Intimate Betrayal

Maxwell chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, something like that,” he teased.

Reese impatiently folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Don’t patronize me,” she said in a huff. Her eyes narrowed daring him to challenge her.

He held up his palms in a fending off position. “Sorry,” he apologized with what he felt was just the right amount of sincerity to appease her. She still rolled her eyes.

“Can I interest you in something to eat—to make amends?”

One side of her mouth inched upward as she struggled to keep from smiling. “That’s a start.”

Maxwell turned and stepped through the opening in the sliding door. Reese was on his heels beaming like a Cheshire cat.

Reese sat on one side of the island on a bar stool with her feet wrapped around the rungs watching Maxwell work wonders in the kitchen. Within minutes, mouthwatering aromas permeated the air.

“Smells good,” Reese said, skepticism underscoring her husky voice.

“I’m sure you’ll be quite pleased, Ms. Delaware,” was his pointed reply. He refused to rise to the bait.

She had no intention of letting him off that easy. “So—what are we having?”

“Chef’s surprise.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. “I can see the headlines now,” she spouted, theatrically spreading her hands through the air. “World-famous journalist, Reese Delaware, found poisoned in the posh home of computer wizard, Maxwell Knight.”

“Very funny,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been cooking since my preteen years. Since my father was in the military, we traveled a great deal.” He paused to sprinkle some hand-chopped condiments onto the sizzling wok. “With my stepmother working, I learned how to cook as well as pick up some of the native recipes.”

“What did your father do?”

“Military intelligence,” he scoffed. “Some high-level stuff he never wanted to talk about.”

“Hmm.” Reese let that bit of information sink in. “What about your mother? You mentioned stepmother.”

Maxwell shrugged. “I never knew my birth mother. My father met her when he was stationed in Japan.” He looked down at his handiwork and stirred. “I always felt that it was a part of me that was missing. I never even saw a picture of her.” He chuckled softly and continued as if speaking to himself. “I grew up with these fantasies about her, as if my thoughts could somehow make her real. My father never wanted to discuss her other than to say that she’d died shortly after my birth. I guess that’s why I was so adamant about capturing and understanding that aspect of my heritage. I did my graduate work in Tokyo, learned the language, tried to assimilate into their society.” He sighed. “But it didn’t work. I never felt that I fit in.”

The underlying pain in his voice touched her so deeply she could almost feel his loneliness. “But what about your stepmother?” she asked gently.

“She was there,” he commented in a monotone. “We never really had a relationship. I always sensed that she resented me for some reason. And I could never understand why.” He hesitated before speaking again. “I tried to get to know her, be a good son, but nothing made much of a difference.”

“It’s strange,” she began slowly, “but we have a lot in common. Even though you had parents, they were lost to you, just as my parents are lost to me.” She sighed, casting aside the melancholy. “Where are some of the places you’ve been?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.

“All over Japan.” He briskly stirred the contents in the wok, then turned off the jet. “Parts of Europe, Africa, South America, and the Philippines.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Is that the reason why it’s so important for you to have a place to call home when you travel?”

He turned to look at her, curiosity and a deeper sense of awareness swam in his eyes. “That’s part of it,” he answered softly and turned back to his work, spooning the food onto a platter. Maxwell took a deep breath and let out an inaudible sigh. He struggled to keep from smiling. Just talking to her like a person and expressing his feelings about something so personal to him, actually felt good. It didn’t hurt like he thought it would. She seemed to be able to read him and gauge his feelings. Maybe it was the journalist in her. But a part of him knew better. Reese was a naturally caring and compassionate woman. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to let go and be all that he could be—and he wanted it with her.