"I have a suggestion, Tate," she said, not looking at him. "If Carlo's not around, stay away from me. That way you won't be tempted to lose control again." Then she got up and walked to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
* * *
Max looked after her, immediately missing the sight of her when she slammed the door. Apparently he'd handled this the wrong way. He hadn't meant to make her mad, he'd just thought it would be easier if they both got on with the business of doing this job.
He climbed out of bed and did his best to make it, fluffing the pillows and pulling the comforter up over it. Then he gathered the fake jewelry strewn around the bed and on the floor and put it all neatly back into the black velvet box, which he also found on the carpet at the foot of the bed.
Of course, when he thought about it, she was right—he could try to pretend this hadn't happened, but it had. And he didn't think he'd be forgetting about it anytime soon. He could still feel her creamy breasts filling his hands, and the way her body had opened so warm and moist to take him inside. He could still feel the way his heart had seemed to contract when she held him tight, when her breath sounded so ragged in his ear, and when she came—
especially
when she came. Talk about evoking emotions, he'd felt things he didn't even know names for.
Then she'd cried. He'd almost forgotten that part. She'd cried and he'd held her and he'd told her it was okay. He didn't even know what he'd meant by that.
Or maybe he did. Maybe he'd been saying,
It's okay to feel so much, because I feel it, too.
Damn. It was true. He'd felt it, too.
He shook his head at the disarming realization, then grabbed his clothes and went to use the shower down the hall.
* * *
Kimberly stood in the shower letting the water cascade over her, hoping it would somehow wash away her mortification. But she knew water couldn't do that. Nor could tears. She'd been having so many inane wishes lately, ever since Max Tate had reentered her life.
The very thought of him brought back memories of her humiliation. How she had begged him. How she had whimpered and sobbed and panted and pleaded and… He certainly wasn't the only one who'd lost control. Only her loss had been much more complete than his—she'd lost control of her body … and her heart.
She'd been so overcome with love for him that she'd cried afterward. How utterly embarrassing. Especially now that she knew it meant nothing to him, nothing at all.
Toweling off with one of the plush bath sheets from the enormous linen closet, she promptly dropped it in the laundry chute and stood before the pink marble sinktop to put on her moisturizer. Plush bath sheets, marble sinktops, suddenly none of the lavishness of their accommodations held the same awe for her that it had only a day or two ago. The fact was, it just wasn't important compared to her feelings, compared to her heart.
After moisturizing, she threw on denim shorts and a T-shirt—who cared if Carlo thought it was sexy or not?—then scooped up the choker and bracelet she'd set on the sink and came out into the bedroom.
She'd heard the door close a long time ago and knew Max wasn't there, but she was surprised to see that he'd made the bed and cleaned up the jewelry. He'd left the black velvet box sitting neatly on the bed, lid open, waiting for her to drop the missing items back inside.
She lay the gems back among the others, gently closed the box, then returned it to the safe. Kimberly felt a distinct sadness fall over her, because packing up the jewelry and closing it away seemed somehow like packing up her and Max's lovemaking and hiding it away, as well, which was obviously just what he wanted.
That made sense, she thought cynically, because the jewelry and the lovemaking had something else in common, too. Both were fake.
Come on, Brandt
, she told herself.
Toughen up, you've got a job to do. You can cry your heart out later, but for now, it's back to work
. And with that, she went downstairs ready to put in this last day's work before calling it a day with him—forever.
* * *
Max wasn't much of a cook, but he'd found some heat-and-serve sausage in the freezer and a bunch of eggs, which he planned to scramble. He dug out a big bowl from an overhead cabinet and began breaking the eggs into it. He tried his hardest not to let himself remember similar breakfasts on mornings after making love to Kimberly. After all, this was much different. He would be setting three plates.
So now he'd admitted it to himself, he thought as he broke the eggs, one by one into some milk, throwing the white shells into a garbage can. He'd admitted that he felt something for her. Something big. Something jam-packed with emotion.
He wasn't ready for that because there was a lot to take into consideration here. For one thing, the job. For another, the Carpenter case and all the loss that had come with it.
He turned the heat on under the skillet, then held his hand over it until he felt his palm warming. Kimberly had been right, he'd never really thought about forgiving her for the Carpenter case. But not because he was a rotten hardhead of a guy. It was because she'd never been around for him to forgive. She'd walked out of the room, and he'd gone to Vegas and spent the next two and a half years rebuilding his business. Forgiveness had never been an issue.
He mixed the eggs and milk with a fork, an array of questions wandering through his head. Could he forgive her? Could he forget? Where did trust come into play here? Did he really believe he could trust her now? In business? In pleasure? That was the part that had been so hard to take. Being betrayed by your partner was one thing, but being betrayed by your lover was much worse.
In one way, he felt as if he didn't know her at all anymore—she was so much tougher and saucier now than she'd been then. But in another way, he felt as if he knew her completely. And as if he wanted to know her even more. If only he could forget … and forgive. She'd tried to explain her actions to him the other day and he'd refused to listen. Too afraid that whatever she said would never be enough. Too afraid to feel such betrayal and emptiness all over again.
He dumped the egg mixture into the hot frying pan, surprised by his thoughts. Did he really want to know her even more? If anyone had asked him three days ago, he'd have easily said no. But now things had changed. He'd spent some time with her, both as his pretend wife and also as Kimberly, the woman who had been his partner and his lover. It hit him suddenly that she was both of those things again, even if not by design. And as to whether he really wanted to know her more … well, his answer was a firm
maybe
. Again, it all came back to forgiving and forgetting, two things he didn't know if he was capable of doing.
But first things first, he thought adamantly, turning the eggs with a fork. He had to put Carlo and his boss or bosses behind bars and get his client's property back. Until that was over, he couldn't think about Kimberly.
He used the same fork to flip the sausages in another skillet, then shoved some bread into the toaster and got out three juice glasses. Then he looked up to see Kimberly walk in, wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt. He wanted to smile, but he didn't because he couldn't think about relationship possibilities right now and he didn't want her to be thinking about them either.
"Hope I'm not too dressed down," she said.
He gave his head a short shake. "No, I think we've already got him where we want him. You look fine. Nice." In fact, she looked like the old Kimberly he remembered. That rainy-day Kimberly. The easygoing girl he'd loved to be with, laugh with, watch TV with, do anything with. Make love to. He couldn't think of Kimberly back then without thinking about making love to her. They'd spent a lot of time in bed. Which probably explained why last night had felt so much like … coming home.
Damn it, he thought, shaking his head. Hadn't he just told himself he couldn't think about that anymore right now?
"What?" she said in response to his expression.
"Nothing." He looked away. "Can you, um, pour the juice for me?" Then he started turning the eggs again, amazed that he hadn't scorched them by neglecting them for so long.
"Sure," she said.
"Any sign of him up there?" he asked as she pulled a glass container of orange juice from the fridge, looking very cute in her shorts.
"I heard the hall shower."
"Good," he said, although this was no time to be thinking about Kimberly's shorts—he needed to concentrate on business. "I'll plan on getting my imaginary call from the office around two. Are you ready for this?" He met her eyes for that last part. It was necessary to see how she reacted.
"More than." She sounded eager. Looked eager. Which was a good attitude for a P.I. Still, it suddenly bothered him. He tried to hide his dismay.
"What's wrong?" she asked anyway.
"Nothing." He turned his back on her, removing the scrambled eggs from the burner. To his unequaled surprise, he realized that he was having second thoughts about sending her in with Carlo. He couldn't believe he'd be willing to scrap this whole setup, but suddenly he was.
"Brandt, this might be too dangerous." He didn't look at her, instead spooning the fluffy eggs into a clear glass dish.
"Dangerous?" But even keeping his gaze down, he could almost see the way her eyes widened in shock.
"What if you can't hold him at bay?" he asked her. "What if he gets rough?"
"I can handle it. And you'll be right in the closet, remember?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Still, I don't know. I'm not sure I like it."
"You liked it fine before."
"That was then."
"Something change?"
It was as if she was daring him. To admit the sex had been more than sex, more than what he'd wanted or expected it to be. To admit that he worried for her, that he wanted to take care of her, protect her. As he'd just acknowledged, he wasn't ready to go there yet. "No," he finally said.
"Then come on, Tate, toughen up. This isn't that big of a deal."
He looked at her and she looked back. They gazed at each other for a long, painfully slow moment, and Max thanked God that she'd never been able to read his expression, or she'd see that he was having more of those damn tender emotions toward her again. No matter how he tried, he was having a hard time pushing them into the background where they belonged.
"What smells so good?" Max flinched and looked up. Carlo stood in the doorway. Thankfully it appeared that he missed the look they'd been sharing.
"Eggs," Max replied.
"And sausage," Kimberly said.
"Sounds great. I'm starving."
"Take a seat at the table," Max told the crook. "You, too, babe," he said to Kimberly. "I'll handle all this."
"So what's up for today?" Carlo asked as he sat down.
"Nothing special. Have anything in mind?" Max asked.
"I could go for some more time by the pool."
That Carlo, he was a sucker for that particular luxury. Thank goodness this house came with one; it had made the lunkhead easy to entertain. "Sounds good to me," Max said. "You, babe?"
Their eyes met. He could see her slipping into character as she gave him a smile. "You know how I love to soak in the sun. Sounds wonderful." Then she shifted her smile to Carlo, which Max hated. But he had to admit … she was good.
* * *
"Hey, Kimberly, watch this!"
Kimberly politely lifted her head from the lounge chair in time to see Carlo do a huge cannonball into the pool. How mature, she thought with a yawn. She waited for him to surface and said, "That was a good one, Carlo."
"Something to drink from inside, babe?" Max asked from his seat at one of the teak patio tables.
Babe. She was trying not to let the old endearment make her feel anything, but it still did. Especially now, after last night. "A wine cooler would be nice," she said.
She'd been trying desperately to come to grips with what Max's actions had made clear—he simply felt nothing for her beyond a sexual attraction.
Quit smiling at me with those seductive brown eyes,
she wanted to snap at him.
And quit calling me babe.
Because none of that was helping her keep her hold on the reality of this situation. Yet she knew it was necessary. For the rest of the day they were husband and wife, whether or not the pretense broke her heart more with each passing second.