"No, don't—"
The line went dead, and Adam stared at the receiver for several moments before hanging up. Then he picked up the designs from Max's desk and carefully looked over them.
In the kitchen Emma slipped silently to the counter, reaching for the telephone with shaking hands. Then she stopped. The police wouldn't believe her. They'd think she'd stolen the designs and covered it with a wild story. Lord, what could she do?
Calm down, she told herself firmly, wasting precious minutes. She needed to think. Think.
Her roving gaze fell on the tall, narrow closet beside the stove. Her pulse leapt as she stole toward it. With any luck Max kept his cleaning supplies there. She opened it, grimacing at the whisper of sound it made. Inside she found the broom, mop, and vacuum cleaner. Emma reached for her choice of weapon and turned toward the library.
She'd be damned if she'd let this thief escape unscathed, she thought as she crept up to her unsuspecting victim.
Some instinct, born of years of ducking wild pitches, made Adam turn. Just in time to see a whirlwind in a turquoise bikini clobber him.
Emma drew the broom back and prepared for another strike. "Get out of here!" she shouted.
The tall, ebon-haired man gaped, but recovered quickly. "You're going to hurt someone with that!" he cried, and reached for the broom.
Emma stepped back and walloped him again. "That's the idea, buster. You're not going to steal those designs if I have anything to say about it!" She swung, but he ducked and grabbed the handle.
"Hey, I'm not the one sneaking around here. I'm—"
Emma jerked the broom out of his hands and swung again. "This isn't your house!"
Adam retreated behind Max's big leather chair. "You're quite a little spitfire, aren't you?" he asked as he stared at her.
Taking advantage of his brief distraction, she darted around, but Adam kept the chair between them. He dodged, she intercepted, and he took off through the opening, running into the parlor.
She was close on his heels. Adam picked up a spindly side chair and held it in front of him like a lion tamer while she swung again. He was having trouble holding back his laughter. "You must be Emma Machlen!"
She froze, her eyes narrowing. "And who must you be?"
"Adam Daniels. Max's executive everything. I'm supposed to look over your designs!"
"Hold it!" She raised her broom again. "You're in New York!"
"I am?" Adam pretended surprise. "You mean this is all a dream, and I'll wake up in my stuffy hotel room?" He dropped the chair and placed his hand over his heart. "Thank heavens. Something like this could scar my ego for life. Imagine the stories in the locker room!" He spread his hands before him as if envisioning a headline. "Adam Daniels, macho ex-baseball player, beaten by Little Bit."
Her weapon dipped slightly as she weighed the truth of his words, a reluctant grin pulling at her mouth. Before she had time to swing again, he pounced. One hand snagged the broom and tossed it aside, the other spun her around. In no time at all he had her squirming, slender body slung over his shoulder. "You're something, do you know that? With my brains and your brawn, we could be quite a team."
"Put me down!" she shrieked. The man was insane! He was holding her prisoner and propositioning her! "Let me loose this minute, or I swear I'll show you how many dirty tricks I know."
"Oh, baby, if you're worried about Max—"
She tossed her head, no easy task while upside down. "I'm not worried about Max—"
"I wish someone were worried about me," came a dry voice from the doorway.
Emma groaned. Death was too good for Adam Daniels.
"Adam, is there a problem?"
"Your little felon had me pinned in the corner with a broom, Max. I really think you should have warned her that I was back."
Blood rushed to Emma's face. Mortified, she peeked under Adam's arm, hoping it was a clever imitation. No such luck. It was Max. "Your friend was rifling your desk. What else was I supposed to think?"
Adam swatted her fanny playfully, and she yelped. Max's face darkened in fury, and he actually took a step forward before reining in his anger. "Did he hurt you?" Max asked.
"Don't you mean 'she'?" cried Adam, a single brow raised at Max's behavior and Emma's sudden tension. "This lady swings a mean broom!"
"Subtle as a freight train, Mr. Daniels."
"Mister?" He held his hand to his heart. "I'm offended. I'm hurt. I'm—"
"Overacting," Emma said blandly. "Put me down."
Adam grinned. "Please, I'm emoting here. And call me Adam. In view of the, er, view, I think you've earned it." He cleared his throat and began again. "Lady, for you I'd climb the highest mountain, swim the widest sea—"
"Plow the deepest furrow." Her voice echoed his tone exactly. "Oh. weren't you finished?" she asked contritely. "I'm sorry, it's all this blood rushing to my brain. I just wanted to see how deep it would go before I had to get out my hip boots."
"Max, help. She's vicious!"
Max listened to their exchange, amazed by the most irrational stab of jealousy. Why should he care what they were doing? Why should it bother him that Emma was obviously enjoying Adam's company far more than she did his? It was nothing to him! Max bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. "Sorry, Adam. I've never heard you so neatly shot down before. It's quite an education." He turned away. "Since I know my house is safe, Emma, I'll return to the plant. Adam, since you two seem to be getting along so well, why don't you take her to lunch? I'm sure she's starved. Unless she's been on the counters again."
"No, my crawling days are over."
Max heard a double entendre in her remark but refused to let it bother him.
"Lunch," said Adam, "sounds great. Emma, run upstairs and put some clothes on. I'll wait."
Put some clothes on?
The words echoed in his brain. "Adam, you have one hour. You have a lot of work to catch up on." Max spun on his heel.
"By the way, Max. You were right to trust her. She has great legs. And a little mole just over her left—"
Damning Adam, Emma, and most of all himself, Max stormed from the house, cutting off Adam's words. The woman was the plague, and he would be a fool to catch it.
Over the next few days tension tightened in Max's house. The barometer grass arrived Tuesday morning, and Emma began the process of extracting its essence. Max had put the entire project under tight security—employees worked on different pieces but not the whole—and Emma would use his stillroom in the basement of the house to create the key ingredient, the fixative, the component that would pull each of the sixteen separate scents together into the unique fragrance that was Chameleon.
Despite his resolve to avoid her, Max was interested in her process and stayed with her while she worked with the grass. She first soaked the tough, reedlike strands in a baking soda bath, explaining that it would dissolve the hard, acidic outer layer. The grass actually changed color in its natural habitat, she told him, from yellow to green to brown, depending on the amount of moisture and pressure in the air, which was why it had been named barometer grass. After allowing four hours for it to soak in the soda water, she pounded it with a mortar and pestle and placed it carefully in a small vat of simmering almond oil for twenty minutes, then set it aside. There it would stay until Friday, with only an occasional stirring to hasten the rendering process.
Their hands brushed just once. Emma's hair-touched Max's cheek, bringing with it the scent that haunted him. And Max flew from the house to bury himself in work.
On Wednesday Adam still hadn't begun to clear away the mountain of work that Max had set before him, and he'd had no time for Emma or Max for that reason. But Adam grinned at the tactic. He watched in silent amusement as Max double-booked a shipment of crystal bottles, listened to his computerized inventory four times before he'd heard any of it, and ran Martha ragged with contradictory orders all afternoon. When Adam chuckled, Max barked, "And why haven't you been haunting the house as usual?"
"I had the oddest feeling you didn't want me there. "
Max sighed and rubbed his neck. "I'm sorry, Adam. It's not you. It's… her." He shook his head. "I came home yesterday and found her at the top of the built-in bookcase, stuck. She'd climbed up there without a chair and couldn't get down! She—"
Max gulped. He'd reached up to help her down, and she'd trustingly fallen into his arms like a ripe peach. She'd touched his scar and had gently asked him how he'd gotten it.
"I had a disagreement with a tree." he'd told her. "I lost."
And then he'd put her firmly on her feet, turning away before his obvious arousal betrayed him. Cold showers had no effect, even his rowing ma-chine was beginning to show signs of strain. Though Adam had somehow become the intruder. Max needed the buffer.
"Please come to dinner," Max said finally. "I'd like the company."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Adam said softly.
That evening Max stormed into the house and bellowed for Emma. She descended the stairs, book in hand, dressed in jeans and a pink tank top. She threw a speaking glance Adam's way, then they both followed Max into the kitchen.
"Don't let that lion growl bother you," Adam whispered as they went. "I love that man like a brother, but sometimes he can be rather intimidating."
"I'm not intimidated," she shot back quickly, her eyes flashing. "I'm terrified."
He chuckled and gallantly held out a stool at the counter. Once settled, her gaze never left Max's back as he moved easily around his familiar kitchen, preparing what appeared to be a chef's salad. As Max ravaged the lettuce, Emma asked what she could do to help.
"Nothing," said Max stiffly. "I'm perfectly capable of fixing dinner myself. I'm not an invalid."
"I never said you were," she said softly. "I'm not used to sitting around all day doing nothing, that's all."
Max's hands stilled for a moment, then went on to stab tomatoes. "Is that because of your family?" he asked with seeming casualness. "Do you work yourself so hard for the money?"
Her mouth firmed. "I do my part. Max, isn't there something that I can do around here? Typing, anything?"
Max decimated a radish. "You can't afford any more trouble. Just sit there like a good little girl and do exactly what you're told to do, all right?"
Her eyes narrowed, then a wicked smile crept across her face. "All right, Max," she said demurely. "I will."
Though Max frowned suspiciously, he said nothing. After finishing the salad, he ferried plates, wine, and glasses to the glass-topped table, then served each of them a monster portion. Adam moved to a chair and raised his brows when Emma made no move to join them. She mimicked his gesture and remained at the counter.
When Max realized she hadn't seated herself, he turned to her. "Come and sit down, Emma. I promise I haven't laced the salad with arsenic."
"Yes, Max," she said, and flowed from her stool to the table. Then she sat. On the floor.
Adam's eyes widened. What was she up to?
"So, Emma," Max said with an attempt at polite conversation as he sat in his chair, "what did you do today?"
As she began to outline in excruciating detail the events of her day. Max frowned, and his head turned in her direction. "Emma," he said, cutting her off. "Where are you?"
"On the floor."
His mouth worked. "Would you care to join us at the table?"
"I would like that."
He waited, but she didn't move. "Emma," he said through clenched teeth. "Sit in a chair, please."
She did, smiling.
Adam's gaze darted between them. "So, uh, Emma. I meant to ask you. Who is that stunning woman in your designs?"
"My sister," she said shortly.
"Does she have a name?"
"Diana."
"Do you have any more at home like her?"
A pregnant pause followed his words. "Emma doesn't like to talk about her family, Adam," said Max smugly. "Find another subject."
Emma's chin tilted up. "I have two sisters, Adam. And three brothers." With a grin at Max's frustrated expression she continued. "And two parents, my mother's sister and my father's brother are there, too, married to each other. They're British, but my father's family had owned Machlen Island for generations. They had one side of the house, we had the other. Then, of course, there are my seven cousins, various spouses, and their children—"
"All on the same island?" asked Max, astonished.
Her face softened just for an instant. "Most of the time. And you, Max?"
Max's expression shuttered. "I was an only child."
"Oh," she whispered, and her hand crept toward his, then stopped.
After a tense moment of silence Max barked, "I think we need some music. Turn on the stereo, Emma."
She stiffened and flew from the room.
"Max," Adam said softly, "I think you're being a little rough on her."
"I know," Max said, rubbing his scar. "But she makes me feel like an extra in Alice in Wonderland. I don't know what to do with her!"
Emma slipped back to the table, and Max sat straight. "I can't hear the stereo."
Emma cocked her head. "Neither can I."
"Well, turn It up."
"Yes. Max." With a giggle that belled her words of obedience, she raced out again. Quite a bit later she returned and sat once again.
"I still can't hear the stereo," Max said patiently.
"No, Max," she said, and took a bite of her salad.
"Did you turn it up?"
"Of course. I did exactly what you told me to do."
Max stood. "I'll do it."
She just smiled.
Adam looked at her curiously after Max had left, then his eyes opened wide in surprise as a strangled chuckle came from the library. "I release you from your vow, Emma!" Max called.
Adam turned to Emma. "What did you do?" he whispered.
"Turned up the stereo." She shrugged. "Well, only the tuner. The rest of it was too heavy."
Adam laughed and shook his head. "I think I've been waiting for you all my life," he said. "Max is in deep trouble."
She smiled an oddly wistful smile and picked at her salad.
Emma spent the next day restlessly prowling Max's house. She swam in his pool, explored his vibrant rose garden, but nothing seemed to calm her. Anxiety for her family's deadline, horrible fears that she'd totally screw up the test batch, and, worst of all, Max's hostility all made her feel like a turkey being force fed for the slaughter. She spread a towel on the flagstone patio beside the pool and told herself to sleep. The relentless sun beat down on her and did nothing to aid her.
Finally, with a groan, she jumped up and ran into the house, grabbed her shampoo and body oil, and headed to the bathroom.
After nearly an hour the hot shower melted the knots of tension in her muscles. Everything would work out, she told herself. It always did. She twisted a towel over her hair and fixed another around her wet body. With a smile she opened the oil, a different version of the Chameleon fragrance, and smoothed it over her damp skin, taking her time with her long legs.
Serene, she capped the bottle, gathered her clothes, and juggled everything into her arms. The knot at her breast began to give, and she hugged herself. It was a short trip after all.
With another look around the bathroom to assure herself she'd left it tidy, she opened the door and let loose a cloud of scented steam. The knot unwound, but her arms kept the towel at her breast as she began to pace toward her room.
The air conditioner vented just on the other side of the archway, and she yipped and jumped aside as the cold blast hit her damp skin. Her carefully balanced load slipped, and she instinctively made a grab for it. The towel fell to the floor.
"Is anything wrong, Emma?"
Emma jumped again and glanced over the railing. She gulped, her heart thumping erratically. Max and Dixie were just inside the front door, and he'd just finished unharnessing her. "Uh, n-no Max. Th-the air conditioner… I mean it's co
ld… I…" Oh, Lord! she thought. Standing stark naked in front of the sexy man who'd occupied every thought for days, and she blithered like an idiot. Why worry? He couldn't see her. "What could be wrong?" She moistened suddenly dry lips and bent toward the fallen towel but couldn't figure out how to pick it up. She pulled everything precariously under one arm and began to inch the other to the towel.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. After a quick, harried glance toward the towel, she decided it wasn't worth it. What if he ran into her? What if she dropped everything else? She began to edge toward her door.
"I don't know, Emma. Is the house still standing? Fire, flood, famine?"
"Of course not." Stop talking! she yelled silently. Her body gave her all sorts of incredible sensations, warming places she'd almost forgotten existed until Max had entered her life. Quivering excitement in the pit of her stomach brought on a full-scale attack of goose bumps. It's nerves, she told herself, just nerves.
"Then, what is it?"
"Nothing."
"You've been awfully quiet the last couple of days."
"I can be as quiet as a sinner on Sunday when I want to be, Max." Please, she prayed. Please let him stop at the archway so he doesn't trip on that damned towel!
He tripped on the top step, and she exclaimed in concern and stepped toward him.
"Don't touch me!" he said with a growl. He caught his balance on the banister and continued his journey. "I just counted wrong. Happens all the time." He was furious, Emma could see it in his face, and she felt as if he'd slapped her. "I'll be working tonight, but I'll be down to make dinner as soon as I change."
Max paused in the archway, his embarrassed cursing forgotten as her scent suddenly rolled over him, transporting him to a hot, moist jungle. He could almost hear the strident cries of the birds and feel the sword-edged grass under his hands. A panther crouched in those grasses, emerald eyes burning with unslaked hunger, waiting for its prey to move closer.
With an effort he forced the image back. "I hope you left the bathroom as you found it, Emma. I dislike cleaning up other people's messes."
"I borrowed a couple of towels," she said stiffly, "but otherwise it's neat as a schoolteacher's bun. And as for dinner, I will be down as soon as I dress." With that Emma spun into her room and slammed the door behind her.
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