This work of adult fiction, loosely based on characters portrayed by Russell Crowe, includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned.  No copyright infringement on the  original work is intended.

Copyright Reagan Kavanagh 2005.

February 2005

I slipped out of the bed, leaving Max relatively undisturbed; he rolled onto his side, pulling my pillow down and hugging it in next to his body, took a deep breath, and drifted back into deeper sleep. I stood there for a moment just looking at him before glancing around the room. I could see his slacks hung neatly on a hanger through the partly open closet door, while his shirt and undershirt were on the chair in the corner, his shoes and socks under it. His wallet and the contents of his pockets were on the dresser. His car keys were still in my room. I wasn’t letting him out of here until he’d answered a few more questions, and I’d realized last night that he wouldn’t storm the bastions of my bedroom without an express invitation …not even to retrieve his keys. How strange is that in this day and age? Most men would have seen my comment as an open invitation to my body. As I turned and started out the door, he tossed off the covers. I turned back toward the bed and got a good look at the man as he rolled onto his back, one arm flung wide, the other pulling my pillow closer to his chest ...and that was some chest. He was wearing only his briefs, and I got a pretty accurate idea of what I’d come to suspect while cuddled up with him during the night. Max was a big boy; the size of his hands and feet were, if anything, smaller than I’d have expected from what I could see through the fabric of his briefs. Jesus! To use a phrase I’d heard from a couple of old Army buddies, I would purely love to see that angry. I grinned to myself, shaking my head and slipped out of the room, closing the door silently.

After Bear’s having waked me a few minutes earlier, he, Pandora, and Bailey were sitting at the back door waiting to be let outside. Bear looked at me with one eyebrow cocked (always guaranteed to get him anything he wants), Pandora grinned and bounced up and down in expectation (I call her my Golden Leaper), and Bailey just looked at me with his huge, golden-brown puppy dog eyes …and yes, these are fur people, not merely dogs. I opened the door for them and walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Looking at the wall clock, I was stunned to see that it was already ten-thirty. Damn! I’d missed my weekly ride with Dee and knew she would be worried. I dialed her cell number, and for once, she actually had it turned on. She answered on the second ring.

“Where the fuck are you? I was worried.” That was so typical of our relationship …snap the other’s head off for worrying us, then say that we’re worried. Most people who know us think we’re angry at each other most of the time because of the way we snap at each other, never realizing that it takes an unusually strong bond between women in order for them to do that. Hey, it’s just the way we communicate; it works for us.

“I’m fine …at least I think I am. It’s been a long night.” I could hear the smile on her face when she answered me.

“That good, huh? I thought you were past that falling-into-bed-on-the-first-date routine.”

“I am, dammit. We talked until after two. By then he’d had too much to drink – and was too tired – to drive home …wherever the hell home is. I took his keys because he didn’t quite see things my way, and he bunked in the guest room. I just woke up, and he’s still dead to the world. I’m standing here waiting for the coffee to perk; I’ll wake him when it’s done.”

“Did you learn anything more than you knew this time yesterday?”

“A bit …nothing worth writing home about.” I had my fingers crossed when I said that. I hate lying to my best friend, but I was going to have to know a good deal more than I did at present and come to terms with it myself before I would be willing to clue her in; she would just have to wait. The good news is that I knew when I came clean with her, she’d understand …if she didn’t drop a net over me first.

“Splain it to me, Lucy.” I laughed. We had both watched the old I Love Lucy reruns on TV as kids, and often used Ricky Ricardo’s famous line to his wife, Lucille Ball, when we wanted more information but were not in professional mode. Hell, on occasion, we’d even used it when we were in professional mode. I poured a cup of coffee and sipped, thinking fast. I was going to have to tell her something; fortunately, I think well on my feet.

“Only son of a wealthy Spanish landowner, married young, had a son. He was in the army and subsequently recruited by the Spanish version of SAS –Unidad de Opraciones Especiales (UOE) - and pissed off the wrong people; his wife and son were murdered in retaliation before the bad guys went after him. He went into protective custody and underwent an identity change. I’ve seen it before.” Little did I know that when I got back to Ted with the Spanish heritage bit, that was precisely what he would uncover …and which I now knew would have been carefully planted.

“Has your buddy with the Feds checked this out?” Fingers still crossed here.

“Yep. It’s all bona fide. He’s for real.” I heard the guest room door open and wound it up.

“Dee, I have to go …he’s awake. I’ll call later. Bye.”

“Bye,” and she was gone. I hung up the phone just as Max walked into the kitchen, barefoot and wearing only his slacks. I wanted to kiss him just where the bear claw on the leather thong around his neck touched that incredible chest. To say that he looked a bit sheepish was likely the understatement of the year. I opened the cupboard and got out a coffee mug.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Black …a bit of sugar.” I poured and handed him a spoon, nodding at the sugar bowl on the counter. He put in about half a teaspoon of sugar, stirred, then put the spoon in the sink. He took a sip as I stood there with my arms crossed over my chest, watching him. I had unconsciously adopted a protective body posture, and he caught it immediately. I would have to watch that in the future, as it was now obvious that Max was at least as good at reading body language as I am, and possibly better.

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly as he watched me. “You are wary.” Well, yes, there was that. I was still in a bit of a state of shock after the preceding night’s revelations. I relaxed my posture with an effort and picked up my coffee mug. If this man trusted me enough to reveal what he had the night before, it was pretty clear that we were going to be seeing each other on a fairly routine basis, if for no other reason than the fact that he would want to keep tabs on me now …at least until he was absolutely convinced of my trustworthiness. He’d already said that he “respected” me too much to see me under false pretenses, which was why he had disclosed what he had. Given those realities, he might as well get accustomed to my gestures, and I needed to acquaint myself with his. I nodded my head in the direction of the lounge as I spoke.

“Lounge. Let’s sit before we fall.” He nodded in agreement and followed me. I let the dogs inside, and they went immediately to Max. They crowded as close to him as they could in an obvious attempt to convey their approval of him; clearly, he had already won their hearts, and I couldn’t help but smile. They always know when someone needs comfort and trust, and they were giving him both in full measure. He acknowledged their presence by rubbing their heads; they settled in comfortably around him as he looked at me.

“You do not believe me …I have asked too much of you.” I put down my cup and reached over, taking his left hand between my own, turning it over and looking at his palm where I noted calluses on the pads at the base of his fingers and up the fingers themselves, then looked into his eyes before speaking. I’d not noted the calluses before, but then, as I said, I’d not read his palm either.

“Max, I do believe you, and I know I’m not delusional. Because of that, it’s too incredulous not to believe because you’re sitting here in front of me, and I’m touching you. YOU exist, you ARE alive. Given that reality, the rest of Crowe’s characters must exist as well, but I’m just not sure how that’s happened. At least now I know why I had the feeling I’d seen you somewhere before Wednesday evening …God in Heaven!” He shook his head.

“Nor am I sure of how I came to be here. All I know is that following my death in the film, I awoke in a wheat field in Spain (he smiled wryly at me), dressed in modern clothing, a rough shirt and a pair of jeans. How I got there, I have no idea. How I learnt to speak English, Spanish and Italian in addition to the Latin that is native to me, I do not know. I only know that I can and have done so from the day that I opened my eyes in this existence.” I released his hand and stood, heading into the kitchen for more coffee, picking up his cup as well. Of course, he followed me. I think he was afraid that if he let me out of his sight, I’d call for the men with the white coats …you know, the white coats with the long, wrap-around sleeves? I talked as we walked.

“Max, I’m a scientist and possibly because of that, I may be more open to possibilities and accepting of things than some others. I do not close my mind to possibilities and saying so regarding a number of different and controversial topics over the years has gotten me my fair share of ridicule. Now, having said that, I’ll tell you some of what I believe that may or may not have anything to do with you and those like you …but I rather suspect that the things I mention are implicated.” He was silent, watching as I poured our coffee and returned his cup.

“First, I believe in time travel …have for a long while. I not only think it’s possible, I think it’s here, but if humankind has the technology to access and use it, NASA or some other government entity that we don’t know about – whoever has the technology – isn’t yet willing to let the rest of us in on it; based on prior experience with various federal agencies, that’s entirely plausible. Second, I believe in parallel universes. I’m not so ethnocentric as to think the world that I know is the only one that exists in the space-time continuum. It is perfectly reasonable to me consider that there is at least one other universe contiguous and contemporaneous to this one and that, on occasion, we are somehow able to move between those parallel universes, possibly without being aware of that shift. Frankly, I’ve had a couple of experiences in my own life that I can’t explain by any other means. And while we’re on the subject of belief systems, I also happen to believe in past lives because the concept just makes sense to me. So yes, Max, I believe you. I’m just not sure about all the various mechanisms that have made it possible for you to be here …those areas are where my questions derive.” I looked at him. “Does that make any sense to you at all?” For the first time since dinner the night before, he smiled.

“It makes more sense than you know. I think you and John Nash will get on very well.”

*

John Nash? Christ on a crutch! If Max thought I was capable of discussing thread theory – which is what all these suppositions hinged on - with Nash, he was seriously overestimating my abilities. I can pretty well discuss and/or argue chaos theory with anyone, but that’s because I have a vested interest in it (much of my research is based on it) and likely have as good an understanding of it as any non-mathematician or physicist …certainly better than your local weather forecaster. Max was talking again, and he now had my undivided attention.

“According to what Nash has told us, time travel is possible but in accordance with Carl Sagan’s premises, meaning one can travel forward in the space-time continuum but not backward, which implies that the portion of Einstein’s theory of relativity addressing time travel was incorrect. Thread theory would explain how each of us appeared in this life following our respective films. We are here, but we cannot return to the point in time from which we came. For those like Terry Thorne and Dean O'Reilly, nothing changed from the time in which their film took place to the moment of their entry into this life. For others of us, the changes are earth-shaking in their impact and import.” I thought that over for a few moments …the not being able travel back in time, but only forward bit.

“Do you wish you could return to your own time, Max? Would you do so, if it were possible?” He took a long swallow of his coffee, obviously considering his words before responding.

“Initially, yes, I wanted to return. I viewed the death I had known in that life as the only escape from my pain. My wife and son were dead, my career and all my possessions taken from me, all I had known and held dear was lost to me. I longed for the peace my death in that time had brought me.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, coffee mug held in both hands as he looked at me. “Over the past four years, my feelings have changed significantly. I have come to understand that I have been given another opportunity, a second chance to get it right, indeed, a second life if you will …although in another situation such as I faced with Commodus, I would still refuse to take his hand. I am unable to align myself with so dishonourable a man. I cannot change that aspect of my character, nor do I wish to do so. I am still the same man I was – Thorne and O’Reilly call me “the Old Roman” - and I have the same principles, though Terry and Dino are making headway in teaching me to at least act with political correctness, to pretend compliance on certain occasions, irrespective of what I may feel. Perhaps that will be enough. So, in answer to your question …no, I would not return. Not now. There is nothing left for me in that time. I can only go forward, and that is my true desire …to go forward and see what this life holds for me in this time and to make the most of this opportunity.” He finished with a wry smile and cocked his head, as if considering what I made of his comments. To say that my head was still spinning would be a critical understatement. Max looked at me for a long moment, allowing me time to think on that before he spoke again.

“Will you dress and come with me to my loft? There is something there I wish you to see.” A loft …well, he had said that he lived in the Mockingbird Lane/SMU area of Dallas, but why the Hell had he been doing shopping at my neighborhood market?

*

I stood there, taking deep breaths and trying not to hyperventilate while looking at the object in his hands as he extended it to me.

“Take it.” His voice was low and firm, very much that of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question. Time for a reality check, Max …I’m not on duty, and you’re not my commanding officer; I shook my head in the negative. His tone softened a bit.

“Do you trust me, Reagan?” For reasons known only to whatever gods or higher power anyone might beseech for care and guidance, I did. I nodded.

“Then take it.” I reached for it with a shaking hand.

“It is heavy …you will need both hands.” I reached again and took it in trembling hands. It must have weighed at least 25 pounds, possibly more. “Come,” and I followed him to the couch, sitting on the edge, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.

“It is judged to be approximately 1,820 years old.” If possible, my hands shook even harder; I clasped them tightly together and was aware that now I really was beginning to hyperventilate. He rose and walked to his desk, pulled open a file drawer, removed a folder, and returned, handing it to me. “Open it.” The file contained Certificates of Authenticity from three laboratories …Australian National University’s Accelerator Mass Spectrometry Lab, Oxford University’s Research Lab for Archeology and Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit in Britain, and the Beta Analytic Radiocarbon Dating Center here in the States. All three sources dated the object on the table in front of me within five years of each other; the range was from 183 to 188 A.D. I realized he was speaking again.

“I am sure you can understand that when I found it lying beside me on awakening in this life that – but for the clothing I wore, which was a great source of confusion - I thought I was still in that time into which I had been born. It was natural for me to keep a weapon close for protection. Later, as time passed, as I realised that my own time was lost to me and began to adjust to this time, I packed it away but kept it always within easy reach should I need it. After meeting Terry and Dino and showing it to them, they had no doubts as to its authenticity, but suggested that for my own peace of mind I have it carbon dated. The results lie before you. I carried it to three continents, not satisfied with reports from only one source. Given that three of the premiere research facilities of this time have deemed it authentic – and I have never doubted it, as it bears the mark I put on it so many years ago – its presence tells me that I have not lost my sanity and that, truly, I lived then as I live today.” Max sat back in his chair, said nothing more, and watched me. I finally found my voice.

“Max, when you were globe-trotting about having this thing dated, didn’t any of the examiners comment on its condition? Did no one ask why it was in such pristine condition?” He smiled.

“Certe. I offered no explanation, other than to say I had found it lying deep within a cave on my property. They did all they could to prove it a fake – albeit a good one – and could not. I asked that they not speak of it, as I felt it to be a family heirloom given that I found it on my property, and that I wished to keep it close to me rather than bequeathing it to a museum. They agreed to honour my request.” I reached out and touched the pommel, caressing its satiny smoothness.  Max's voice was soft when he spoke, the richness of his memories almost painfully obvious.

“The pommel is ivory …from the broken tusk of an elephant used in a campaign in Africa when I was a tribune. It is that from which the date of origin was derived, and the composition of the alloyed iron/steel blade is also representative of that era. It is real, Reagan, as am I.” I rubbed my forehead before looking at him. I was getting a headache and had the feeling that it was going to be what my mum had always called “a doozie.”

“This is un-fucking-believable.” Max nodded without batting an eye at my profanity.

“Many things are unless – or until - we experience them personally.” I reached over and again touched the ivory pommel of the gladius I recognized as having been the one Max had retrieved from the tree trunk after that last battle in Germania and looked over at him. And yes, I believed him now, irrevocably. I recalled several years back having read unsubstantiated reports of the finding of an ancient Roman gladius in so-called mint condition, but as quickly as they had appeared, the reports vanished. There was nothing about the weapon or any reference to it in any library’s catalogue that I could locate, nothing on the Internet, just …nothing. I had been curious because I’ve long had a passion for Roman history and had not stopped looking until every source I could locate availed me nothing. There was only one logical solution …Max was precisely who he said he was. Maximus Decimus Meridius …the General who became a slave, the Slave who became a gladiator, the Gladiator who defied an Emperor, and he was sitting three feet from me, watching the emotions play over my face.

“So this is the real thing …an ancient Roman gladius ….” He smiled softly.

“Actually, it is a modified spatha, though today most – save Roman military historians - refer to it as a gladius. The blade is 28 inches long and has a double edge. The original gladius was single-edged. They had long been replaced before this one was forged. The original spatha had a longer blade – sometimes 35 inches or more – and had double-edged blade, but was too cumbersome for close combat. The gladius/spatha was modified over time, the blade made double-edged and shortened to permit the user to effect a stabbing motion in close quarters, rather than being effective only at a distance of four to five feet and used primarily for hacking and chopping or for use on horseback. It was our – the Roman Army’s – preference to confront our attackers at close range where we could be very sure of striking a deadly blow through disembowelment. A blade the length of this one can be wielded with one hand, leaving the other free to hold a shield. The original spatha was so heavy that both hands were required for its effective use.” Lovely …try digesting that before you’ve had breakfast and have a moderate hangover into the bargain. I must have turned a bit pale as I swallowed the gorge rising in my throat because Max looked suddenly concerned.

“I apologise …that is likely more information than a woman prefers to have.” My mind was in a tumult; I couldn’t deal with any more of this particular subject at the moment and looked around the loft. I had been in a couple of lofts before and had loved the spaciousness and open quality they afford. This was larger than the others I’d seen, probably 1500 square feet and certainly qualified in the spacious department. I’d bet it set him back a pretty penny each month. Windows comprised the two outside walls – he had a corner unit - and the other two walls were a beautiful, old brick. Max noticed my looking around and smiled. The place was sparsely furnished, and while that seemed appropriate for a man of his Stoic persuasion, the style – sleek and modern – did not. “Would you like to see the rest of my home?” I nodded …might as well, and yes, my curiosity was killing me.

From where we had been sitting, I could see downtown Dallas in the distance as the location was on Mockingbird Lane and Highway 75. The lounge area blended around the dividing wall and into the kitchen. There was a half bath down here – it was a studio – and the bedroom and master bath were up the stairs and above the kitchen area. The bedroom overlooked the lounge that was to the right of the kitchen. Max stood, and I followed him. The thoroughly modern kitchen had all the expected appliances; we retraced our steps back through the lounge area and up the stairs. There was a single bed – apparently, whatever “entertaining” Max did was not undertaken here – and an open closet door revealed his clothing, neatly arranged by both style and color. The only other things in the room, aside from a pants press in one corner, were a clock radio, a small chest of drawers and a single Parson’s chair; there was a full-length mirror on one wall. I suspected the mirror had been left by the prior tenant or had been installed by the previous owner of the property, as Max didn’t seem the sort of man to pay much attention to his looks aside from dressing impeccably and being neat and clean.

The bathroom was small but had a combination, oversized tub with whirlpool and shower behind sliding glass doors. I smiled at the sink; it rose on a pedestal from the granite countertop and was much like the large bowls that would have been used for washing one’s face and hands in Roman times. Max’s razor lay beside the bowl along with a can of shave cream and a bottle of Cool Water aftershave sat beside that. I had been right about his fragrance and smiled to myself again. The usual accoutrements – comb and brush, toothbrush and toothpaste (another smile – he used the same brand I did), deodorant, a bottle of liquid hand soap - nothing unusual, but again, everything was scrupulously neat and clean. Max either had a maid who came in on a routine basis, or he was that rare bird …a man who actually preferred a clean and well-ordered environment and cleaned up after himself. Only once did he actually comment during the tour of his abode and that was to say that while Spartan, the furnishings suited his needs. He must have figured out what was going on in my head because as we walked back to the lounge area and sat, he spoke.

“I cannot abide disorder – likely a result of my years as a soldier – and I have a woman who comes in weekly. I would tend to it myself, but as I can afford assistance, I see no need.” Nor did I, and yes, I, too, have a housekeeper come in each week. My curiosity about his living space satisfied, there was still that question in my mind …what had he been doing shopping in a supermarket five miles from where I lived in the suburbs? I asked, and he smiled again. Those smiles were getting to me because while some of them were of the nervous, self-deprecating sort, every last one of them melted my heart with their sincerity.

“I was on my way back into the city from a meeting – a new client – a businessman who has recently made what I believe you would call 'a killing.' Apparently he has made his quota of enemies along the path to his success and has recently received several threats against his wife and children. He was referred to us by the insurance carrier with whom he took out a private K&R policy and sought our advice on how best to protect his family. The insurance carrier has put us on retainer in the event that he should need our services at some point in the future. I had met with the man and his family earlier in the day and stopped at the market on my way back into town.” Put them on retainer? K&R firms did that? I asked the obvious question.

“The bulk of our clientele comes from individuals who wish to be assured of our immediate response in the event of the disappearance of those important to them. In that instance, we can respond to a call from the next of kin without awaiting a formal request from the carrier.” Okay, that made sense, but what did having a K&R team on retainer entail? Max was more than patient in answering my questions.

“We meet with the client and the family on a monthly basis and renew their acquaintance with behaviors likely to ensure their survival long enough for us to locate them, should any of them be taken hostage. The client provides us with any changes in family schedules that have come about, although we urge that no one adhere to a regular - and thus predictable - routine, as well as continually updated photographs of the entire family. Where adults are concerned, photos taken on a semi-annual basis are usually sufficient, but with children who change quickly as they grow, monthly updated photos are necessary. We check the status of the in-home and property security systems to insure everything is working properly and, as technology advances, insure the necessary upgrades are accomplished. We make the initial assessment of what is required, then subcontract the equipment and labour to one of several firms in the area. If the client wishes, we will work with adult members of the family in the use of firearms, though I personally prefer not to do so. Introduction of a weapon by an intended victim or family member into a crisis situation more often than not invites disaster.” Firearms …that brought up another question.

“Max, do you routinely carry a sidearm?” He cocked his head at me before answering.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“On a daily basis?”

“Yes …and again, why do you ask?”

“You weren’t wearing one last night.” He smiled.

“Ah. Well, you were not aware of it; that is good.” So it was concealed, though not on his upper body. You can just imagine what the term “packing” implied when it flitted through my mind.

“Ankle holster?” At that, his eyebrows shot skyward and his eyes narrowed as he nodded slowly.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“That was the only place you could have concealed it without my having noticed it …if you recall, we did dance a couple of times before the floor became so crowded.”

“So we did …and did you come to be aware of ankle holsters in your alternate profession?” So there I was, hoisted once more on my own petard. I’d already told him a bit but not much. Since he had come clean, it was only fair that I do the same. I took a deep breath.

“Max, you already know that I was a profiler with the FBI, but there’s more that you don’t know.” His response was as brief as some of mine had been.

“So I surmise. Do you wish to enlighten me?” Not particularly, but we were playing “Truth” without the “Dare” option, weren’t we?

“I was in the Army for three years and also a covert operative with the FBI …the last of my training in psychology was at the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico, which you know. However, on occasion, I still work for them as a field agent on special cases.” He smiled slowly and shook his head slightly.

“I see …and you have checked my story with those files to which you have access, have you not?” I nodded.

“And what did you find?”

“Precisely what you’ve told me, minus the obvious. There’s no record of you, Terry Thorne, or Dean O’Reilly until five years ago. All of you just suddenly appeared out of the ether. Your firm is highly regarded, but the fact that there is an equitable three-way split in terms of ownership and compensation between men who are not related by blood or marriage has raised a red flag or two. It’s obvious that there is more of a connection between the three of you than simply being friends. Just what that connection is has yet to be determined, at least as far as the Feds are concerned. As long as nothing surfaces that would connect any of you with terrorism, drug cartels, or other organized crime, they likely won’t look any deeper. If no other source raises a red flag, I think you’re safe from further scrutiny. At the moment, allocation of the US Government’s resources is skewed more toward the war in Iraq and finding Osama bin Laden than to investigating three businessmen in Dallas, Texas.” He smiled.

“I see. And have I raised any red flags with you?” I rolled my eyes and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Only about seventy-five or so …but nothing that I’m interested in sharing with my contacts.” We both laughed, and he changed subjects on a dime.

“Are you hungry? We have not eaten since ten last evening, and it is past noon.” If he’d asked me that fifteen minutes earlier, I’d probably have hurled on his coffee table. Now I was hungry, and at the mention of food, my stomach growled.

“I will take that as an affirmative. Come.” He stood and walked into the kitchen. I followed him, watching as he took eggs and bacon from the refrigerator along with a loaf of bread and the butter dish. He turned to me after setting everything on the counter and took a skillet from the hanging utensil rack overhead, placing it on the stove, and turning on the burner. He opened the pack of bacon and put four strips into the pan, then replaced the bacon pack in the refrigerator. I must have had my infamous stunned-mullet look on my face because he laughed.

“Reagan, dear lady, I can cook without burning down the building. I dislike eating in restaurants for all my meals and have managed to acquire a few skills in the kitchen. I may be a relic, but I am not a dinosaur.” Well, I certainly deserved that …at least I guess I did. Still, the look on his face was so earnest that I couldn’t be offended and laughed; fortunately, Max joined me.

“I’m sorry, Max,” I finally managed to gasp out, “but the idea of the Commander of the Armies of the North and General of the Felix Legions whisking eggs for breakfast just struck me as funny.” Apparently, it struck him as amusing, too, because he laughed with me. When we stopped, he looked at me as he turned the bacon with tongs pulled from the utensil holder beside the stove.

“Would you make us a pot of coffee? I fear the lack of sleep last night is catching up with me …as I suspect it is with you.” Okay, I’ll admit it, I was stifling yawns. I set up the pot and, as soon as it had perked, poured cups for both of us, adding that not-quite-half-a-teaspoon of sugar to his before handing it to him. He sipped and smiled.

“Perfect. How do you like your eggs …I admit a fondness for having them scrambled.”

“Works for me …want me to do them? I’m pretty good with scrambled.” His answer was to hand me the egg carton and a small bowl that he retrieved from a cabinet and pointed at the wire whisk standing in the dish drainer tray. I got a cup from the drainer and broke each egg into it before pouring it into the bowl, opened the refrigerator and found the cream, added a bit, and then looked into the pantry for Tabasco. Hey, I’m from the southwest, and we can’t have eggs without Tabasco Sauce. Nothing …no pepper sauce of any sort. I’m sure my face fell as I looked bleakly at him.

“You don’t have Tabasco Sauce.”

“No, I do not …what is that?” Oh, man, I was going to have to educate him in the ways to a southwestern woman’s heart.

“You can’t make scrambled eggs without it.”

“I have, and for quite some time now.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“You will have to teach me.” Well, that certainly sounded promising, and I perked up considerably. He had intimated earlier that he wanted to see me again, but many men say that and you never hear from them again, so this gentle reminder was reassuring. However, for the moment, there had to be something in this kitchen that would add a bit of personality to the eggs, else I’d be having just bacon and toast.

“Worcestershire sauce?” He pointed toward the pantry. I retrieved it and splashed in a healthy amount. “Black pepper?” Same response, same reaction on my part. “Shopping list?” Now that stumped him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where is your shopping list? I want to put Tabasco Sauce on it.”

“I do not have a shopping list at the moment. I was shopping when we met, and there is nothing I need at present.” I waltzed into the lounge and got the pad and pencil from beside his telephone, tore off the top sheet and returned to the kitchen.

“There is, and you do now!” I printed TABASCO SAUCE at the top of the sheet in my usual block letters as he walked over to watch.

“What is this sauce that you appear to crave?” I explained it, and he looked skeptical.

“Max, you just have to experience it …you’ll never again eat scrambled eggs without it once you’ve tried it.” He gave me one of those if-you-say-so-dear looks that men are so good at, and I made a face at him. We both laughed. He took the bacon from the skillet and put it on paper towels to drain, then turned to me as I whisked the eggs.

“I place the preparation of the eggs in what I trust are your capable hands.” There was just the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth when he said that so I responded in kind.

“Don’t you get snippy with me, General. I’m closer to the spatula than you are, and I’ll bet it would fit just fine on your backside.”

“You would not presume.” Oh, wrong answer, Max. Never dare a Texan because we’ll call you on it.

“Don’t try me, pal. You’ll come up with the short end of the stick.”

“Are you sure you know how to cook eggs?” That did it …I grabbed the spatula out of the holder beside the stove and swatted. Would have landed one on him, too, if he hadn’t been so quick, but he was off and all I connected with was air …and the counter top. There was no way I could let that challenge go unmet, so I gave pursuit, so to speak. He was quick, I’ll give him that, but I’m sneaky. After the third laughter-punctuated sprint through the lounge and back toward the kitchen, I “slipped” on the hardwood floors and yelped when I “turned” my ankle. Gentleman that Max is, he stopped immediately, coming back to where I sat on the floor with my ankle crossed over my knee. He knelt next to me, concern on his face, and I felt guilty for what I was going to do …almost. Before he knew what had hit him, I’d swatted him on the thigh with the spatula and burst into laughter. The look of shock on his face was one for the record books, particularly when I leapt to my feet and sprinted off toward the kitchen. He gathered what dignity he had remaining and followed me.

“You cheated.” I grinned at him, struggling to control my laughter.

“Yeah, I did …and you fell for it.”

“I did not. I was concerned for your welfare …you appeared to have injured yourself.”

“Max, you’re too trusting by half. You fell for the ruse. Admit it.” He seemed to struggle with that for a moment, and then I saw a spark in his eyes. Before I knew what was happening, he had my hands behind my back, holding me firmly against my struggles to free myself. His brows drew together in a frown, and I realized I might actually have pissed him off …uh oh.

“I may have fallen for your ruse, but your behavior was less than admirable.”

“Oh, yeah? Just what do you plan to do about it?”

“Extract my revenge …as a commanding General, it was – and remains - my prerogative.” He had me in his grip so firmly that I couldn’t move and pulled me hard into his body. Oh, crap. He had an erection. I looked up and into his eyes and cringed inwardly. They were a steely blue, and his jaw was set. Surely he wouldn’t rape me or anything like that …would he? Hell, I didn’t know what the man would do. All I knew of his character was what I’d seen in his bloody film, and that didn’t cover the issue of what he might have done to the women of the men he had conquered. My stomach did more than a couple of flip-flops and for the first time in a long while, I was frightened.

“Max, it was a joke, I ….” He didn’t let me finish.

“Silence.” It was not a request but a command. Not harshly spoken, not barked, but a command nonetheless. I closed my mouth, trembling in spite of my efforts to control my body’s autonomic response. My voice shook when I answered.

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing that you’ve not been asking for since last evening.” Oh, shit.

“Max, wait, ….”

“No.” And then he kissed me. His lips were so soft and smooth, his touch so light as his mouth met mine that I shook even harder.

“Reagan ….” His face moved back from mine, just far enough to allow both of us to focus our eyes. “I will not harm you …kiss me.” Before I could even formulate a response, his lips were on mine again, his tongue moving gently over my mouth, and I opened to him. Retrospectively, I think it was that moment that I realized this was the man I’d been searching for all my life. It was electric, and I felt the shock move through my body. The hand that held mine captive let go and that arm went around my waist to support me as the other hand wound into my hair, and I leaned into him, my arms going up and around his neck as I relaxed into his embrace. By the time he released me, I was breathless and panting for air as I looked up and into his eyes. I finally found my voice.

“Uhhh, …Max, what was that?” He still held me loosely in his arms as they were now circled about my waist. I leaned back into them as I looked into his eyes. He smiled, and it went all the way to his eyes; they crinkled at the corners and the warmth in them was so genuine that I could almost feel it wash over me.

“That was a man kissing a woman he finds desirable …and hoping that she feels as he does.” Okay. Yes. My brain flitted back to that thought I’d had in the supermarket on Wednesday …the one about wanting to toss him onto the floor and fuck him senseless. Fortunately, he couldn’t read my mind …or could he? His smile widened as I looked at him. I knew that I couldn’t pursue this particular trend at the moment and scrambled for a diversion.

“Ummm, yes, well …I think I need to get the eggs cooked so we can eat, don’t you?” I couldn’t believe I’d just said something that juvenile, but Max merely smiled and quirked an eyebrow at me.

“I think that is an excellent idea.” Ten minutes later we were seated at his small dining table, and I toyed with the tasteless, Tabasco-less eggs on my plate, though Max seemed to like them. “This is excellent; I did not know eggs could be so flavourful.” This man is seriously deprived in the culinary department. He looked across the table at me.

“This has all been difficult for you to absorb, and I know you are tired. Let me take you home.” I nodded. At that moment all I wanted was to fall into my bed and sleep for the next week or two. Max tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes.

“May I see you again, Reagan?” Oh, Hell yes, he could. I might be tired and confused, and more than a bit wary at this point, but that in no way made me immune to his rather considerable charms.

“I would like that.” He seemed to be mentally checking his schedule before speaking again.

“I leave early Monday for the week and will not return until late Friday. Are you free on Saturday evening?” I was, and even if I hadn’t been, I’d have rearranged whatever I did have to meet his schedule. There was no way I was letting this man slip through my fingers. In fact, I was wondering if I still had the rosin that I’d used all those years ago when I’d quarter-backed a girls’ football team back in college.

“Yes, I’m free on Saturday.” I didn’t even pretend to have to check my calendar.

“Perhaps we might do something casual …see a film, perhaps have a light dinner?” That could work.

“That sounds good …is there any particular film you have in mind? I can’t abide that mindless, action-hero stuff.” He laughed aloud at that and nodded in agreement.

“Nor can I. Check the papers while I am gone and decide what you wish to see. I rarely go to the cinema (he really had that British lingo down pat, didn’t he?), so there is no danger of your choosing something I have seen. I trust your judgment.”

“Okay, I’ll find something …what time Saturday?” He thought for a moment.

“Would six be too early? We can have an early dinner and then go on to the cinema.”

“Six is fine.” Forty-five minutes later we were in my foyer. I looked at him seriously. “Max, thanks for being straight-up about who you are. Subterfuge doesn’t cut it with me, but I can work with truth, no matter how bizarre the reality of it may sound.” He smiled and nodded.

“I shall see you on Saturday.” He leaned down and kissed me softly, just the lightest brush of his lips across mine, before turning and walking down the drive and getting into his car. This time I didn’t bother to watch surreptitiously through the peephole in the door; I stood there on the front porch until his car disappeared down the lane and around the corner, and the rumble of its engine faded into the distance. I shook my head to myself as I entered the house and locked the door. What the Hell had I gotten myself into this time?

NOTES

Certe  Certainly; of course; of a certainty