passion didn't last, and that was something he knew he could control.
He shook himself, cursing his weakness. How could he even consider a sexual relationship with her? She'd been nothing but trouble from the first moment. In a few days she'd be out of his life, and that's exactly what he wanted.
As he dusted the room, he found her bra draped drunkenly over a chair in the corner. "It's not my day, "he told Dixie.
Sometime after lunch the phone rang. Max answered it, and his pulse quickened at the voice at the other end. It was Emma. "How did you get my number?" he demanded.
"It was sort of in plain sight."
"Sort of where?"
"Uh, on a note in the library." He heard dishes rattling in the background. "Under a big stack of papers."
His mouth twitched. "And naturally you had to try it out."
"Naturally. Okay, I'll admit, there's another reason."
"You wanted to remind me to lock my door."
"That too." She laughed, but it had a hard edge to it. "I don't suppose I left something there, did I?"
"You mean besides your bra?"
"Oh, Lord, I didn't even realize that was gone. No, I mean my… my wallet?"
He remembered placing it on his desk the morning he'd awakened her at the computer. The morning he'd kissed her. "Yes, it's here." Something twisted inside him when he realized there was panic in her voice. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she said quickly, but he heard an angry male voice behind hers, demanding money.
"Emma, where are you?"
She hesitated. "In a restaurant near Forest Park."
He sighed. Even when she was gone, he couldn't get rid of her. "I'll have Benno run it over."
"Thanks." She struggled with herself for a moment. "I won't trouble you again. Max."
"No trouble. Emma."
He bundled the bra and wallet into a paper bag so as not to offend Benno's sensibilities, and sent them off. Afterward he turned on the stereo and let the soothing strains of a Brahms symphony wash over him. By dinnertime his house was almost back to normal, peaceful and his alone. It was only that night, in his empty bed, that memories plagued him. Finally, though, he fell into a restless sleep.
When the phone rang again, he awakened with a jerk and snatched it from its cradle, knocking the rest of the telephone off the nightstand with a resounding crash. "What?" he nearly shouted into the receiver.
The line crackled for a moment, then he heard her voice again. "Max?"
Of course, he thought. Who else would it be? He sunk his head into his hand and yawned, then reached out for his clock and felt the Braille numbers. "Good Lord! It's after three!"
"Shoot, I was hoping you didn't have a clock."
Max frowned. It wasn't simple panic he heard in her voice this time. "I swear I don't have your wallet."
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