Chapter 8

“Mario’s fever has been normal for twelve hours,” Dr. Quillen said when Emily called her Saturday morning. “Your kid, Diego, has been with that dog every minute that he wasn’t in school or home sleeping. He pulled the dog through. Mario is going to make a full recovery.”

Emily slumped against the kitchen counter in relief. “Thank God!”

“I want to talk with you about Diego helping out around the clinic. He has a real gift with animals,” the vet continued. “I could even pay him a little. But that would be between you, me, and him.”

Emily understood. Diego was too young to be an official employee. “He would love that. We’ll put our heads together and see what we can work out.”

When Emily hung up, Izzy finished chewing her mouthful of pancakes and asked, “Is Diego’s dog going to be okay?”

“He’s going to be just fine. He probably won’t even limp.” Emily closed her eyes for a moment as happiness for Diego surged through her. Now he could take pride in befriending the dog instead of blaming himself for Mario’s pain.

“That’s good. Diego’s nice, and I didn’t want his dog to die.” Izzy put her fork down. “Can we start cooking?”

“I think we’d better. We have a lot to do before Mr. Varela gets here.” Nerves quivered through her. She and Izzy had done the grocery shopping yesterday evening. Now she had to create a meal for a man who routinely ate at the best restaurants Manhattan could offer, which was saying something. What was he going to think of her carrot-ginger soup and macaroni and cheese? He probably remembered the latter as being much better than it really was. His dining options had been vastly more limited at Camp Lejeune than they were here. At least Violet had agreed to come over to help Izzy with the chocolate pecan pie, so Emily knew the finish would be delicious.

As Emily arranged ingredients on the counter, Izzy put her plate in the dishwasher. “Mommy, is it okay if I ask Mr. Varela to tell me about Daddy?”

“I . . . yes, you can.” Emily breathed against the tears that threatened. “But if he doesn’t want to talk about Daddy, don’t insist, all right? Some people feel weird talking about someone who’s died.”

“I’m glad you don’t. I like talking about Daddy. And looking at his pictures.” Izzy opened the package of Tillamook cheddar cheese. “If I’m really careful, can I grate this?”

Emily pulled the grater out of the drawer. “Remember about stopping when the piece of cheese gets too small?”

Izzy nodded and watched as Emily cut the chunk of cheddar in half so Izzy could hold it in her small hand.

Emily peeled open the applewood-smoked bacon and began to lay it on the wire rack to broil. “I like talking about Daddy, too. He was an important part of our lives, so I think it would be strange not to talk about him.” Even if sometimes the knowledge she would never see him again sent a rolling wave of grief through her. It happened much less often now, which she was grateful for.

When Ruth had been alive, the older woman would hold Emily while she sobbed. Now Emily had only Windy’s soft, furry shoulder to cry on, and she’d done it more often than she wanted to admit.

“What did Mr. Varela and Daddy do together?” Izzy scraped the cheese down the grater with care.

“Mr. Varela invented a material that was superstrong but light so soldiers could wear it to protect themselves. It’s called body armor. Daddy helped him test it in real-life situations and make it better.”

Izzy stopped grating. “I guess Daddy wasn’t wearing it when he died.”

“I guess not.” Emily didn’t explain that body armor couldn’t save a person from a bomb or a fire or a land mine or the many other dangers that Jake had faced when he was sent out on assignment.

Izzy started to shred the cheese again. “Was Mr. Varela a soldier, too?”

“No, he’s a scientist, a chemist.”

“Like the man Diego named his dog after. Mario something.”

“Mario Molina. He was a chemist, too, although his work was about the sky.”

“Cool.” The doorbell rang, and Izzy jumped off her stool. “That must be Violet. I’ll let her in.” She raced away with Windy trotting along behind her.

“Check the door camera first!” Izzy had a tendency to open the door without knowing who was outside, so Emily had installed a security camera with a view screen right beside the door.

“It’s Violet,” her daughter shouted as Emily started to follow her.

“Okay,” Emily called back, turning around and shoving the bacon into the oven.

As she wiped her greasy fingers on a paper towel, sadness and anticipation twisted her heart. What memories of Jake might Max choose to share?

*

“I like that top, Mommy,” Izzy said as Emily stood in front of her bedroom mirror in a state of indecision. She’d already settled on black wool trousers and black velvet flats. The top Izzy preferred was a festive red silk knit with a V neck. What gave it interest were the sleeves, which were pleated red chiffon that fell to her elbows and fluttered with every movement.

“You can wear the ruby necklace Daddy gave you,” Izzy continued. “It will add some sparkle.”

“Okay,” Emily said before she twirled her hair into a bun and held it. “Hair up or down?”

Izzy tilted her head and considered the question. “Down.”

Emily let her hair fall around her shoulders and picked up her brush. “You want to style it?”

Izzy nodded, so Emily sat down on the bed and let her daughter smooth her hair into waves. “Do you want me to French braid your hair?” Emily asked when Izzy was done.

“Can we try it and see how it looks?” Izzy asked.

As Emily tamed Izzy’s curls into a neat braid down the back of her head, she thought how much she loved these girlie moments. That’s why she never allowed anyone to interfere with their Saturdays together. She didn’t mind sharing them, but she wasn’t going to separate herself from her daughter on their one special day.

Izzy inspected the effect of her hairdo with her lime-green dress and royal-blue tights before she nodded. “Could you clip some blue bows down the braid?”

*

At ten minutes till six, Emily straightened the folds of a green-and-red plaid napkin, shifted a water goblet on the poinsettia-embroidered tablecloth, and moved the crystal salt and pepper shakers to the other end of the table.

Windy sat in the archway, watching Emily down her long slender nose.

“Yes, I’m nervous,” Emily murmured to the dog.

“What, Mommy?” Izzy was in the kitchen, inspecting the chocolate pecan pie.

“Just talking to Windy.” She walked over to stroke the dog’s silky fur. “What’s a billionaire genius going to think of our little home?”

The truth was that Emily thought the house looked cozy and welcoming. The Christmas tree stood in the corner of the living room, wearing its shiny ornaments and twinkling multicolored lights. Flames flickered in the marble-manteled fireplace, sending light dancing over the garlands of greenery draped around the doors and brass sconces. The heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn against the dark chill of the winter night. These Victorian town houses were meant for Christmas decorations.

The doorbell rang, making Emily jump.

“Do you want me to answer it?” Izzy shouted from the kitchen.

“I’ll get it,” Emily said. “Why don’t you come in here and keep Windy with you, just until I’ve gotten Mr. Varela’s coat put away?”

Emily signaled the well-trained dog to stay as Izzy scampered into the dining room. Taking a deep breath, she smiled down at her daughter and walked to the narrow front hall. When she checked the video screen, she swallowed hard. Max stood in the circle of light on the front stoop while snowflakes drifted down onto his broad wool-covered shoulders. He held a huge bouquet of flowers and a leather wine tote that was large enough for several bottles. His dark hair gleamed in the warm yellow light cast by the overhead fixture while shadows accented the strong, clean planes of his face. Her blood pulsed a little faster in her veins as she imagined tracing along his jaw with her fingertip. Or her lips.

She yanked open the door to stop her wayward thoughts. “Come in, Max.”

As he stepped inside, his shoulders appeared to span the width of the hallway, filling the small space with his powerful male presence. A gust of outdoor air blew in with him so that snowflakes swirled around his head. He blazed like a force of nature barely contained within her walls.

A vibration burrowed deep inside her as she responded to the pure magnetism he exuded.

He set the wine tote on the floor and separated the flowers, holding out the larger bouquet to her. “For you. Some springtime in the midst of winter.”

It was a spectacular collection of exotic lilies, roses, and flowers she didn’t even recognize, all in brilliant jewel tones. “What a treat! Thank you so much,” she said, inhaling the glorious scent of the lilies.

He held up the smaller version. “For Izzy.”

Her heart did a little flip in her chest. If the man was trying to charm her by being sweet to her daughter, he had succeeded. “She adores bright colors, so you chose exactly the right flowers.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that made her want to bathe in the sound. “You mentioned that she has a strong fashion sense, so I went with bold.”

“Let me take your coat.” She put the flowers gently on the steps that led up to the next floor while he unwound his claret-colored scarf and shrugged out of his overcoat. He wore a pale gray sweater of some fine-knit fiber that her fingers itched to touch, and charcoal-gray trousers that broke over black loafers. He’d pushed the sleeves of his sweater halfway up toward his elbows to reveal the hard curves of well-muscled forearms with a dusting of dark hair. She longed to touch there, too.

When Emily took his heavy coat by the collar, her fingers brushed the silky lining. It still held the heat of his body, and she felt a shiver of pleasure flutter over her skin. She fumbled at the wooden hangers in the coat closet, finally managing to unhook one from the rod.

She hung the coat and turned to find him watching her. “You look beautiful,” he said, his eyes dark pools in the dim light. She had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze.

“So do you,” she said, her voice holding a husky edge that she couldn’t quell.

“Mommy, guys don’t like to be called beautiful.” Izzy’s voice dispersed the charged atmosphere surrounding them.

Max squatted so he was on Izzy’s eye level. “I don’t mind it at all.” He held out the flowers. “Your mom said you like bright colors.”

“I got flowers?” Izzy practically squeaked as she accepted the bouquet and buried her nose in it. “They smell good, too. Thank you, Mr. Varela.”

“You’re—” He straightened abruptly and took a step back. “—welcome.”

Emily tried to figure out what had made him react so strangely, but all she saw was Izzy sniffing her posies and Windy standing beside her, watching the stranger with interest.

“I guess I should introduce you to Windy,” Emily said. “She was my aunt Ruthie’s dog, but she allowed us to adopt her.”

“She’s . . . very pretty,” he said, but he made no attempt to pet the collie mix. Instead, he picked up the wine tote and held it in front of him. “As promised, I brought wine.”

Still puzzled by his response to Windy, Emily reached out. “I’ll take it.”

“It’s heavy,” he said, keeping a firm grip on the tote. “I’ll carry it wherever you want it.”

Emily scooped up her flowers from the steps and led the way into the living room, preceded by Izzy and the dog. She was halfway to the archway that opened into the dining room when she realized Max had stopped.

He stood in the doorway, scanning the room Emily had inspected fifteen minutes before. “You always make a house into a home,” he said. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “It even smells like a home.”

Emily felt a little glow at the compliment. “My mother said I was a nester.”

“Now I’m picturing you with twigs sticking out of your mouth,” Max said, his deep voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement.

“It’s been known to happen during intense craft-making sessions.”

Max smiled as he strode across the worn Oriental rug to catch up with her. Deep creases at the corners of his mouth emphasized the sensual fullness of his lower lip. That was another part of him that she wanted to touch, and not just with her fingertip. Would it be wrong to kiss him good night so she could trace his lips with her tongue? A ripple of yearning shimmered through her at the thought.

Yet she needed to remember that he was more than a dinner guest. Despite his insistence that she shouldn’t worry about any conflict of interest, he was the donor who had made a major gift to the center.

“Come on in the kitchen and we’ll get the wine opened and the flowers in a vase,” Emily said more firmly than was necessary. In fact, she was talking to herself to ward off the power of her attraction to Max.

Izzy had already found a pitcher to put her flowers in. “Don’t they look pretty?” she asked, adjusting a rose to a more satisfactory angle.

“It’s good to hear you like them,” Max said, swinging the wine tote onto the counter.

“You have a really dope voice,” Izzy said.

“A what voice?” Emily asked in stern tones.

“I mean a really amazing voice. Sorry, Mommy.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “I’m relieved. I was concerned that I sounded like someone stupid.”

Izzy giggled. “The kids at the center say ‘dope’ when they mean cool. Well, at least when an adult isn’t around. Mommy makes them use good grammar. She says they need to know how to speak properly if they want to get good jobs. But you have this rumbly voice, kind of like Darth Vader, except you’re a good guy.”

“First I’m an idiot and now I’m the greatest villain of all time.” He shook his head, but Emily could see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not sure I want to stay for dinner.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Izzy asked. Without giving him time to answer, she said, “If you don’t want to eat dinner, you should at least stay for dessert. Violet and I made chocolate pecan pie.”

“You’ve convinced me to suffer through dinner in order to earn the pie.”

“Grown-ups don’t have to eat their vegetables before they can have dessert.” Izzy jumped down from the stool, startling Windy so the dog skittered toward Max.

The smile vanished from his face as he sidestepped around the small center island, so it was between him and Windy. Emily was beginning to think that he didn’t like dogs. Which made no sense.

“Izzy, would you put Windy in my room? We don’t want her begging while we eat.”

“But she doesn’t—”

Emily gave her the look that said Obey Mom at once, so Izzy called Windy, and the two padded off to go upstairs.

“I get the feeling that Windy doesn’t beg,” Max said with a wry twist of his mouth.

“You seem uncomfortable with her.” Emily fiddled with her flowers before she looked at him again. “I’m puzzled. If you don’t like dogs, why did you fund the K-9 Angelz project?”

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “My feelings about dogs have nothing to do with the benefits I believe your project can offer to the children at the Carver Center.”

“So you really don’t like dogs?” Emily tried to keep the shock out of her voice, but she wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. “Didn’t you and Jake develop vests for the military working dogs?”

Max nodded and looked away. “I don’t dislike dogs. I just haven’t spent much time around them.” He shrugged as though shaking off some unwelcome thought and brought his gaze back to her face. “By the way, how’s Diego’s rescue dog doing?”

She was even more impressed by his generosity now that she knew he wasn’t a dog lover.

“It was touch and go, but the little fellow is going to make it. Which reminds me that we need to straighten out the billing. You can’t pay his medical expenses.”

“Why not?”

“It’s my responsibility.”

“On the contrary. The dog will clearly become part of the K-9 Angelz project. Therefore, its care is part of my funding.”

She threw him a dry look. “You gave Carla your personal credit card. That’s not coming out of the grant money.”

“For God’s sake, a pair of my shoes costs more than the vet bill will.” His exasperation showed in the way he raked his fingers through his hair. “Consider it a Christmas gift to Diego. Something tells me the boy doesn’t get many of those.”

“I—”

“No,” he barked, his hand lifted in a gesture of utter refusal.

She knew better than to argue with that tone. “In that case, thank you. I’ll let Diego know of your generosity.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I want him to know that there are many good people in the world.” Max looked as though he was going to object again, so she handed him a corkscrew. “Why don’t you open a bottle of whatever you’d like to drink? I’m not sure there is a prescribed wine to complement macaroni and cheese.”

His face relaxed. “You honored my request.”

“I hope your memory hasn’t exaggerated its flavor.”

“So far my memory hasn’t exaggerated a single thing.” That low voice and the intent look that went with it made her nerve endings jitter with excitement and a touch of uneasiness. She felt as though she had waded into deep waters. He pulled out the cork with a soft pop and poured the pale wine into the two stemmed glasses she’d set out on the counter. “You favored the white at Laurent,” he said.

Amid all the changes in courses and glasses, he’d paid attention to which wine she drank the most of. Another thrill of nervous elation ran through her, making her breath come a little faster. She picked up her glass and held it up in a toast. “To old times.”

“And new ones.” His voice lowered as he touched his glass to hers.

She avoided his gaze by staring into her glass as she took a gulp of wine. He was making his intentions clear. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He was making his interest clear. She wasn’t at all sure what his intentions were.

She picked up the Asian meatballs she’d prepared for hors d’oeuvres. “Why don’t we sit by the fire?”

He took the platter from her and started out the door, leaving her nothing to do but carry her wine and stare at the muscles of his back as outlined by the gray sweater. And his butt, under the drape of his wool trousers. Carla had a point about him being hot.

Max set the platter on the low table between the two armchairs facing the fireplace. Izzy came clattering down the stairs, grabbed a floor cushion, and settled in front of the table. “I love these,” she said, snagging a meatball and popping it into her mouth.

Emily sat in one chair while Max claimed the other, stretching out his legs toward the fire and crossing his ankles. The fire’s reflection danced on the polished surface of his loafers. He rested his elbows on the puffy rolled chair arms, the wineglass dangling from his fingers. She heard him let out a long breath as he sank into the crushed-velvet upholstery.

“Long day?” Emily asked him.

“Long month,” Max said.

“Is it okay if we talk about what you and my dad did when you worked together?” Izzy fastened her blue eyes on Max. “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Some people don’t like to talk about dead people.”

Emily groaned internally as she threw an apologetic glance at Max. “Izzy, you shouldn’t—”

Max held up one hand to stop her. “I’d be happy to talk about your father. He was a great guy and a very brave man.”

Izzy nodded.

“I told her that you and Jake worked on body armor together,” Emily said, to give him a little help.

“So you understand what body armor is? It’s clothing that’s very strong so a bullet can’t go through it.” Max put his wine down on the table and leaned forward. “But just because a bullet can’t go through it doesn’t mean that you can’t get hurt when a bullet hits the armor. Because the bullet hits extremely hard.”

Izzy nodded again.

“So we tested the body armor on dummies, like the mannequins in store windows. We wanted to make sure that no bullets would ever go through it before a real person used the armor. We proved that it would stop the bullets, but there was no way to tell how much it hurt when a bullet hit the armor and bounced off.”

Emily found herself so entranced by the bass of Max’s voice that she leaned forward, too.

“Which meant we needed a real person to test it on,” Max continued. “I’m not a soldier, so I didn’t understand what it means to be a leader in the Marines like your dad was, so I just up and asked your dad’s company for a volunteer. Remember, this person had to be willing to get shot at, and he or she didn’t know how much it would hurt. I was amazed when every person in the company volunteered. But your father gave them this look that made them go silent and stand at attention. Then he gave me an even more serious look and said, ‘I’m the commander. I test the armor first.’”

Max stared into the fire, and Emily knew he was seeing that moment in his mind’s eye. She was well acquainted with the look Jake would level at his men, the one that had made many a strong soldier go pale. She also knew that Jake always took the most dangerous assignment, always went first into a dicey situation, and always took care of his men. It didn’t surprise her at all that he’d tested the body armor on himself first. However, the knowledge hadn’t stopped her from being furious when he had shared that information with her.

“Your dad strapped on the prototype—that means the first set of body armor we made—and then barked, ‘Novak, you can shoot straight about half the time. You take the shot.’ Then he walked to the end of the field we’d been using for the tests and stood with his feet apart and his arms behind his back. At ease, as they call it in the Marines. Then Novak walked up beside me, swung up his rifle, and aimed it at your dad.”

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 major 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.

The sound of human and canine footsteps on the stairs split them apart. Max went back to the mantel, while Emily seized her port and gulped down the entire glass in one swallow. The liquor only threw more fuel on the bonfire raging inside her. She wanted to climb out a window and roll in the snow. She threw a quick glance at Max. He was watching her with an intensity that made her feel as though the snow would evaporate in a sizzle the moment it touched her skin.

“I think Windy needs to go outside,” Izzy said as she and the dog walked into the room.

“Go ahead and let her out back,” Emily said, hoping she didn’t look as disheveled as she felt.

Max watched the little girl and the dog head toward the kitchen. When he turned back to her, the desire in his eyes was banked down to a mere flicker. “I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow. Let me know if you need help with child care.”

She hesitated. She’d accepted his invitation in the heat of the moment, and she’d known what she was agreeing to. Now that sanity had time to take hold, she worried again about the tangled threads of her job, Max’s patronage, and a personal relationship with him.

“Don’t change your mind.” He held out his hand in a gesture somewhere between a command and a plea. “Come to dinner. Please.”

She looked at his long, hard body, covered in clothing that cost more than her monthly salary, the golden firelight outlining every perfect fold, every drape over swells of muscle, every masculine angle of bone and ligament. And she wanted to feel it all against her and then rip off the clothes to feel only skin.

She nodded. “Six o’clock.”

And knew she’d leaped off the cliff.