Chameleon

by Courtney Henke

  Emma moaned in pleasure, digging her fingernails into his hair. Sharp-edged ecstasy filled her, and she wanted to shout in triumph. No more fragile doll! She felt pure, unadulterated passion, devastating in its power, beautiful because Max was giving it to her.

  His arousal strained against his jeans. Her breathless moans swirled in his mind with erotic promise, exciting him to the bursting point. Never had he burned like this. He lifted her until she was on her knees beside him, shifting until he faced her. As he teased her breast with his tongue and fingers, his other hand reached up under her skirt to her panties. The thin, wispy nylon tore with his impatient pull and he tugged the cloth away.

  He shoved her skirt up and lowered her to the sofa, fumbling with his zipper as he spread her knees. With a soft rasp of metal the material parted. His imprisoned manhood throbbed at the sudden freedom, his entire body tensed with the passion that ruled him. He ruthlessly shoved his jeans and briefs to his thighs and levered himself over her.

  A small part of his mind cried out. Not Emma! Not like this! Not like an animal!

  But he was beyond listening. His body dominated the mind that had been so rational moments before. His entire being was centered on her, on this wonderful feeling of freedom.

  His fingers dug into her buttocks as he plunged into her slick heat. Shattering sensation dizzied him, and he thrust mindlessly, lost in Emma, in the body that was made for him, in the soul that mirrored his.

  A painful knot wound in his groin, tighter and tighter, until it burst. His cry of release was echoed triumphantly by Emma, and the delicious, uninhibited spasms that rocked his body seemed to last an eternity.

  Gradually he returned to earth, to reality. Their rasping, uneven breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness. The breasts under his head were damp with perspiration, his, hers. Emma's scent mingled with the smells of their explosive joining.

  His body felt suddenly leaden as a vivid picture flashed through his mind—an image of Emma lying underneath him, her clothes bunched around her waist, his own clothes still on his body.

  Dear Lord, what had he done?

  He began to pull up, but her arms tightened around him.

  "Don't go," she whispered.

  But he wouldn't listen to her, he couldn't. He had imagined her response, hadn't he? He had wanted it so badly, and it had justified his actions. Nothing could condone his shameless use of her. Nothing. He tore away, pulling his jeans up. The zipper sounded a death knoll in his ears.

  "Are you all right?"

  A hysterical laugh caught in his throat, and his bile rose. He had just raped her, and she wanted to know if he was all right?

  "Max?"

  He raked his fingers through his hair and slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. She rustled toward him, but he flinched, and she didn't touch him. He couldn't let her touch him again. He couldn't afford to lose whatever fragile hold he had on his emotions again. "I'm sorry," he said, nearly laughing aloud at the inadequacy of the words.

  "It's okay. You didn't hurt me."

  But I will, he thought, and a horrible suspicion insinuated itself into his mind. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me," he said before he could stop himself.

  "Is that what you think? That I pity you?" She laughed, a gentle, ironic sound that wasn't funny at all. "You really are blind, aren't you?"

  His mouth firmed, and he forced all his emotions deeply inside of himself. It was the only way he knew. He had to protect himself—and Emma. "Fix your clothes," he whispered.

  She said nothing as soft sounds of moving fabric filled the tense air around them. Her silence was more damning than any explosion of anger. Self-loathing and disgust ravaged him, leaving him shaking. "I'm sorry," he muttered again.

  "For what?"

  "For… for what just happened."

  "I'm not."

  Her words would have stunned him if he had allowed them to. But he didn't. He was numb, absolutely empty inside. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and it would never happen again.

  "Max," she whispered. "Don't leave me."

  He hadn't moved, but he knew instinctively what she meant. But he couldn't do anything about it. He sat paralyzed by a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to feel anything, because then the guilt would overpower him again.

  He heard his own voice but didn't recognize it. It was as flat and empty as a paper cutout. "I lost control, Emma. Completely. I couldn't control the images, I couldn't control my fear, and I couldn't control what I did to you. Do you understand? I couldn't stop myself."

  "Everyone loses control. Max. It's what makes us human."

  He felt her arms come around him, but it was as if it were happening to someone else, as if he stood outside of his own body. He didn't know himself anymore. "That's not human, it's animalistic. I used your body, Emma. I would have used any body that was handy." It wasn't true! "What just happened was… was…" For a moment, some unnamed emotion flickered through him.

  "Important."

  "No." He forced it away. "It was nothing." His hands reached out to the furniture under him. The pattern of brocade met his questing fingers. How had they gotten to the living room?

  "Max—"

  "I'm going to finish dinner. I'm hungry."

  He stood slowly, feeling as if he were a hundred years old. Automatically he oriented himself by his now-clear mental floorplan, then walked to the kitchen, his hands helping him find obstacles he'd forgotten. It was more proof that Emma Machlen had disrupted his safe, predictable world. Something inside him died as he knew he couldn't let her stay now, and he'd have to do everything possible to make sure she left.

  Emma watched him helplessly, her soul aching, her body drained. His words had hurt her more than she could ever tell him, but they were just words. He was in pain, and like a cornered animal he'd lashed out at her. But what really hurt was that she didn't know how to reach him. He'd withdrawn so deeply, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to find him again.

  Dixie sat in front of her, and Emma stared at her blankly, wondering where she'd been when the fireworks had started. Not that it mattered, because Emma knew that until the harness was on, Dixie was merely another quiet presence in Max's silent house.

  She glanced down at her creased clothing, damp from Max's mouth and his hurried, energetic lovemaking. She had been as carried away as he, reveling in his explosive passion. Didn't he understand that? It had been the first time he hadn't been so excruciatingly careful of her, treating her as if she'd been made of glass. Emma was a woman, and for the first time she'd thought Max had realized it.

  Yet he'd rejected her.

  "Every time I take one step forward I get shoved back three. I love him, Dixie," she whispered, her vision blurring. Great, limpid brown eyes stared back in mute agreement. Emma reached out, burying her fingers in the soft fur, and Dixie licked her tear-salted cheek. "I just don't know what to do."

  She had to try something, she thought desperately. She couldn't just let him walk away forever!

  Dixie followed as Emma slipped into the kitchen. Max was hunched over the sink, rubbing his head. "Max?"

  He jumped but didn't turn to her. "Please don't sneak up on me."

  "I didn't sneak, I—" She bit her lip and attempted a smile. "Would you have preferred the counter?"

  "I don't prefer anything. Just leave me alone."

  "A little while ago you didn't want me to leave you."

  "A little while ago you said you loved me."

  "I told the truth." Emma held her breath, but his head dropped even lower, and he said nothing. "Did you?"

  "At the time I thought it was the truth." He shrugged. "I changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  "I can't afford to let that happen again."

  "Why?"

  "You sound like a three-year-old!"

  Emma couldn't let that tiny flicker of emotion she'd heard in his voice die. She ducked under his stiff arms to stand between him and
the counter. He gasped but didn't turn away. "I'll stop if you will," she told him.

  The corners of his mouth twitched, giving her hope, but he couldn't quite smile. "You're persistent, aren't you?"

  "Yes. When it's important to me." She reached up to frame his face in her palms as he had done so many times to her. "You are very important to me."

  "Emma, I—"

  "I love you. Max. Before, during, and after. I love you. That's what's important." She smiled tenderly as his face seemed to soften. Her voice ached with her concern. "Please don't shut me out. Please, Max."

  For a moment he leaned into her. His eyes closed, and he swallowed, his brows drawn in pain—or pleasure. His lips parted, and Emma accepted that as an invitation, leaning up to press her mouth against his. His breath blew quick on her cheek, and he yielded, just for an instant.

  Then his mouth firmed. "No!" He tore away from her and backed into the next counter, grasping the edge until his knuckles were white. "Don't do that again. Don't use that against me."

  "I wasn't using anything!" She curled her fingers into her hair, confused by his constant battle. "What's wrong? What are you afraid of, Max? I don't understand!"

  "I'm not afraid of anything. I just don't want you here."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Believe it. You disrupt my life."

  "You told me once that you want me Just the way I am."

  "An aberration. I don't now."

  "Maybe your life needed disrupting. Did you ever think of that?"

  "And just who are you to determine that? Who are you to judge what I need and what I don't need?"

  "I'm not the one who said that! You said—" No, she thought. He seemed determined to revoke every statement he'd ever made. She straightened, and her chin came up. "What do you need. Max?"

  His jaw squared. "Nothing."

  "And no one?"

  "No one," he echoed hollowly.

  "So you want to live your life alone, unhampered by anyone who might 'disrupt' it."

  "Yes."

  "Won't that be rather lonely?"

  "No."

  She crossed her arms in front of her, eyeing him appraisingly. His posture was tense and defiant. "You're wrong."

  "Emma, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression these last few days. You are a wonderful lover and an entertaining companion." His voice was conciliatory, but his stiff posture told her it was difficult for him to say. It kept her from punching him.

  He went on. "But you have a business to run, and so do I. I have no time for you. It was great, but it was never more than temporary."

  "I thought that once," she murmured. "Now I'm not so sure."

  "It's the way of the world." He shrugged. "I'd like you to go now."

  "And if I say no?"

  He ignored her and lifted the lid of the pot. "It's almost ready," he said. "I'm sorry you can't stay to join me."

  "Don't you dare pretend I don't exist. Max."

  "We bring everything on ourselves, Emma. Haven't you figured that out yet?" He reached for the spoon and casually took a small taste. "Needs more pepper."

  "I'll break in."

  "I have a new security system. You know that."

  Her throat burned. "I'm staying," she said stubbornly.

  "Even if I don't want you to?"

  "You can't make me believe that. Not after everything that's happened between us. You're running scared, and I don't understand why."

  Silence stretched between them for long moments as Max carefully added pepper to the pot. When he was finished, he leaned forward against the stove, his shoulders slumped. "Do you really want to stay?" he finally asked in a strange voice that confused her even more.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Fine. You can stay as long as you like."

  Her burst of happiness was short-lived as he turned to her. His face was wiped of emotion. He appeared to be a cold parody of the man she loved, and it chilled her soul.

  "But it will be by my rules."

  "What rules?" Her throat tightened at his ominous words. What was happening? Who was this man? She didn't even recognize him.

  "No more trips to the baseball stadium," he went on in an icy voice that froze the blood in her veins. "No trips anywhere. You're here for me, whenever I—want you. You share my bed when I want you to, but go to your room when I don't."

  "Is that all?" Her voice was calm, but her heart was slowly breaking into a million pieces. It was a new tactic, but it hurt. And he knew it.

  "No." He lifted his chin. "You stay out of the kitchen. No more swimming unless I say so."

  "Should I write this down?" Her words had a bitter edge to them, but she couldn't help it. Her eyes blurred again, and her lip trembled. If he'd wanted to slam the door in her face, he was doing a very effective job of it.

  "If you like."

  "Why are you saying these things? This isn't you!"

  "You're wrong. This is me. You just can't admit it."

  Biting down on her lip, she forced the pain from her voice. "You really don't want me here, do you?"

  For a moment she thought she saw emotion flicker on his face, but it was so quick, she must have imagined it. "No," he said. "Stability is the most important thing in my life, and if you want to stay, you have to fit into my routine. If you can't do that, then I don't want you here."

  "And there is no negotiation?" This time her voice quivered, and she couldn't stop it.

  He hesitated for a moment, but said, "No."

  "I see." No she didn't! she thought wildly. This wasn't the Max that slid down the banister in glee. This wasn't the Max who had calmly walked them both into the pool. This wasn't the man she loved!

  "You son of a bitch," she said softly. "You said you'd never hurt me."

  This time she knew she saw surprise, maybe even regret in his expression. But he made no move toward her, and rage seethed in her heart, a poison in her soul. He sounded just like someone else she'd known, someone she'd thought she'd loved once. All the old, buried anger toward Danny, toward her autocratic family, focused on Max's words. "The only way I can stay is if I become your shadow. Part of the background. You want me to be a sofa. Or a window. Or a piece of the wallpaper! You want someone who won't think any of her own thoughts, who will be exactly who you want, no more, no less. You want to control me too!"

  Her voice rose with each word, ending on a high-pitched squeak from her raw throat. "Well, let me tell you something, Mister I-am-the-universe Morgan. I'm not a piece of furniture. I'm a person, and so are you!" She clenched her teeth. "People… need… people. They have emotions and fears, and they occasionally lose control of their lives! And there's nothing wrong with that!"

  "You think this is stability? Dammit. Max! This isn't stability, this is stagnation!"

  Tears burned her eyes, and she turned away. She bit back a sob. "I didn't feel sorry for you before, but I do now. Because the lies you're telling me are nothing compared to the lies you're telling yourself. And you're so blind, you can't see that."

  She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm tired of fighting you, Max. No matter how many times you let me see you—the real you—something will happen, and you'll leave me again. I'll always threaten your tidy little existence if I stay, because I would fight for you. I'd fight tooth and nail if I thought I could win. But can I ever win. Max? Can I?"

  He didn't answer. Her nails bit into her palms. This was going to kill her, but it was necessary. She needed to regroup, and she couldn't do it there. Too many old emotions were mixed with the new, and somehow she knew that he would defeat her if she stayed. "You've got what you wanted. I'm leaving."

  Silence stretched between them, broken only by the softly bubbling pot.

  "I'll call Benno," he said finally, his voice dead of emotion. "Hell take you wherever you need to go."

  "Fine."

  She strode from the room before she could change her mind, but dashed her tears away and risked one quick look back. Max stood
in the middle of the kitchen, chin up. his body ramrod stiff. Lord, he was so alone, her heart cried.

  But he was also as approachable as an arctic wasteland, and she couldn't force herself into someone else's mold again. Not even for a little while. She'd bent enough. She would break.

  "Damn you," she whispered, and left.

  Twelve

  "Emma, honey, you better get a move on. Well be late."

  Emma glanced over at Cissy from her cushion of pillows. Resplendent in a sequined puce caftan and matching turban. Cissy Chambers was a sight that hurt her tear-tender eyes. "I told you, I'm not going to this stupid charity thing."

  She flounced over onto her side, turning her back to her friend, and stared at the twin of her own floral-printed double bed. The sharp edges of the hotel's perfectly ordered pillows blurred as her eyes filled again. She sniffed.

  "Aw, don't start up again." Cissy searched for her dwindling supply of tissue with a manner that bordered on panic. "Emma, now stop that! No man is worth all this boo-hooing!"

  "Stop fussing over me. Cissy. I'm fine." Emma sat up and plastered on a wavering smile. "See? Fine. You're the one running around here like a chicken with its head cut off."

  "Well, hell, honey. I've never seen you cry before." Cissy sank to her bed, her turban askew, sympathetic tears filling her own brightly made-up eyes. "See? Now look what you've gone and done." She sobbed mournfully. "Now my mascara'll run right into my mouth. And at my age it's like a bunch o' little criks trailin' into the Mississippi."

  Emma laughed and wiped the tears away. The wrinkles that seamed Cissy's face would surely baffle any tears that dared to fall into them. "Fix your hat."

  Cissy straightened her turban, stuffing the energetic wisps of white hair bent on escape under its tight rim, then smiled, triumphant. "That's more like the Emma I know." She sat straight and rummaged in her purple handbag. She found her cigarettes, shook one out, stuck it between thin lips, and lit it with an embossed gold lighter. "Now." Exhaled smoke filled the air. "Get ready."

  "Let's not go through this again. Cissy. I don't want to go anywhere."

  "You want to mope."

  "I'm not moping, I'm thinking." Emma forced the threatening tears back. If she started up again, Cissy would have conniptions. She'd been treating her like a contagious flu patient all day, hovering and patting her hand and tsking over the vagaries of men. Of course, Emma hadn't told her the whole story. She wasn't ready to talk about it. And she wasn't ready to write Max off yet either. She didn't know what to do. but she wasn't ready to give up on him completely.