See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  “More coffee, Max?”

  Max's heart and mind battled for control. But old habits died hard. “Merci, but I'm afraid I have an early morning meeting.” Way to go. Fall back on the old early morning meeting routine.

  A wry smile crossed Nikki's face. “Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from your power breakfast."

  Unable to resist, he reached out and stroked her cheek. At his tender gesture, her smile turned into a puzzled expression.

  Mon Dieu, what the hell was the matter with him? Then, impulsively, he kissed Nikki on both cheeks—like he was her damned uncle or something, then stammered. “I-I'll call you—soon."

  “Okay,” Nikki replied, her voice husky again, “I'll look forward to it. G'night, Max.” She looked down and chewed her lip, as if suddenly shy.

  "Bonne nuit,” he managed. Damn, his throat was dry. Quickly he turned and walked away. He'd done it again—kept her at arm's length. He wasn't even sure he could call her as he'd promised. Old habits proved difficult to change. He'd take refuge in work—another old habit ... just to give her more time, of course.

  Who was he trying to fool? He cursed himself all the way to his empty townhouse, not wanting to return home. Before his mother died, the house had been filled with love and laughter. Now it was barren of warmth and held no respite from loneliness. Only Nikki could bring it back to life again ... bring him back to life, again.

  ~ * ~

  Nikki closed the door behind him and knew without a doubt that if he'd stayed a single second longer, she would've melted into a puddle on the floor. Bringing both hands to her face, she touched her cheeks, still warm from where he'd kissed them.

  Damn. Why had she prattled on and on about having a crush on him? No wonder, he still treated her like she was a teenager. She'd thought when he'd called her the day before that maybe, just maybe it would lead to something ... anything. But no. She had to act like a goofy school girl and gush all over him at dinner. Very impressive—not.

  Besides, Max wasn't known for his long-term relationships. “Love'em and leave'em” was Max's nickname at the agency. Rumor had it one society deb after another had tried to waltz him down the aisle. How could she ever give her heart and body to Max, only to be dumped a few weeks or months later? She knew the answer, she couldn't.

  Unbuttoning her blouse and kicking off her shoes as she went, Nikki stomped into the bedroom, promptly tripped over a footstool and landed on her butt. “Damn."

  Frustration mounting, she struggled to her feet. Still, he had said he wanted to have dinner, again. Just dinner. And here she was trying to read things into the situation that weren't there. He wants to be friends. I can handle that. Take it easy. Take it slow, a calm voice in her head advised. But it's already been ten years, the other voice shouted.

  Now Max had her hearing voices. If she kept it up, they'd be putting her away somewhere ... for a very long time.

  Fourteen

  Paris, May 2000

  Max breathed in the gathering of scents that was uniquely Paris—freshly baked bread and the sharp fragrance of espresso among them. Late to meet an old business acquaintance, he strode along the wide boulevard past an antique store. A reflection glinting in the sunlight caught his eye and he slowed his stride and turned, curious to see what it was.

  A mask, displayed in the shop window.

  Quite an old one too. White leather, edged in gilt. It had been the gilt reflecting in the sun that captured his attention. He glanced at his watch. Renaud could wait. Max opened the door to the shop and stepped inside. The musty scent of old objects met him.

  An elegant woman stepped forward. “On s'occupe de vous, monsieur?"

  “Je voudrais voir le masque qui est dans la vitrine, s'il vous plaît."

  "Oui, M'sieur."

  Max held his breath, while his countrywoman rushed to the window.

  “Here you are, M'sieur. It has quite a lengthy provenance. Allow me to procure it for you,” she said, handing the mask to him and walking behind the counter.

  "Merci, Madame."

  “This mask has an interesting history.” She smiled. “I'm not sure I should tell you."

  "Pourquoi pas?"

  “Well, if you are superstitious, M'sieur, I might lose the sale. The mask has been said to bring bad luck. Of course, I do not believe such stories, but if you are faint of heart, I would suggest you pass on this item."

  “Superstitious? Non, Madame."

  “Well, it is all there in the provenance."

  “Of course, Madame."

  Madame named her price, “Ten thousand francs."

  He countered, “Four thousand."

  “Monsieur, you insult my intelligence. This mask dates from before the revolution.” Madame countered, again, “Eight thousand francs."

  Max shook his head, warming to the game. “Five thousand."

  “Tut, tut, monsieur, you have the gift of driving the hard bargain. I will make one more offer—a very reasonable offer I must add—seven thousand, five hundred francs."

  “Seven thousand even, Madame. Not only are you a great beauty, but a business woman, as well.

  “And you are a true Frenchman, m'sieur. It is my pleasure to do business with you. You may have it for seven thousand francs."

  Max bowed. “Merci, Madame."

  He left the store with the mask boxed and under his arm. It would make the perfect addition to Nikki's collection—and for her birthday as well.

  ~ * ~

  Later the same night, Max felt a unique thrill course through him whenever he touched the old mask. He stroked the leather face and fancied he could see its previous owners in his mind. He hoped Nikki would be pleased with the gift. According to its provenance, the mask predated the French Revolution and supposedly had been worn by a young woman of the French nobility, who'd lost her head to the guillotine.

  The next time it appeared, it had been worn by an Italian opera singer, who'd had a longer, yet equally tragic life. She'd lost her young husband to consumption, her son had nearly died from a riding accident, and her last lover, a ship's captain, had eventually been lost at sea.

  The next time the mask was documented, it was purchased by a young Parisian artist as a gift to his fiancée prior to WWII. Apparently he had been killed by the Nazis. His fiancée had then taken her own life. The possession of the mask fell to her sister, who had kept it until her own death. The sister's son sold it to the antique shop.

  Max wasn't superstitious. Life was simply cruel at times. His own life was proof enough.

  He would overnight the mask to Nikki. The minute he'd spied it, he'd known he must buy it for her. He wanted to give her something, even if he couldn't quite manage to give her his love.

  Carefully he laid the mask back into the silk-lined box. He walked to the window and looked out at the Parisian skyline. There was nothing for him here anymore. He'd made a good, life in the States. He turned from the window, his heart heavy. Being in Paris brought back too many memories. Walking to his bed, he folded the bed covers back, ready for sleep. Long into the night, he stared at the ornate-carved ceiling. Finally, he slept.

  ~ * ~

  The life of the Maquis in la Forêt de Plombière, north of Dijon, was difficult, but Maxime held a fervent belief that he had to aid the liberation of his homeland. There were some Dijon residents who joined the Maquis in the forest periodically and bringing with them intelligence gathered in town, but the Nazis were most suspicious of young men. They routinely harassed them and attempted to recruit or imprison them without cause.

  Now that winter had ended, the temperatures were bearable. The winter had been cruel, but instead of snow, there was often the interminable rain, dripping down the inside surface of his tent made from parachute silks salvaged from a downed SAS pilot.

  Tonight, at least, the weather was dry. Luckily, the Morvan region of France was a fertile one, and with the covert support of their countrymen, he and the other men of the Maquis ran no risk of starving.

>   An artist in his former life, he had never lived under such extreme conditions before. Every day was fraught with danger. There were the Nazis to evade, and always the never-ending rain. But what tormented him the most was not seeing his beloved Nicole. There had been no time to marry before he left Dijon and joined the Maquis. Mon dieu, how he missed their passionate lovemaking.

  There were women who drifted in and out of the Maquisards’ camps. One in particular had made it very clear she was available. Emilie had been most persistent in pursuit. She was pretty enough; some even thought her beautiful. But when Maxime compared Emilie to Nicole's ethereal beauty, Emilie fell short. She was petite, dark and buxom, while his Nicole was tall, slender and graceful.

  One of Emilie's functions was to act as a conduit of intelligence between a certain Nazi guard named Gerhard and the Maquis. One evening she'd given the entire camp a laughing description of how she'd seduced the guard and gained the train schedule needed for the Maquis’ next raid.

  A rustle at the rear of his tent alerted him. He pulled his knife, prepared to defend himself. The side of the tent raised. Incroyable. Merde. Emilie.

  “Bonsoir, Maxime,” she said softly. “I don't think you will need that knife, do you?"

  Dismayed, he noted the top of her blouse was unbuttoned, exposing her considerable décolletage. “What do you want? I'm trying to sleep,” he said, not caring that his irritation showed.

  “Why would you want to sleep when we could be making love? Life is too short not to take advantage of all it has to offer."

  He repressed a groan. “We've been through this before. I am engaged to be married, and I am faithful. Don't do this. It's embarrassing."

  The woman gave him a seductive look from beneath her dark lashes. Others thought her very sensual, but he didn't. She was, however, incredibly persistent. She stepped toward him, and before he could stop her, ran her hands over his chest and down his abdomen. She laughed at his body's reflexive response as her hands wandered below his belt. Embarrassed by his body's betrayal, he barked, “Enough."

  “See your body knows what it needs ... and wants,” she observed with a throaty chuckle. “Even if your mind doesn't"

  He grabbed Emilie's shoulders and thrust her away from him. “I said, no. Find someone else to play your little games. Leave me alone."

  “You will be sorry.” She spat on the ground. “I'm in town frequently. Do you honestly think your precious little Nicole is faithful to you? She's not. She's a tramp. You should see for yourself. It's the talk of Dijon. She takes a different German soldier to bed every night."

  Maxime drew back to slap her, but stopped short. Her words were filled with spite, and he knew them to be false. “Out of here, now, before I do something I'll regret."

  “Fool!” she cried, then bolted from his tent into the night.

  He lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling of the tent. Never had he desired Nicole more than at that moment. He would sneak into town and see her. He needed the reassurance of having her arms around him once more. He needed to feel her silken skin against his. He would go out of his mind, if he didn't.

  He waited an hour, then sneaked out of his tent. He placed a heavy pistol in the waist of his pants and carried his rifle on his shoulder. Going into Dijon would be risky enough without traveling the countryside unarmed as well. His body burned from his encounter with Emilie, but it was Nicole he desired.

  He checked the area. No one was about, except for his friend Gaston on guard duty who let him pass with one proviso. “Be back before dawn. We change guard then."

  Maxime smiled, nodded, and left to walk the few miles that would take him to his Nicole. As he walked through the dense, damp forest, the moon shone brightly. He shook his head, realizing how rash he'd been in choosing this particular night to see her.

  He made an excellent target in the moon's silvery light, but months of living in the forest had taught him to move silently and swiftly. When he emerged from the forest into the open country, he walked quickly with his rifle still slung over his shoulder. The German soldiers were afraid of penetrating too deeply into the forest enclave of the Maquis bands, but open country posed a grave danger.

  Still aroused after Emilie's attempt to seduce him, he was now on a fool's mission to see his true love. He'd always insisted Nicole and her family avoid any appearance of collusion with the resistance. He knew seeing her now could endanger her and her entire family and his, if he were discovered. He stopped ... nearly retreated, but he'd come this far. He had to see her.

  He craved her touch, the heady scent of her musk, the indescribable pleasure of surrendering to her warmth. Images of her beauty in the throes of passion consumed him. He picked up his pace. No time to waste.

  It appeared he lived under a charmed spell. An hour later, he slipped into the city of Dijon. Thankfully, the streets were quiet, and he'd eluded a single German patrol with ease. He approached the three-story Mansard-roofed house where Nicole and her family lived, then cautiously surveyed the area for any signs of surveillance. Seeing none, he entered the rear of the house and tiptoed down the hall to Nicole's room.

  He opened the door and found her asleep, the moonlight spilling across her slender form. His heart clutched in his chest while he watched her innocent slumber. Walking silently to her side, he placed a hand over her mouth as a precaution before waking her.

  “Shh. C'est moi, Maxime,” he whispered, his other hand already exploring the familiar contours of her body beneath the gown.

  “Maxime,” she murmured softly. “You're not a dream, mon amour. You're really here."

  “Yes, mon coeur. I am here.” Maxime buried his face in the fragrant sweetness of her neck.

  Her arms went around his neck, pulling him into the bed. Her lips against his, soft and pliant, then demanding. Deepening the kiss, he surrendered to her urgency, sweeping his tongue into her honeyed mouth. Oh God, he lived for her touch, her lips, her taste. Heaven did exist—he held it in his arms.

  She pulled his shirt from his trousers. He fumbled with the fastener at his waist, his lips never leaving hers. Finally, the desperation to join conquered the practicality of undressing. Maxime's erection sprang free, heavy with need.

  “My love.” Nicole opened herself to him, her ivory limbs pale in the moonlight.

  “Not yet. Too soon,” he gasped. His mouth found the roseate peak of her left breast. He circled it with his tongue, reveling in the way it hardened into a tight bud.

  “Now, Maxime, now,” she whimpered, her breath warm against his ear.

  “No, not yet.” He slid his tongue down her alabaster abdomen to the crisp nest of pale blonde curls at the apex of her thighs. He buried his face in her body's musk, feeling her body tremble and twitch in response to his tongue.

  She implored him, begged for release. “Maxime."

  He could wait no longer, his need too great. Shifting his weight to his elbows and knees, he centered himself above her. Her hand grasped and guided him to her warmth. Home. Shuddering, he drove into her moist heat, praying for control.

  Her muscles clenched around his length, as her legs circled his waist. Slowly, he thrust, delaying his release. Her head tossed back and forth, her nails digging into his back. She moaned ... the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

  He quickened the pace. His urgent craving for release grew. Her frantic arching met him thrust for thrust. His breath came in rasps, hers in sobs. The skin on her breasts flushed, her climax imminent, he increased the pace.

  For one brief tantalizing moment ... time stood still. Together they hung at the peak of excruciating pleasure before exploding into the heights of total sensation; the beginning of her orgasm triggering his. He gasped. His seed pumped into her. Hips thrusting of their own accord.

  Nicole moaned, cried, sobbed, “Je t'aime. Je t'adore."

  His passion and energy spent, Maxime collapsed. He rolled to his side, and pulling her with him, stayed within her warmth. “I've missed you so,” he murm
ured. “Je t'aime.” She wept on his shoulder.

  “You are my life, my love, my future. I can't live without you,” he whispered.

  “Nor I, you."

  When he left her just before dawn, he thought his heart would split. Being with his lover made him feel as if he could climb the Matterhorn. Yet leaving weighted his heart with lead. It never became any easier, no matter how many times he had done it. She was as much a part of him as his right hand. He thought it was the same for her. It seemed to him they could sense each other's feelings without having to say a word. He supposed all lovers thought their love was timeless, but theirs truly was.

  He eased from behind the house and surveyed the street before him. Another hour and the sun would break the horizon. He'd stayed too long. Seeing and sensing nothing, he stepped into the street.

  Without warning, he felt the shock of a hand on his arm. “Halt!” a soldier ordered.

  “No!” Maxime struggled, elbowing the soldier in the stomach. Two more appeared and wrestled him to the ground. Lying on his back, he garnered all his strength and gave a mighty kick with both legs. Gratified by the resulting grunts, he saw that he'd knocked two of them down. He rolled sideways, then rolled to his feet like a cat.

  “Arret!.” The click of a gun being cocked behind him. He stopped. He turned. Emilie. Her pistol was aimed at his head.

  “No,” he said in disbelief. He watched her face. No mercy.

  Emilie grimaced. “Yes.” Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  ~ * ~

  Max sat up and gasped. Death, violent and real. He shook his head. Be practical. It was just a dream, stimulated by the mask's history. Nothing more.

  He had no time for unanswerable philosophical questions. But throughout the rest of the day, a feeling of unease remained, a nagging presentiment in the back of his mind.

  Fifteen

  New York, May 2000

  Feet dragging and spirits low, Nikki walked into the agency. Fashion shoots were taking place in more and more exotic locations and the long trips were getting to her. Maybe she needed a vacation. Maybe she needed a life outside getting her face plastered everywhere in magazines.