Page 17 of Second to None
“We all make time for the things we want to do.” Violet reached out to pat Emily on one knee. “Don’t you pass up the chance to be with a good man.”
Emily thought of the dinner she was going to cook for Max on Saturday. Izzy was enthusiastic, because she loved to make desserts and she wanted to meet anyone who had known her father.
But beyond that, what exactly did Emily want to make time to do?
“Max is a little out of my league,” Emily said with a wry smile. “He’s a genius and a billionaire. I’m just ... me.”
“Remember that you knew him before all that billionaire stuff. Underneath the fancy suit, he’s still the same grad student from MIT.”
Emily thought of the powerful angle of Max’s clean-shaven jaw and the magnetic air of confidence he exuded now. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well, he obviously remembers your kindness toward him. After all, he gave you a million dollars.”
*
As Max settled onto the seat of the limousine after yet another dinner with the new owners of V-Chem, he blew out a long breath. He appreciated their desire to explore new directions for the company, but he would prefer to do it during regular business hours. However, being from out of town, they wanted to sample every high-end restaurant in New York City.
That was why he had to wait three more days before he could see Emily again. Ever since she’d burst into his office, he’d been having flashbacks to moments at Camp Lejeune that were seared into his memory. The exquisite torture of her lips against his cheekbone when she greeted him at the door. The brush of their fingers and arms when she would pass Izzy to him so she could go back to cooking dinner.
But the most miserable and the most enthralling times were their trips to Wrightsville Beach, when Emily wore that pale pink bikini.
He closed his eyes and groaned at the memory of the swell of her breasts in the low V of the neckline. And the sight of her cold-hardened nipples pushing against the suit’s top as she walked out of the surf. He had wanted to suck on them through the fabric. And then kiss his way down the curve of her stomach—the one she’d complained would never be flat again after her pregnancy—and then go lower until he could taste the salt of the sea, and the salt of her, on his tongue.
And her thighs.
Oh dear God, the sight of that beautiful, smooth skin just inches away from his fingers as they lay on towels on the sand. His hands would literally shake with the desire to stroke up her thighs and pull aside the fabric of her bikini so he could slide a finger inside her.
Knowing it was stupid and juvenile, he took out his phone and sent the home address Emily had given him to his driver’s GPS.
The driver’s voice came over the intercom. “Just to let you know, sir, we’re going to hit some traffic on the way.”
“Not a problem.” He could fantasize about her the whole time, as long as he didn’t mind the discomfort of an erection in his suit trousers.
Maybe he should ponder whether it had been just a sexual fascination back then. Something about the fertile curves of a young mother, and perhaps even the thrill of forbidden fruit. He had never considered speaking of his desires, much less acting on them. Had his frustration seared her on his memory in a way no other woman could rival?
He shook his head. No, his feelings had gone deeper than the physical. She had seen him in a way no one else at the base had. His loneliness, his sense of being an outsider in a closed culture. She had reached out to him because of that, and her kindness had burrowed deep into his being.
He drummed his fingers on the leather seat and decided he preferred his sexual fantasies to his emotional introspection.
“It’s right here, sir,” the driver spoke through the intercom. “With the red door. I won’t be able to park here, though.”
“I’ll walk a little,” Max said. “Why don’t you see if there’s a space farther along the street?”
He wanted to clear his head, but he was also curious about the area. Of course, Harlem had a rich history of African American culture, as was attested to by the street names. He’d heard that South Harlem was becoming popular with young professional couples who couldn’t afford the high prices of Manhattan. Which was why the empty lot beside the Carver Center had risen in value.
Mostly, though, he wanted to see where Emily lived.
As he straightened out of the car, a cutting gust of frigid wind slammed into him, so he buttoned his overcoat before pulling his gloves out of his pockets. They called Chicago the Windy City, but he found that New York could easily compete in that department. The street grids funneled wind off the cold gray water that surrounded the city on every side, concentrating its power enough to freeze your balls off. He wound his cashmere scarf more snugly around his neck and shoved his gloved hands in his pockets, since the elegant but thin leather offered little insulation from the winter air.
Emily lived on a quiet cross street lined with solid nineteenth-century town houses, featuring stone stoops with wrought iron railings, ornate cornices, and fancy window trim. The doors were freshly painted, and many windows sported flower boxes, now empty for the winter. Twinkling Christmas lights festooned railings, balconies, and even the trees growing in the sidewalk beds.
Most of the houses were three stories high, but Emily’s continued up one story above its neighbors. Max crossed the street to stand in the shadow of a tree and scanned the windows of her building, wondering which floor she lived on. There were lights on in the basement garden apartment and the third floor. He remembered Emily saying something about a renting the lower floor to a divorced cop, so he stared at the lines of light showing around the curtains on the higher floor.
Was Emily reading to her daughter? Or was she sitting at a desk poring over plans for the new project at the Carver Center?
Was she wearing a nightgown? Did she wear a nightgown? Or a T-shirt with those flannel pajama pants that were in style now? Or maybe she wore nothing at all to bed.
His groin tightened again, and he forced himself into motion, strolling down the street while his breath came out in visible puffs of vapor. He passed three people walking their dogs, several putting out their garbage, and one smoking a cigarette on the front steps. Everyone nodded or even muttered a greeting as they huddled in their coats.
