Second to None Page 8

  Izzy’s eyes had gone wide. “Daddy let someone shoot a gun at him?”

  “He said he had confidence in my work.” Max met Emily’s gaze. “Which, of course, scared the hell . . . heck out of me. It turned out that Novak was the best marksman in the battalion. So he’s pointing his gun at your father, and he yells, ‘What should I aim for, sir?’ Your father yells back, ‘My heart, because according to you, er, wimps, it’s made of stone.’”

  “I can just hear him saying that,” Emily said, tears glazing her vision. “Without the euphemism.” She gave Max a wavering smile.

  He reached over the table between them and took her hand where it lay on the arm of the chair, giving it a gentle squeeze. The strength of his fingers sent a strange comfort spreading through her. She returned the pressure in wordless gratitude and slipped her hand out of his grip before she did something stupid.

  Max nodded and continued his story. “Novak yells back, ‘Sir, yes, sir,’ and I hear the crack of his rifle. We’re all staring at Jake . . . your father . . . waiting for him to stagger or flinch or something. Instead, he yells, ‘You missed.’ There’s dead silence for a couple of seconds while everyone looks at Novak’s stunned expression, and then your father starts laughing. ‘You got me right in the heart. Do it again.’”

  Izzy squealed and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Max sat back with a smile. “So Novak shot him four more times in different parts of his body. Finally, I stopped him, so I could talk to your dad about how it felt to be hit by a bullet.”

  “That’s crazy,” Izzy said.

  “That was Jake,” Emily said, her tone dry.

  “So how did it feel?” Izzy asked.

  “He said it was like being hit by a baseball. He ended up with some bruises, but nothing was cracked or broken, and the pain was never severe enough to cloud his thinking. That’s important when someone is shooting at you.” Max’s voice held a grim undercurrent.

  Izzy sighed. “I wish Daddy had been wearing your body armor so he didn’t get killed.”

  Max’s gaze cut to Emily. She lifted her hands and shook her head to show she hadn’t told Izzy anything about that. He touched the little girl’s shoulder softly. “I wish he had, too. He was a hero, your dad.”

  “I know. He got a lot of medals for being brave.” Izzy’s voice was wistful. “Will you tell me another story about him?”

  “Later,” Emily said. “Let’s ask Mr. Varela some questions about himself.”

  A fleeting cloud of discomfort crossed Max’s face. “Let me just tell you the end of the story, because it shows how much your father’s men liked him. When Jake, your dad, walked back to where his company stood watching, Novak said, ‘Sir, we have volunteers for another test.’ Your father started to take off the body armor, but Novak stopped him. ‘No, sir. Every single Marine here has volunteered to shoot you.’ Your father cracked up.”

  “So wanting to shoot at him means they liked him?” Izzy scrunched up her face.

  Max nodded, making the firelight run along the dark waves of his hair like liquid flame, and then gave Emily an amused glance.

  “I get it. It’s like when Tishawn calls Diego a—” Izzy stopped and threw her mother a guilty look. “Well, he calls him a bad name, even though they’re really good friends.”

  Emily had to work hard not to laugh. “I can just imagine what Tishawn calls Diego, and I’m glad you chose not to repeat it.” She gave Max a rueful smile. “This is why Izzy comes to the center only twice a week.”

  “Boys are weird,” Izzy said.

  “I won’t argue that,” Max said.

  “That’s very fair-minded of you,” Emily said. A buzzer sounded from the kitchen, and she stood up. “Izzy, you keep Mr. Varela company while I get dinner on the table.”

  “Izzy, I think we should help your mom, don’t you?” Max said, holding out his hand to the little girl. She nodded and put her small hand in his. He pulled her to her feet and then straightened up from his chair, his height and breadth making Izzy look tiny. The contrast made Emily’s heart clench, because it reminded her of how adorable rough, tough Marine captain Jake had looked when he played with his small daughter.

  “I love having minions,” Emily said to counteract the wave of bittersweet memory as she led the procession to the kitchen.

  When Max flicked two hot pads off their hooks so he could pull the macaroni casserole out of the oven, she remembered his deftness around the kitchen back in North Carolina. He’d once revealed that he’d had to cook for himself as a teenager because his parents both worked odd hours. She was surprised he still pitched in. Billionaires surely had private chefs and various other genuine minions to do their cooking.

  When he asked if she already had a trivet on the table to receive the hot dish, she must have looked astonished, because he shrugged. “It’s just chemistry. Varnished wood doesn’t respond well to hot glass.”

  “Did you learn that in the lab or at home?” she asked.

  He smiled but carried the dish into the dining room without answering.

  Once the soup, mac and cheese, apple-and-cranberry salad, blistered cherry tomatoes, and biscuits were on the table, they sat down. Emily had positioned the main dish right in front of Max’s seat, so she was gratified when he leaned over it and inhaled with an expression of focused bliss. “It smells exactly as I remember it,” he said.

  “The taste is more important,” Emily said.

  He shook his head as his lips curved into a half smile. “Not necessarily. The aroma compounds interact with the olfactory nerve, which is linked to the limbic system, our primitive brain. So scent evokes emotion and memory in a powerful way. However, I look forward to eating it as well.”

  She wanted to ask him what emotions and memories her mac and cheese brought to his mind, but instead she turned the conversation to his work. He entertained them with stories of various disasters in the labs where he’d worked through the years.

  Emily let the velvet growl of his voice wrap around her like a blanket, sending delicious vibrations up and down her spine.

  “That’s poppin’,” Izzy said, snapping Emily out of her delicious haze. “Maybe I’ll be a chemist when I grow up.”

  Max looked baffled, so Emily translated. “Poppin’ means ‘fun and exciting,’ and Izzy is not supposed to use such slang.”

  Izzy wrinkled her nose. “Do you have to wear those weird-looking one-piece suits in the lab?”

  “It depends on what chemicals you’re working with,” Max said.

  “Could I design my own suit?”

  “Why not?” He put down his fork and leaned back in his chair. “My compliments to the chef.”

  Emily eyed the half-empty casserole dish. Max had taken a large second helping, so she didn’t doubt his sincerity. “I’m flattered by your consumption, so I’ll give you some to take home.”

  Izzy slid off her chair and picked up her plate. “Wait until you taste my pie.”

  Max rose as well. “I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”

  “I guess chemists have to clean up after themselves,” Emily said as Max balanced several dishes on his forearms and walked into the kitchen.

  “Contamination ruins experiments,” he said, stacking the plates on the counter.

  When he reached for the handle of the dishwasher, Emily grabbed his wrist. “Nope, you’re a guest.”

  For a moment, she felt his pulse beat against her fingertips, making her own stutter and speed up. Max didn’t move, so she held on to him, her fingers looking small and delicate against the swell of muscle in his forearm. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she was reminded of the way the firelight had reflected heat in his eyes. Except here in the kitchen, there was only the steady electric light of the brass fixture over their heads.

  “You let me load the dishwasher seven years ago,” he said.

  “Things were different at Lejeune.” He wasn’t a billionaire with a charitable foundation that had made a maj
or donation to fund her project.

  “I’m the same person,” he said.

  She shook her head as she listed just the differences she could see. The strength of his jaw, the honed muscle of his shoulders, the confidence in his stride, the expensive fabrics of his clothing. “You were . . . younger then. So was I. We’ve both changed.”

  He lowered his gaze to their hands. “Some things have changed.”

  She let go of his wrist as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Yet there was no reason to feel guilty about touching him.

  As she started to move away, he captured her hand. “Change can be good,” he said.

  *

  Max put his fork down on his empty dessert plate and sat back in the dining-room chair. “Izzy, if you become a chemist, the world will mourn the loss of a great pastry chef.”

  Izzy broke into a grin, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing. She was a cute kid with Jake’s blue eyes and Emily’s tip-tilted smile. Her personality veered more toward Jake’s outgoing, what-you-see-is-what-you-get nature, but maybe that was just the frankness of childhood. Of course, Emily had been less guarded seven years ago; loss had wrapped a shell of reserve around her.

  “Violet says that baking is chemistry,” Izzy said, “so maybe I could be both. As long as I get to design my own chemist clothes.”

  The little imp was smart, too. “I may ask you to design my chemist clothes,” Max said.

  Emily gave a snort of a laugh. “I’m picturing you in orange-and-purple polka dots.”

  “Mo-o-o-m, I wouldn’t put polka dots on Mr. Varela’s clothes. He’s more stripes.”

  Max imagined a lab filled with Izzy-created hazmat suits. It would brighten the place up. The thought reminded him that his lab would be in Chicago, and he shifted in his chair. “I was hoping for plaid,” he said.

  Emily laughed and turned to Izzy. “Okay, sweetie, you’re excused to go watch your movie. You don’t have to clear the table.”

  “Yay!” Izzy scooted out from her chair and walked over to Max. “It was nice to meet you. Thank you again for my flowers.” Then she stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. The innocence of the gesture pulled at something in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed by a child.

  As she trotted across the living room, he said, “She’ll be baking pies for presidents and kings one day. Or else she’ll be CEO of V-Chem.”

  “She’s also considering Supreme Court justice or fashion designer,” Emily said with a wry smile. “Do you remember those days when anything seemed possible?”

  He turned his empty wineglass by its stem. He remembered coming home to find his mother and father sitting in some junker of a car with all their meager belongings already loaded because they’d gotten evicted yet again. “My memories tend in the other direction. I was willing to do anything at all merely to change my life. I didn’t aspire to the heights Izzy does.”

  “And yet you climbed those heights,” Emily said. “You’re beyond successful.” Then she shied away from the topic. “By the way, you didn’t mention to Izzy that you put on the body armor right after Jake and had Novak shoot at you, too. Jake told me.”

  What even Jake didn’t know was that Max had taken the body armor to a shooting range the day before Jake’s test and braced himself while a retired police sniper had fired at him. Voluntarily staring into the black hole of a gun barrel pointed at him was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. However, there was no way he would let anyone risk using his creation before he’d tested it himself. It was like a chef not eating his own cooking. Max had the sudden thought that Izzy would always eat her own cooking, which made him smile.

  “I can tell by that smile there was something more,” Emily said. “What else didn’t you mention?”

  Max shook his head. He didn’t want to look into the past anymore tonight. “Just recalling some of Jake’s more unrepeatable comments on what it felt like when the bullets hit him.”

  “You know, it’s nice to talk about Jake with someone who knew him well. Up here no one but Aunt Ruthie had ever met him. And now she’s gone. Thank you for indulging Izzy and me with the stories,” Emily said, her eyes liquid pools of tears. But she was smiling—a soft, nostalgic smile.

  Not the way he wanted the conversation to head. He reached for Izzy’s plate to stack on his, but Emily said, “Let’s leave all this and sit by the fire. I can tidy up later.”

  “I can carry a few dishes into the kitchen to save you the work,” he said.

  “No, let’s have some port—or brandy, if you prefer—and stare into the flames.” She rose and dropped her napkin on the table.

  “Brandy sounds good on a night like this,” Max said, standing to lean on the back of his chair. He enjoyed the way her sleeves fluttered around her slender, graceful arms as she walked to the sideboard and pulled out a brandy snifter and a liqueur glass along with the matching bottles. She filled the two glasses and handed him the snifter.

  He rested his hand lightly on the small of her back as they walked side by side to the fireplace. He heard her draw in a sharp breath, but she stayed close enough for him to touch. The feel of her moving under the silky blouse made him want to slip his hand under the fabric to lay his palm against her warm, bare skin.

  He guided her to the chair she’d used before, but he leaned against the mantel so he could watch the firelight play over her face and hair.

  “Tell me more about you and dogs,” she said, startling him. But it was better than having the ghost of Jake hovering over them.

  He rolled his shoulders as he considered how to edit the sordid story. “Like any other kid, I wanted a puppy, but my family moved often because of my father’s job, so it wasn’t really practical to have one. Instead of just saying no, my parents got creative. They told me supposedly true stories about dogs who attacked their owners—generally, small boys—until I decided maybe a dog wasn’t such a great idea after all.”

  Her face softened, probably with pity. “That’s a terrible thing to do to a child,” she said. “Make him afraid of animals so you won’t have to look like a bad guy by saying no.” Then she looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t criticize your parents.”

  “Feel free. They weren’t models of parental rectitude.” He swirled his brandy in the snifter. “Even though now I understand that dogs are not unpredictably vicious beasts, it’s hard to overcome that instilled instinct to avoid them.”

  “So you want the kids at the center to have the dog you never did.”

  “That’s more sentimental than my actual thought process, but I’ll take the credit.”

  She smiled and sipped her port while she stared into the fire. Then she lifted her gaze to him again. “Maybe you could spend a little time with Windy. Aunt Ruthie trained her well, so she won’t jump or nip or bark and startle you.”

  “I don’t encounter many dogs in my job, so it’s not a problem I have to deal with.” But if Emily liked dogs so much, maybe he needed to work on it.

  “I hate to think of you missing out on the joy and comfort a dog can bring into your life.”

  He could tell that she really did feel sorry for his lack of a pet. It made him want her even more.

  He set his brandy on the mantel and took two steps to reach her chair. Removing the glass from her hand and putting it on the table, he drew her to her feet. Her hair slid over his skin like the smoothest satin as he threaded the fingers of one hand into the shining fall of it. Tilting her head up to him, he dropped his gaze to the delicious curves of her mouth before he bent his head to murmur, “If you want me to stop, say so.”

  *

  His breath whispered over her lips, fragrant with the brandy he’d just drunk. She did not want him to stop, so she did what she had been longing to do all evening . . . slid her hands over the expensive softness of his sweater where it covered the hard swell of his shoulder muscles and edged herself closer to him. His lips touched hers, and she
sighed at the feel of that full lower lip brushing hers. He demanded no more than that questing brush for a few seconds. Then he wrapped one arm around her waist and drew her in so her breasts were pressed against the solid plane of his chest while her head was cradled in his other hand.

  Every place their bodies touched sizzled with pleasure. The solid maleness of him made her feel exquisitely soft and female in a way she’d forgotten. She melted into him, wanting to touch in more places, while his lips grew more insistent on hers. She skimmed her hand up the back of his neck so she could weave her fingers into the gleaming strands of his hair, keeping him her captive or offering herself as his. Or both.

  A low rumble came from his throat, and he traced the seam of her mouth with his tongue, just an exploration, not an invasion. Before she could open to him, he glided down to her jawline, kissing along it until he reached the sensitive spot just behind her earlobe. When he flicked it with his tongue, she gasped and arched into him without conscious thought while desire rocketed through her in a wave of sensation.

  His arm locked around her like a steel bar as he dragged his mouth down her neck, tasting her skin as he went.

  “Yes, Max,” she whispered. “There.”

  He followed the line of her collarbone until the fabric of her blouse blocked his progress. She heard him huff in frustration, a feeling she shared. When he lifted his head, his gaze scorched her. “Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he said, his voice a delicious rasp. “At my place.”

  She tried to think what day tomorrow was. Sunday. She could do dinner then. Except she would need a babysitter.

  “If I can find someone to stay with Izzy.”

  He smiled in a way that sent a ripple of excitement down her spine. “If you can’t, I can.”

  Before she could say anything more, he lowered his mouth to hers and sent tendrils of pure flame twisting through her. She whimpered and kneaded his shoulders as she tried to press as much of her body against his as was humanly possible.

  He obliged by curling one arm around her hips so he could bring her pelvis against him while the other arm wrapped her shoulders in a grip that crushed her into his chest. She could feel his erection and reveled in the knowledge that he was as aroused as she was.