Simply The Best

by Denyse M. Bridger

  "Neither do I, Max,” she said, voice cool with feigned composure.

  Max handed his rifle to Tommy, then walked over to stand directly in front of her. He touched her face, and she tilted her head to one side, fingers moving up to skim his partially gloved hands. Max bent to kiss her, a soft, lingering caress that she returned gently.

  "I came to say good-bye,” she told him. “I'll be home in about a week."

  "Where are you going?” There was genuine demand in his voice, and his deep brown eyes gleamed with annoyance at her unanticipated announcement.

  "New York,” she supplied, her absent smile directed at Nick and Kevin, who'd just come into the center and waved greetings at her.

  "New York! Why in hell didn't you tell me this earlier?"

  She met the anger in his eyes and controlled her reflexive irritation.

  "When, precisely?” She countered quietly. “I didn't know myself until last night. I was planning to tell you, but you didn't get in until three o'clock; and you weren't in the mood for chatting,” she added pointedly. “This morning Carter called before eight, and you were gone shortly after."

  "Why are you going to New York?” Max asked.

  "I'm going to make a multi-million dollar presentation for Design Central,” she told him. “Don't you ever listen to me when I'm telling you stuff like this?"

  "I listen, Kaylee!"

  "Then you know this is important for the company. I need to go, Max,” she concluded with forced patience. She did not want to be having this discussion with him when he was clearly preparing for a mission, but timing was working against them—again. She knew better than to ask him where he was going; Baldwin's call had been all the warning she'd needed to know that the elite group was being sent somewhere that might result in their being killed.

  "Kaylee, for God's sake!"

  "I'll see you next week,” she repeated, and leaned up to kiss him. Despite her awareness of his team members, she wrapped her arms around his neck and made the caress a long, passionate, desperately loving kiss. “Be safe, Max,” she whispered, acutely conscious of the fact that she might be seeing him for the last time. She eased free of his arms and stared at each of them in turn.

  "Look after each other,” she murmured, then spun away.

  "Kaylee?"

  She was at the foot of the stairs when his voice stopped her again.

  "Call me in three days."

  "I will."

  She'd gone only a few steps when she stopped and turned back, unable to leave without looking one last time at him. Max smiled up at her, dark eyes warm and reassuring despite the mission he was concentrating on. Before he could say anything, she sprinted up the stairs, leaving him with the fleeting images of shapely legs, streaming brown hair, and too-bright eyes.

  "Max?"

  Marg's voice intruded, brought him back to his work with a jolt. He banished feelings to a place in his mind that wouldn't interfere with his work, then went back to concentrating on the mission they'd been given.

  * * * *

  "Can I come in?"

  Marg's eyebrows rose and she stepped aside to let him come into her apartment. She followed him through to the small, orderly living room. He walked straight to the bar, poured a generous shot of whiskey, swallowed it, then poured another. This time, he held it between hands that shook ever so slightly.

  "What's wrong, Max?"

  "I need to talk to you. About Kaylee,” he answered after a brief pause.

  Marg hid her surprise and nodded, coming into the room to join him. He sat on the couch, and she curled into a chair opposite him.

  "Is she back from New York?"

  He nodded.

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing,” he shrugged broad shoulders and stared at the amber liquid that swirled within the cut crystal glass he held. “I went to the office, waited, and she walked away from me when I tried to talk to her."

  Marg's surprise was evident this time.

  "Carter was fairly certain she was all right,” Marg offered weakly.

  His glare was potentially lethal, and she waited for him to control his anger. He rose and the wrath-filled agitation began to bleed out of him with motion.

  "I thought we were past this, Marg,” he said eventually, after pacing her living room several times. “I never should have agreed to stay an active part of the unit."

  Marg smiled.

  "You didn't make any effort to tell her, did you?"

  Anger sparked the brown depths of his eyes, then he nodded, accepting the truth of her observation.

  "Kaylee's a lot more complicated than you realize, Max,” she said gently. “She's not just another pretty woman passing through your life. She's intelligent, and almost too sensitive to you. She knew you'd never be content to let the rest of us take risks you weren't going to take yourself. She told T.J. as much."

  "T.J.!” he muttered. “T.J. and I are going to have a long talk, too, if I can ever find him!"

  "T.J. is her soul mate, Max,” Marg laughed. “It doesn't make a helluva lot of sense, but he's got insight into her that baffles me. She should belong to him, not you."

  "Is that supposed to make me feel better, Marg?” Max asked sarcastically.

  Marg's look chided silently.

  He relented with a shrug.

  "You have to talk to her about all this, not me,” Marg advised quietly.

  "I just don't know what the hell is going on!” he erupted in fury. “One day everything's fine, then she's shutting down on me and I can't reach her."

  "You need to give her some time, and some space,” she informed him with icy composure. “She'll work it through in her own way.” Marg went to him, touched his arm and smiled, irony in the expression. “You spend so much of your time treating Kaylee Masterson like your favorite plaything, you forget that there's more to her than the passion you incite."

  "I don't treat Kaylee like..."

  "Yeah, Max,” Marg interjected softly, firmly. “You do."

  "T.J. said pretty much the same thing."

  Marg shrugged one shoulder delicately.

  "And you resent the hell out of that, don't you?” Marg whispered. “You want my opinion?” He nodded. “You're lucky it's not me you're dealing with; I'd have shot you ages ago for being such an insensitive jerk."

  He actually gaped at her, and she grinned.

  "If you want my advice, find her and talk to her, Max. Don't charge in and sweep her off to the nearest bedroom. Talk to her."

  "You didn't see the way she looked at me this afternoon,” he remarked dryly.

  Marg smiled.

  "No, I didn't,” she agreed, then added very seriously, “and you didn't hear her when she thought you were going to die right in front of her."

  The observation hung between them for several moments, then he bent and kissed her forehead.

  "Thanks, Marg."

  She saw him to the door and watched him as he jumped into his car and roared off into the night.

  "Think he'll listen to you?"

  Marg shut the door and turned to smile at Tommy, who was leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom, dressed in a towel that barely wrapped around his waist. She shrugged.

  "If he wants to hold on to her, he's going to have to change the way he deals with things."

  Tommy's eyebrows rose and he laughed softly.

  "I don't think the Commander's gonna have an easy job persuading her of anything this time,” he observed.

  "I think you're right,” Marg agreed, her eyes clouding with regret. “We should have told him ages ago,” she continued once she'd reached him and slipped into his embrace.

  "He should have told her himself,” Tommy corrected, then forestalled any further conversation about their boss by kissing her thoroughly, and leading her back toward the bed.

  * * * *

  Kaylee poured another glass of wine and stared out at the crashing surf. The buzz in her head had ceased, replaced by welcome numbness. She fel
t nothing, completely devoid of pain or pleasure; just calm, controlled order within her mind. Freedom. It had taken all day to achieve this state of tranquility, and she wondered if she'd be able to maintain it when morning came.

  She'd spent years in this uncomplicated limbo state of serenity; and it had worked well throughout her life. She needed to find it and hold it again now. Grief was as familiar as breathing to her, and that knot of anguish was tidily stored in a deep recess of her mind, carefully hidden away from her immediate scrutiny. She'd examine that particular agony some day when it no longer mattered quite so much.

  She downed the wine and peered intently at the empty glass.

  "We need to talk."

  Ice trickled down her spine, and pooled. It froze into a lump of panic within the space of several heartbeats.

  "Go away, Max,” she finally managed, surprising herself with the lack of emotion in the words.

  "No."

  She actually laughed at the simple, direct refusal.

  "I don't have anything to say to you, sweetheart,” she informed him, finally daring to look at him when he dropped to the sand in front of her. The lights from her patio barely reached them, but the golden glow gave enough illumination that she was able to see the stubborn set of his jaw.

  "No?” he mocked softly. “Seems to me you have a lot that needs to be said. I'm listening.” He moved, sat beside her, and kept a watchful eye on her highly unpredictable mood.

  "Apparently not,” she denied with exaggerated sweetness. “I said ‘go away’ and you're still here."

  He smiled.

  "You're drunk."

  She smiled happily.

  "So I am,” she agreed. “Go away."

  "I want to talk."

  She shrugged.

  "Find someone who wants to listen. I'm tired, Max."

  "So am I."

  "Just leave me alone, please? We've been here too many times. There's nothing left. Not that there was much to begin with, of course,” she added with a hint of bitterness. “God, I've been so stupid it's almost laughable."

  "Why?"

  "Thinking we could be anything more than a casual diversion for you,” she answered with a seriousness that made him want to shake her. She saw the thought in his eyes and smiled. “I infuriate you, don't I, Max?"

  "Sometimes,” he conceded. “Right now you're doing a damn good job of confusing the hell out of me."

  "What is there to be confused about?” she queried. “It's over. That's pretty straight-forward."

  "Why is it over?"

  "Because I want my freedom, Max,” she replied, and her eyebrows rose at his astonishment. “That shocks you? Why? Because I always cling to you so desperately?"

  "I've never seen you clinging to me, Kaylee,” he said quietly. “And what's between us goes way beyond casual."

  "There's nothing between us, Max,” she objected. “Don't you see that? Won't you see that? You'll never let me be more to you than a warm body at night.” She stared outward for a few moments, then hugged her knees to her chest. She leaned forward, and twisted her head to look at him. “You know me in ways no man's ever known me, Max Richmonte. But you don't know me at all. Did T.J. tell you to talk to me?"

  "Marg,” he answered with wry honesty. “I couldn't get hold of T.J."

  "And that doesn't suggest to you that we have nothing to talk about?” she laughed weakly.

  "Listen, Kaylee,” he snapped in irritation. “I've been running around in circles since last week. I'm not real happy about it, but I'm trying my best to understand why you're suddenly shutting me out of your life."

  "You're not really in my life, Max,” she retorted. “Well, really, I'm not in yours."

  "What's that supposed to mean?” he asked sharply, answering the accusation in her tone more than her words.

  "What do we have in common outside of a bedroom, Max?” she wondered, eyes huge and luminous in the growing moonlight.

  "The fact that we love each other!"

  "Why do we love each other?” she countered softly. “It doesn't seem to be our genuine understanding of each other. So what is it? Sex? That's never been an issue. We have great sex. Hardly the basis of a meaningful relationship, is it?"

  "It's more than some people have,” he snarled, furious at her dismissal of his sudden vulnerability. The admission that he loved her had not come easily to him from the start, and each time it was voiced, he felt exposed and vaguely afraid of the power it gave her.

  "You scare me, Max,” she told him with heartbreaking simplicity. Her voice finally betrayed her pain and tears, and she glanced hastily away.

  "Scare you?” He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He touched her back, long fingers splayed across the smooth curve as he tangled strands of silky hair into his grasp. “You can't be serious."

  "Don't, Max,” she requested, pulling away from any physical contact with him, however innocent. “I...” she tried again after a gasp for breath. “I can't be on the outside of your life, Max,” she sobbed loudly, angry at herself for losing control of her emotions. “And I know damn well that I can't be part of it!"

  "You can,” he disagreed. “Hell, you are! I have no secrets from you, Kaylee,” he implored as he held her face and made her see him. “Not anymore."

  "You don't even know me, Max!” She almost shouted in frustration. “I'm a glorified interior decorator! You're a soldier, a mercenary! That's like James Bond and the local librarian!"

  He grinned at the comparison, unable to not respond to the unintentional humor. She stared for an instant then laughed herself.

  "We've already been through this.” She stood and bent to retrieve the wine bottle and her glass. Max already had them in his hands, and was waiting for her to precede him back to the house.

  "Not yet we haven't,” he murmured as she walked ahead of him.

  Kaylee went straight through to the shower, and Max stayed in the kitchen. He put on a pot of coffee, and located her favorite herbal tea. When she came back into the room twenty minutes later, he was seated at the table, coffee mug in front of him, and her tea and some dry toast was placed opposite his seat. She smiled and sat.

  "I thought you'd be gone back to the bar,” she commented quietly.

  "I told you we needed to talk,” he reminded her. “We've still got a lot to cover."

  She took a sip of the tea and smiled. “Thank you, Max. This is nice."

  He grinned. “You're the not the best drinker I've ever met,” he teased.

  "Why is talking so important to you all of a sudden?"

  "You're trying to leave me, and I'm not going to let that happen.” He looked intently at her, drank some of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting over her. “I do love you, Kaylee,” he said, needing for her to know that without doubt.

  She nodded.

  "This isn't really about love, is it, Max?” She took a bite of the toast, chewed, and swallowed, her eyes never leaving his. “I spend a lot of time walking around in my own fantasy of what we're all about. In a lot of ways, it's safer than looking at it realistically. You're my lover, my friend, and my hero. Then I ask myself precisely what I can be to you. It never balances."

  "You're my lover, my friend, and my sanctuary,” he replied, choosing her whimsical word play to answer her the most honest way he could. “What doesn't balance?"

  "You almost sound like actually you need me,” she smiled, forcing down the lump in her throat.

  "I do,” he stated firmly. “Why can't you believe that?” He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm, never loosing eye contact.

  "You've known a lot of women in your life, Max. I watch them fall all over themselves trying to get your attention. I don't know how to stop feeling threatened and that worries me. I've never been that way. God knows my ex was never the type to flirt with every pretty woman he met, and that seems as natural as breathing to you."

  "You don't flirt?” he challenged.

  "N
ot consciously,” she said, uncertain. “Do I?"

  He laughed, wholeheartedly, for the first time that evening.

  "I guess not,” he said when his mirth had subsided. “It's my imagination that men like T.J., Tommy, or even Kevin, are ready to jump to your defense without provocation. You and Marg have a way of playing a guy without even knowing you're doing it."

  "Sometimes we know it, Richmonte,” she retorted sweetly. She yawned widely, then smiled at him, sheepish. The wine was making her sleepy. “I'm tired. Can we finish this conversation tomorrow?"

  He finished his coffee, cleared the table and started to follow her into the bedroom.

  "The guest room is at the end of the hall,” she pointed in that direction.

  Max stared at her.

  "You want me to use the guest room?” He couldn't believe she was serious.

  "I need to think, Max,” she replied. “I can't do that with you lying next to me."

  "If you can't think with me beside you, that's a pretty clear message,” he stated, annoyance in his tone.

  "The guest room or your apartment,” she shot back instantly. “You decide. But it's not going to be my bed tonight."

  "Why don't I just use the guest room?” he said, sarcasm and irritation screaming from his voice.

  An hour later, he was still punching the pillows and trying to get comfortable. He finally settled on his back and stared up at the ceiling. This house was his home. And Kaylee was his, body and soul. He did know that, despite her recent behavior toward him. Gritting his teeth, he flung back the bedclothes and got up. He was not going to sleep in the damn guest room!

  He walked down the short corridor to the master bedroom and went inside. She never closed the door, and he stood there for a moment, watching her. The moon had risen and its silvery light filtered through the sheer curtains at the French doors. She was turned away from him, long trails of dark hair spilling over the pillows, smooth, ivory sheets gathered at her waist.

  She was asleep, however lightly. Max went to the bed and slipped in beside her. She turned immediately and he looked at her.

  "I'm staying.” Before she could say anything, he slid closer, draped an arm around her and snuggled into her back when she resettled.

  "This isn't fair, Max,” she whispered eventually.