See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  “Perhaps, your fears had something to do,” Max hesitated, fearing to mention the incident that had destroyed her innocence. “With what happened before."

  Her face clouded at the memory. “Ian."

  “Yes."

  “There hasn't—I mean, I haven't...” she managed to say. Tears welled in her eyes; she turned away.

  "Ma pauvre petite,” Max murmured, somehow he wasn't surprised she had avoided men and relationships. That made her acceptance of him even more of a gift. Gently he touched her chin. “Don't turn away. Look at me."

  “I was glad you beat him up,” she replied, sniffing. “I don't ever have to be afraid again."

  “What else could I do?” He pulled her closer. “I wanted to kill him."

  “It's over."

  “It really is."

  “He drugged you. He should've gone to jail."

  “It doesn't matter anymore. Not now. Not with you in my arms."

  “It mattered to me. He took something precious, something he had no right to take. And he kept you from trusting anyone, even me."

  “I trust you now."

  Her words were a balm to his heart, healing the scar left by Solange's betrayal. “Ma chère, the night we met, you changed my life. One minute, I was leaving an incredibly boring play, the next I was a knight rescuing a fair maiden. I'd never done anything like that before ... or since."

  Nikki worried her bottom lip. “You saved my life. I was desperate and alone. And I ran from him because ... I was afraid I might give in."

  “You never have to worry again, little one. We're together now."

  Her blue eyes swam with unshed tears. “Are we? Are you sure?"

  “As sure as I have ever been of anything. Do you still doubt me?"

  Nikki shook her head. “Not you, me.”

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have no doubts. I love you, Nikki."

  “But what about Alexa? Do you think she'll mind?"

  Laughter rumbled deep in Max's chest. “Alexa? She'll be thrilled. You know how much she loves you."

  “I know, but our being together could change everything."

  Max kissed her, effectively silencing her. “You worry too much. We were meant to be, I feel it here."

  He took her hand and placed it against his heart. His heart beat strongly, the pace picking up at the touch of her hand. Tenderly, he stroked the hair away from her face, murmuring, “My love."

  Again, he kissed her, his lips soft, but demanding.

  Loving Max demanded everything from her. She shuddered, in response as his hands slid lower. Flames of desire threatened to engulf her. She found herself a victim to the heady rapture that came with lying in her lover's arms.

  The flames consumed her once more.

  Thirty

  Max tossed in a fitful sleep. What should have been his first deep sleep in weeks evolved into a torturous night filled with images from the past.

  ~ * ~

  He ran, desperate to save Nicole from a sure death. His young love had been imprisoned in the Temple Prison and condemned for the crime of being born into an aristocratic family. Disguised in the unkempt garb of a Citizen, he wore the tricolor cockade on his head. He had escaped capture, but his brother the count had not been so fortunate. All of his family had been executed by Robespierre's dictum. Now, his precious Nicole was under the threat of death, as well.

  He ran. The Place de Guillotine was filled with throngs of new citizens, shouting and crying for more blood, crying for the heads of innocent people. As one, a vicious shout emerged from the mob whenever the head of another unfortunate was held high. Minutes later, the head would appear on a pike to be marched around for the rabble to view and spit upon. He had to save Nicole from such a horrible fate. He would rather die himself than see her being hauled up those terrible steps in hysterics. The love of his life wasn't a brave person, barely more than a child. She had been at court a mere three months when the revolution began. Unless he could free her from prison and spirit her away to England, she would die—another victim to the madness that possessed his country.

  He ran. He wasted little time waiting for his contact. Armand never made the rendezvous. He rushed for the gate, intending to sneak inside. Somehow, he must save her.

  His heart sank.

  Too late.

  He stood at the entrance to the prison and watched the tumbrel exit, his beloved, among the prisoners. He barely recognized her. Her blonde curly hair hung in limp, oily strands; her face dirty while she clung to another prisoner, a woman as hapless as she. The vacant expression in his lover's eyes destroyed him. Mon Dieu. What had they done to her?

  The mob pelted the cart with rotten vegetables and brick hard loaves of bread. “Let them eat cake, you putain,” a toothless hag beside him yelled. His love never flinched.

  “No, no,” he yelled, running beside the cart. A blow to the head felled him. Trampled and kicked by dozens of people.

  Pain ... ribs broken. Each ragged breath he took burned like fire. He pulled himself along the rough cobbles, only to see Nicole hauled up the rough-hewn steps to the guillotine. “No!” he screamed.

  Deafened by the shouts of the blood-thirsty mob, as the bloodied blade descended swiftly on her neck, he shouted, “Nicole!"

  A shout and another kick to his ribs. “Dirty aristo pig."

  The last thing he saw was a rough staff aimed with great force toward his head.

  ~ * ~

  Max awakened, his head throbbing. Glancing at Nikki, still asleep, he wondered how she managed to sleep though his nightmare.

  He wouldn't sleep again that night.

  Night? His watch said three. Swinging his feet to the floor, he grabbed his hastily-shed clothes and carried them to the bathroom.

  After dressing in the dark, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen, fighting an intense desire for his morning cup of coffee. Still no electricity.

  Perhaps a run? He looked toward the door. He hated leaving Nikki alone, but the nightmarish images haunted him. The desperation ... and the pain. Gingerly, he touched his ribs, half expecting them to be broken. A measure of relief swept through him, but he still had to get out of the house.

  Last night's storm had passed, but the storm inside had not. He'd thought making love with Nikki would bring him exhilaration and peace ... and it had, until he'd gone to sleep. Now, inexplicably he was filled with dread ... dread of what their love might bring them, dread of the future.

  Dammit. He'd never been a coward. He'd taken life's blows and challenges like a man. Yet now his greatest impulse was to run and run like hell ... from everything he held dear ... all because of a bad dream.

  He stuffed his feet into a pair of running shoes and tied the laces. Maybe the run would exorcise the troubling visions. He walked to the foyer, grabbed a light jacket from the closet. With practiced economy, he disarmed the security system and then rearmed it before leaving the townhouse. Luckily the system had a battery backup; he wouldn't have left Nikki alone and asleep without it.

  For a moment, he stopped and stood on the front landing. The pre-dawn sky was clear. Nothing moved. He was alone. All he had to do was go back into the house and crawl in bed with Nikki and enjoy her sweet warmth. Instead, he started his warm-up. Halfway, through his usual routine, he stopped and took off, impatient to clear his head.

  ~ * ~

  “Mm.” Nikki yawned and stretched, reaching for Max. He wasn't there. She looked over at the clock blinking 12:00. The storm was over, and there was no sound of rain. Whatever time it was, it was still dark. Puzzled, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and looked around the room. She was in Max's bedroom. She smiled, remembering how gently he'd carried her to his bed and the passion that followed. Her face grew hot from the memory.

  Max must be in the kitchen. She reached down and felt the bottom of her left foot. There was no residual soreness and no sign of any glass remnants. She glanced around the bedroom and spied a robe thrown ove
r the back of a chair. Hurriedly she drew it around her shoulders, cinching it in a loose knot at the waist, and ventured into the hallway. “Max?"

  Carefully she tiptoed downstairs, the oak floors cool to the bottoms of her bare feet. Walking into the kitchen, she looked around, but still no Max.

  “Max?” she called, louder this time. She turned from the kitchen and hurried to his study. Where could he be? She checked the security system. It was still armed.

  In her peripheral vision, Nikki glimpsed movement at the front door. The door with its Chinese-lattice, beveled glass made an undistorted view impossible. She crept to the door to see who it was. By the time she reached the door, all she saw was the back of a man rushing down the street.

  It wasn't Max; he was taller.

  She shrank back and took a deep breath, then raced for the stairs. Holding up the hem of the robe to keep from tripping, she bounded up to the second floor. She checked the other rooms. No Max. “Shit. Where is he?"

  Why did he leave? Her bottom lip trembled. She'd been abandoned again. As if it were yesterday, she could hear her mother's shrill voice. ‘Bad girl. Your daddy's left us. And it's your fault. Why can't you learn to behave? He wouldn't have left, if it wasn't for you."

  'No, Mama. Not me,’ she barely remembered whining. She'd cried herself to sleep for nights after her daddy left. She'd been so young, she didn't remembered him—just her mother's angry, tear-stained face.

  ~ * ~

  Max ran along the darkened streets toward the park with long loping strides that stretched his thigh muscles. Invigorated by the regular pounding of his feet against the pavement, he felt the tension ease. Sweat collected at his neck and ran down his back as he warmed to the run.

  He had no idea what time it was. Frankly, it didn't matter. This was the second disturbing dream he'd had ... his death ... and Nikki's, as well in the last one. Had his dream been influenced by the mask he'd bought her in France? Or was there a deeper connection between the two of them—one that could be traced back over lifetimes?

  If the theory of reincarnation was real, were they destined for another tragic end? Had Nikki somehow sensed they were bad for each other? Was that the real reason she'd avoided him for so long.?

  “Merde.” He'd left her alone after making love to her. What would she think?

  Still in the grips of the nightmare, he turned and headed back to the townhouse. What could he tell her? The truth? She'd think he was crazy.

  Hell. Even he thought he was crazy to consider reincarnation as a plausible explanation. On the other hand the dreams had been so vivid that he could believe they were glimpses of earlier lives. No jumbled landscapes, no surreal symbolism. Just desperation, fear, pain and ... love, the same incredible longing he felt for Nikki.

  As he ran, he visualized the scene. How could he just march in and tell her that he loved her ... but their being together was probably doomed. For her own good, he would give her up. Mon Dieu! How could he break her heart?

  The alternative was continuing their relationship and throwing caution to the winds. Allow fate to run its course? Could he risk it? No, he couldn't.

  After last night, she would expect more from him ... as she had every right. He'd never meant making love with Nikki to be casual. He loved her and wanted her with him, at all costs—except her life.

  For the last five blocks before reaching home, he slowed his pace, stopping in sight of the stone steps leading to his front door. He bent over from the waist, then straightened up, gasping for breath. Still tempted to run in the opposite direction, he summoned his courage to face the woman he loved.

  ~ * ~

  Nikki huddled on the bed in her own room. After she'd rushed upstairs, she'd become chilled and wrapped up in the duvet, pulling it tight around her shoulders. She'd never felt so alone ... or frightened. Why had Max left her? Why ... after making love to her?

  The empty house echoed with creaks and groans. All old houses did, but she jumped at every one of them. The sound of the front door opening reached her along with the insistent beeps of the security alarm. She listened ... and breathed a sigh of relief. Max had come back. He ascended the stairs and walked beyond her bedroom door to his.

  “Nikki?” he called, then knocked on her door. “Nikki?” A pause. “Are you awake?” He paused again. “May I come in?"

  She pulled the duvet tighter. She'd have to face him sooner or later. “Yes, come in."

  Max opened the door and stood there, as if unsure of his welcome. His shorts and T-shirt were wet, and his hair was damp and curled at the nape of his neck. Was it raining again? Had he been running? She waited for him to say something. She would give him a chance to explain where the hell he'd been ... and why the hell he'd left her all alone.

  His sea-green eyes were troubled as he walked to the side of her bed.

  What was wrong ... what had she done wrong?

  He sat down beside her, reached out and caressed her cheek. “Sorry, I'm a mess.”

  “A mess?” Who cared what he looked like? He was back. She wasn't alone anymore.

  He leaned forward and touched her shoulder, then stopped short. “I'm sorry for leaving you the way I did.” Pausing again as if considering whether or not to touch her, his hand shook with a fine tremor as he ran his fingers through his damp hair. “After what happened, I had a lot to think about."

  “Just what did you have to think about?” Nikki asked quietly, struggling to keep the fear from her voice, but failing. “You said you loved me. H-have you changed your mind?"

  “There are things in my past you don't understand ... things I'm not sure I understand. This—us—may have been a mistake."

  “A mistake?” She grappled for control. “How convenient ... after the fact.” She watched the emotions play across his handsome face, the face she'd loved for so long. She'd believed his words of love. How could she have been so stupid?

  “It's not like that. You know it's not."

  A wave of nausea roiled through her. She swallowed the bitterness welling in her throat. She would not let him see how much he'd hurt her. “No, of course not. You're not like other men, are you?” she asked. “Now, if you're through making excuses, I'm tired.” She averted her face. Looking at the wall was preferable to seeing the pity in his eyes. “I'd like to get some sleep."

  Again, he reached for her. “Let me explain."

  “No!” She jerked away and lost all pretense of self-control. “Get out."

  Startled, he stood up. “I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

  “You didn't? Like hell you didn't. You're no different than Ian Starr, except this time I won't have to listen to the laughter and gossip at the agency."

  “I would never discuss this with anyone at the agency,” he protested, pacing about the room.

  “Oh no? And you know the worst thing about it? Mama was right about you after all."

  Max stopped pacing and squared his shoulders. “I see.” He turned to leave.

  “I'll be out by this afternoon. No point in prolonging the mistake."

  Max turned, anger flashing in his eyes, the muscles in his face tightening. No misconstruing that emotion.

  “You don't have to leave. I won't come near you again,” Max replied through clenched teeth.

  “As if I'd let you,” she shouted and grabbed the nearest object and threw it at his head.

  ~ * ~

  Max ducked. The porcelain clock flew over his shoulder and crashed against the wall, shattering into tiny pieces. He spun on his heel and left Nikki's bedroom without looking back. No point in it. He was too angry with himself ... and heartbroken. She had a right to throw anything she wanted. He'd acted like a damned heel.

  And to make it worse, he was grateful she hadn't allowed him to explain, but ascribed her own interpretation to his actions. Better to leave things like that, than attempt an explanation he didn't understand. At least she'd be safe.

  From the hall, Max heard the slamming of drawers. He stopped
and listened. Packing? She was leaving him. Damn.

  They'd shared one beautiful night—a night of passion and communication at the most sensual and ethereal levels. And he'd destroyed everything, all because of a nightmare he couldn't explain ... or ignore.

  If he'd been a woman, he would have wept. No, a man hid his emotions behind a blank stare ... and brooding silence. For once, he regretted being a man.

  ~ * ~

  Nikki's temperament demanded action. She jumped from the bed and pulled two suitcases from the walk-in closet. She threw them on the bed and jerked at the stubborn zippers. She'd teach him to play with her feelings. Without a doubt, Max Devereaux was an absolute bastard. She'd never forgive him ... never.

  She yanked open a drawer and swept the lacy contents into her arms, dumping her undies into one of the empty suitcases. Jeans and tops followed in rapid disorder. She could come back later and pack the rest after he left for the office.

  Grabbing the telephone, she punched in Marti's number. “It's Nikki. Sorry to wake you, but...

  ~ * ~

  Nikki lugged the larger of her two suitcases to the stairs. The other one could wait. Max's bedroom door opened. Halfway down the stairs, she hesitated and turned. He stood in the hall, silent, hands at his sides. She mustered her courage and fled down the remaining steps. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wouldn't let him see her cry.

  Pride? False pride maybe, but right now that was all she had.

  Thirty-one

  “Careful. It's hot,” Marti warned.

  Nikki accepted the steaming cup of coffee, blew on it and then sipped, immediately burning her tongue. “Ow!"

  “I told you."

  “I'm not thinking clearly.” She groaned and shook her head. “I need it to stay awake,” she muttered, then buried her face in her hands.

  “Late night?” Marti prompted.

  She looked up at her friend. “You could say that."

  “See here. If you're going to wake me at the ungodly hour of—well, whatever time it was when you called—you could at least have the decency to tell me what's wrong."