Chameleon

by Courtney Henke

  "It's not that." She chuckled breathlessly, pulling him fiercely against her. "You didn't hurt me. I didn't expect…"

  Neither did he, he thought numbly. He grinned instead, unwilling to voice his thoughts. "You? At a loss for words? Has the sky fallen? Hell frozen over?"

  "You needn't look so smug, you sod." She punched him playfully on the shoulder.

  "Witch."

  "Chauvinist."

  His smile faded slowly. "There hasn't been anyone since your fiancé, has there?" he whispered.

  "No." She sighed. "But there would have been if I'd have known—" She cleared her throat suddenly, and Max knew she was covering her true emotions again with laughter.

  "Hush, sweetheart, hush," he crooned, enfolding her incredibly precious body in his arms. He kissed her temples, tasted her salty tear. He had almost touched something he'd never touched before. Some distant objective, some piece of her soul. Never had he felt another's pleasure so intensely, and he knew it was all because of her, because Emma had given him everything.

  "Does it ever make you angry?"

  Max drew her hand away from its restless circle-drawing on his chest and kissed her fingers. "Does what make me angry?"

  "Being blind."

  "Sometimes." He smiled as he realized that her soft question didn't bother him. He wanted her to understand. "I was so convinced it was temporary, even through the training they insisted I have before I left the hospital. I'd been home a few days when… I can't explain it, but I realty thought I could see. I called my doctor and insisted on some more tests, and though he didn't want to, he did them." His fingers wandered over her face, wondering what she really looked like, but he firmly rejected any wistful, wishful thinking.

  "What happened then?"

  "The tests were negative, of course, and when I found out there wasn't anything in the world that could restore my sight, I spent an entire day screaming in rage and breaking things. Then I got drunk." He shrugged. "When I woke up, I was still blind, and I didn't have your mother's magic potion. I knew I could either make myself miserable or go on with my life." He sighed heavily. "I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and learned Braille."

  "Wasn't that part of your training?"

  "Yes and no. With all the books on tape, machines to read regular print—you wouldn't believe the gadgets available—Braille isn't necessary to survival." He smiled. "But being able to label your groceries, your clothes, to actually read a book instead of listen to it… well, I like it that way. And It doesn't bother me as much as it did then."

  "And now?"

  He chuckled. "Now I get frustrated only when I run into something or reach for something I thought was there and isn't, or—" His amusement fled. "Or when I make love with a beautiful woman and can't see her face."

  She nestled deeper into the crook of his arm and sighed warmly against his chest. "I'm closing my eyes," she whispered. "I want to know you as you know me." Her lips brushed his nipple and it contracted, tight with a growing need that stunned him. "I want to see you as you see me."

  "You—" His throat rough with tenderness, Max slid his hands along the curve of her spine as she raised herself above him and touched his face. His eyes stung with emotion. "Emma, you—"

  "Shh… don't talk." Her fingers touched his mouth. "Just feel. Max. Feel my need for you."

  "I will," he promised roughly, and captured her fingers with his tongue.

  "You're not shy at all, are you?" he muttered much, much later.

  She chuckled, a husky, totally satisfied sound. "Not bloody likely, mate."

  His arms trembled as he held her tightly against him. He breathed in the sweet aroma of her fragrance as it mingled with the scent of their lovemaking. It was a potently erotic combination, one he could get used to. He smiled into her hair. "You're going to wear me out, you know that?"

  "I certainly hope so."

  Her hand moved across his flat belly, teasing the line of hair that ran downward. Just before she reached his thighs, he groaned and captured her fingers. "Have some pity, woman."

  "Nope." She struggled playfully, but he held her wrist tightly. "Spoilsport."

  "What time is it?"

  "I don't know and I don't care."

  "I'm hungry," he told her firmly. "How about a swim before lunch?"

  "Like this? In the buff? Nekkid?" She gasped in mock outrage. "What would Benno say?"

  "It's his day off." Max wriggled his eyebrows. "Sound good?"

  "Sounds good," she echoed, and scrambled out of bed. "Race you down," she called, her voice receding quickly.

  "Unfair!" he cried. "I can't run!"

  "Aw, poor baby." He heard the faint sound of her chuckle. "I guess that means I'll win a lot!"

  His pride should have been stinging now, but she only made him laugh. How had he ever survived without her?

  The thought chilled him, and he shoved it ruthlessly away.

  "Why do you have a tree hanging over the pool? The leaves fall in."

  It was usually covered, but he held on to his playful mood. He affected surprise as he let the excited Dixie out and a blast of hot air in. "There's a tree over the pool?"

  "Max!"

  He grabbed her bare shoulders and turned her toward him. frowning sternly while holding his laughter. "Now, Emma. You shouldn't go around telling tall tales."

  "Mot? Tall tales?"

  "I guess well just have to check it out ourselves." He sighed heavily and swept her up in his arms.

  "Max! What are you doing?"

  "Checking your story," he said, orienting himself with the sliding glass door. He began to stride toward the pool, counting his steps carefully. When he showed no signs of slowing, Emma shrieked.

  "Max!"

  "Now, where did I put that pool?" he mused. Ten, eleven…

  "Max!"

  His steps never faltered as he walked them straight into the cold water. "Now I remember!" he sputtered as they surfaced.

  Her arms twined around his neck. "You're crazy, do you know that?"

  "Shhh," he hissed against her mouth. "It's a secret."

  Emma kissed him deeply, and he groaned as her tongue teased his lips. "I thought you were tired," she whispered.

  "I got my second wind."

  "You mean your third wind." She smiled into his mouth and his lips followed hers. "You have a smile like a ray of sunshine, Maxwell Morgan."

  "So do you, Emma Machlen." His fingers touched the deep dimples on either side of her mouth, and she bit his finger. "Sharp teeth too."

  She bit him again and then drew back suddenly. "I have an idea! Why don't we go to Union Station?"

  "I have something better in mind, little girl," he murmured wickedly. "Would you help me with lunch?"

  "I'd love to. As long as I don't have to levitate to get into your kitchen."

  "Nope. Feet on the floor, the whole thing." Amazingly the thought of her in his kitchen warmed something in his heart, and his arms tightened around her. But he could sense dark clouds on the horizon. Emma Machlen embraced the world with the same wholehearted excitement she'd shown with him. And he knew he could never keep her tied to him.

  But he had her. For a little while. "I think my house likes you," he said with a chuckle. "Will you stay here until the market results are in?"

  "You just want someone with whom to satiate your incredible lust."

  He heard the false laughter in her voice again, overlaying a breathless quality that brought tears to his eyes. He needed to keep their relationship as light as she did, otherwise he'd make an absolute idiot of himself. "Of course. Will you stay?"

  She hesitated. "Do I get to do all those nasty things that have nothing to do with guests? Like laundry?"

  He frowned in mock sternness. "As long as you can cook."

  "My momma didn't raise no idiots," she said with a husky chuckle. "She taught me. her secret fried chicken recipe. The colonel's got nothin' on us Machlens."

  "Is that a yes?"

 
"They're due in a couple of weeks, right? I have a friend coming into town around that time." She rubbed against him. "I guess I could stay here instead of a hotel. But I don't think you know what you're getting into."

  Max groaned. He knew. Oh, he knew.

  Ten

  The people were like mosquitoes, buzzing around them and zipping by so quickly, Max almost thought he'd imagined them. The loudspeakers echoed with demands for unknown people to come to unseen white courtesy phones. The airport smelled of leather and ink and food.

  His hand tightened on Emma's arm as she guided them quickly through the crowd to Cissy's gate. He had planned on staying in the car. He really had. But somehow, after nearly two weeks alone with Emma, he was there.

  A metallic, rhythmic warning beep sounded behind them. For a moment he panicked as he imagined the collision with the little golf carts they used for passengers who needed them. But Emma pulled him aside, and it passed harmlessly.

  "We're here. But she's not off the plane yet."

  Max sank gratefully into a chair, calming his rapid breathing. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with a nervous laugh. "It's hot in here."

  "No, it isn't," she said from beside him. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine." He wasn't fine, but he'd be damned if he'd let her know it. Not after he had agreed to come in with her. Why had he done such a stupid thing?

  Then again, he'd been doing a lot of stupid things lately. The last two weeks had been a series of revelations, not all of them pleasant.

  He'd taken her to the zoo one day. Though she'd giggled her way through the place, it had been a mistake. Not only did the crowd have its usual effect on him, but when they'd seated themselves beside a shallow duck pond, Emma had ended up smack dab in the middle of it.

  His heart had jumped into his mouth as she'd shrieked. "Emma?" he'd called.

  She'd surfaced, sputtering and laughing. "You pushed me!"

  "I did not!" Relief dizzied him. "You just cant stay out of trouble one minute, can you?"

  "The penalties of a wicked life. Don't worry, Max. I grew up on an island, remember? I'm a fish. Besides, it's as warm as bathwater."

  "It's also illegal! Bathing in a public place or something. Give me your hand."

  "With pleasure."

  She'd taken his hand, and before he knew what had hit him, he was beside her. In the water.

  Max couldn't help but laugh, yet he knew how foolish they'd both looked. And what frightened him the most was the thought of her returning to her island. He'd refused to leave the house after that.

  But then again, he hadn't needed to. Two days after their first lovemaking, Emma had begun laughing over a passage in a book she was reading silently. Wanting to share her amusement, she'd read it aloud, falling into different voices for each character. Max had been so enraptured by her vivid characterizations, he'd almost seen it in his mind's eye, and he'd chuckled right along with her. Since then she'd read several books to him.

  He praised her remarkable ability, but he'd nearly forgotten about it when she told him about Danny. Max swore when he heard about the man's treatment of her, his selfish abuse of her generosity. Though she laughed over it, insisted it was long forgotten, he knew it wasn't. Emma Machlen was the most beautiful soul he'd ever had the pleasure to know. "I wouldn't change you for anything in the world," he'd murmured.

  "You wouldn't know you were even doing it," she'd whispered. "I can't help myself. When someone is important, their happiness is mine."

  "Oh, Emma." He kissed her deeply. "I like you just the way you are. You're unique. Like—like your barometer grass. And your fragrance."

  The next day when he'd returned from work, Emma had surprised him with an authentic Indian dinner. The sari she'd fashioned, the music she'd found, and the accent she'd adopted had actually transported him to the jungles of the country. After his obvious delight, on her nights to cook, he'd come home to Paris, China, Mexico, Germany, and a mythical place where they didn't wear any clothes.

  She wandered the plant like a tornado, getting a remarkable amount of work accomplished on Chameleon. She'd coordinated the entire ad campaign, and he'd even offered her a job, but she'd turned him down.

  She was restless. And Max felt selfish for tying her to his home.

  Emma had insinuated herself into his life so firmly, he didn't know if he could ever let her go. But he'd have to, wouldn't he? She was like a breath of fresh air in his home, the house he'd once thought was the only safe place on earth, the sanctuary that was so filled with memories of her that he knew he'd never be the same when she left.

  And she would leave. He knew that with certainty.

  "Max, what's wrong?"

  Her soft voice brought him back to reality. "Nothing." He forced a smile, but a part of him listened intently for the sounds of the surrounding crowd, for the echoes to pound into his brain until he lost all sense of direction. He heard only the powerful whine of the jets outside and the excited murmurings of waiting family members. But they would grow louder unless he could regain his balance. "Has her plane landed yet?"

  "Stop avoiding the question. There's something wrong, and I want to know what it is."

  "Emma, you're imagining things!"

  "Max, you're brushing me off!"

  He smiled, real amusement swirling through him at her playful imitation of his voice. He reached for her face, framing it in his hands. His thumbs settled in the corners of her mouth and he brought it to his, dead on target, in a quick, reassuring kiss. "Nothing's wrong. Not now."

  "Is it your investment in the perfume? The market results are due in days."

  He'd sensed her concern these last weeks, and he knew it was as much for him as for her family. "No, Emma, it's not that." Her worry touched him.

  "But—"

  He cut her off with his lips. She resisted for a moment, then relaxed into him. The realization that he would be there in the airport again with her in mere days, saying good-bye, stabbed through his heart.

  His silencing kiss suddenly turned urgent, pulled from the depths of his soul.

  "Max," she said, moaning.

  "Shh…"

  "Max, they're opening the door."

  "What door?" His fingers threaded through her hair, and he twisted in his chair to face her.

  "The door… mmm… the… oh, Lord…"

  "You got one for me, too, honey?"

  Max froze, the passion leaving him in a flood. That voice, that rasping, Kentucky-bourbon voice hadn't come out of Emma's throat.

  "I knew about the heat wave, Emma, honey. I just didn't know it was centered here."

  He felt a giggle against his mouth, and he couldn't help smiling in spite of his embarrassment as Emma broke away and turned toward the voice.

  "Hello, Cissy. You have the timing of a one-piston car."

  Cissy's chuckle sounded like a rusty door hinge, and it quickly turned into a cough. The sharp smell of cigarette smoke burned his nostrils.

  "Why, Emma Machlen, you're still yourself!"

  "Amazing, isn't it? I guess I have an indestructible core after all."

  Max frowned, puzzled by her conversation, but decided it was typically Emma. Confusing.

  "And who is this handsome male you were draped all over? The reluctant knight? I'm surprised he's still alive! Gracious, though, if I'd'a known he was such a looker, I'd'a sent you to London and come myself. You must be Max."

  "I must be, but I'm not sure anymore." He stood and poked out his hand. "And you must be Cissy Chambers."

  "Last time I checked."

  His hand was taken in a surprisingly firm grip by a parchment-covered, skeletal one. She was about five feet tall, he surmised, and eighty if she was a day. She-released his hand and turned to call her good-byes to the crew. An intimidating amount of fabric swished at the movement, and he wondered what kind of garment she wore. It sounded like the sail of a ship. A caftan? His mental image of Cissy Chambers caused a strangled chuckle in his throat, and the clarity
of it frightened him as it danced in front of his face.

  That had been happening a lot lately. Her vivid images, his lack of concentration…

  Emma's arm came around him in a casual embrace that felt incredibly natural, infinitely comforting, though she couldn't possibly know what had just happened to him. It warmed his heart and scared him silly at the same time. What was he going to do about her?

  "Yes," whispered Emma in an aside to him. "She's every bit as outrageous as you're probably thinking."

  "It shows, huh?" He grinned in spite of himself. He didn't want to think about anything complicated right now. "Just tell me one thing. What color is that… that… whatever it is she's wearing?"

  "Fuchsia."

  Max groaned. "I knew it." He hadn't, though, and that made everything comfortably unreal.

  "Shh. She's coming back." Emma giggled, then raised her voice as they began to walk to the car. "Where are we taking you, Cissy?"

  "Some hotel. Don't look daggers at me, Emma-love. You know I never can remember things like that. It's the same place as that blasted charity bash I got roped into."

  "Charity bash!" cried Max. "I have tickets."

  "Are you going?" asked Emma hesitantly.

  "If you go with me." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and a wave of panic swept over him. He forced it away. What the hell? Why not?

  He gave himself over to Cissy's chatter.

  "Publicity! Ha! That agent of mine is going to wake up one morning even balder than usual after I snatch the rest of his hair off his head!"

  "She doesn't mean that," Emma explained patiently as she automatically matched her steps to his. "Cissy and Evan have been together nearly twenty years."

  "See? He's getting too old for me."

  Max laughed and decided he liked Cissy. "Would you join us for dinner, Miss Chambers?"

  "Cissy. Besides, technically it's Mrs. Chambers even though Lloyd skipped out on me fifty years ago."

  "Don't believe her, Max. She divorced him."

  "Oh, honey. Don't you go ruinin' all my good stories." The voice dropped to a whisper that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Men love women they think are safe. A husband in the background always makes for a good mystery."