She hesitated. "We're a cottage industry, Mr. Morgan. Unfortunately at the moment we have neither the equipment nor the distribution system to do it the justice it deserves. You have."
A tiny quiver in her voice told him that there was more to it than that. "What else?"
"I—I beg your pardon?"
"You could wait until you were capable of producing it yourself, Ms. Machlen. Why sell if it's so good?"
"We need immediate liquid capital, Mr. Morgan. For… another project."
He would be a fool to buy a pig in a poke, especially from this woman. She'd invaded his house, disturbed him in more ways than one.
But he'd never turned away someone in need, though why he was convinced of that in spite of her plausible explanation, he didn't know. And if this grass was available in quantity, and if she could prove that the formula could be repeated…
"You have your five minutes, Ms. Machlen."
Emma couldn't hide her relief at his statement. She had her chance! Immediately she calmed herself. This was business, and she'd already almost made a complete mess of it. She had her foot in the door; now it was up to her to do the rest.
Consigning her rumpled clothes to the back of her mind right beside her attraction to him, she snatched her portfolio off the floor and began to pull out her carefully drawn illustrations for her presentation. She looked around the room and for the first time noticed how precisely his furniture stood. The line of stereo and computer equipment that nearly spanned one wall was the only light source. The sun had set while they'd talked, yet he'd made no move to turn on the overhead lamp.
She limped to the switch on the wall beside the kitchen door. "May I?"
He waved his hand, a tiny smile playing across his beautifully shaped mouth. She gulped and stifled the urge to kiss those lips. Business, she told herself firmly as she flipped on the light and returned to her sketches. Sell him. You can do it, Emma. Think high-powered executive.
Her treacherous body warmed all over, mocking her pep talk. She ignored it, just as she ignored her blurred and gritty eyes. She couldn't afford it.
"Mr. Morgan, we were impressed with your company from the very beginning. Though Daniels Cosmetics is small. Dancer made you one of the top competitors in a fierce market. Packaging sells the product, but you've managed to create a reputation for unique fragrances unequaled in the industry. All of your perfumes are unusual and arresting."
She heard him chuckle and winced at her choice of words. The man unnerved her. It was as if he could see right through her brave facade. That had never happened before. She was too good at creating her illusions.
Hands trembling, she forced her odd emotions down deep inside her and concentrated on propping her design on the chair placed neatly in front of his meticulous desk. "In—in short, Mr. Morgan, you are in the ideal position to make a fortune from a scent that not only changes with each woman"—she paused for effect—"but with her moods as well."
She turned and smiled at him, but instead of being suitably impressed, Mr. Morgan seemed to be only politely listening. Even his gorgeous eyes were unfocused, as if he'd lost interest. Her heart sank even as her determination rose. For some reason she wanted his good opinion whether he bought the scent or not. He was an intriguing man, but he sure was one tough customer.
Well, she'd never thought it would be easy. But cold sweat broke out on her brow as she stared at the first drawing, a pastel rendering of a dreamy-eyed woman surrounded by several images, all focusing on an embrace with a strong male figure. Her niece, Catherine, had done her usual exquisite work, and Emma's pride cloaked her nervousness.
"Though the grass is used in small quantity, it responds to a woman's slightest change in body chemistry. Mr. Morgan, this is the fragrance that will revolutionize the industry." Her voice built to a crescendo. "This is the scent that will never go out of fashion."
She gestured grandly. "Introducing Chameleon. For the woman who dares to become her fantasy."
"Ms. Machlen." he said quietly.
Emma halted, suddenly feeling awkward, as if she'd made some huge error. But she hadn't! Why wouldn't he give her a chance to finish?
She hastily shuffled to the next drawing. "A special fragrance deserves a unique bottle. The crystal figure on the stopper and the shape itself will—"
He cleared his throat, and she saw to her dismay that he'd lost his smile. "Ms. Machlen, I've let this go on far too long. I'm sorry, but I—I don't think you've researched your market as carefully as you thought you had."
"But—" All her long hours, the days of racking her brain for this concept, all the sleepless nights preparing herself for this moment, seemed to be spinning down the drain. She hadn't done anything wrong! She couldn't fail! Her mouth firmed. "Mr. Morgan—"
"You don't understand. I can't—"
The clatter of the computer cut him off.
"Excuse me," he said, and stood to turn toward his printers.
Printers? she saw with a frown. Two of them? Why would anyone need two?
He bent over the printout, running his hands lightly over the page like a child who couldn't keep his place.
But that made no sense. He was obviously a well-educated man. Why—
All the blood drained from Emma's face, leaving her woozy. "Oh, Lord," she whispered, and grabbed the edge of his desk as if her life depended on it. No wonder her designs hadn't impressed him.
Maxwell Morgan was blind.
Two
"It's not important," Max said. "A little technical problem."
Emma stared at him blankly. Not important? she thought. That this man would never see the world as she yearned to do? That she had spent three days frantically putting together a worthless presentation? That for once appearances had deceived her instead of the other way around?
That he would never be fooled by her camouflage?
A giggle built, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent its escape. She had thought he couldn't see her because she didn't want to be seen! She'd never understood why it worked, just that it always had. And he thought he had a little technical problem?
Laughter bubbled forth like pure spring water, washing away knots of tension she hadn't even known existed.
"Ms. Machlen?"
Emma glanced up to find Max standing beside his desk, dressed in nothing but jeans, a quizzical half smile tilting his full mouth. He couldn't possibly understand the absurdity of the situation!
"I've never had quite this reaction before," he said dryly. "You figured it out, huh?"
"Oh. yes." Giggling, Emma sank to the chair opposite her precious, useless drawings. "Hoisted by my own petard."
"I wouldn't quite say that."
"You would if you knew."
"Knew what?"
"If I told you, you'd think I was bonkers."
"I thought that was a given," he said blandly.
"Maybe so," she said, her laughter slowing. Her body warmed all over at his smile. She cleared her throat. "If—if you want to know the truth, I'm relieved."
"Relieved?"
"I—I thought—"
"Herr Morgan?"
At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Emma swallowed her amusement. A stocky man entered the room, hat in hand. That figurative veil of hers swirled into place.
"Herr Morgan? I knocked, but you did not answer, and Martha swore someone was lurking in the bushes, though she saw no one."
"I'm fine, Benno." Max grinned. "Monday I want a new alarm system, though."
At the sound of a muffled snicker, Benno whirled in surprise. His jaw dropped. "I—I'm—am I inter—"
"Just business, Benno."
Benno gaped nonetheless, thinking that business should have been the last thing on Herr Morgan's mind. The woman reminded him of the tiny oval portraits he had seen in an antique shop in Ladue. Her delicate features and wide round eyes held the natural beauty of another era, a stunning quality that had nothing to do with makeup. Her shoulder-length brown
hair and tan suit did nothing to exaggerate her slender curves, but flattered them nonetheless. This lady didn't need artifice; she glowed from within.
At complete odds with her docile posture, she seemed to be fighting a laughter that made her eyes gleam with tears, her mouth dimple. Ach! If he were forty years younger…
" 'N Abend, Fraulein."
" 'N Abend."
He brightened. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"
"Ich spreche etwas Deutsch."
Her accent was perfect, he thought, and straightened. "If you'll need nothing else, Herr Morgan."
"Ms. Machlen, do you have a car?"
Emma nodded, dazed by Benno's scrutiny, something she wasn't used to allowing. Then she realized the futility of her nod, and her shoulders shook. "Yes, I do." She had planned on doing some sight-seeing. "Danke, Herr Morgan," she couldn't resist adding impishly.
"Bitte," he said with a smile. "Go on, Benno. I shouldn't need you until it's time to pick up Adam at the airport on Monday."
"Yes, sir." He bowed to Emma, a quaint gesture she found endearing, and he left through a sliding glass door in the back of the room.
Max locked it, returned to his desk, and perched on its edge, crossing his arms in front of him. "Now, suppose you tell me why you're relieved."
She couldn't tell him all of it. He already thought she was crazy. "I, uh, thought you were bored."
"I've been a lot of things in the last few minutes, but bored wasn't one of them."
His voice sounded so strange that Emma's breath caught in her throat. The words tied her up in knots, making her hands tremble nervously. Could he possibly have fought the same strange emotions she had?
Not this man. She had the feeling that whatever battles he fought, he won. But his face looked familiar at that moment. Not the features, but the stern expression that seemed forced. Emma giggled. "You look just like old Mr. Wyler."
"Who?"
"My high school principal. On the day I filled his office with balloons."
He gave up and grinned. "Now, why do I have the feeling you did that sort of thing often?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Do you always find everything so amusing?"
"Don't you?"
He cocked his head. "Sometimes. I just don't get caught."
"Neither do I. Usually."
He leaned forward, and she caught a whiff of his masculine scent. "Aren't you worried that I might have you arrested?"
Jail was the last thing on her mind. "If you ain't want to dead, don't born," she muttered.
"What was that? West Indian?"
"Gullah. More or less."
"You have a wealth of colorful sayings, don't you? I know I'm going to hate myself in the morning, but what does it mean?"
"It basically means if you aren't willing to face the consequences, don't take chances."
He stiffened. "And you take a lot of chances."
"Not really." His obvious disapproval confused her. "But if you're alive, you're already playing the biggest lottery of them all." And the chance she wanted to take at the moment astonished her.
She swallowed convulsively, her laughter fleeing in the wake of realization. He sat so close that their knees almost touched. The warmth from his body seemed to reach out, to cloak her and create a safer haven than she could ever do on her own. It was as if because he couldn't see her, she wanted him to, and the paradox confounded her. She had given him a glimpse of her inner self, something few people ever saw. And she had the oddest feeling he would be able to see inside her whether she let him or not.
Her pulse raced as she gazed into his tawny, sightless eyes. They were the windows to the soul, her mother always said. But his were a one-way mirror, as empty and emotionless as a desert summer. Because they always were? Or because he wanted them to be? "You have the most beautiful eyes," she said. "It's a shame—"
He clenched his fist. "What?"
"That you let them be so cold."
Max's head spun. The spell this woman had woven with her contagious laughter had suddenly taken on a dimension he didn't understand. Her evocative voice throbbed with a poignant emotion, one he knew wasn't pity. Blood roared in his ears. "I don't."
"You do, and I don't know why."
He swore he felt her breath on his cheek, and shivered, feeling completely naked to her in a way he'd never been before. He smelled the subtle change in her fragrance, which brought to mind an image of bodies tangled together in the ultimate kind of intimacy, of mutual pleasure, of secrets whispered in the dark. Of glory.
He leapt to his feet, forcing his hands to his side when they wanted to reach out and touch her. He wouldn't let her confuse him. He needed distance. "I'm going to put on a shirt," he said stiffly.
"And—and my proposal."
"Leave it. My colleague and I will look it over on Monday."
"That's too late!" Emma cried before she could stop herself. "I mean—" She bit her lip, wondering what in the world had possessed her. Why had she begun this conversation? Everything depended on her ability to sell the perfume to him, not to psychoanalyze him!
"You'll stay for dinner," he commanded, emotion flickering in the tawny depths of his eyes just for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it, and strode past her, out the door. "Dixie, come."
A huge golden retriever got up from beneath the desk, startling Emma, who had forgotten its existence. It glanced her way, as if taking stock of her, then paced slowly out after its master.
Emma breathed deeply of the scent left in Max's wake, his own personal, purely masculine fragrance. She couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't seem to focus on anything but the emptiness of the room now that he was gone.
The sound of his rapid footsteps on the stairs echoed through her like a sledgehammer, bringing her back to reality. She'd just bared her soul, yet he'd shrugged her off like one of the whining mosquitoes outside. And she'd allowed it! Lord, she'd helped him forget her proposal! What had she been thinking, talking of high school and his personal life, which had absolutely nothing to do with the subject at hand?
He'd ordered her to dinner. Something inside her bristled at his egotistical assumption, his arrogant tone. Heaven only knew she'd heard it often enough in her life, from her parents, her siblings, her fiancé.
Who in the seven pits of Hades did he think he was?
Her spine stiffened, and she turned, staring at the empty doorway with narrowed eyes. "Oh, no, I won't stay for dinner with you, you—you—"
Frustrated, she threw herself back in her chair, burying her fingers in her sweat-dampened hair. She had to stay. Time was running out, and she had no options left. It was the only chance she'd have to explain her campaign.
After all, she told herself firmly, that's why she was there. To sell a perfume. She couldn't allow herself to become tied up in knots over a man who'd erected walls thicker than Jericho's around himself, a man who was so lonely that he invited strange women to dinner.
She frowned. Lonely? Why had that word popped into her mind? It was hardly a concept she would have applied to him. He seemed so… self-contained.
But his voice haunted her. She had a sudden aching wish that she could play the trumpet, to make those walls come a-tumblin' down.
Emma slumped in the chair, physically and emotionally drained. Two sleepless nights and a harrowing day had finally caught up with her, and this horrible, unfamiliar feeling of defeat didn't help. If she were home, she'd crawl into her bed and sleep like a corpse, she knew. Nothing could rouse her when she was this tired. Arouse her, maybe, she thought disgustedly. One certain person could do that more easily than she cared to admit.
She sighed and rubbed her forehead in an unconscious imitation of Max's gesture, then stood, groaning when she saw the drawings. Catherine had spent hours on them, and they were about as useful as a three-legged horse.
Aching muscles demanded relief, and she rolled her shoulders back, wondering how she could salvage the situatio
n. Could she just tell him about it, describe everything in such detail that his imagination would create its image? The drawings, maybe, but…
She shook her head helplessly. She needed something better. Even her written proposal was useless. She plopped the neatly typed pages on top of the sketches. Then her gaze flitted to his Braille printer.
Her gray eyes narrowed, an idea forming in her mind. If she had a three-dimensional drawing, Max could see the unusual bottle.
"That's it!" she cried. Revitalized, her mind worked quickly. A glance at her watch told her it wasn't too late, that the stores should still be open. She had to change into her jeans, probably in the car or a gas station restroom. But she wouldn't be able to stay for dinner.
She was surprised how much that realization disappointed her.
"That was adolescent," Max told himself for the thousandth time as he splashed cold water on his cheeks to cool his reaction to her. He started out the bathroom door, then paused and scrubbed his face with a towel before following the wall into his bedroom. "You had to show off, didn't you? You could have killed yourself, running up those damned stairs." He rubbed the scar on his forehead and slammed open the door. "Acting like you were a kid. A sighted kid, yet!"
And he'd invited her to dinner! He forced his mind away from his reasons, his disturbing lack of self-discipline around the woman downstairs, and concentrated on the present.
The layout of the familiar room hovered in his mind. The huge built-in closet to his left, the king-size bed with the heavy, shelved headboard just ahead, the rowing machine on the floor to his right. They flickered before him, a crystal-clear picture of reality. But it wasn't real, and trembling mentally, he banished the illusion.
Instead, he let his mind drift back to his childhood, the times he had pounded up those same stairs only to zip down the banister, much to the dismay of his mother. The polished mahogany floor had nearly broken his tailbone hundreds of times. It was still in his mind's eye, the rainbow-colored pattern the late afternoon sun used to make through the stained glass of the door. It had been his favorite game, to see if he could land on that patch of the rainbow.
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