Chameleon Page 7

  Max's heart thudded into his chest. Dress. Not "change,"

  "dress." He was paralyzed with the sharp flush of heat her little slip caused in his body, mesmerized by visions of glowing emerald cat eyes.

  Or was her comment some little game, an erotic tease to his one darkened sense?

  His body cooled even as his mind rebelled at the thought. Emma wasn't like that, he told himself with a surprising feeling of tender emotion. During the past days he'd been amazed at the speed with which she had adapted to his routine, instinctively, it seemed. Though he'd accused her, it was unfairly, because he'd never found a single thing out of place, something most sighted people would have found difficult. Yet she'd never complained. She wasn't the type to take advantage like some people he'd known. She was blatantly honest.

  Wasn't she?

  He involuntarily stepped toward her room, feeling as lost as he had those first few months after the accident, as if some necessary tie to reality had vanished. Then his foot nudged into something soft, and he reached down to pick it up. A damp towel, his senses told him. Filled with that unique fragrance. It cleared his fuzzy mind.

  What was he doing? Standing there like some idiot, doubting himself, feeling the awkwardness he'd sworn never to feel again.

  "Damn you, Emma," he muttered, and strode toward his room. He clutched the towel and wished it were her neck he was wringing. "I will not let you do this to me!"

  But if Emma was as honest as he thought, then that would mean she was really—

  He caught himself before he ran into his door.

  Friday morning the radio weatherman cheerfully predicted temperatures in the low hundreds. The air conditioner gave a wheezing gasp and died. Max burned the toast, and Dixie threw up on the carpet.

  It went downhill from there.

  The muggy, hot atmosphere without the air conditioner was as nothing compared to the tense silence that permeated the house. Finally Emma said, "I'm going to decant the oil."

  "Good," Max said shortly. "We're due at the lab tomorrow morning."

  "And you'll dance afterward, right?" She attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding suspiciously like a sob. "The beginning of the end. Max. Your ordeal will soon be over."

  She spun on her heel and missed Max's pain-filled expression.

  Downstairs Emma scooped the mucusy mess out of the oil bath and slammed it into a nearby trash can with enough force to splatter it against the sides. Her heart swelled heavy in her chest, but she fought her silly tears. It was for the best, she told herself. Max didn't need her; he hadn't given one inch. She'd have been better off in prison. At least then she wouldn't have to see Max every day. She wouldn't have his tawny eyes haunt her sleep. She wouldn't have her body awaken every morning burning with unnamed longing.

  In a few days this nightmare would be over. She'd have the money to save her home, and Max would be out of her life forever.

  And she wanted it as badly as he did.

  "How much longer?"

  Emma glanced up from her task. Max stood stiffly on the stairs, defiant and proud, and all she could think about was how tightly his jeans hugged the contours of his thighs, how his tumbled golden hair begged for her fingers to touch it. She looked away. "A couple of minutes. As soon as I finish getting the big pieces out. I'll pour it through this cheesecloth-lined funnel into the flask, and that will be that."

  "Just don't blow up anything."

  Emma's hand slipped on the ceramic dish, and she cursed. "Don't worry, no fire, famine, or flood."

  Max frowned, the fleeting thought that she'd lost her accent failing to pierce the emptiness that had opened inside of him. Nothing he had done had erased her from his mind or his house. No matter how hard he tried, she'd insinuated herself into every nook and cranny of his life, and he didn't know how to combat that.

  She threatened him somehow, and he didn't know why. "Well." he said with forced heartiness. "By Christmas you'll be sitting on top of the world. What are you going to do with your first check, after, of course, you finish your mysterious project."

  "I'll travel, I guess. As far from St. Louis as possib—"

  She cut herself off with a gasp, and Max heard something crash to the floor. His stomach clenched, and he took an involuntary step toward her. "What happened? What's wrong?"

  "Don't touch me," she said. "I dropped the bowl. Happens all the time."

  Shards slammed into metal, and Max went cold. Her voice sounded familiar. He couldn't quite place it, but it stabbed through him like a hot knife. "Are you hurt?"

  She gave a hysterical little giggle. "Me? I'm invulnerable. Max. No weakness here." Her activity ceased. "Did you just say our first check won't come until Christmas?"

  "Of course. I thought you understood that." He frowned in confusion. "The—the market testing takes only a couple of weeks, but the ad campaign, the retail orders, everything takes time. I'm rushing it as it is, usually we work for at least a year on a new fragrance." He gasped. "And you don't have that time, do you?" He stepped to the bottom of the stairs. "Dammit, woman, I'll lend you the money! I'll give you the damn money!"

  "I don't want your 'damn' money. Max. I want nothing from you! Do you understand? Nothing!" She groaned. "You don't understand, do you? But of course you don't, how could you? You have absolutely no concept of what it's like to have others depending on you, do you? Because you don't let anyone get that close! You shut yourself up in this house and chase off anyone who tries to get anywhere near you because then they might see that you're human after all!" She huffed. "Well, let me tell you something. Max, I don't need you. I don't need anyone! I'm perfectly capable of handling anyone or anything without your so-called help. I don't want your charity!"

  With that she brushed past him and pounded up the stairs.

  Max clutched the wooden rail, numb. Now he knew why Emma had sounded so familiar. She'd been as distant as Mars, as cold and unyielding as a glacier. He gulped convulsively.

  She'd sounded just like him.

  Six

  Slumping to her bed, Emma fought her tears. After all she'd gone through, the work, the worry, the unbearable tension between her and Max, she'd failed anyway. She'd done everything wrong from the day she'd set foot in St. Louis.

  And she'd lashed out at Max. All he'd wanted to do was help, but, of course, her pride wouldn't let him. Thanks to her damnable pride, the Machlens would lose the island. Thanks to her conviction that she and she alone could save it, she'd sealed their fate. Because of her stiff-necked independence, she couldn't ask for the help she so desperately needed.

  A cold wave of realization froze the blood in her veins. Her words to Max echoed in her mind.

  "Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, no."

  Her hand flew to her mouth, and her throat tightened. Oh, Lord, what had she done? How could she ever have thought him cold and unfeeling when all he'd ever done was protect himself? She of all people should have understood that!

  Her eyes blurred, and shame flushed her cheeks. Max had challenged the world and won, achieving a success many would deem impossible. Yet he had gone along with her antics, had invited her into his home, though she knew how he felt about her. He wasn't some overbearing egotist, he was a courageous man battling odds that most would consider their worst nightmare.

  What had she done? How could she ever make it up to him?

  She couldn't. She could only apologize, then she'd pack her bags. There was no other alternative. Her stomach twisted in knots at the thought of leaving, of hurting him. She'd really done it this time.

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear the door handle turn. A whisper of sound made her look up as a white rose poked through, followed by Max's hand waving it back and forth. She jumped to her feet, her eyes wide.

  "Truce?" came Max's voice from behind the door.

  Emma gaped at the flower, unable to say a word. What was going on? she thought numbly. He should have stormed up demanding an apology. Instead, he offered peace?


  "Emma?" he called. "Are you in there?"

  "Y-yes, I—I…" Her throat closed on her words, but Max swung the door open and stepped into the room, smiling hesitantly. His blond hair was touseled, his unfocused amber eyes uncertain. He held the trembling rose in front of him.

  "I, uh, didn't have a white flag. Will this do?"

  Emma's tears spilled over to her cheeks, but she ignored them, ignored the possible meaning of his gesture.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered at the same time.

  His smile collapsed into concern. "Oh, Emma." He closed the gap between them, his searching hands finding her easily; his arms closing around her. "I've been a real bastard, haven't I?"

  "You didn't do anything!" she said with a gasp. She wanted to resist his arms, she wanted to deny the comfort he offered, but she couldn't. Her bones seemed to melt, and her head dropped to his shoulder, nestling into the warm terry robe as If it belonged there. "At least nothing that I wasn't doing too. I—I can't let you help me, but here I was madder'n a wet hen because you wouldn't let me help you!" She attempted a poor chuckle. His arms tightened protectively, and her heart dropped to her toes. "It was a low blow, and I had no right to talk to you like that. I just can't get my foot out of my mouth around you."

  "Shh." Max felt his throat burn. He was prepared for anger and indignation, not this. Her shoulders trembled with her tears, and she felt so fragile in his arms, as if the slightest wind would blow her away. But he knew she was strong, stronger than any woman he'd ever known. "I'm the one who should apologize. I never realized how I sounded to everybody else. Lord! I'm amazed no one has shot me down before."

  "How could they?" she said in a choked voice.

  He chuckled, as much to calm himself as her. "I never gave anyone a chance, huh?"

  "That's not what I meant!"

  "I know, Emma. I've never asked for any special favors because I'm blind, but I've been getting them nonetheless, haven't I? I just couldn't admit it." He drew her away and framed her face in his palms as the rose slid to the floor, forgotten. He ached with her pain, especially since he knew he was at fault.

  Resisting the urge to drop a kiss on her lips, he turned to the dresser and fiddled with the various jars and bottles as he spoke. "I didn't stop to try to understand what you were feeling. I could only think how opposite we are. I didn't want to see the similarities. Pride is something I can understand, Emma. Believe me, I do."

  The silence following his soft admission stretched. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked finally.

  "I'm not sure." He abandoned the bottles and turned, rubbing the scar on his forehead. "I'm not making excuses, at least I don't want to. I don't want your pity either."

  "None was offered."

  "I know," he whispered. He stepped toward her, reaching up to gently touch her face. "From the first day I met you I knew that. I guess I wanted to make sure nothing had changed." Her cheeks were wet, and he felt another tear roll onto his thumb. He groaned, his heart twisting. "Don't cry, Emma. I don't need your tears. I—I need your understanding."

  "Me?" Her voice was a breathless, trembly whisper of sound. "Why me?"

  "Because—because you make me see something in myself that I've never seen before. And I don't think I like me very much."

  "I like you," she whispered.

  Her breath warmed his cheek, and he suddenly realized her arms had traveled around his waist. Her body pressed against him, her scent wreathed him with a strange sense of peace that was at distinct odds with his growing arousal. He knew her mouth was mere inches from his, framed by his thumbs. Of their own accord his fingers slid into her hair while his thumbs stroked the contours of her lips. He felt the moment her breathing changed, felt the sharp thud of her heartbeat that echoed his own. He tilted her head and bent toward her, pulled by a wistful yearning for something… something.

  Their lips brushed in a promise of ecstasy that sent him reeling. But he halted, swallowing convulsively. His mouth went dry. "I, uh…" Unable to pin down his vague panic, he pulled away from her and dropped his hands to his side. "Emma, I—I know you're in trouble, and I want to help. You need money. I want to draw up a contract with your company to develop an entire line based on Chameleon. Bath powder, body oil, the works."

  She gasped. "Max, I can't let you do that!"

  "Of course you can!"

  "You've already arranged for production to begin before the results are even in! I haven't even finished distilling the essence I need for a lousy test batch. You can't risk that kind of investment before you know how the perfume will do!"

  He clenched his fists. "Then tell me, Emma. Tell me why you need the money, and maybe we can figure something out."

  Emma drew a shuddering breath. Lord, she wanted to trust him. He had allowed her a glimpse of intense vulnerability, but it was so hard to let him have the same look. Especially as he'd shut down again.

  "It's nothing I can't handle," she said.

  "Don't lie to me, Emma."

  "I don't lie."

  "Dammit!" He raked his fingers through his hair. "You are so stubborn! Can't you admit that maybe, just maybe, this is beyond even your remarkable capabilities?"

  Tears stung her eyes. After his confession she'd wanted only to hold him. Now she wanted to be held. And that was silly. "I don't want your pity either," she whispered.

  He grinned lopsidedly. "None was offered."

  "And I don't want this—this thing between us to cloud your judgment."

  He stiffened. "I've never been distracted by physical attraction, Emma."

  It was more than physical attraction, she thought dazedly, though that was certainly part of it. Her whole body burned with a fire he had ignited. Her breasts ached with the need for his touch, her heartbeat raced with just the memory of his mouth hovering over hers. She couldn't even raise any anger at words that should have hurt her by their offhandedness. Max was protecting himself the only way he knew how.

  She bent to pick up the fallen rose and breathed deeply of its fragrance. Something was happening to her, something awesome and a little scary. She stood on the edge of some vast precipice, and Max had stopped her from falling into it. Why? Why had he denied her that final step? And did she really want to take it?

  She squared her shoulders. The only way to find out was to leap headlong, to stop fighting it. And that began with trust. "In less than sixty days Machlen Island goes on the auction block. Max. Unless I can raise enough money to pay the taxes."

  "Taxes?" He frowned. "Emma, I thought you said your business was doing well. How could something like that happen?"

  "It is doing well. Under normal circumstances we'd be fine." She sighed and sank to the bed. "The trouble started about a year ago. Someone began to set fires on the island. Just little ones. Warning us."

  He crossed the room and sat next to her. "Warning," he repeated, puzzled. "Is someone trying to run you out of business?"

  Emma's hand clenched around the fragile blossom she still held, and she stared blankly at the crushed petals. "Not out of business, off the island. Have you ever heard of Hilton Head? Fripp?"

  He nodded. "Sure. They're little islands developers have made over into resorts for the rich and as meccas for tourists." He gasped. "Fripp is near Beaufort, right?"

  "Give that man a cigar," she muttered.

  "And developers are after Machlen."

  "That's what we think. They approached us to sell several years ago, but it's our home, Max. Our home." She laid the rose gently on her pillow. "The fires didn't work, so a few weeks later someone started poaching. We have a herd of rare deer on the island. We lost three before we decided to give our dogs run of the place. But the worst came about a month ago."

  "When your company wrote to me."

  "Yes. We had a hurricane a few years back, and a tree came down on part of the house. We rebuilt it. Last month we were notified that we had made an improvement and that our property had been reas
sessed at its current market value."

  "Which had escalated drastically because of all the ritzy developments in the area."

  "Exactly." She sighed. "We don't know who began this battle, and we don't know who contacted the state, or if they were bribed. We just know that we have a big chunk of money due."

  "Can't you borrow—"

  "No!" Her stomach tightened. "We've never borrowed money in our lives! One of the reasons I started this company was that—" She bit her lip.

  "Yes?"

  She glanced up, surprised to find understanding on his face. He made no judgments. "My parents are proud people, Max. Most of us have college educations thanks to them, but they wouldn't let us give them anything in return. When the farm failed, the only way any of us could repay them was to find another source of income. Island Organics is it."

  "I see. Now I know where you get it from." His expression softened. "You're an amazing woman, you know that?"

  Her breath caught in her throat. She felt it again, the tugging sensation that seemed to come from his soul, and she leaned toward him. She didn't understand any of it, but she wanted everything from him. "Max," she whispered, and reached to touch him.

  He lost his smile and stood abruptly, grabbing the bedpost as if to steady himself. "I think I have a reasonable compromise, if you'll listen."

  Emma dropped her hand, stinging from his rejection. She wanted everything, and he wanted nothing. "I think you should buy it outright, as I offered in the first place."

  He waved away her suggestion. "Let's not go back to that, all right? I'm not going to take advantage of your difficulty for my gain."

  "Are you sure you're not a Machlen?" she asked with a hesitant smile.

  He shrugged, his brow furrowed in thought. "What if I advanced you the money based on projected sales?"

  "We don't have any projections yet."

  "I do. In my mind."