Chameleon

by Courtney Henke

  "Is that a yes?"

  "A yes? Oh! No, you sweet thing, thank you for askin'. But truth to tell, at my age one big event a week is enough."

  "Which is why she gets along so well with her agent."

  "Yep. 'Cept he can't even do once a week anymore."

  Max made a strangling sound.

  "Are you all right, sweet thing?" Cissy asked in concern.

  "That's you, Max."

  "I'm fine. I think." He shook his head. He didn't know which was worse—Cissy's bawdy humor or the fact that Emma was playing straight man for her. "Well be happy to drop you at your hotel, Cissy. And if you change your mind, please call."

  "Thank you kindly, sir, but I won't. Those are mine, honey. No, just the two. And the hat box. And the—well, aren't you just the nicest man?"

  Max blinked, dazed. He had made no move toward her. He didn't even know what she was talking about. He and Emma were still joined at the hip.

  "Herr Morgan? Does this… should I…"

  "Thank you, Benno." The poor man sounded as confused as Max felt. "Put it all in the trunk. This is Miss—Mrs.—this is Cissy."

  "Well, hello, Benno. Ooh, you're so strong. I'm just going to sit up front and leave the lovebirds to the back, all right? Well have ourselves a little chat."

  Then they were in the car. To Max's amazement, he didn't even remember their walk through the airport at all. He had forgotten to listen. And he knew it wasn't because of Cissy's drawl.

  What an idiotic moment to discover that he was in love with Emma Machlen!

  Unaware of Max's stunning realization, Emma listened in amusement as Cissy's chatter and Benno's stuttered responses filled the car while they drove to the hotel. When Cissy was gone, silence settled around them like a cleansing blanket of snow. Emma curled next to Max and snuggled into the curve of his shoulder, breathing a thankful sigh of relief. Her friend always seemed to take the air out of small spaces, and it had nothing to do with cigarettes. She'd never lit one in the car. It was just her vibrant presence, or lack of it.

  But Emma had to admit, Cissy had been right. Emma was a lot stronger than she had been when she'd lived with Danny. In all the years with her vocal and somewhat intimidating family, she hadn't realized she'd been protecting an indestructible core. It was only the tiny hangover from her days with Danny that kept her from declaring her feelings. Max didn't give of himself totally. Just when she thought she had him pegged he'd pull back again. But those times were few and far between these days. It's what kept her there.

  She had the oddest feeling that Max was waiting for something to happen. But she didn't know what.

  "It's as if you held a dove in your hand," she'd told him one night, "and were afraid to crush it. Is the world outside that dove. Max?"

  "Of course not," he'd replied, and had kissed her with a passion that had rocked her. Afterward, they'd made love, and he had taken her to dizzying heights before he'd taken his own pleasure —as he always did.

  She frowned. If it wasn't for her concern for his investment, these would be the happiest days of her life.

  Max hadn't abused her gift of love. He'd given of himself in ways he probably didn't even realize. He'd proven himself to be the gentle, caring man she'd known was there. With patience and love, she'd show him more. She'd show him the world.

  And she'd decided she would stay. Island Organics was doing fine without her. She was going to stay in St. Louis and work closely with the company that would be their exclusive buyer of barometer grass. Max just didn't know it yet.

  She'd begun to drift into a comfortable doze when Max's chest suddenly shook under her cheek.

  "Blanche Du Bois meets Kaiser Wilhelm," he whispered into her ear.

  "What?"

  "Cissy and Benno. It's all I could do to keep from saying it when she was in the car."

  Emma giggled. "She grows on you. Like moss."

  "I like her."

  "So do I. She's been around ever since I can remember. She made me what I am today."

  "A troublemaker?"

  She punched his shoulder lightly. "No, Max. She taught me the Importance of being yourself, even if it took me a while to learn it."

  "Then I'm forever in her debt," he said gently.

  Stunned by his words as much as by his serious tone of voice, Emma glanced up. Max was smiling down at her, a tender smile that warmed his eyes. Again, she had the oddest feeling that he could actually see her, that his eyes were really focused on her. But the moment passed. His smile faded.

  "Max, what's the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "You said that in the airport too. And I didn't believe it then either."

  "It's not the same thing. I thought—never mind. Cissy confuses me."

  "Cissy confuses everyone."

  "Not you."

  "I'm used to her."

  "You're an amazing woman."

  "Because I could handle Cissy?"

  "Not only that. You make me forget… things."

  "What things?"

  He didn't answer right away. His arms tightened around her, and she cuddled up to him. But she frowned into his chest. "Why do you do that?" she asked softly.

  "What?"

  "You close up like a door, Max. Don't shut me out. It's lonely out here."

  "I—" He cut himself off with a groan. "I don't want to. You have to believe that."

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "All right. For now. But I want you to know that whatever's happening in that pointy little head of yours, it won't change anything between us."

  Max's thoughts were more chaotic than she could ever imagine. His life seemed to be coming apart at the seams, yet somehow it was more complete than it had ever been. One moment he was glad she was leaving, that his life would return to normal. The next moment he felt emptiness open up inside him, emptiness that Emma filled to the brim. If this was love, he was better off with the Asian flu!

  "I'm kind of glad that Cissy turned down my dinner invitation," he whispered, realizing it was true even as he said it.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'd like to be alone with you."

  "We've been alone a long time."

  He frowned, confused by the emotional volleyball going on in his mind. "It's not the same. Tonight is special."

  "Why?"

  "I think it's time that we talked about a few things."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as…" His voice trailed off. He really didn't know, not yet. He had to think—but quickly —because Emma would leave soon, and he knew there was a lot unfinished between them. "I don't know. I just know it's time to talk. About a lot of things."

  "Why not now?"

  He sighed. "Because I need a reality check."

  He was grateful when she didn't press him. He had the most incredible urge to just ask her to stay with him forever. Because he was almost certain that he loved her.

  But it was that "almost" that made him stop. That "almost" hadn't been there a minute earlier, not until he thought he could see her face. It had happened one too many times. Illusions. Ghosts of memory, of sight.

  Was his love an illusion too? He couldn't ask her to share his life when he wasn't sure where she'd fit into it. And he certainly couldn't ask her until there was no doubt in his mind that she could. An impulsive declaration wouldn't do either of them any good, and it might hurt them both. And where would his life be if he let someone as unpredictable as Emma into it?

  He would wait—and think.

  Max began dinner as soon as they were home, a tiny frown playing between his brows as he worked.

  Every once in a while he would pause, then shake his head as if his thoughts disturbed him. Emma held her breath on those occasions, but he did not speak to her, and she was unwilling to break in on his musings. That he was thinking about her, about them, was a near certainty in her mind. She may not get the answers she wanted, but she was sure to get something from him tonight.

  Though doubt plague
d her, she owed Max his solitude. She settled into the sofa, reading a newspaper to herself. She kept a pen with her and circled the items she thought Max would like to hear later. Dixie curled up at her feet and slept.

  To her surprise, she dozed off too. When she awoke, luscious food odors wafted through the house. Max was still working on dinner. Had he come to her as she slept? Had he finally sorted out his thoughts? Wondering what he'd decided, she wandered to the entrance of the kitchen.

  Her eyes softened as she watched him. He was so graceful in his familiar territory, more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. He poured white wine into the pot without a pause, the muscles of his shoulders bunching erotically under his tight blue shirt as he hefted the huge bottle.

  Eventually she moved forward. "What's for dinner?" she asked as she entered. "It smells fantastic."

  "It's a surprise. A special surprise." Smiling as if he held the secrets of the universe, he stirred the concoction and tasted a bit, then tilted his head up as he reached to the spice rack. "Did you have a nice nap?"

  So he had known. "Yes."

  "Do you know that you snore?"

  "I do not!"

  "Just a little, honest."

  "Are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?"

  "Later. I've come to a few decisions, but it's still a little confusing."

  "That's fair, I guess."

  Emma sidled up to him, kissing the point of his shoulder as he shifted and anticipated her movement to see into the pot. "I just want to see what it is," she protested with a laugh.

  "A secret brew of herbs, spices, and wine."

  He poured some of the spice into the palm of his hand, then dumped it in and stirred again. Something in the way he moved caught her, but she dismissed her overactive imagination. "Sounds like something my mother would cook up."

  "It's Dad's recipe. He was a great chef, but was a 'pincha' cook."

  "A what?"

  "A 'pincha.' You know, a pincha this, a pincha that."

  Emma groaned. "I don't believe you said that."

  He glanced toward her, grinning, his amber eyes dancing as he leaned down to kiss her swiftly on the mouth. "You make me happy, Emma. So happy it scares me sometimes. I—I—"

  He spun back to the pot, sprinkling some more of the spice into it. His words should have elated her, but Emma felt a tiny chill sweep up her spine, and she shivered. Unsettled, she dropped her hand from his shoulder and simply watched, trying to regain her joy of a moment before.

  Max tasted a spoonful of his mysterious mixture, cocked his head to one side, then up as he replaced the spice and selected another one. Without running his fingers over the Braille lettering, he uncapped it and shook it in. "My mother was a horrible cook," he said with a laugh. "She kept the books for my father's restaurants." He tasted again, nodded, then unerringly picked up the lid and covered the pot. "Whatever talent she lost in the kitchen she more than made up for with numbers."

  He reached for the salad makings next to the sink and picked up the knife without a falter, chopping celery quickly and professionally.

  Another eerie shiver played along Emma's spine as she watched him. His head turned with the movement of his hands, and his hands never missed their targets. Emma peered into his radiant face. Her eyes widened at his animated expression, and she swallowed convulsively.

  "I was pretty active," he said reminiscently. "They thought I was a changeling, I think."

  "Max," she whispered, quivering.

  "This poor old house rocked when I galloped through."

  "Max."

  "I used to play in the hidey-hole in the basement and—"

  "Max!" She tugged on his arm, overwhelmed with a nameless fear.

  "What?"

  He turned to her, and she went cold all over. His eyes. His beautiful amber eyes were focused on her face. And it wasn't her imagination!

  Her face flickered in his mind, so real, so delicate. But he didn't know what she looked like!

  The images that danced so clearly vanished instantly, leaving him trembling and nauseated. "Lord, no," he whispered, shaking. "Not now!"

  "Max? What is it? What's wrong?"

  Her voice broke, but he barely heard her. "Not again," he said with a moan.

  "Again?" She gasped. "You mean you couldn't really—"

  He lifted a shaking hand to his eyes, pressing tightly as he fought the panic that swept him. It had been so clear!

  Her voice drifted into his mind, soft, soothing in its matter-of-fact tone. "You told me that you thought you could see once, that you had gone in for some more tests. Is that what happened just now?"

  He nodded wordlessly, clenching his fist at his side. His breath began to even out. It didn't matter that she knew, only that he regain his senses, orient himself again. Right now the world was a nebulous fog around him. He had to take control!

  "Are you okay?"

  He nodded again. Slowly the kitchen map became clear in his mind. "It's a common phenomenon, Emma, like phantom pains in a missing limb. When something's familiar, my mind remembers and gives me a clear picture, and I forget sometimes that I can't see. It's no big deal." He didn't sound convincing, even to his own ears, but dammit! He had survived this before, he could again.

  "Don't tell me it's no big deal." Her hand stroked his shoulder, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to flinch away. "How often does this happen, Max?"

  "Not very often… at least until you came." He hadn't meant to say that last part, and instantly regretted it as he heard her sharp intake of breath. "I'm sorry. I don't blame you."

  "Why don't we go sit down."

  "No!" He drew air deeply into his lungs. His knees were trembling, but her scent wrapped him in warmth and a strange strength that he drew on gratefully. "I don't want to move just yet, Emma, okay?"

  "All right."

  He felt her cheek on his back, her arms around his waist. Not pity, he realized suddenly, but one human comforting another. Emma simply could not see him in pain. Just as he had held her when she cried, so did she offer herself to him now.

  Tears pricked his eyelids. Something inside him tumbled to the ground with a resounding crash.

  "Emma, I—" His fist unclenched as dizzy pleasure swept over him. He loved her, and that knowledge filled his entire being. His mind lost its mental map. Lord! He had to calm down! He couldn't tell her anything with his mind in chaos. He reached out to steady himself on the counter.

  Then it happened. His hand fell through into empty air. He stumbled, groping for something— anything!—as terrible, numbing fear swallowed him whole. The walls were gone, the citadel of rigid control that had protected him for so long had fallen. Sweat broke out on his brow as he battled the darkness that was more than mere absence of sight. He fought for the emotional light of moments before, for the reality, but he couldn't find it. He couldn't find it!

  He knew he was moving through the house, but he didn't know where. Nothing was familiar anymore. He was lost, stifled by his fear. His breath burned his lungs, fired his throat. He had to get out of there! He couldn't let her see him like this.

  "Max, no!"

  He scraped his shin on something but ignored the agony in his overwhelming need to flee, to find his way back to his world.

  Then he felt a touch and jerked back, repulsed by anything that would exist in this stygian darkness. His elbow hit a solid object, and the sharp pain brought tears to his eyes.

  "Don't pull back from me. I love you. Let me help you."

  The words floated to him, soothing him, lighting the darkness. Something warm appeared under his hand, something familiar, something safe. "Emma?" he whispered, and the fear lessened. He swallowed convulsively.

  "I'm here. Max."

  "Don't leave me." The grating cry was pulled from his soul.

  "I won't, love. I'll never leave you."

  She tugged him downward, but in his disoriented mind he saw a horrible image of tumbling into a bottomless pit. "
No!"

  "It's okay, Max. Trust me."

  His knees buckled, and he felt himself falling, falling. Then he was on a soft, yielding object without knowing how he'd gotten there. Where was he? Nothing was as it should be!

  Except Emma. He felt her arms around him, heard her crooning to him. He felt her stroke his face, which was damp, but he didn't know if her tears had wet her fingertips or his. Emma was there, she was real, not an illusion.

  And she was his!

  Eleven

  With a guttural cry Max pulled her into his arms, holding her as if his life depended on it. He felt the blissfully familiar fire ignite, sweeping from his toes to his scalp. All of his chaotic emotions swirled to a point, focusing like an arrow into an overwhelming desire to bury himself in her, lose himself in her bright love.

  He lifted her, turned his face to her breasts, ignoring her exclamation of surprise or protest while he drew her scent deeply into his lungs. His hands worked up under her blouse, restlessly exploring the curve of her spine and the satin of her skin.

  "Lord, I need you," he murmured, and unclasped her bra. Sweat beaded his brow. "I need you."

  Emma gasped, as much from his words as from the intense flare of desire that rose to meet his. She forgot everything that had gone before. Life started now, with a Max she didn't recognize, a driven, passionate man who no longer gently controlled the pace. It should have frightened her, but it didn't. He was ruthless in his single-minded purpose, but he would never hurt her.

  Her blood pounded hot through her body, singing in her ears. He needed her! it cried. The cadence matched his murmured words over and over again, a driving rhythm that overwhelmed her.

  "Don't hold back." Her voice was harsh. She buried her fingers in his hair, drawing him closer, giving him everything she had to give. She loved him, and he needed her. That was all that mattered.

  He swiftly opened the first few buttons of her blouse. Emma pulled frantically at the hem of his shirt, but he shrugged her away and shoved her half-undone blouse off of her shoulders. A primal growl escaped his throat as he pulled a bared nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply.