by LETO, JULIE
Max lowered himself into the nearest chair. He forced his gaze away from the photograph—away from the shape of a woman with long, black hair—away from what appeared to be a bare breast peeking out of the heavy fog that curled over an outdoor balcony—and read the short square of text below.
San Francisco won’t be shocked by lovers taking liberties out in the open, but they might raise an eyebrow if they knew which respected, high-powered real estate broker poised to tear into a city monument in the next few weeks was entertaining a lady obviously not his fiancée on Friday night. The shot’s not clear, but the activity is. We can see the Forrest through the trees, er, fog. Can you?
Holy shit.
Max read the caption again. Then again. He’d committed the words to memory by the time he registered the sound of the telephone ringing. His answering machine clicked on before he reached the receiver. The red number blinking the number of messages changed from twenty to twenty-one.
Hesitantly, Max lifted the receiver in time to hear Charlie’s voice pleading, “…you gotta call me, Max, before anyone else—”
“Charlie?”
“Max! Damn, where the hell have you been?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Max snapped. Despite his horror over the caption in the paper, not to mention the photo, hazy as it was, he still hadn’t forgotten that Charlie’s deceptions might have led him to the brink of this current catastrophe.
Max knew his own balcony when he saw it. And all that dark hair? Ariana’s undoubtedly. Hell, he recognized her breast. How could he not when he’d spent hours upon hours in the past two days exploring and enjoying every inch of her body?
He swallowed, forcing the stone of rage that had formed in his throat to settle in the pit of his stomach.
“I called her restaurant,” Charlie explained. “No one answered.”
“They’re closed for renovation. You know that, you lying son of a bitch.”
Charlie groaned. “Her number’s not listed.”
“Get your ass over here, Charlie. Now.”
Max’s mouth twitched as he heard the click on the other end of the line. Almost hypnotically, he dropped the receiver back into the cradle and watched the red number blink and blink. How many of those calls were from Charlie? How many from Randolph Burrows? Or his other investors? How many from the owners of the Pier, the owners he’d enticed to the property? These people were new-monied, upstart capitalists who were more concerned with using this project to buy their way into San Francisco respectability than with the cash they’d make on the development deal. They were a cautious group that had nearly balked at the first sign of controversy over Max’s brilliant plan to convert the Pier, currently used for commercial fishermen, into a classy, slick collection of high-end nightspots and shops to compete with the carnival-like tourist draw at Pier 39.
Max backed away from the answering machine. If his ass was going to be chewed out on recorded cassette tape, he sure as hell wasn’t going to listen without Charlie there to suffer every word with him. He might not have been on that balcony with Ariana if not for Charlie’s lies.
The rustle of newsprint alerted him that he was still clutching the paper in his hand. He scanned the photograph again. Must have been Friday night—the night he couldn’t remember.
He couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was her. He slumped into a chair by the window and looked closely. He saw a hand. His hand. Palm flat against the Plexiglas that surrounded his balcony.
Closing his eyes, Max tried to stir up one memory, one sensation that might make this scandal-in-the-making worthwhile. He shook his head, realizing he didn’t need to remember the deed to justify the risk. He had the past two days of clear and crisp memories to erase any inkling of regret.
He felt no repentance for one instant with Ariana, erotic or otherwise. But he sure as hell didn’t want to lose this deal.
And he didn’t want to lose her. Not until the appointed time, when he’d have no choice. They’d agreed to a week-long-only affair, and though he’d already entertained several schemes to see her well beyond the deadline, she’d made it more than clear last night that she preferred they adhere to the original plan. He shook his head and plopped into a nearby chair. When she saw this picture, she might call off their affair right here and now.
When she saw this picture…
Max dashed to the phone, then realized that, like Charlie, he didn’t have her phone number. He did, however, know the name of Mrs. Li’s shop, so after a quick call to Information, he waited for the connection to go through.
“Lin Li, Herb Shop,” Mrs. Li answered in her brisk, efficient English.
“Mrs. Li? This is Maxwell Forrester, Ariana’s friend.”
The woman chuckled lightly. “More than a friend, I think. What can I do for you? Interested in more of my tea, maybe?”
Max was tempted to ask her if she had one that included strychnine as an ingredient—something he could serve to Charlie—but he didn’t know the woman well enough that she’d understand his black humor. He did, however, understand that if he was going to ask her for a favor, he’d better make it worth her while.
“Actually, yes. I’d love to put together some gift baskets for my office staff. Four of them. Assorted teas, cups and such. I’m not sure what goes into one…”
“That’s my job. Four baskets. I can do them for tomorrow. How much you want to spend?”
They negotiated a fair price and once Max was a few hundred dollars poorer, he finally asked Mrs. Li to give Ariana his phone number and instruct her to call him right away.
“Sounds important,” Mrs. Li commented without bothering to hide the sound of her worry.
“Yes, ma’am. It is.”
“Then I’ll bring her the message immediately.”
Max hung up and stalked upstairs, showered in record time, then stood in a towel scanning his closet while he wondered what the hell he was going to do. Charlie’s knock on the door answered his dilemma for him.
“Get in here.”
Charlie walked in sheepishly, a copy of The Bay Insider neatly folded and clutched beneath his arm. He shut and locked the door behind him.
“No reporters lingering on your doorstep,” Charlie announced brightly. “That’s a good sign.”
“It’s Sunday. Give them time. Fix me a scotch and then meet me upstairs. I’m going to get dressed.”
He was slightly concerned that Ariana hadn’t yet called, but only fifteen minutes or so had elapsed since he’d given Mrs. Li the message.
“You’re going out?” Charlie sounded as shocked as Max was, but Max waved away his surprise and bounded up the stairs. He’d promised Ariana a real date. And judging by the chaos she was about to be plunged into, he owed her at least that much. He would pick some out-of-the-way, very dark restaurant—one not likely to be frequented by anyone who would understand the barely hidden references in the photograph’s caption.
He’d donned his underwear and a pair of pants by the time Charlie came up with his drink.
“There’s nothing in here, is there?” Max asked, eyeing his supposed friend warily to gauge his reaction.
All he saw was confusion. “I put ice… Isn’t that how you like it?”
Max swirled the gold liquid. Ice clinked against the crystal. The sound was way too innocent and delicate for the situation.
“Yeah, it’s how I like it. Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t add a little something…like on Friday night maybe? Something to make me relax. Take a certain restaurant owner home? Miss my wedding to your cousin…a wedding you didn’t approve of?”
Charlie looked down at his hands, then once he’d strung Max’s hints together, shot him an incredulous, offended glare. “What the hell are you implying?”
“Someone slipped me a Mickey on Friday night. Probably laced my beer…that beer you insisted we stay late to have.”
“Max, man, I’m a schemer, I admit that. I told Ariana a few choice lies to get her to make a move on yo
u…but I wouldn’t put something dangerous in your drink. What if you were allergic?”
Max weighed Charlie’s logic with his obvious sincerity and the fact that Charlie had a list of allergies as long as the real estate listings he represented in northern California.
“Well, someone put something in my drink.”
Charlie hesitated. “Ariana, maybe?”
“No. It happened before she made me that flaming drink, probably before she arrived. Whoever did it knew I was going to be at the bar. And only you knew that.”
“It wasn’t me, Max.”
Max glanced at the newspaper, now spread across his bed. Who would have been watching him? Training a camera lens on his balcony at some time after midnight? The fog had obviously been thick that night. It’s not as though a neighbor or some passerby could have seen what was happening and alerted the newspaper. A chill ran up his spine and tingled the damp ends of his hair.
Someone had been following him. Was still following him? As he toured Chinatown with Ariana? As he pleasured her on the windowsill or made love in the open waters of San Francisco Bay?
The phone rang and Max grabbed the receiver without considering that anyone but Ariana might be on the other end.
Ariana sounded winded and drowsy, as if Mrs. Li had roused her from sleep. “Max, what’s wrong?”
“Do you read The Bay Insider?”
“The newspaper?” She sighed, sounded more relieved than she would in a few moments. “Yeah, usually. Not today. I was taking a nap. Mrs. Li said you called. I thought something was wrong.”
“Something is wrong. Do you have a copy of today’s edition?”
He heard a rustle of newsprint, and though he called her name, she’d obviously taken the receiver away from her ear to grab the paper.
“Here,” she said once she returned. “I picked up Mrs. Li’s copy on the way up. What’s in here that…” Her voice died away before he could explain or warn her. “Oh…my… God.”
“Ariana, relax. No one can tell who you are. The caption doesn’t even allude to your name at all. Just me.”
“Oh…my…God,” she repeated. “That’s…oh…my…”
With a high-pitched beep, she disconnected the call.
11
“DAMMIT! SHE HUNG UP!” Max clutched the phone until he heard the casing begin to crack, then slammed the impotent device on the bed. “I can’t imagine what she’s thinking right now.”
“Call her back,” Charlie snapped.
“I don’t have her number. And I don’t want her landlady asking more questions. I don’t want Ari any more embarrassed by this than she already is.”
“You don’t need to call her landlady.” Charlie scooped the cordless from atop the comforter. He punched in *69, the code that would identify the number of the last person who called. He pressed the number for automatic redial and handed the phone to Max.
“You’re way too clever,” Max groused. “You sure you didn’t orchestrate this mess I’m in?”
“Why would I, Max? I’d never hurt Ariana this way. The two of you were supposed to be happy together.” When Max scowled at his friend’s magnanimous, lofty intentions, Charlie grunted and amended his claim. “I don’t want you to lose that deal—or my part of the commission.”
As the phone trilled with unanswered rings, Max accepted that Charlie wasn’t lying—this time. Sure, he didn’t want Max and Maddie to marry and make what Max now knew would have been a horrible mistake for both of them, but Charlie would no sooner jeopardize a deal than he would cut off his right hand.
“She’s not answering,” Max announced, swearing as he disconnected the call. “I need to see her.”
He shot back into his closet, pulled out a crisp, white, button-down shirt, glanced down at his khaki slacks and blanched. Two days ago, his predictable, classically GQ casual wardrobe wouldn’t have bothered him. But now he’d tasted the flavors of the unexpected, savored the richness of living outside the box. Potential scandal or not, Ariana would never forgive the old Max if he went charging into her apartment as the man he was before.
He dug a little deeper, hissing out a triumphant “Yes!” when he found the laundry Ford had left at Max’s house after the engagement party he’d hosted a month ago. He’d had it all cleaned, of course, and, knowing Ford, he didn’t even realize his clothes were missing. Well, Max would put them to good use.
He took a long swig of his scotch before unbuckling his pants to change.
“You can’t leave now, Max. We’ve got damage control to plan. Have you checked your voice mail? Have any of the investors—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the investors right now, Charlie. But if you’re so concerned, go to the kitchen to check my machine and then call into my office voice mail.” He gave Charlie the password. “But do it quick. I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes, and you’re coming with me.”
“With you? To see Ariana? I’d think I’m the last person she’d want to see right now.”
Max shook his head. “Second to last. But you’re coming. You’re going to tell Ariana—and me—the whole story of your involvement in Friday night. Then you’re going to help us figure out why someone was taking pictures of us.”
“Will I make it out alive?”
Max turned away and dressed, his expression doubtful. He’d known Ariana Karas intimately for only two days, but he respected her Mediterranean temperament and her justification in letting loose on both of them. He and Charlie were about to charge into the den of a wounded lioness, but they had no other choice. He had no other choice. He’d agreed to let her go at the end of the week, but not like this. Not with hurt and betrayal between them. And maybe not at all.
ARIANA READ THE CAPTION again. She’d lost count of exactly how many times she’d read the words—sometimes silently, sometimes aloud—but the exact number didn’t matter. Little by little, she’d broken through the haze of her disgrace and realized she was being used.
Not by Max, but because of him. Maxwell Forrester was the “Forrest” the writer referred to. In her opinion, that reference wasn’t the least bit clever, but the words were certainly laced with disdain and mockery. Obviously, Max had been working on some controversial development deal, something that angered someone enough to want to dig up dirt and print it in San Francisco’s newest daily. But had it angered that someone enough to drug Max and set him up for that picture to be taken?
Either way, she’d been caught in the crossfire.
The risk you take, she told herself, when you mess with a man outside your world. A rich, famous man. But hell, it wasn’t as if Max was a movie star or a political figure. He was a businessman doing his job. Was someone out to make him look bad and screw up one of his business deals? Or was this just someone’s sick idea of a joke?
Well, Ari wasn’t laughing.
She tore through the pages of the newspaper for the name of the editor and the number to the newsroom and ripped the masthead out. No use calling today, a Sunday. She certainly didn’t want to deliver her oration on yellow journalism to an answering machine. But they’d hear from her tomorrow. Maybe in person.
And then what? They’d know who that breast belonged to, wouldn’t they? Maybe they’d print another picture, one that showed her face, run a story about her and her restaurant and her family.
She crumpled the torn piece of newspaper and pitched it across her tiny kitchen into the sink. No righteous indignation for her.
But where did that leave her and Max?
She had no time to consider the big question; her thoughts were interrupted by someone knocking on her door. Just short of pounding, the raps were insistent, hurried. Desperate.
Max.
She shot up from the table, then slowed down as she crossed into the living room. She tightened the sash on her robe. The pink one. The one Max had seen earlier. The one he’d loosened as she sat on the windowsill so he could kiss her ever so intimately. She let the beautiful image flow over her,
reliving the sweet sensations, when the knocks started again. She wouldn’t fall into his arms for comfort, she promised herself. She wouldn’t. They’d already become much closer than she planned in only two days. Maybe now was the perfect time to call things off and escape relatively unscathed.
Maybe…
After a quick peek through the peephole, she flipped the locks and opened the door.
“You got here fast,” she said by way of greeting. She’d already turned away and plopped onto the couch before she realized that Max wasn’t alone. Charlie sheepishly followed Max inside and shut the door.
“Well, look who it is,” Ariana said as she pulled her lapels closer and eyed Charlie from head to toe. “Benedict Arnold, reincarnated just in time to ruin my life.”
Max bit back a chuckle and, deep inside, breathed a sigh of relief. If she still had her sense of humor somewhat intact, he still had a chance to repair the damage.
“I asked Charlie to come and explain what happened Friday night.”
“I didn’t drug Max,” Charlie explained quickly, picking that detail out as the most important. Max believed him. Charlie wouldn’t do something so dangerously reckless.
“Then who did?” she asked.
Max moved around the coffee table and sat on the cushions beside Ariana. The scent of incense still hung heavy in the room; the scent of sweet jasmine still radiated from her skin. He ached to take her hand in his, walk her through this situation gently, but she clenched her fingers in a tight ball on her lap and impaled him with an impatient look.
“We don’t know,” he answered.
“Look,” Charlie said, practically pleading. “Maddie just asked me to keep Max at the restaurant long enough for her to make her getaway.”
“Maddie!”
Max and Ariana shouted the name in unison.
“You knew Maddie was going to bolt?” Max asked, needing clarification. He and Charlie had spent the car ride to Chinatown reviewing the business-related messages Max had received and discussing how they were going to ease this situation for Ariana. They hadn’t had a chance to go over the facts beyond that. This revelation certainly hit Max unprepared.