salad and you can tell me if you’ve thought about my offer.”
He dismisses me with a casual wave of his hand and I flee the man
cave under the disapproving glare of the assorted forest animals. How
can I turn him down? He is almost guaranteeing me a scholarship and
my student loan payments would be put on hold until I finish medical
school. Problem solved.
So why does it feel so wrong?
Five hours, no Max and no answers later, I sling my pack over my back
and head into the parking lot. Thank God the day of horribleness is over.
Now I can go home, have a bath, and cry. Not necessarily in that order.
“Makayla.”
Squinting into the sun, I catch the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered
man in a suit standing in front of a sleek, black limo. Familiar. He closes
the distance between us, and holds out a hand. Broad palm, elegant
fingers. I know those fingers.
Max.
Max in clothes.
My heart pounds in my chest. Max in his leathers is hot. Max in
his fight shorts is scorching. Max in an elegant black suit, blue shirt,
and striped silk tie sets my blood on fire. The tailored cut of his jacket
molds to his broad shoulders and emphasizes his narrow waist and lean
hips. He looks mature, sophisticated, and powerful. I can imagine him
hammering out deals in boardrooms, escorting movie stars to parties,
and running his successful company.
What the hell does he want with me?
My mouth goes dry and my feet refuse to move. Max stops only a
foot away. He smells of citrus cologne and ever so faintly of coffee.
“What’s wrong?” He frowns and wipes away a tear I didn’t even
know was on my cheek.
“Wow.” I try for a light, joking tone but in my depressed state, my
voice comes out flat. “You clean up well. I’ve never seen you in…well,
clothes. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
His face tightens. “You aren’t going to distract me. Why were
you crying?”
The sympathy in his voice makes me want to lean into him and
bare my soul. But I don’t want him to think I’m asking for anything,
especially after what he told me outside the club. I don’t need his help.
I’ll figure it out on my own.
“Nothing. Just a bad day at work. It happens.”
His eyes darken, and he wipes another tear from my cheek. “Did
someone bother you?” His chest puffs up and his biceps twitch. “Tell
me who it is and—”
“It’s okay, Max.” I pat his arm. “I’m just going home to wallow in
self-pity. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Max shakes his head. “You have to eat first. Self-pity is better on a
full stomach. Let me take you for dinner.”
Hmmm. Instant noodles alone in my apartment or a hot, cooked
meal with GQ model Max in a restaurant. Not really a choice. More like
a foregone conclusion.
I take his hand. “Lead the way.”
We climb into the air-conditioned interior and my mood immedi-
ately improves. “Same limo as before?” I run my hand over the butter soft,
beige leather seat and check out the situation: television, small bar fridge,
seating for eight, laptop, privacy glass, Internet port. All looks the same.
Max chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint. I only need one.” He presses
the button on the intercom. “Lewis, we’re going to Bianco Nero, but
first we’ll visit Eva.”
“Bianco Nero? The ritzy Michelin-starred restaurant?” My voice
rises and trembles. “I can’t go there in jeans and a T-shirt. Do you know
the kind of people who go there? Certainly not the likes of me. I was
thinking of something more casual.”
Max cups my face in his hands and turns me to face him. “Yes,
the likes of you. Exactly the likes of you. With me. And I would never
put you in a situation where you would feel uncomfortable. I have the
dress-code issue all sorted out.”
“What does that mean?”
Max’s lips quirk into a smile and he takes my hand and twines his
fingers through mine. “You’ll see. Now relax.”
Relax? In a limo beside a man who now looks so far out of my
league I shouldn’t be able to see him?
We sit in silence while Lewis expertly navigates the traffic. I sigh
and twist my ring around my finger as I anticipate yet another humiliat-
ing inappropriate clothing experience. Max lets my hand go and puts
his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest.
“Relax, baby. Trust me.”
Baby. He called me baby. Warmth ripples through my body and I
drift on happiness clouds until the limo pulls to a stop.
Lewis dashes out of the vehicle and holds open the door as we step
out onto the sidewalk outside an exclusive boutique in Rockridge. My
contentment vanishes like a thief in the night.
Max clasps my hand and leads me to the door. My tension flares to
life. “I can’t buy anything here. I can tell just by looking at the six items
of clothing in the window. I probably can’t even afford to buy a tissue
in this place.”
Max presses a buzzer and the door is opened by an exquisite, darkly
exotic woman with long, black hair.
“Eva.”
“Max.” She doesn’t even wait for us to step inside before she throws
her arms around him. Her expensively clothed, toned body presses up
against him. Long, dark lashes flutter down over her perfectly smooth,
honey-colored cheeks.
“It’s been so long,” she breathes through plump, rouged lips.
Jeez. Not again. He’s really pushing his “I’m a one-woman man”
promise to its limits.
“Ahem.”
Max pulls away. “Makayla this is Eva. She’s an old friend.”
We exchange greetings and Eva excuses herself to get things ready.
I sigh and walk over to the rack as I contemplate how Eva can run a
business with only six items of stock.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s very…friendly. And she appears to be more your type. She
could probably afford to buy the clothes she sells. I can’t.”
“You are my type,” he says, emphasizing each word. He cups my
jaw and strokes my cheek with his thumb. “And I want to buy you
something you would feel comfortable wearing to Bianco Nero. You
don’t have to worry about the cost.” His voice drops to a soothing
murmur and I lean in to the touch of his hand.
“I don’t need you to buy my clothes, Max. If you take me home I’m
sure I have something I can wear.”
He pulls me close and kisses me lightly on the forehead. “You are
a beautiful woman and I want to buy you something beautiful to wear.
Let me have that small pleasure.”
Am I so heartless I would deny a man the small pleasures in his life?
Of course not. I’m altruistic to the core. “Okay. You win.”
Max settles himself in a gilded throne-like chair and pulls out his
fancy phone. Eva hands me a tiny piece of green, sparkly material. “It
will be perfect,” she breathes. “It matches your eyes and will highlight
your beautiful curves.”
I give her a tight smile. “I’m not really a
scarf person.”
Eva laughs, a light, musical sound, so unlike my snorts and guffaws
when I really get going. “It’s not a scarf. It’s a dress.”
I unfold the flimsy material. No way is this going over my rolls.
Even if I do find a way to get it on, no doubt I will immediately
shred it with the jagged edge of my freshly chewed fingernails. My
eyes flick to Eva and back to the dress. “Do you have anything
more…substantial?”
Eva trills another laugh and leads me to a tiny, curtained alcove.
Clearly, normal people do not shop at this store. I cannot move without
brushing open the soft, beige cotton curtains, much less strip off and
slide on the handkerchief without revealing things best kept hidden.
“He’s not watching,” she whispers. “Take off your clothes and I’ll
help you put it on.”
Still doubtful, I close my eyes and prepare for a snicker when I pull
off my shirt.
Nothing. I crack open an eye. Eva is staring at my jeans. Or maybe
she’s contemplating my muffin top and how many scarves will be
needed to hide it.
“Jeans, too,” she says, without a hint of humor.
Maybe she’s seen worse. Taking a breath, I strip down to my bra
and panties. At least they match and it isn’t my granny pants time of
the month. “Do you have any foundation or support garments? Maybe
a Spanx bodystocking?” I whisper. “I don’t think this dress is going to
adequately hide my…whole self.”
Eva slides the dress over my head. “You don’t need any. You have a
beautiful body. You should show off your curves, not hide them.”
Like she would know. Whenever she turns sideways, she almost
disappears. “I don’t want to hide them, just smooth them out. I’m going
for the loaf look instead of the muffin top.”
Ignoring me, Eva makes a few adjustments and hands me a death-
defying pair of matching stilettos. I don’t know much about shoes, but
the simple, elegant, emerald encrusted stilts do something miraculous to
my legs. Suddenly, I have some. She pulls out my ponytail holder, fluffs
my hair, and gives me the fastest makeover I’ve ever had. Then she pulls
back the curtain and I step out into the arena.
I bite my lip and hold my breath. Max is focused on his space-age
communicator, no doubt sending secret messages to galactic emperors
with thin and sophisticated daughters. Eva clears her throat and he
looks up. His eyes rake over my body and his mouth curls into a smile.
“You look beautiful.”
My cheeks flame, but it is a pleasant burn.
“Turn around.” His low, husky voice sends a tremor through
my body.
I spin and catch sight of myself in the mirror beside the changing
room. What the hell? Where’s my muffin top? The woman in the mirror
is tall and elegant. The sheer, sparkly dress gives her curves to rival even
Pinkaluscious. Dark, thick eyelashes frame rich, emerald green eyes, and
the rosy tinge on her cheeks brings out the color of her ripe, pink lips.
And her legs take no prisoners.
“Look at me,” I breathe. I twist and turn in front of the mirror. Even
my bottom looks succulent. No wonder rich people always look so good.
“I’m looking, baby, and I like what I see.” He turns to Eva, who has
the self-satisfied smile of a woman who is just about to make a whole
lot of money. “Do you have something she can wear if she gets cold?”
Eva hands him a matching piece of material and Max stands
behind me and wraps it around my shoulders. “Maybe this wasn’t
such a good idea,” he murmurs. “I’ll be too distracted beating off your
admirers to talk.”
I smile and look up at us in the mirror—his tall broad body envel-
oping me like a blanket. “I guess I’ll have to go myself then. I wouldn’t
want to waste all Eva’s effort.”
The low rumble of Max’s voice carries through the confined space.
“You’re not going anywhere without me.”
Chapter 9
You're Different
An hour later, we arrive at Bianco Nero. Still reeling over the price
of the dress and shoes, I ease myself carefully out of the car and allow
Max to assist me across the sidewalk. One brush against the wrong
surface or one misstep, and five thousand dollars will be down the drain.
I should have told him I have a tendency to be less than coordinated.
The manager races out to fawn over Max and ushers us inside. My
eyes dart from side to side seeking a flash of color in the cavernous
room, but everything is decorated in white—even the staff. I am a bril-
liant green paint smudge in the middle of an otherwise perfect canvas.
“Are you sure this is a restaurant?” With only twenty tables in a
space that could easily accommodate one hundred, and no one speaking
above a hushed whisper, the place has the feel of a modern art gallery,
and we are the art.
Max laughs. “It was designed that way. The idea is to keep the focus
on the food.”
Food sounds good. After the disaster of a lunch, my stomach is
protesting the lack of sustenance at an increasingly loud volume.
Our waiter for the evening is small, thin, and blond with a narrow
face and the tiniest mouth I have ever seen. He introduces himself as
Brad, and his dark, cold eyes flick over me dismissively as if he knows I
don’t belong. Brad plods through the fixed price menu in a nasal mono-
tone. After two minutes, Max interrupts him and excuses himself to
take a call. The second Max is out of earshot, Brad stops his monologue
and stares at me with sudden intensity.
I swallow hard. “Is there a problem, Brad?”
“You’re different.”
“Different as in I’ve got two heads, or different as in I’ve changed
since we last met, which I’m sure was never?”
“Definitely different.” He purses his tiny lips and tilts his head to
the side.
I can’t tell if Brad’s comment is an insult or a compliment. Maybe
I should let Max know that Brad thinks I’m different and ask him what
he thinks. I suspect Max wouldn’t give Brad the benefit of the doubt.
Wouldn’t that be fun? For me. Not for Brad.
Max takes his seat and Brad finishes his menu monologue with a
smile. He has such a tiny smile. I’m not sure if he even has teeth.
I excuse myself and go to the restroom. I can’t get Brad’s comment
out of mind. I’m pretty sure he means I clearly don’t belong. My eyes
water and I dab them with a tissue. Maybe I could pretend I’m ill and
ask Max to take me home. No. Damn it. I won’t give Brad the satisfac-
tion. I redo my makeup, but I can’t hide my red eyes.
“Something wrong?” Max asks when I return to the table.
“No. I’m good.”
Max frowns, but before he can question me further, Brad returns
with a tiny shot glass filled with pink froth.
Dear God, please don’t let this be the appetizer or I will pass out from
hunger. “What is this?”
Max takes a sip. “Salmon mousseline. It’s an amuse-bouche. A
taster. Something to tease you
r taste buds and get your palate ready for
the meal.”
I down my amuse-bouche like a shot of tequila. Bitter, fishy, and
frothy. My mouth is not amused.
The sommelier arrives. I am at a restaurant with a sommelier. My
mom, the wine buff, would think she had died and gone to heaven.
Good thing Max seems to know a thing or two about wine. I suspect
there is no “House White” at Bianco Nero.
Our first wine, a Meursault, is soft, smooth, and buttery and totally
unlike any white wine I’ve ever had. An orgasm for my tongue. Every
sip makes me shiver. I sip. I sip. I sip some more. I have heard about
multiple orgasms but never experienced them. If the wine is any indica-
tor, I’ve been missing out.
Max excuses himself again to make a call. He leaves his phone on
the table. As I contemplate what he might be doing, I guzzle down the
rest of my wine. I’m ruined for house whites forever.
A few minutes later, Max returns and takes his seat. Brad reap-
pears. Disappointingly, he doesn’t have any wine in his hand. His face is
white, and his dark eyes are wide. He blends in perfectly with the decor.
“I apologize if I offended you Ms. Delaney. That wasn’t my inten-
tion.” He looks at Max. Max gives him a curt nod.
My stomach clenches. “Thanks Brad. I wasn’t offended. Just suffering
from a bad case of self-doubt and an overprotective dining companion.”
Brad gives me a weak smile and races back to the kitchen.
My lips press into a thin line. I raise an eyebrow and glare at Max.
“If I wanted you involved, I would have asked. I had it under control.”
Max glides his thumb along my bottom lip and my mouth opens to
his touch. “He upset you. He’s lucky to be standing. No one will hurt
you when I’m around…in any way.”
Tiny, warm quivers race through my body. Mmm. I like a protec-
tive alpha-male, but his actions were a bit over the top. No way am I
going down that road. I know where it leads.
“You can’t strong-arm everyone who ruffles my feathers,” I say.
“Sometimes it’s a misunderstanding. Sometimes a person is having a
bad day. Only rarely are people purposely nasty. I get hurt. I try to
understand. I move on.”
Max’s eyes darken with emotion. “You’re wrong, baby. The world
is filled with cruel, nasty people. They think nothing of taking a life,
Against the Ropes Page 12
