See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  “You must not use such language and you do not know any such thing. Possibly she is trying to get information for the Maquis. Besides, I don't know when I'll see him again,” she said, unable to keep the forlorn note from her tone.

  Alexandra gave her a reassuring hug. “Do not fret. You will hear from your handsome Maxime soon. I'm sure of it."

  ~ * ~

  One moonlit night, she awakened, startled to find a hand over her mouth. “Shh, c'est moi, Maxime.” He kissed her hungrily, his hands roaming over her body. “I have missed you so much, Chèrie.” His voice grew hoarse. You are more beautiful than ever, my heart."

  “Maxime,” she whispered softly. “You're not a dream. Mon amour, you are really here."

  “Yes, I am here."

  She succumbed to his kisses and the pure exhilaration of his being there. His tongue blazed a trail of fire as he kissed her breasts. He nibbled and teased and licked her belly. When and how he divested her of her gown, she didn't know or care. He was here with her now, and that was all that mattered. She pulled and tugged at his clothes, consumed by a desperate longing to feel his body next to hers. Ahh, he had marvelous skin, so soft and smooth, beneath his clothes. Well, it wasn't all so soft. She touched the firm length of him.

  He moaned, “Not yet. Too soon.” His tongue found her center.

  With mounting desire, she gasped, “Now, Maxime. Now.” Maxime entered her quickly and smoothly. Their passion soared, expanded and exploded out of sheer need. Afterward, they crashed in total exaltation, laughing, kissing, weeping—celebrating their joy in each other.

  ~ * ~

  They made love again, slower. “The night is too short, my love. I must go before daylight comes,” he told her gently as he held her in his arms. “I miss you so much. I ache for you,” he said, nestling his head in her shoulder and nibbling her neck with tiny tender kisses .

  “Must you go? Please stay with me. Don't go back. Please,” she begged. In the pale moonlight, she drank in the vision of his perfect body, his dark eyes, his new beard, his curling hair. Her man, the artist, now a rugged soldier, had the body of a Greek god and the face of a renaissance angel. She loved him so much. How could she ever live without him?

  “You know I must,” he murmured, still cradling her in his arms.

  She grew desperate, her breathing ragged. “Then let me go with you. I know there are women in the Resistance. Please,” she begged, tears filling her eyes.

  “No, it is too dangerous. I should not have come tonight, but I could not stand another minute without seeing you. I love you more than life itself.” He kissed her. Her tears wet his face, and his, hers.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. “Je t'aime, Maxime. Je t'aime."

  He stood up and dressed quickly. “Doux rêves, my angel,” he said, turning for one last glance before softly closing the door to her room.

  She lay back and wiped at the tears streaming down her face. Finally, she turned her face into the pillow where his head had lain. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his lingering scent.

  A muffled cry broke the perfect stillness of the night. A shout. Sounds of a scuffle outside her window.

  A single shot rang out. She jumped from the bed and rushed to the window. A broken figure lay on the ground. A widening circle of blood, black in the moonlight, pooled on the cobble stone street below. The world crashed around her. Her cry of agony rent the night. “Maxime!"

  ~ * ~

  Nikki awakened and found herself lying on the sofa in front of the mirror. She set aside the mask and wiped the tears from her eyes. Had she fallen asleep? The last thing she remembered was looking at herself in the mirror. The dream had been so vivid.

  She shivered as she recalled the fervent lovemaking ... so real ... so incredibly sad. Was she going crazy? Maybe all she needed was more sleep. A dream? That's all it was. What a silly fool she was to keep dreaming of a man she could never have. She sighed and returned the mask to its place.

  ~ * ~

  Later the same night, as was her habit, Nikki wrote in her journal. Even in her dreams, she couldn't get away from Max. He was always there. His green eyes haunted her and his softly accented voice seduced her in her dreams, even if reality left a lot to be desired. Quickly, before she lost the phrases, she wrote them down:

  Green eyes and a soft accent

  Forever they plague my dreams

  Striding through my memories

  Leaving my heart with an emptiness

  No other can fill.

  Well, that was a piece of emotional drivel, if she'd seen one. Her journals contained all the miseries, fears and longings of her last ten years. She, who had hated school, would now feel deprived, if time didn't permit her to enter at least a few lines in her journal. It was a comforting routine, and one that allowed her to express the thoughts she could share with no one. In her journal alone, did she admit her desire and love for Max, her rescuer ... her champion.

  “Thank you for the journal, Maman,” she said aloud. “I wouldn't have made it without you."

  Twenty minutes later, she closed the journal, wondering if she would ever have the kind of love real poets wrote about. Would Max ever see her as a woman instead of project?

  Until March when he'd asked her to dinner, she'd never thought it truly possible. But from that moment, she'd started thinking about him non-stop. She couldn't forget the tenderness in his touch. She'd longed for more, but lacked the confidence to act upon her desires.

  Dammit. Max was such a puzzle. How would she ever know if he desired her? Her ‘crush’ remark during dinner had been a test, and his response not what she'd hoped.

  Well, she'd had her chance, and she'd blown it. Now, he was in France with another woman. Mistake or no, Max was not hers, and he never had been. And he hadn't called as he'd promised either.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she brushed them aside. “Wimp,” she said aloud, reaching to extinguish the light. She was a stupid, romantic fool, and there was no getting around it. She punched her pillow into an acceptable shape, hugged it and tried to go to sleep.

  At one o'clock, the telephone chimed. Still awake, Nikki was tempted to let it ring, but her curiosity over who would be calling got the best of her. “Hello?"

  “It's Max.”

  “Max? Is something wrong?"

  “I just wanted to talk to you."

  “Do you know what time it is?” she asked wearily.

  “Désolé. I forgot about the time difference. I'm guessing it's about one, and I've awakened you. I just didn't know who else—No, that's not it. I really wanted to talk to you."

  “Well, I'm flattered, but I hardly think Arianne would appreciate your sentiment."

  “Arianne? What are you talking about? I was thinking, maybe you could fly over and spend some time with me here in Provençe. Maybe we could—"

  “What's the matter? Did you and Arianne have a fight?” Who did he think he was? Calling out of the blue and expecting her to drop everything on the basis of one measly transatlantic phone call.

  “By the way, Jolie fired me this afternoon, so forgive me, if I'm a little unsympathetic to your trials and tribulations right now. I've a lot to sort out here, so I'm a little preoccupied."

  Max chuckled, “Why don't you tell me how you really feel, Nikki? Don't try to consider my feelings. First of all, there is nothing between the Willoughby girl and me. She simply showed up in Paris."

  “That's not what I hear."

  “I mean it, forget her. As for Jolie, I'll take care of her. You're not fired. You're taking this too seriously."

  “Taking it too seriously? I don't have a job. That's pretty serious in most places in the world."

  “Calm down. You're just tired. Neither one of us has had a vacation. Alexa is coming over after her school term. We could have a wonderful time—the three of us.” Max's voice softly caressed her ear.

  Vacation in Provençe with Max? Oh God, is he serious?

  Long practice at hidin
g her feelings enabled her to take a deep breath. She couldn't make decision like that over the telephone. “I'm going to hang up now and go to sleep. I suggest you do the same. We can talk about this tomorrow or next week. Besides, don't give up on your banker's daughter. She'll come back."

  “Nikki.” She could hear the exasperation in his voice. “You're totally off the mark about Arianne, but you're right about one thing. We'll will talk about it soon. Au revoir."

  Soon? Just like he'd called her for dinner soon. “Yes, Max, au revoir."

  Nikki disconnected. “Dammit.” She reached for her pillow and punched it once more. “Who does he think he is?” she asked. He ignores me for two months, then expects me to drop everything and take a vacation. “Who the hell does he think he is?"

  ~ * ~

  “Merde.” Max punched another number on his phone. He'd wasted enough time.

  “Information,” came the response.

  “Air France, s'il vous plait?” He paused, then said, “Merci."

  Seventeen

  Nikki awakened slowly and stretched. Had Max really called her in the middle of the night? Never a morning person, she managed to drag herself from the bed and stagger into the kitchen to start the coffee. While her caffeine fix brewed, she headed for the shower, dropping her Mickey Mouse sleep shirt on the terra cotta tile floor.

  Afterwards, she sipped her coffee, she gazed around the cottage and let her mind's eye enjoy the work she'd done so feverishly when she'd first purchased it. With Marti's not-so-able assistance, she had tiled the kitchen in terra cotta and had hand-painted the sisal rugs herself. There wasn't a decorative element in the room that she hadn't chosen or actually created herself. She'd even painted the wooden cabinets in the kitchen and bathroom, refurbishing them with crystal knobs. The effect was old-fashioned and charming.

  White mosquito netting was casually draped over wooden rods at every window. Pale aqua walls had been ragged with an overlay of cream and white, giving them depth and texture. It made a simple background for a couple of modern paintings and the few objets d'art she carted around with her where ever she lived.

  For five years, the cottage had been her refuge. She would certainly miss its casual comfort more than the city apartment. She stepped into the shower, still wondering, if Max had really called her in the middle of the night?

  ~ * ~

  As Max stepped from the Concorde into the jetway, he gave a hurried glance at his watch. He had made it in record time from the farmhouse in Provençe to Paris in order to catch the Concorde to New York. He rushed toward the luggage carousel, wondering how long it would take him to drive to Martha's Vineyard. He hoped like hell Nikki would be in a better mood.

  He grabbed his single piece of luggage and headed for the car rental counter. Even as he talked with the young woman at the counter, he changed his mind. Two-hundred and fifty miles to Martha's Vineyard. It would take him hours to drive. He walked to the nearest airline counter and asked for the first flight to Boston. Boston was only eighty miles or so from Nikki, a much shorter drive.

  “The flight leaves in fifteen minutes, Mr. Devereaux. You'll have to hurry. The concourse is quite a distance."

  “Merci. I'll hurry.” Max laughed, dashing down the crowded corridor. The moving sidewalk too slow, he dodged happy families, slow-moving senior citizens and one punk rocker and finally ending up at Gate E45. He'd made it, but barely. The steward was closing the gate as he arrived. “Wait!” he shouted and ran through the jetway to catch his flight.

  Throughout the short trip, Max drummed his fingers on his knees. The closer he came to reaching Nikki, the more anxious he became about his reception. This hurried flight across the Atlantic had seemed like a stellar idea in the beginning, but now he felt reckless and more than a little foolish. She might just slam the door in his face—non, she'd never do that, no matter how angry she was.

  ~ * ~

  After her cup of coffee, Nikki pulled on a pair of faded cut-off jeans and a turquoise sports bra. The run would give her some a much-needed exercise ... and time to think.

  She set a brisk pace, feeling her long strides on the sand pull at her calves. She continued for three miles up the beach, her breathing settling into an easy rhythm. At her usual turnaround point, she stopped and walked beyond it for another half mile until she reached an outcrop of rock. She climbed up on the boulder, sat down and watched the relentless waves crashing on the rocks below her. The waves never faltered. They simply were. If she could only be as constant.

  Beads of perspiration formed across her forehead. She wiped them away. It was time find out what Nikki Prentice was really made of.

  Being in the public eye did have its advantages. Only six months earlier at a gallery opening, she'd been approached by a young editor with an intriguing offer. He'd suggested she write her autobiography. Runaway on the Runway was how he'd pitched it. She hadn't taken him seriously at the time, but now the more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. But could she actually write one? One that people would actually plunk down their hard-earned dollars and read?

  Another idea! If the book did well, she could donate a portion of the proceeds to a shelter for street kids—like St. Anne's

  Hold on. Here she was donating the profits before she'd ever put pen to paper. And her own future was damned uncertain. But the more she thought about it, the more appealing the idea became. She could make it happen. She would.

  Ten years before, Max had taken a chance on a street kid. It was time she gave something back.

  ~ * ~

  Max rented a Lexus and drove as if he were taking part in the Gran Prix. But once he reached the ferry to Martha's Vineyard, he was stymied. He smacked the steering wheel with his fist. There didn't seem anything he could do to make the damn ferry move any faster.

  As soon as he drove off the ferry, he zipped down the road toward the south end of the island. All he could think about was finding Nikki. He was damn tired of keeping his distance and playing it safe. At least there were no traffic lights to slow him down.

  After an endless drive, he strode down the crushed shell walkway to Nikki's front door. He knocked on the barn red door.

  No answer.

  There was her sporty red Mercedes parked in the driveway. She had to be home, unless she'd gone out with friends. Mon Dieu, he thought, maybe she's on the beach. He walked around the house and followed another path down to the beach. He glanced in both directions and saw only two small children playing under the supervision of a petite blonde.

  Max waved to draw the woman's attention. “Excuse me, but have you seen Nikki?"

  The woman rose and wiped the sand from her hands onto her jeans. “Was she expecting you?"

  Max smiled and shook his head. “No, I wanted to surprise her. I flew in from Paris this morning. I'm a friend of hers, Max Devereaux."

  “Hi, I'm Tamara,” she said, extending her hand.

  He shook it briefly. Her grip was firm, in spite of her fragile appearance.

  “Let's see, I saw Nikki when she left for her morning run, but I haven't seen her since."

  Alarmed, his muscles tensed, ready to spring into action, he asked, “Do you think she could be injured? Which way did she go?"

  The neighbor shook her head and grinned. “Relax, she often spends the day jogging or walking up and down the beach. Anyway, she headed north this morning, so I imagine you'll find her without any trouble, unless she walked all the way into town. Then she could be anywhere."

  Max nodded. “North?"

  “Yes.” She pointed. “North."

  “Thank you.” He strode away in long purposeful strides, trying not to run. Of course, Nikki was fine. He was anxious for no reason.

  ~ * ~

  As the sun reached toward the western horizon, long shadows formed in front of Nikki. She was suddenly aware of hunger—ravenous hunger. She hadn't eaten all day, and she'd been sitting for the last several hours on a rock that had formed a seemingly permanent
bond with her butt.

  Climbing down from the outcrop, she saw a man running toward her. Even though he was still quite a way off, but the powerful, yet graceful, way he moved reminded her of Max.

  Although her benefactor would be sure to deny it, he walked with a certain swing to his shoulders which proclaimed his self-confidence to all.

  It wasn't just her opinion either. The boss was a favorite topic among the women at the agency. No doubt he'd be mortified if he ever heard the perfection of his butt described. She giggled. Yeah, the boss might just take issue with the female locker room terminology.

  A frisson of uneasiness shimmered down Nikki's neck to her spine. Except for the man, the beach was deserted. She glanced about, then laughed at her own paranoia. Yet better be safe than sorry. She picked up a hefty rock to carry along with her—just in case.

  The man continued jogging in her direction until... “Max?” she called in disbelief and dropped her weapon.

  It really was Max. Damn. The protection she needed couldn't be afforded by a simple rock. Her heart was in danger, not her life.

  “Nikki. Are you all right?” he shouted in return.

  Closer now, she didn't have to shout. “Of course, I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?”

  God, he looks good, she thought, noting his hair hadn't been trimmed in a while. The sleek GQ style he'd sported for the last five years now curled about the front of his ears and on the back his neck. He wore jeans that fit his thighs like a second skin. A lightweight, pale blue, cashmere sweater topped off his jeans. She gave herself a mental nudge—best get her mind off the boss's bod and onto what he was saying.

  “Your neighbor said she hadn't seen you since this morning. I was concerned, unnecessarily, I see."

  She watched his gaze move up and down, then up again. She felt the blood rush to her face. “I must look a sight. I've been sitting on a rock, watching the ocean, thinking."

  “All day?” His tone sounded amused.