Intimate Betrayal

She’d barely slept two hours the entire night. She’d tossed, turned, leaped up in a sweat, dozed and began the process again.

Her hands were shaking when she attempted to stroke her lashes with mascara. “Must be those five cups of coffee you drank in less than an hour,” she muttered to her reflection, attempting to smile.

Pressing her lips together, she shut her eyes and hung her head, bracing herself with her palms against the cool white porcelain sink. Her head pounded.

It had been three years since she’d had the nightmares. The headaches had all but disappeared. She no longer had to take the prescription medication for the pain; over-the-counter painkillers worked just fine. Until last night. The pain had gotten so intense, she’d had to call her physician in Chicago to phone in a prescription to the all-night drugstore.

She tasted salt in the corner of her mouth. She opened her eyes to see the tears slide slowly down her cheeks. “Not again,” she whispered. “Please not again.”

Maxwell knotted his silk tie and clipped it to his blue pin-striped shirt with a gold clasp bearing his initials: MJK. He took a final look in the mirror, his reflection bringing to the forefront his mixed ancestry. He peered a bit closer and brushed his finger across his left eyebrow where a martial arts mishap had left its mark.

He breathed heavily and shrugged into his jacket. The look of the corporate executive never suited him, but he also realized that it was all part of the facade. Although he always felt more comfortable in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, he’d always done what was necessary to fit in. Thinking that perhaps by doing so, he’d avoid the extra looks, the questions that had dogged him most of his life.

Maxwell was never ashamed of his mixed Japanese and African-American heritage. For the most part, his exotic looks acted as a magnet, drawing people to him. It was the questions, raised eyebrows, and murmurs of feigned understanding that bugged him the most. He couldn’t answer the questions about his natural mother. He never knew her. According to James Knight, his father, his mother Suki had been killed in Japan shortly after his birth. James had married his stepmother, Claudia, some months later. And since Maxwell could not answer the questions about his Japanese mother, he’d created a picture of her to assuage the missing link of his life.

Over time, he’d gradually built up a wall around himself, keeping people and questions at bay. Yet there was a part of him that believed there was more to the story than his father cared to divulge.

He shook his head, scattering his ruminating. Now was not the time to indulge in things he could not change. So he continued to walk the line between being black and being Japanese, hoping that one day the two worlds would somehow meld into one.

Leaving his bedroom, he collected his keys and briefcase and walked out into the warm, early summer morning to face his day and the probing of Reese Delaware, a day he’d spent years trying to avoid.

Reese was already seated in the reception area when he got off the elevator. She was so engrossed in typing something onto her laptop computer, she didn’t even look up, apparently unaware of his arrival. For a moment, he was glad to see her in her bright lime green linen suit. She wore her hair differently, he noted. Her shoulder-length tresses were pulled away from her face and neck and piled on top of her head in a tumble of jet black curls.

Then, just as quickly as the moment of joy had filled him, it was replaced with the realization that her only purpose was to dig into his life. His smooth brow creased into a frown. Loudly, he cleared his throat. Her head snapped up. Their eyes connected and the charge popped back and forth between them.

“Good morning. Glad to see you’re an early riser,” he greeted. He turned abruptly and strode down the hall to his office, his gait smooth and measured.

Reese took an exasperated breath and snapped her laptop shut. Collecting her things from the seat next to her, she rose and followed him down the corridor to his office. “Why did you come in through the peon entrance? You do have a private elevator,” Reese queried in a taunting note, quickening her pace.

Maxwell pressed his palm on the scanner and stepped beyond the opened doors. “I’m in the habit of taking a quick run through of my facilities before I settle in for the day, if you must know, Ms. Delaware,” he grumbled in a caustic tone. He opened the door to his office.

“I have a very full day today, Ms. Delaware.”

“Are we back to formalities so soon?” she retorted, closing the door behind her.

He turned toward her, and his heart slammed hard against his chest. “Habit,” he offered, knowing that his real reason was the threat of intimacy. Calling her by her first name personalized her, softened her, took her from being a prying journalist to a breathtaking woman. A situation he had no intention of indulging.

Reese shrugged. “Suit yourself, Max.” Meandering across the room, she took real note of her milieu. Maxwell Knight surrounded himself with an eclectic blend of Asian and African art.

His desk was of black lacquer, embossed with intricate jade and gold carvings along its edges. To the far left was a low wooden table surrounded by four pillows covered in brilliant African prints of oranges, golds and bronzes. Above the arrangement, hanging on the wall were two frightening looking swords, with black and gold handles and blades crafted from the finest steel. They glistened menacingly in the sunlight. On the opposite wall, beyond the partition that housed his drafting table, was an enormous wall unit of black lacquer and glass that encased an array of hand-carved statues and artifacts, including a set of African counting sticks. And then there was the bookcase that contained volume upon volume of every imaginable type of literature. Yes, Maxwell Knight was a very interesting man indeed, but it would take all of her skills and whatever else she needed to crack through the veneer he’d painted over himself.

“What’s on our agenda?” She took a seat, and pulled a notepad from her briefcase.

“I have a meeting with the R & D techs—the Research and Development technicians,” he corrected, noting the puzzled look on her exquisite face, “at ten.”

“Will you be discussing the computer chip?”

“Yes, it’s part of the meeting,” he answered tersely, avoiding her steady amber gaze.

Reese nodded and made a note. “Will it be a problem if I bring a tape recorder into the meeting?”

Maxwell’s head snapped in her direction. “I don’t recall inviting you, nor do I recall your asking to attend.”

“Consider it asked,” she tossed back, glaring at him.

“Fine,” he conceded on a growl deep in his throat. “But tape recording is out of the question and if I ask you to leave the room, I expect that you will—without a problem.”

She flashed a coy smile. “Do I appear to be the type of woman to cause problems?” Languorously she crossed her long legs.

Yes, his mind screamed, and you know it. “I really wouldn’t know that, Ms. Delaware, now would I?”

“Well, Max, we’ll just have to find out, now won’t we? In the meantime,” she continued, not giving him a chance to recover, “I’d like to get started with some background information.” She leaned down and reached into her bag to retrieve her recorder, and in doing so, gave Max a brief glimpse of the half-moons that strained against the fabric of her V-cut jacket.

He clenched his jaw and turned away.

Reese straightened and placed the recorder on the desk that separated them. Leaning slightly forward, she depressed the record button.

“I always find it best if the subjects ignore the machine and just talk as thoughts come to them.” She took a breath. “Why don’t we start from the present and work our way backward. I think I’d like to open the story with the excitement surrounding your development of the computer chip and its impact in the marketplace. From there, we can delve into the man that made it all happen.”

While she spoke, Maxwell was transfixed. Suddenly, he viewed her as the seasoned professional that she purported herself to be. She was poised, articulate and direct. Gone was the femme fatale who used her charm to keep men nipping at her heels. She knew when to play and when not to. He liked that.

With less reluctance than he’d anticipated, Maxwell took his seat behind his desk, leaned back, and waited, crossing his arms over his taut belly.

“How soon will the chip be ready for the consumer?” she began. “And how will it all come about?”

In measured tones, Maxwell laid out the future plans for the company he’d built from scratch. “In less than six months, M.K. Enterprises will be put in direct competition with the computer giants that have dominated the computer-chip industry for decades. The speed and software adaptability of the chip will revamp everything we understand computers to be today. We are braced at the threshold of an exciting new era…”

As Reese listened to Maxwell talk in that mesmerizing voice, it was the first time she saw him actually animated. The cool control, almost imperceptible movements were gone. He spoke with his hands, his eyes, his body. The excitement and pride rang through the melodic timbre of his rich baritone. He exuded a raw energy that was contagious. She became entranced, captivated by the magic of his dream.

While he talked and looked into her eyes, he believed, if only for the moment, that she was listening to him, interested in him as a man and not just someone from whom something could be gained. For his entire life, women were with him because of his looks, schoolmates hung around because of his brains, business associates befriended him because of what it could do for them by association. In the dojo he was simply feared for his mastery of the arts. He didn’t want her to know him. Intimacy only brought him pain. His experience with Victoria Davenport proved that.

The sound of the recorder shutting off broke the spell.

Reese blinked several times as if awakening from a dream. Maxwell cleared his throat and slowly brought his hands up to steeple in front of his mouth. Reese watched the subtle transformation, almost as if someone else had replaced the man she was so briefly introduced to. She was more intrigued than ever.

“I need to get ready for my meeting,” he said. “Would you like something to eat or drink in the meantime? I could have Carmen get something for you, if you’re hungry.”

Was that a hint of gentle concern she heard in his voice, or was she only hoping? “I think I’ve had my fill of coffee for the day,” she said with a forced smile, recalling her sleepless night. “But some orange juice would be great if you have it.”

“You didn’t sleep well,” he stated, surprising her with his astute observation. “And you have the beginnings of a headache.”

“What makes you say that?” She watched him rise from his seat and come around to stand behind her.

He placed the balls of his thumbs at her temple and slowly began to rotate them, emitting just the slightest bit of pressure. She almost gasped out loud when the heat of his touch burned through the pain, stripping it away.

“Just relax,” he crooned. “Close your eyes. This will only take a moment,” he added in a hypnotic cadence. He shut his eyes when a piece of his wall crumbled at his feet.

The sensations that rippled through her sent rivers of soothing warmth floating through her body. Unable to resist, her eyes slid closed of their own volition. Inch by inch she felt her body relax, unwind and purr with delight.