Intimate Betrayal

“Reese,” he said wistfully. “Reese Delaware.”

Reese sat curled up on the couch, all traces of her headache from the previous night completely gone. She sipped a cup of herbal tea, while keying in the beginnings of her article on her laptop.

Maxwell Knight was definitely the most intriguing man she’d ever met. There were so many layers to his personality, but for some reason, he only chose to display one. She put the portable computer aside and got up. Crossing the small living area, she went to the window.

She wrapped her arms around her waist and sighed. Max was a man with a past, a part of him that he wished to keep hidden from the world. In that respect, they were totally dissimilar. For the past fifteen years, she’d tried desperately to remove the veil that shrouded her life, and had failed.

She turned away from the New York skyline. She was getting too close to this story. She was losing her objectivity. That was totally unlike her.

That was probably the reason for the sudden return of the headaches and the nightmares. She was becoming too involved with her subject.

She couldn’t let that happen. This assignment was the chance of a lifetime—an opportunity that every journalist salivates for.

Reese smiled in resignation. Unfortunately, it was too late. What she was beginning to feel for Maxwell Knight had absolutely nothing to do with her job. But everything to do with her being a woman who wanted a man as much as she wanted to breathe.

The ringing phone pulled her rudely away from her reverie.

“Hello?”

“Good morning. I was calling to see how you were feeling.”

The pulse began to pound in her ears, and the little butterflies went berserk in her tummy.

“I’m feeling fabulous, Max. Thanks to you.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Not as well as I could have if you’d stayed, she wanted to say. “Very well. And you?”

“Let’s bypass the small talk,” he said suddenly, needing to take the plunge. “Are you dressed?”

“For what?” she teased, and his thoughts went out of order.

“For company. I want to come—over,” he uttered, his comment full of innuendo. “Then I thought I’d take you around the city before we leave in the morning.”

Her spirits soared. She was grinning so hard her jaw began to ache. “I’ll be here,” she said, her voice full of invitation.

“And I’ll be there, shortly.”

“Where are we going?” Reese questioned, settling herself in the car.

“For the twenty-five-cent tour, of course.”

She laughed. “Very funny. But seriously, where?”

“That’s what’s wrong with all you reporter types,” he teased, “just can’t be satisfied without knowing every single detail.” He pushed out a prolonged sigh. “If you must know, I thought I’d take you to the Top of the Sixes for lunch. Then down to Soho. There’s an art gallery opening that I wanted to see.” He turned to look at her. “I hope you like art,” he stated more than asked.

“Let’s put it this way, I know what I like when I see it. That’s the extent of my knowledge of art.” She chuckled.

He smiled when he realized he’d discovered a new level of admiration for her honesty.

“I can guarantee that you’ll love this guy’s work.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

For several moments they rode in companionable silence, until Reese spoke.

“What changed your mind?” she asked softly.

“About what?” he hedged.

“About me. What earth-shattering event made you want to spend your Saturday with me, the woman you love to hate?”

“I think your instincts are off again.”

“You mean you don’t hate me?” she taunted.

He slanted her a look. “It’s not you.” He paused to gauge his words. “It’s what you represent.”

Reese digested what he’d said. “What is it that you have against journalists?” she asked, struggling to maintain a lid on her temper.

His jaw clenched. “They tend not to have any conscience, for starters.” The pain of remembrance laced his heavy voice, making it vibrate with emotion. “They have no qualms about intruding on a person’s life and turning it upside down.”

“I see. And you feel I’m no different from the nefarious ‘they,’” she tossed out, fighting to disguise her hurt behind a wall of anger.

“Are you? Aren’t you here to get ‘your story’ no matter what it takes?”

“Yes I’m here to get a story Max, because it’s my job. Just because you’ve had a bad experience with reporters doesn’t give you the right to paint me with the same black brush.”

Maxwell spun the wheel, turning the car on two wheels, causing traffic to swerve around them. The high-pitched squealing sound of the tires reminded Reese of pigs being led to the slaughterhouse. He jerked the car to a screeching halt.

He turned on her, his dark eyes blazing. “The right!” he boomed, his heavy voice reverberating in the small space. “I have every right. This is my life we’re talking about, and you want a piece of it. Just like all the others. What makes you any different?”

Her sense of injustice made her want to fight back, to tell him what a bull-headed, stubborn fool he was being. But instinct told her that Max’s outrage went much deeper. She reached out and touched his arm. “What happened to you, Max?” she asked so gently the words wrapped around his battered heart and cushioned it.

He looked down at the hand that held him, so long and slender. His gaze trailed up her arm to rest on her face and at eyes that beheld him with such compassion he was stunned by the impact. His eyes swam over her face, heating her.

Her grip tightened and he felt her warmth slowly spread through him.

He leaned closer. She held her breath, longing for what she knew was to come.

Maxwell reached out and stroked her face. His thumb traced the outline of her full, rich mouth. Her eyes slid shut as a tremor of delight tripped through her.

“Reese,” he exhaled on a hot breath. Her eyes slowly opened and met his uncertain gaze.

“Don’t be afraid,” she uttered in a husky whisper. She closed the space between them. Her free hand reached out and ran across his hair of onyx silk. She caressed the smooth bronze jaw, the eyes of ebony that curved upward in invitation.

He turned his head to kiss her palm, then the tender inside of her wrist.