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 Diana Walker and Reagan Kavanagh 2005.

Prelude

September 2002

 

MAXIMUS

I had only recently moved to Dallas, Texas, and into the loft on Mockingbird Lane.  I had learnt yesterday (via a note on my door from the manager) that there were monthly mixers for residents.  I had no notion of what a 'mixer' might be and, as one was scheduled for that evening, had posed that question to Dino and Terry at the office that morning.  They had looked at each other and smiled, smiles I felt sure were ultimately to be at my expense.  They had assured me that on this first occasion, it was in my best interest for them to accompany me.  I was unconvinced that it was my best interests they had in mind, rather their own.

 

We were sitting in my lounge before going to the pool area where the function was to take place.  Terry spoke first.

 

“Max, before we go to this mixer, let Dino and me brief you on what to expect.”

 

“Why would I require a briefing?”  Dino responded to my question. 

 

“Buddy, you just moved into this loft and have just started living on your own.  You don’t understand these women …Tio and I do.  Without a briefing on Texas women, you’re gonna be hog-tied and on ice before you get out the door.”  What would make Texas women different than any others?  Terry continued Dino’s instruction.

 

“Women like you’re going to see tonight are the same world over.  This lot may speak with a Texas drawl, Max, but they’re all the same.  I’ve had more experience with this particular sort than Dino.  Dino knows a bit about them, but he normally goes straight for the strippers because he’s spent enough time with this lot to not want to spend any more.”  I looked at Terry; Dino was unable to let that comment pass.

 

“Yeah, man.  I got a gut full of them, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to pay someone.  Terry pays, but he does it on the installment plan.”  My questioning look elicited his next comment.  “That means alimony, Max.”  Dino shook his head in mock pity, and Terry grimaced before speaking again.

 

“Max, there will be two types of women here tonight …three, if we're lucky.  The first type is trolling for husband number whatever.  She moved here after the most recent divorce so she could keep her finger on the pulse of local society …Highland Park and Turtle Creek are just across the interstate.  She can keep her eye on the action from here, her ear to the ground to know who’s having marital problems, and if she gets lucky with an older bachelor or a widower, she’s won the lottery …no pesky young step-children or ex-wives to deal with.”  Dino spoke as soon as Terry finished.

 

“Type two is looking to upgrade from her current husband, and you, my friend, are just what she’s looking for …you’ll be in her gun sights ten seconds out the door.”  That I did understand.

 

“So this is not unlike Roman society.”  They seemed amazed that I caught their meaning, and Terry looked at me.

 

“Well, that’s a comparison I lack, but, if there’s a third type here, she’s the professional woman, and she’s perfect for us.  She’s upwardly mobile, independent, and needs us to be the handbag …with privileges.”  From the smug look on Terry’s face, I knew precisely what he meant by the term privileges.  Nonetheless, he felt the need to expand on his comment.  “She thinks we’re good looking enough to make her mates jealous, and there just might be an extra added attraction for her after the company Christmas party.  It’s a win-win situation.”  They raised their glasses in salute, and I joined them. 

 

“To the principals of Thorne, Espan, and O’Reilly.  Good hunting.”  We drank as Terry mused aloud.

 

“Wonder how target rich this environment will be.”  He looked at me.  “Maxie, you’re going to owe Dino and me big time for providing moral support here because there’ll be a lot more of types one and two out there tonight than three.”  They both withdrew their wallets to put money on the coffee table in support of what was apparently a bet.  Clearly, I was expected to match the wager, though at that time I did not know what it was.  I pulled my wallet from my pocket and matched the $20 bills they had put on the table.  Terry spoke first.

 

“Three.”  Dino nodded.

 

“One.”  Both looked at me, and Terry spoke again.

 

“You’ve got Type Two, Max.  You’re going to attract the woman who’s looking to trade up.”  I was appalled.  This knowledge overstepped all bounds of honour and decorum.  In my time, women 'traded up' only following the death of their husbands, as a divorced woman was shunned.  Terry looked at me as he opened the door.

 

“Max, back up, Mate.  Off with the tie.  Suit coat is okay, but this is casual.”  He closed the door in resignation as Dino took off his coat.

 

“Okay, I’m going in shirtsleeves.  We’re not gonna look like Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee with a sidekick.”  I pulled at my tie and removed it, and as I unbuttoned the collar of my shirt, Terry continued my sartorial instruction.

 

“One more button, Max ….”  I complied, and he reopened the door.  He is my CEO, and I have long since learnt to take instruction.  We made our way down the hall toward the pool area, and they hung back.  I heard Terry’s voice over my shoulder.  “Remember, Max …this is the arena, and the tigresses are off their chains.”  I did not find that a particularly welcome analogy.

 

 

DINO

Mis amigos spread out in a classic flanking maneuver, keeping their backs to the wall.  From the looks we got as we stepped out the door, the women had to have seen us coming down the hall; you could almost hear them thinking 'fresh meat.'  Scanning the talent, it looked like Tio wasn’t going to win tonight; I didn’t see any of the classic career gals he’d bet on finding.  Max was already being targeted by two possibles, and he hadn’t gotten ten feet out the door.  They were the younger halves of two couples …overweight, balding husbands wearing bolo ties with taller, slimmer, younger, wives with store-bought racks.  Poor Max didn’t stand a chance, but they’d have to do all the work because there was no way he’d make a move on either of them.  If Max’s honor didn’t get in the way, he’d be stiff competition for me.  I could spot five number ones …also young, tall, slim, and very busty but without the complication of a husband.  Looks like I don’t have to worry about being shot by a jealous husband tonight, and I’m a shoe-in to win the bet; life is good.  It was all I could do not to rub my hands together in glee and anticipation …there was no way I wasn’t scoring tonight.  Tio might score later, but the money was mine.

 

I moved in on my first choice, figuring we’d be out of here in half-an-hour, and I’d leave Terry to baby-sit Max.  Well, maybe he wouldn’t have to baby-sit.  The number twos – with husbands reluctantly following in their wake – had Max backed into a corner and outflanked; I was surprised that a general would allow that to happen.  He must be losing his edge.  I sauntered toward my first choice and began chatting up my soon-to-be conquest for the night.  I didn’t have to worry about a smooth opening line because this one was an easy mark. 

 

“Hey, there.  You got any objections to gate crashers?” 

 

“Not if they’re redheads.”  I smiled …this really was going to be easy.  Tio sighed and moved toward the bar …poor bastard.  I kept one eye on the girl and one on Terry, being sure he knew how thoroughly beaten he was.  He was leaning on the bar and enjoying the free booze, looking pretty relaxed, all in all.  Granted, the booze wasn’t the good stuff, but it was free.  Suddenly the twinkle was back in his eyes, and I knew that a number three had arrived.  Fuck.  He was back in the game.  I turned to see what she looked like.  Not bad.

 

Dark hair, dark eyes, slender, corporate executive type if the suit she was wearing was any indication; that suit said big bucks.  Tio’s playing it cool, smiling, and raising his glass her direction.  He reached over the bar, poured a gin-and-tonic, sat it on the bar, and looked back at her.  She smiled.  Why did the image of a moth drawn to a flame come to mind? 

 

 

MIRANDA

This man would definitely do for the dinner after the board meeting.  Average height, dark hair, light eyes.  Muscular, so he works out.  Saville Row suit.  I’d rather have had Campari and soda, but if this man’s pouring, I’ll drink it.  Either he’s the best-looking gigolo I’ve ever seen or Christmas just came early and I'd been a very good girl.  I’d already given him the slow, seductive smile, so the walk to the bar had to be the runway model walk, one foot in front of the other, nice and elegant.  I held out my hand to him.

 

“Miranda Lewis.  Is that drink for me?”  He gave me a slow, lazy smile as he straightened and held out his hand to meet mine.

 

“Terry Thorne.  Of course it’s for you.”  I smiled again.

 

“What is an Australian doing in Dallas?  We don’t have that many people from down under here.”

 

“My partners and I set up shop here …the location is ideal for our business.”

 

“Really?  What’s your field?”

 

“Risk management.”

 

“Interesting – something else we have in common.  I’m in insurance as well.”

 

“Something else?”  I just smiled, and so did he.  He knew exactly what I meant, but we were making polite conversation.

 

“Two intelligent people at a party that doesn’t interest them.”  He smiled again.

 

“Well, then …could I interest you in dinner?”  I drained my glass and put it on the bar; his glass followed mine, and he held out his arm to me.

 

“How does St. Martin's sound?”

 

“Perfect.”  He may have thought I wouldn’t notice but as we left, I saw his left hand go down to his thigh and give a horizontal wave to one of the other two only likely candidates on the pool deck.  My guess is that Terry Thorne won their bet.

 

 

DINO

That bastard!  Ten minutes, and he’s out of here with the best-looking woman in the crowd.  Since Tio’s already won the bet, I may as well put Max out of his misery and get him the hell out of here.  I’d get this one’s number, and she’ll be sitting by her phone waiting for me to call.  Still, I owed her at least a few words.

 

“My partners and I just dropped in for a quick one.  We have to get back to the office for an incoming conference call.”  I pulled my cell from my pocket and opened it.  “What’s your number, Honey?”  She gave it, and I keyed it in and hit save.  “I’ll give you a call later.”  Yeah, she’d be waiting by the phone.  I headed over to where Max was trying to fend off the twin harpies.

 

“Hey, Buddy.  We need to get back to the office …that call’s going to be coming in within half an hour.”  I don’t recall ever having seen a more relieved look on a man’s face as he made his excuses, and we booked …well, unless it was those on the husbands of the two trophy wives.

 

 

 

Part One - Encounter

 

February 2005

 

REAGAN

Life is interesting, isn’t it?  One day you’re a bit down, feeling put upon by life in general and wondering about the direction life is taking you.  The next day that man you had thought existed only in your dreams – you remember him …he’s the one from your fantasy life – and is a composite of all the truly wonderful things that men can be, literally bumps into you in the produce section of the supermarket.

 

I’m divorced and have been for a while now.  Once past the trauma of that reality, I must have had some sort of inner shift that transmitted itself to the opposite sex; not to put too fine a point on it, men started hitting on me again.  That hadn’t happened since shortly after entering what proved to be my ill-fated marriage.  At the dawning of the fact that my marriage was going to Hell in a hand-basket, I had shut down emotionally and didn’t re-emerge until about a year post-divorce.

 

I’ve been back in circulation and dating to some extent, for about 18 months now.  We – those of us no longer wearing rings on the third finger of our left hands – all know that dog-and-pony show.  Every female friend you have tries her hand at matchmaking.  You go along with it for a few months because you know they mean well and they love you.  You endure the tedium of men who, though nice enough, bore you almost to tears.  I’m weary of nice.  I want a man who thrills me to the stars when I’m with him and haunts my every moment when we’re apart.  When you finally realise that he isn’t likely to walk up and knock on your door, you wake up and acknowledge that being alone actually isn’t all that bad; in fact, it has a good deal to recommend it.  You don’t have to fight anyone for the TV remote or chicken breast, and you get to eat ice-cream straight from the carton.  If you can’t sleep, no one is going to raise bloody Hell with you for deciding to vacuum at three in the morning.  In my case, the dogs might look askance at me, but they never complain about the noise.  So there I was, nicely settled into the single life-style again and actually enjoying the Hell out of myself.  For the first time in my adult life, I was doing exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, and in the manner I wanted to do it.  I liked it.

 

I dated occasionally, though that activity was primarily so that I didn’t forget how to interact with men, but I didn’t feel neglected if Friday and Saturday nights found me at home and cuddled up with my dogs, either watching TV or a DVD of my choice or continuing to work my way through that list of books I’ve wanted to read.  On the occasions I did date, the man was more often than not someone I met at the university where I teach (most professors truly can hold up their end of a conversation), but there have been others as well.  There was that guy I met at a dog show …he bred Golden Retrievers, and as I have three of them, that was a nice common ground.  There was the good looking and recently divorced attorney who rear-ended me on a rain-slick street.  He was fun but still in the too-needy period following his divorce so, while nice, that didn’t last too long.  The one I’d hung out with the longest was the orthopedic surgeon who had done my mother’s hip replacement surgery.  He lacked that abrasive streak that so many surgeons have; he had interests outside of medicine, loved football (always a plus in my book), and was a lot of fun into the bargain.  Oh yeah, he was also good looking, rather accomplished in bed, and my friends were starting to make wedding plans.  That relationship went south because he wanted more from it than I was willing to give, i.e., he really did want to marry me and thanks, but no thanks.  I just wasn't ready to jump off that particular cliff again.  We parted friends and still occasionally have dinner or take in a movie together, but that’s the extent of it.  Overall, that’s a rather eclectic group, isn’t it?

 

That pretty much tells you how I arrived at this point in my life, and up to now, I’d thought I’d had an interesting life experience.  Little did I know that I was about to have my entire world turned on its ear, and my previously temporary willing suspension of disbelief become a full-time occupation.  Thing is, there's nothing otherworldly about the man.  He was here – as in right here, today, living and breathing in Dallas, Texas, alive and someone-pinch-me-because-I-must-be-hallucinating real.  He was also standing three feet away from me in the produce section of the supermarket with a cantaloupe in his hand, asking me a perfectly rational question.  I was so stunned that I didn’t even hear his actual words.

 

At first I didn’t realise anyone was standing next to me, but once I did, it only took me a couple of seconds to register that he had more plain old animal magnetism than any man I’d ever shared personal space with in my life.  Pheromone should have been his middle name.  Yeah, that kind of man.  As I said …all your fantasies rolled into the best looking specimen of a man I'd ever seen in my life.  And yes, he was – is – make-your-heart-skip-a-beat, take-your-breath-away, drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous.  I almost pinched myself just to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.

 

I had stopped at my neighborhood Albertson’s on the way home from the university to do my semi-monthly shopping.  I’d gotten my cart, pulled my list and pen out of my pocket, and headed up the first aisle and began plopping things into the cart.  If Dee (my best friend) had been with me, she would have rolled her eyes at me again.  I’m one of those apparently annoying women who organizes her shopping cart, so it’s always as neat and tidy as my kitchen cabinets.  My ex-husband used to tell me I had a 'Stepford Wives' pantry.  In my defence, I can only say that I always know exactly where everything is and call tell at a glance when it’s time to restock, which is a Hell of a lot more than many of my acquaintance can claim.  I had made my way through the market checking items off my list and was down to fresh produce and dairy products; I headed for the produce section.  When I got home later that night, I realized I’d completely forgotten about the dairy section.

 

About every three months, I cycle through a fresh fruit binge; it lasts about a month before I move on for a couple of months and then start the process again.  This was fresh fruit month.  I was raised in deep South Texas, which means that I grew up with year round availability of fresh produce, and part of being around produce most of your life entails learning how to select the very best of what's available.  That ability had been a godsend when I was in Foreign Service, and the produce was often less than spectacular.  This evening I’d gotten grapes, limes, strawberries, oranges, and grapefruit and was on my way to pick up a cantaloupe before heading for the peaches and nectarines.  Those last three items always require a bit more time for selection on my part, and I have the process down to a science.  Bear with me here, would you?  I’m telling you all this fruity data for a reason.

 

Most fruits are bought simply on appearance and feel, right?  Those two things are certainly factors with cantaloupe, peaches, and nectarines, but they're only part of the story.  These three fruits have an aroma to them, and you want to select only those that actually smell the way the fruit should taste.  If they don’t have an aroma, they'll have no taste.  With peaches and nectarines, all you need do is put them to your nose and sniff.  Smell like a peach or nectarine should taste?  Great, into the bag and into the shopping cart.  No aroma?  Back onto the display pile.  Cantaloupe isn’t quite that simple.  Hold one to your nose and often there’s nothing.  Be advised that if you can smell the melon when you pick it up, it’s overripe, and you don’t want it.  With the rest of the lot, the trick is to rub your thumb on the spot where the stem came off and get it just the slightest bit warm, then raise the melon with that spot under your nose.  Smell like a cantaloupe should taste?  Yes?  That’s the one you want.   

 

Okay.  I had been through three or four melons and nothing …no aroma at all, zip, nada.  Just as I put the next one to my nose, I realised there was a man standing about three feet from me, watching me intently.  Assuming that he probably thought I was fresh out of the loony bin over in Terrell (there’s a State-supported mental hospital there, about 25 miles from where I live), I sniffed the melon and smiled over at him.  This was the drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous fantasy man referenced earlier.  He smiled back.  Okay, perhaps he didn’t think I was a nut case, or if he did, he apparently didn’t consider me dangerous.  When he opened his mouth and spoke to me the second time, I could feel his voice rumble throughout my body.

 

“Excuse me, but might I ask what you are doing?”  Oh, shit!  I was going to have to say something.  God in Heaven help me.  I thought I was going to start salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs …that was the sexiest, most incredibly masculine voice I’d ever heard in my life.  It was low and soft, and it just seemed to reverberate around in his body, gathering steam before it escaped his lips, and it definitely belonged in my bedroom.  Quick glance at his left hand …no ring.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, this might be my lucky day assuming, of course, that I could get my heart to slow down long enough for me to get sufficient air into my lungs to actually speak.  Told you he was straight out of my fantasies, didn’t I?  Come on, Reagan, you’re no idiot, well …usually you’re not an idiot.  There are exceptions to every rule, and this might be one of those times.  I finally found my voice and managed to answer without stumbling over my words like an overeager adolescent trying to impress the star quarterback.

 

“I’m trying to determine which of these cantaloupes I want.”  Brilliant.  I might as well have shown him my weekend pass from Terrell, if that comment was any indication of my cognitive abilities.  He smiled again; at least he didn’t run in the opposite direction. 

 

“I was attempting to do the same, but you appear to have a system for doing so.”  British accent but without the nasal bit you so often hear, definitely upper class, and there was something underlying it …southern European, perhaps?  Italian?  Spanish?  Maybe I’d get lucky, and he’d talk to me long enough for me to figure it out.  Right.  Like this man who looked as if he’d just left the photo shoot for the cover of next month’s edition of GQ – charcoal gray pinstripe suit, Linde star sapphire blue tie, crisp white shirt, all under a black leather trench coat …it was February and cold - is going to stand here talking to a woman dressed in jeans, a pullover sweater, and her hair held back with an Alice band?  In my dreams.  Still, he hadn’t run off yet, and it seemed he was actually waiting for me to respond.  I opened my mouth and made a valiant effort not to make a complete fool of myself.

 

“Well, cantaloupes have a fragrance if they’re ripe.  They should smell the way they taste.  If you can’t smell them, they have no taste.”  He nodded once, seeming to consider that little gem, and raised the melon to his nose, sniffed, looked at me and shook his head in the negative.

 

“I smell nothing.”

 

“You have to coax them a bit.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”  At least he looked amused …and he was still standing there.  Demonstration time.

 

“See the spot on the end where the stem was?”  He looked and nodded.  “That’s the magic spot.  Rub your thumb there and get it warm …if it’s ready, you’ll get what you’re looking for.”  Oh, geeze, did I really say that, with all the attendant sexual implications and innuendos?  Yes, ma’am, I certainly did, and I must have turned the color of a ripe tomato.  I’ll give him this much, if he caught the innuendo, he was enough of a gentleman to ignore it.  He rubbed the thumb of that huge right hand over the spot for a few seconds as I felt my body temperature rising, then raised it to his nose and sniffed as I watched …and my mind took the short cut express lane into the closest gutter before he looked at me, and his face broke into the most beatific smile I’d ever seen in my life.  It went all the way to his eyes …sort of a light bluish-sea-green and framed by the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on anything other than bovines or equines.  Was there anything about the man that wasn’t perfect?  He could have been wearing a blood-spattered sign around his neck saying, “I AM AN AXE MURDERER, AND YOU’RE MY NEXT VICTIM,” and I’d still have bared my breast for the killing blow; I would have died a happy woman.

 

“I did not know that.  How did you come about that information?”  He didn’t speak colloquially or with contractions, and I suddenly realized that English must be his second language.  That would account for the underlying hint of an accent, even with that Royal Shakespeare Company overlay in it. 

 

“I was raised in South Texas.  We grow all sorts of produce there, and I learnt that before I was five-years-old.  The same technique applies to peaches and nectarines …but you don’t have to rub them; just hold them to your nose and sniff.”  God, now I was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop myself.  For some reason, he smiled again.

 

“I was going to purchase peaches as well.  Perhaps you would assist me in making my selection?  And what are nectarines?”  Okay, so slap me here, but it honestly seemed as if he was trying to continue this encounter.  Was he actually interested in me?  Unless I’d completely lost my ability to interpret signals, it sure seemed like it.

 

“I’d be happy to.”  He put the melon into his shopping basket and waited for me to turn my own basket around, following me to the peaches display.  I reached for a plastic bag and noted that my hands were shaking.  That hasn’t happened to me since I was about 16.  Telling my body to stop acting like a puppy begging to be petted, I picked up a peach and sniffed.  Nothing.  I held it out to him, and he took it, just grazing my fingers with his.  Damn …now that sent a shiver all the way to my toes.  He raised the peach to his nose and sniffed, then looked at me.

 

“I smell nothing.”

 

“Neither did I.  Try another one.”  He put that one back on the pile and picked up a second, brought it to his nose and sniffed, shook his head, and returned it to the pile with the rest, and selected a third.  Apparently nothing, and now a small frown furrowed his brow as he picked up a fourth.  This time he smiled and handed it to me, grazing my fingers a second time …was that little graze deliberate on his part?  I took the peach and got that little shiver again.  I sniffed.  It smelled just like it would taste if I bit into it, and I looked up at him and smiled back.

 

“That’s the one.”  We went about making our selections, and I was wondering just how foolish I'd look to the checkout clerk if I ended up with ten pounds of peaches because I wanted to keep this man here and talking to me.  Sanity prevailed, and I managed to limit myself to about half a dozen; he did the same and then looked at me again.

 

“About the nectarines, I believe you called them?”  I nodded and moved to that display with him following me.  I picked one up and repeated the peach-sniffing process; he did the same.  We eventually selected four or five each before I realized that this lovely little interlude was drawing to a close and decided to let Mr. Drop-Dead-Fucking-Gorgeous off the hook and make as gracious an exit as possible.  I didn’t want the poor man feeling that he had to keep entertaining my fantasies just because I’d taught him a bit about produce selection.  I was tying my bags closed when he spoke again.

 

“I have never seen this particular fruit before.  Is it a hybrid species?” 

 

“Actually, it is, but I’m not sure which species other than peaches are involved.  Because of the smooth skin and coloration, I suspect it may be golden plums.”

 

“That sounds a likely combination.”  I nodded, now having been struck temporarily mute.  He rescued me.

 

“You have been most kind and more than patient in answering my questions.  May I return the favour by asking if you would join me for a drink after we complete our shopping?”  A drink?  He wanted to buy me a drink?  Oh, Hell, yes he could buy me a drink.  He could do damned near anything he wanted if it meant that I could bask in his presence for a while longer.

 

“Uh, that would be nice …but it isn’t necessary.”  Fool!  Do you want him to walk away?

 

“It would be my pleasure, Ms. …?”  Just before he ended that comment, he glanced at my ringless left hand and back up into my eyes as he said “Ms.”

 

“Oh!  Reagan …Reagan Kavanagh.”

 

“Max Espan.  It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Kavanagh.”  That smile appeared again, and now I was drowning in it.  I didn't bother to correct the honourific from Ms. to Dr.; I only do that when I'm discouraging someone.  His hand reached for mine to shake it, and I accepted it …and got another little frisson of anticipation that sent one more shiver down my spine.

 

“Reagan, please.  I’m not terribly formal.”  I realised that he was still holding my hand, but I sure as Hell wasn’t going to make any attempt to disengage it from his.

 

“Nor am I, aside from in my work.  Please, call me Max.”  Max …short for what?  Maxwell?  He didn’t look like a Maxwell.  Maxwell brought up memories of the 1990s TV show, The Nanny.  Please, God, not Maxwell.  Maximillian?  Could be, but he didn’t seem like a Maximillian either, and I was becoming more convinced that the source of that underlying accent was either Spanish or Italian, and I was leaning toward Spanish.  Max, perhaps?  As in Maximus?  Now that made me stifle what would have been a maniacal giggle.  Maximus, yeah, right.  From that movie.  Sure.  Reagan, if your mind is going that direction, you really do need a quick trip over to Terrell.  He finally let go of my hand, and we turned and pushed our carts toward the checkout stands, talking as we walked.

 

“Okay, …Max.  It’s been a hectic week thus far and a drink would be nice.”  We were now in line at the checkout stand, and he coughed slightly before asking another question.

 

“Do you know of a suitable establishment?  While I have lived in Dallas for several years, I am not that familiar with the outlying areas.  The only appropriate locations of which I am aware are in downtown Dallas, close to my office.”  I thought for a moment.  Actually, the only ones I knew were also in downtown Dallas or in the Mockingbird Lane area because that’s where the university I teach at is located; if I was meeting someone, I usually went from school straight to the bar/club/whatever.  Once I left the city, any drinking I did was at my home or at the homes of friends.  The men I had dated all lived in Dallas, and that was where we went for entertainment purposes.  I live 30 miles east of Dallas, in the ‘burbs, and there just isn’t a lot out here.  No clubs that I knew of as this really was a small, bedroom community.  Anyone out here who really wanted to go clubbing went into Dallas.  Then it hit me.  There was a new Hilton a few miles up the Interstate toward Dallas.  It would have a bar.

 

“There really aren’t any clubs here in town that I know of, but there’s a new Hilton on the Interstate, and they’re sure to have a bar.  That’s probably a prerequisite for a Hilton hotel.”  He smiled again, and now I was going under for the third time.  This was becoming a habit, and I could get used to it.

 

“That is quite acceptable.  Would you care to ride with me and leave your car here?  I will return you safely.”  I don’t usually hop into cars with men I’ve just met but what the Hell?  He didn’t look threatening.  There weren’t any vibes coming off him that set off any warning bells, well, none aside from the fact that because of that pheromone load he was carrying around, I wanted toss him on the floor and fuck him senseless.

 

“I can do that …you look relatively harmless.”  At that, he laughed.  Ten minutes later, we were stowing my groceries into the back of my Jeep – as it was February, it was cold enough that none of my chilled items would suffer - and we walked to his car, with him carrying three Albertson’s plastic bags in one hand as if they weighed nothing.  Of course he did have large hands …and feet.  Yes, I do notice things like that; don’t all women?  As we approached his car, he pulled his keys with the attached remote from his pocket and triggered it.  It chirped twice, and I looked in the direction of the chirp, stumbling when I realized the only car in front of us was a midnight blue 2005 Bentley Continental GT Mulliner.  I think my mouth actually fell open.  When I was dating the doctor, he had been drooling over a silver one in the showroom of Dallas’ only Bentley dealer.  He finally gave up on it because the new house he was building cost less.  That frigging car was in excess of $190,000.00 and, yes, I do have the correct number of zeros, and the decimal point is in the right spot.  You can only imagine the thoughts whirling through my head …was this man a drug cartel magnate?  Please, God, tell me that accent isn’t Columbian!  Had he just ripped off the closest branch of Credit Bank Suisse?  I looked up at him as he opened the door to hand me in and got that heart-breaking smile again before he spoke.

 

“I assure you, it is not stolen.  My profession pays well …I am unmarried, have no children, live in a loft-style flat, and do not have many worldly needs.  This is the only true indulgence I have allowed myself in …many years.” 

 

Well, well, well.  That just told me that the path to his door was free and clear, and I believed him.  Who am I kidding here?  I wanted to believe him.  I wanted to believe that this was a truly good man who just happened to be wealthy enough to actually own this car without having resorted to the use of ill-gotten gains.  Just as those thoughts were whipping through my brain fast enough to cause me whiplash, it hit me.  There had been this teensy little infinitesimal pause between 'in' and 'many years.'  It seemed as if he was about to put a number there and then decided against it.  Kind of odd, you know?  It wasn’t as if he was like Methuselah, and 'his moisture had not fled' …950-years-old and still able to get some unsuspecting woman pregnant.  I’m a really good judge of men’s ages – lousy with women because so many have had work done – and I had Max pegged for early 40s.  I was 37, so as far as I was concerned, we would be perfectly compatible as regards the age issue.  He was old enough to absolutely know his way around a woman’s bedroom – I’d bet he could author the guidebook - and young enough to be able to hang in there for a while.  That met all my criteria, and I smiled to myself at the thought. 

 

Still, the car threw me for a loop, especially since the surgeon I had dated was making in excess of two-hundred grand a year free and clear, and I knew that for a fact …his accountant is a good friend of mine.  She did his tax return last year, and just happened to mention his net worth to me, probably hoping that would make me hear wedding bells.  Pam is one of the friends who thought I was the world’s biggest fool when I broke off that relationship because I wasn’t ready to get married again.  Scott had been, in her terms, 'quite the catch.' 

 

I got into the car, running my fingers over the glove-leather quality upholstery after he closed the door for me, then started fumbling for the safety harness and could only find it the female half of the connecting buckle.  There had to be a male part somewhere; I knew this baby would do an easy 160 mph because I’d read the specs when Scott was drooling over the model.  As Max slid into the driver’s seat he smiled because I was still looking for the harness.

 

“It is there; you will not see it until I start the ignition.”  Oh.  The harnesses must be attached to the doors or something and glide into place automatically, forcing you to snap it closed, even if you belong to that group of self-destructive fools that usually refuse wear them.  He slipped the key into the ignition and turned it, then disengaged the parking brake.  The engine roared into life, and I do mean roared.  I felt as if I was sitting on the back of a Bengal tiger that was busily announcing dominance of its territory.  Smooth, sleek, powerful, and if mistreated or ill-used, deadly.  I buckled that seat harness in a heartbeat and rested my left hand on the armrest, trying not to dig my nails into the leather as Max engaged the gears and pulled smoothly out of the parking space.  Did I neglect to tell you this was the British model?  Yep, right-wheel drive.  Given his accent, I figured he’d probably bought it on a trip to the UK and brought it back with him when he returned to the States.

 

Max pulled out of the car park and onto the street that led to the Interstate and up the access ramp, accelerating smoothly as he moved the transmission through the gears as easily as if he was running a hot knife through butter …or bringing the winning team in the chariot race up to the Emperor’s box.  I cadged a glance at the speedometer to see if we were approaching lift-off, noting that he was just inside the posted speed limit.  He caught my sidelong glance and chuckled before saying anything.

 

“Do not fear, Reagan.  I may on occasion take her up to top speed but only on back roads where I fear hitting nothing, and I have never done so with a passenger in the vehicle.  I may be willing to risk my own safety, but I would never risk yours.”  I appreciated that, as while I’m not afraid of death, I would like to try this living thing a while longer, preferably with all my parts attached and in good working order.  Max wove smoothly in and out of the early evening traffic and exited at the second ramp, moving us down the access road and into the Hilton’s car park.  He pulled under the awning and put the engine into neutral before getting out and coming round to open the door and hand me out, nodding at the valet parking attendant, speaking as we passed.

 

“Please park it well away from other cars.  I would be displeased to return and find her scratched or dented.”  The kid couldn’t have been much past 21, if that, and his eyes were almost out on stems.  He nodded and hurried around to hop into the car, smoothly engaging the gears, and creeping the car into a wide, designated for-handicapped-only parking slot and slapping a temporary permit on the dash before exiting.  He locked the car and put the keys into his pocket as he walked back to us rather than hanging them on the little board with the rest of the keys.  Max smiled at him.  “I thank you for that consideration, though please move it if someone who truly needs that space should arrive.”  Seconds later we were inside the bar and sitting at a small table in a dimly lit corner as the waiter approached.

 

“What may I order you to drink, Reagan?”  I usually drink scotch – the good stuff – but thought since I’d not eaten since breakfast, I'd be well advised to go with something a bit less potent.

 

“White wine?  Chardonnay would be nice.”  Max turned to the waiter.

 

“What Chardonnays do you have available?  I would prefer something other than bar stock.  Make a good selection for me, and bring the bottle and two glasses.”  The man nodded and walked away.  Max turned to me with that soft smile on his face and tilted his head.

 

“So, in what line of work are you engaged, Reagan?  I cannot imagine you in other than an intellectual pursuit.”  Well, he had me there, but that wasn’t all of it, not by a long shot; of course, that long shot bit I’d just keep to myself unless and until there was a reason for him to know.  Hey, I could get lucky …it happens.  Before I could answer, the waiter returned with two bottles and two glasses, obviously wanting Max to make the final choice.  Hmmm, not too shabby.  He carried a bottle each of Trefethan Harmony and Paumonauk 200 Grand Reserve, both very nice wines, and relatively pricey, too, at least for a hotel bar.  Max was either trying to impress me, or he was truly accustomed to the good things in life and just didn’t think about prices.  I was going with the latter because I was pretty sure he knew he'd already impressed me.  He looked at me.

 

“Have you a preference?”  Not really, insofar as the wine itself was concerned, but I’d had the Trefethan several times and the Paumonauk only once.

 

“How about the Paumonauk?”  Max nodded, and the waiter put both bottles and glasses on the table and proceeded to open the Paumonauk, gave the cork to Max, and poured a bit into a glass and offered it to him for approval.  Max sniffed the cork and smiled, then swirled the wine in the glass and took a small sip, rolling it around in his mouth thoughtfully. His smile had told me that he knew tasting after sniffing the cork wasn’t necessary, but he was nice enough not to embarrass the waiter.  Finally, he put the glass back on the table and looked at the waiter.

 

“That will do very well.”  The man poured for both of us and left, returning briefly with the wine cooler, settled the bottle into the ice, and disappeared again.  Of course, now I was stuck.  The man had bought a nice bottle of wine, and when a man does that, he either has ulterior motives (I’d had that on more than one occasion, as have we all) or he really wanted to talk long enough to find out something about me; I hoped for the latter.

 

“I’m a professor at one of the private universities in Dallas.”

 

“What is your discipline?”  Not “what do you teach,” but “what is your discipline.”  I was back to trying to figure out if he was a stuffed shirt, or if his formality of speech was a function of that English-as-a-second-language thing, and my money was on a second language.

 

“Psychology.  And before you ask, no, I do not have a private practice.  I was in public service prior to entering academia.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“What do you do, Max?  You’ve already said that your profession affords you a comfortable life style, and that’s pretty obvious.”  He smiled at my reference to the Bentley.

 

“I am in risk management, a hostage negotiator with a small firm here in Dallas.”  Risk management …is that what they call hostage negotiators these days?  Really?  Now this was going to be a very interesting conversation.  My frame of reference for that particular field of endeavor was pretty damned good, and I had more than a bit of professional insight there.  I suspect most people’s concept came from that Russell Crowe movie a few years back.  Okay, let’s see if I still had any of my own investigative skills going for me.  I'd pretend I didn't know a damned thing about the subject.

 

“Really?  Are you a kidnap and ransom hostage negotiator?  Like that guy from the film …uh, what was his name …Terry Thorne!  You do what Terry Thorne did in that film?  You did see that film, right?”  He nodded slightly, smiling again.

 

“I am familiar with the film.  However, it is my true profession.”  Oh, my God.  He could be the real deal; my momentary efforts at pretense went right down the drain.

 

“No shit!”  Lord, could I have been any less eloquent?  At that he actually laughed, well, giggled might be a better descriptor.  It was totally incongruous with his appearance, but I liked it, and he was masculine enough to get away with it.

 

“Well, in truth and on occasion, there is quite a lot of it involved …shit, that is.”  At that, I burst out laughing.  I had to give the man credit here.  English might be his second language, but he was really quick on the draw with it, and he obviously had a sense of humour; I like that in a man.  He joined me in laughing, and I appreciated that.  I sipped at my wine – it was lovely – and put down my glass.

 

“So, kidnap and ransom for real.  How did you get into that field?  Somehow, I can’t quite envision the man sitting next to me in a Saville Row suit crawling around in some third world hellhole in dirty fatigues with camouflage paint on his face.  You really do that?”  He nodded again, that slow dip of his head, almost regal in its grace.

 

“I do, though I am not often required to go into the field.  Most of what I do is negotiate the ransom fee and arrange for the exchange of money and safe return of the hostage.  On occasion I am required to immerse myself into that third-world hellhole of which you speak, but fortunately, that is the exception rather than the rule.”  He took a sip of his wine.  “I feel sure you are not interested in the so-called gory details.”  Like Hell I wasn’t.  I suspected I knew at least as much about those gory little details as he did, but I wasn’t ready to disclose that and wouldn’t be for a long time.  I was going to have to get to know this man really well before sharing that little tidbit. 

 

We were into our second glass of wine when we both decided that drinking on an empty stomach wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do so he ordered hors d’ oeuvres, and we continued talking.  He found out about my discipline and how long I’d been teaching.  I found out that he’d gotten into K & R through the back door, i.e., he’d placed an ad offering his services in Soldier of Fortune and a couple of other magazines of that genre and had been contacted by the owner of a small K & R firm here in Dallas, asking if he’d be interested in coming in to talk about possibly joining the firm.  A month after that, he had packed up his digs in London and made the trip across the pond.  He didn’t tell me where he had lived prior to London, and I sensed he really didn’t want to disclose that information …at least not yet. 

 

Max had been married, but to use his words, that was in another time and another place, and he didn’t seem inclined to discuss it further.  I knew how that felt.  I had no problem in saying I was divorced but had little interest in discussing how I got to that point.  By the time we’d finished our wine and comestibles, I was hoping that I’d be able to stay awake long enough to grade the exams my students had taken today.  When we got back to the supermarket car park, Max walked me to my car, and before I got in, he took my hand.

 

“Reagan, if I may be forward, it has been a long while since I have enjoyed a woman’s company so much; I would like to see you again.  May I call you later in the week?  Would you be willing to give me your telephone number?”  I would have cried if he hadn’t asked, and I dug into my handbag, producing my business card, and turned it over.  He took a pen from his pocket and gave it to me; I wrote my home number on the back of the card.  Max took it and tucked it into his breast pocket and produced one of his own.

 

“My home telephone number is one number higher than the office line.”  I tucked the card into my wallet and smiled at him.  “If you will permit it, I will follow you home.  It concerns me to see a woman driving alone late in the evening; I would rest better if I knew you were safely inside your home with the door locked.”  Fine by me; while I didn’t feel that his protection was needed, if he followed me he’d know where I lived when he came to pick me up for our implied date.  He followed me home, got out of the car, and – helping me with the bags of grocery items - walked me to the door, taking my hand again after I unlocked the door and turned to him. 

 

“I will call you tomorrow evening, if that is acceptable.  Perhaps we can arrange a time for me to take you to dinner.”

 

“That would be lovely, Max, and thank you.  It’s been a nice evening.”

 

“It is I who thank you, Reagan.”  He turned and walked back down the path, stopping and waiting until he saw me close and lock the door.  I watched through the side-angle peephole as he drove away into the night.

 

*

 

I leant against the door, letting out a long breath.  Max Espan, if that was actually his name, was one Hell of a man.  Frankly, he just seemed a bit too good to be true, if you get my drift.  Good looking, single, more than gainfully employed, a complete gentleman, and intelligent into the mix …yes, I was suspicious.  Any woman with a functioning brain would be suspicious because men like that just don’t approach you in the supermarket, do they?  After having watched the taillights of his car until it disappeared down the lane, I headed for my home office, flipped on the light, and booted my computer.  You know it …I was going online to see what – if anything – I could find about this man, and I so wanted to find that everything he’d said was the truth.

 

I’m somewhat above average in my abilities to track down people on the information highway.  I had done a little stint at Quantico a few years back and when you work with the Feds, you pick up a few tricks.  When searching for someone in FBI or CIA online records, most people will  go straight to the site’s internal search engine, check out the 'most wanted' sites, browse through the various lists of outstanding warrants, look up known sex offenders, and so on.  That's helpful up to a point, but it’s a long way from telling you all there is to know, and it will never get you into the classified and upper level files where data on people under surveillance are located because you don’t even know those files exist.  Those files were my destination.

 

After graduate school (compliments of the US Army), I had completed my service requirement at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit - AKA, the BAU - in Quantico, Virginia and, on occasion, still took special assignments with them in addition to periodically consulting with law enforcement entities here in North Texas.  I may be a professor, but I have another hat in my closet; I’m also a forensic profiler, but I don’t spread that knowledge round to the general public.  Even my closest friends (save one) don’t know it and never will.  That information is available only on a need-to-know basis, and they have no need to know.  Given that little tidbit, I always have the current codes to get into the back door of the system, and I started looking.  I ploughed through files of aliases, looking at photos and reading descriptions of men with outstanding warrants on whom no photos were available.  Several hours later and with my eyeballs bleeding from the time in front of the screen, I took my first deep breath.  If Max was one of the bad guys, he’d not yet made it into the FBI’s treasure trove; I was damned sure of that. 

 

My next port of call was the CIA website, and I went through the same procedure there with the same results …nothing.  Still, something just didn’t seem quite like it was Jell-O.  You know that old joke about something being as difficult to do as nailing Jell-O to the wall?  That’s where I was.  I had the Jell-O – Max, to be precise – but I couldn’t nail him to the wall so I was still suspicious.  So sue me.  I’ve been trained to be suspicious; it’s kept me alive more than once.  Time to try the Google approach simply because if you want to hide, hide in plain sight.  I typed Max Espan in the search window, hit the enter key, and waited.  All I got was documents on E-SPAN, most of which included the word 'max' indicating their alleged superlative programming or C-SPAN telling me what riveting Congressional hearings they were covering next week.  Yeah, right.  I tried with Maxwell Espan, Maximilian Espan, and yes, I even tried Maximus Espan …that pulled up all the sites for the movie I referenced earlier.  Other than that, zip.  Okay, so there was nothing on the open Internet.  If Max was hiding from anything or anyone, he was buried so deeply that I couldn’t find even a whiff of suspicion, and that made me suspicious.  What I really wanted was to get into the Department of Homeland Security’s database but had no affiliation with them and thus, no access.  Max didn’t seem the 'type' to be a terrorist, but I’d also worked with my share of sociopaths along the way, and they can be charmers.  It was time to call in a favour or two.

 

It was after three in the morning Washington time when my old buddy at Quantico answered the phone.  I’d intended leaving a message but had gotten lucky …he had the desk tonight.  He knew something was up because I’d called his encrypted line on my encrypted line, and outside of the people still in D. C., I’m probably the only one who has that number.

 

“Ackerman.”

 

“Ted?  It’s Reagan.”

 

“Reags!  Jesus, girl, how the Hell are you?  You okay?”

 

“I’m fine, but I need you to run a trace on someone for me.  Got a pen and pad?”  That was our own little joke.  Ted didn’t need to write anything down any more than I did.  He laughed.

 

“Always.  Who is it, and why do you want a trace?”

 

“Max Espan – that’s E-S-P-A-N.  I met him tonight, and he just seems too perfect, you know?  He took me out for drinks, and we’re going out later this week.  I’ve seen him somewhere but can’t recall where or the circumstances; it’s just that his face is vaguely familiar.  I’ve looked everywhere that we would normally look, and there’s nothing.  Hell, Ted, I’ve even checked state and international drivers’ license databases – he has both – and they look okay.  He appears clean, but something is niggling at me.”

 

“I’ll get on it as soon as I get home tomorrow morning ...rather keep this between us and off the record books.  When are you going out with him?  How much time do I have for a check?”

 

“Probably Friday or Saturday, more time than you need.”  He laughed. 

 

“Okay.  Consider it done.  I’ll be back to you by noon Friday.  And Reags?”

 

“Yes?’

 

“You still packing?”

 

“Haven’t in a while, but if you turn up anything untoward, I will until you can get warrants or extradition papers.”

 

“Extradition papers?  What ain’t you told me, Honey?”

 

“English isn’t his native language, though he has a slight British accent.  There’s something underlying it; I’m thinking southern European, possibly Italian or Spanish, and I’m leaning toward Spanish.”

 

“Then I’ll start tracking in Spain and Italy and let you know as soon as I find anything.”

 

“You might also want to check Homeland Security and see if they have anything on him, assuming the name is a bona fide.  I don’t have access there.”

 

“You thinking he may be in the terrorism network?”

 

“I have no clue, Ted, but I damned well know he’s multi-lingual.  Since I couldn’t find anything in the usual files, it’s a possibility.  I still get the briefings and photos of current suspects and possibles, so I could have seen him in one of them before I deleted the files.”

 

“Reags, if I’m gonna be looking at photos, I need a physical description.  At least that will give me a starting point.”

 

“Six feet, muscular build but more stocky than ripped; he keeps in shape.  Probably 185 to 190 pounds, very solidly built.  You get the impression of the sturdiness of a small tank with this guy.  Black hair, cut and styled so that it kind of brushes toward his face …a lot like the statues you see of the Ancient Romans or Greeks and in the Hollywood swords-and-sandals films.  Captain Ahab beard, very neatly trimmed with a mustache; small mouth …almost a cupid’s bow.  Straight brows, blue-green eyes (I wasn’t willing to share that long eyelashes observation).  Large hands – I’d bet he wears a size 12 glove – and the feet match, size 12 shoe at least.  No manicure but neatly trimmed nails; no calluses on the hands that I could discern without asking to read his palm or holding hands with him.  Overall, he makes me think of a tiger; he’s resting for the moment but could spring and strike in a heartbeat if it was warranted.  One last impression and this is out of our specific little corner of the world rather than strictly physical observations.  There’s pain in his eyes; he knows loss, and he knows how to kill; he’s done it in the past.  He doesn’t enjoy it, but he’ll do it if it’s required of him.”

 

“You really are interested in this guy, aren’t you, Reags?”

 

“Yeah, I am, Ted.  First man that’s really hit me where I live in a long, damned time.”

 

“Okay, Honey.  I’ll see what I can find and be back in touch.  Stay where I can find you.”

 

“Will do, and thanks, Ted.  I owe you.”

 

“Later, Kid.”  He hung up, and I turned off my phone, wandered through the house, put the phone back on its base in my closet (you just don’t keep encrypted phones out where anyone can see them), and walked into the kitchen.  Pulling the scotch bottle from the cabinet, I got a glass and put a couple of ice cubes in it, poured the amber liquid over them, went into the lounge, and turned on the TV.  Some late night CNN show was on, and the host was covering the trial of the latest Hollywood fool to be caught with his hand down the pants of an eight-year-old boy.  I channel surfed until I finished my drink, then shut down the house and went to bed.  It was now after four on Thursday morning; I would worry about Max Espan later today.  Sure I would.  I dreamt of his eyes from then until daylight.

 

*

 

I spent the early part of the day grading exams and posted them to my database.  Nothing captured my interest, well, aside from Max, that is.  I wondered how long it would take Ted to get back to me, and just about the time I was considering calling him for a progress report, my encrypted phone rang.  To say I sprinted to the closet and pounced on it would be accurate.

 

“Ted?”

 

“Yeah.  I think I’ve found him, Reags.”  I took a deep breath.

 

“Okay, what do I not want to know.”

 

“He’s covert, Reags, but for purposes of self-protection rather than any connection to any known list of offenders.  He’s with a small, privately owned K & R firm, only three people, and he’s the last one in.  Been with them almost four years now.  TEO …Thorne, Espan and O’Reilly.  They take the cases of people who aren’t insured by virtue of working for large corporations, in which case the employer would provide K & R coverage.  They work for small insurance carriers that cover private individuals, and these are rich, private individuals.  They do some work for a couple of larger companies which probably helps pay the bills, but most of what they do is on a smaller scale.  Much of their work entails negotiation and setting up the hostage-for-money exchange.  Occasionally, they’re forced to go in after the hostage which is an additional reason he’s classified as covert …don’t want the bad guys knowing in advance who’s on their tail.  When they’ve had to go in, they’ve shown an 80% success rate.  They’re good.  The other two partners both were formerly employed by one of the big guns …Luthan Risk out of London, to be precise.  Good reps on both.  Luthan tried to woo them back and got a polite thanks-but-no-thanks from both of them.  One more thing.  This firm is an equal partnership, three-way split.  There’s some sort of connection among these men that goes deeper than a business partnership because no firm with that much money at stake has an equal split without some underlying reason such as being blood relatives, and these guys aren’t related.  Unfortunately, I haven’t found anything that leads me to what that reason might be.  In fact, I can’t find anything on any of the three that pre-dates summer of 2000.  Nothing.  Of course, that brings up an entirely new set of questions.  Sorry I can’t find more, Reags, but if it’s out there, I don’t have access to it.”  If Ted didn’t have access, no one did.  It looked as if anything further on Max was going to have to come directly from his lips to my ears.  I took another deep breath.  I seemed to be doing that a lot since last evening.

 

“Okay, Ted.  Thanks for what you found.  If I get anything from Max directly, I’ll let you know.”

 

“Okay, and Reags?  Start packing until you have absolute confirmation that this guy’s on the level.  I haven’t found anything that indicates he would harm you in any way, but simply by virtue of his profession, he is dangerous, and I’m unwilling to lose another friend.  You and I have both lost too many as it is.” 

 

“You can count on it, Ted.  Thanks again.  Stay safe.  Bye.”

 

“You stay safe!  Bye, Honey.”  And that was that, at least as far as I could pursue it other than with Max himself.  I wandered around the house with my mind going in ten different directions at once, not a pleasant thing when every place it went brought more frustration.  I got his business card out of my wallet and thought about calling him, then discarded the notion.  Sighed again, and nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone rang.  When I glanced at the Caller ID, it was Max’s office number.  My hand was shaking as I picked up the handset.

 

“Hello.”

 

“Reagan?  This is Max.”

 

“Max …I didn’t expect you to call until later today, if at all.”

 

“If at all?  Are you accustomed to having men say they will call and not follow through?”  I had to chuckle at that one.

 

“Well, yes, it’s happened to me.  It’s happened to most single women with most men they meet, and on more occasions than most of us care to recall.” 

 

“I see.  Then perhaps you wish to note that I am not most men.  If I tell you I will call, I will do so.  The only thing that would prevent my following through would be my being called away on business and being unable to reach you prior to my departure.  In that event, I would leave a message explaining the situation and call on my return.  It is not my way to leave a lady wondering why I had failed to show her the courtesy of a call.”

 

“You’re a rare bird, Max.”  He laughed softly.

 

“So I have been told.  I was calling to ask if you are free for dinner tomorrow night.  I know of a nice place, rather crowded and noisy, but excellent food – and we could become better acquainted.”

 

“What did you have in mind, Max?”

 

“Regarding the restaurant or for you?”  Damn, but the man is quick.  He knew exactly what I was asking but was nice enough to give me an escape route.  Okay, might as well be honest.

 

“Both, actually.”  He started with the restaurant, which I had expected.  “I was thinking of Fogo de Chao.  Are you familiar with it?”

 

“I am.  If it once walked on four legs, they probably have it ...and it's all wonderful.”

 

“That is why I selected it, as I do not yet know your tastes.”  That phrase again …not yet …one more little niggle.

 

“I like Fogo de Chao very much, and dinner there would be lovely.  At least now I know how to dress.”

 

“I doubt you have ever been at a loss as to the appropriate attire for any occasion.”  From almost any other man, I would have considered that flattery of the basest sort but from Max?  Nope, somehow I just knew he was saying what he felt.  Besides, he could hardly flatter me, as he had no idea how I dressed other than in a jumper and jeans.

 

“As for the other part of your question regarding what I have in mind, I will speak honestly.  I meet a number of women in my work, but they are either married to a client or not the calibre of woman I wish to know at a personal level.  My standards, for lack of a more polite term, are high.  In recent times, the women with whom I have interacted – while somewhat entertaining – lack depth.  You are different; you have both depth and a level of introspection I find compelling and comparatively rare.  I would like to explore the things we have in common and, if we have sufficient similarities to be compatible and enough differences to remain interesting to the other, to see you on a regular basis …assuming that is acceptable to you, of course.” 

 

Well, that was putting his cards on the table, wasn’t it?  I had to admit I liked that degree of forthrightness.  I liked it a lot.  The ball was now squarely in my court.

 

“Max, I would be delighted to have dinner with you …and I would enjoy a mutual exploration of our similarities and differences even more.  What time tomorrow evening?  Seven ...eight?”

 

“Eight o’clock, if that suits your schedule.  I shall make reservations for nine.”

 

“Eight works very well.  I’ll see you then, Max.”

 

“I shall look forward to seeing you again.”  He hung up.  Damn!  I was beginning to feel like a fish on his line, and Max was reeling me in, very gently but very surely.  I went to my closet to decide what to wear.  With my luck, whatever I chose would need a quick trip to the cleaners, so I wanted time to accomplish that.  Based on the suit Max had worn last night, I’d need to be sure I looked like something out of Vogue and wasn’t even sure I owned anything currently considered stylish.  I don’t shop often – hate shopping as a matter of fact – and do so only when I’ve no option and always need reinforcement to make myself undertake the chore.  Fifteen minutes later, I knew I was at that 'no option' point, and called my reinforcement.

 

“Dee?  It’s Reags.”

 

“I know that.  After all these years, don’t you think I recognize your voice?”  We both laughed.

 

“I have to go shopping.”

 

“For what?”

 

“A nice dress or suit.”

 

“You’ve met a man.”  No question required.  This woman knows me.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Albertson’s, in the produce section.”

 

“Oh, Christ.  So he just walked up and asked you out while you were fondling the tomatoes?”

 

“Actually, it was a cantaloupe.”  She almost laughed.  “We went for drinks and talked for over three hours.  He followed me home to be sure I got here safely and called a few minutes ago to ask me out tomorrow night.  You got some time to kill this afternoon?”

 

“Wouldn’t miss it, as long as you tell me about him.  You know I live my love life vicariously through you.  The men I meet at the dressage shows are either gay or attached to the owners.  The ones at events have their money tied up in horses, tack, and trucks …or they’re there to watch their daughters compete.  Meet me at the train station at one.  See you.”

 

“See you.”  Dee was a woman of few words and as I can ramble for hours at times, having her available to tell me to shut the fuck up on occasion is a good thing.  Alternatively, I could get her to expound on things, which was also a good thing. 

 

*

 

Three hours later, we walked out of the Dallas Galleria with two garment bags slung over my shoulder.  I’d been unable to decide between a simple black long-sleeved number with a scooped neck from Emporio Armani and a tailored navy pin-striped suit by Bill Blass.  Either would work for my current purpose, and the one I didn’t wear tomorrow night would get worn eventually, so I’d bought both.  It never hurts to have a couple of currently stylish ringers in your closet.  Lord knows, it had been a long time since I’d had need for a ringer, but perhaps my luck was changing.  Yes, I was definitely trying to impress Max.  As Dee and I headed back to the train station, she stopped walking.  It took me a couple of steps before I realized she wasn’t with me, and then I turned to see her watching me.

 

“You aren’t getting away that easily.  My condition for accompanying you on this expedition was that I want to know what you know about this man.  All you’ve said so far is that you told him how to pick a cantaloupe, and you tell everyone that …that’s not good enough for my purposes.  I need to know where to tell Steven to start looking for your body if you don’t show up at the stables Saturday morning for our ride.”  Steven is the Texas DPS officer who lives down the lane from me, and yes, Dee is that kind of friend.  We’ve pretty much been through it all together and are long past the point of feeling any need to pull our punches.  I walked back to where she was standing, and she jerked her head back toward the mall and said one word.  “Bennigan’s.”  An hour later Dee knew as much about Max as I could tell her at that point.

 

*

 

At four o’clock on Friday afternoon, the phone rang, and I checked the Caller ID.  Max.  Canceling on me, no doubt.  Damn, I hate wasting time and energy on an unnecessary shopping trip.  I sighed and picked up the handset.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Reagan, this is Max.  I was calling to confirm this evening.  Is eight still good for you?”

 

“Eight is fine, Max.  Actually, when I saw your number on the Caller ID, I thought you’d had second thoughts and were calling to cancel.”

 

“Why should you think I would cancel?”

 

“You came to your senses?  Decided you could find more entertaining company for the evening than a college professor?”  He giggled again, and I smiled.

 

“Reagan, I doubt I should find more entertaining company than yours.  I was calling to be sure that you did not wish to cancel …and I am gratified that you do not.”

 

“Chalk it up to my curiosity and your enigmatic charm, Max.  I’ll see you at eight.”  We hung up.  I finished straightening up the front of the house.  That means I vacuumed up all the dog hair then relegated the pups to my bedroom until I was ready to leave so that Max wouldn’t be pounced on as soon as he walked in the door and covered in long, golden hair.  If Max was leaving here tonight with any long, golden hair on him, it was damned well going to be mine.

 

*

 

I was dressed in the little Armani number and ready by seven-thirty, reading while I waited for Max to arrive.  At five until eight, I heard the rumble of the Bentley’s engine coming up the lane and pulling into my drive, followed by quiet as he cut the ignition.  He knocked on the door precisely at eight o’clock.  So, punctuality was important to him; it is for me, too.  So far, so good.  I checked my lipstick in the foyer mirror to be sure there was none on my teeth, smoothed my dress and opened the door.  He was wearing a black cashmere suit, impeccably cut and tailored.  The thought flipped through my mind that his suits were likely custom made; perhaps my flip Saville Row comment had been on target.  As broad as his shoulders and chest were and given that his body was a bit stocky, I would bet he’d have a tough time buying off-the-rack.  Given his income level, custom-made wasn’t an unlikely notion.  Pale blue linen dress shirt, dark tie, French cuffs with gold cuff links …a quick glance looked as if they were in the shape of a map of Spain, and I caught my breath.  The only reason I could think of as to why he would have cufflinks of a map of Spain would be if he was a Spaniard.  Espan  …Españia!  Damn, I should have snapped to that last night.  I forced myself back to the present and realised he was holding a lovely arrangement of pale green roses in a small, cut crystal vase.

 

“Max, come in for a moment while I get my coat.  How thoughtful of you …how did you know green roses are my favourite?”  I wasn’t bullshitting with that comment; I adore pale green roses, and unless I missed my guess, these were St. Patrick’s.  He smiled and stepped into the foyer, looking round as he did. 

 

“A lucky guess, nothing more.”  From where he stood, he could see the lounge, dining room, and the hallway to my guest room and office, but nothing else.  I took the flowers and put them on my mantle, then decided I might as well show him the layout of the house.  If he planned on killing or kidnapping me, it wouldn’t take him more than two seconds to figure out where my bedroom was if he was going to break in during the night as I slept.  Somehow, I didn’t think that was his intention; if he should break in, I rather thought he’d prefer me alive and willing.  “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

 

“Only if you are comfortable with that.”  I shrugged. 

 

“Follow me.”  I pointed out my office and the guest room, then took him back through the dining room and into the kitchen, out the opposite end into the lounge, and pointed down the back hallway toward my bedroom.  It’s a neat, compact house, and I love it.  I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

 

“You have a lovely home, Reagan.  Do you enjoy cooking?  You have a rather large and well-appointed kitchen.  And do I hear dogs?”  Predictably, and at anytime they're shut away from me, they were whining and pawing at the bedroom door.

 

“Yes to both.  I love cooking, and I’m good at it, too.”  He smiled at that.  My mum was probably right …the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.  Of course, there is a more direct route, but there’s nothing wrong with the time-honoured approach.

 

“That is always pleasing for a man to hear.  Are your dogs closed in your bedroom?”  I nodded.  “Why?  Let them out.  I like dogs.”  Right.  He might like dogs, but mine would be all over him, and that beautiful suit would be covered with dog hair.  I’d have to brush him down with the lint brush before we could leave …on the other hand, that could be fun.  I stifled a grin at that thought and looked at him.

 

“You sure about that, Max?  They’re Golden Retrievers – three of them – and they shed fur as a function of breathing.  We’ll both be covered in hair.”

 

“I have no objection if you do not.”  Might as well go for it and see what their response was to him; dogs are amazingly good judges of character.  I walked down the hall and opened the door, anticipating their usual rush after having been confined.  I wasn’t disappointed.  They made a dash past me and a beeline for Max, and I got the shock of my life.  At the sound of his voice, soft but at the same time commanding, I turned and just stared.

 

“Sit.  Stay.”  I’ll be damned.  They did it.  They obey me, but anyone else aside from Dee is a lost cause.  He rubbed each furry head in turn and then looked over at me.  “They are as well behaved as they are beautiful.  What are their names?”

 

“The monster closest to you is Bear because he’s so big (Max grinned at that), next to him is Pandora – my female and insatiably curious – and the last one is Bailey for no special reason other than the name appeals to me.”  I walked over to where the four of them were still regarding each other.

 

“Bear, shake hands with Max.”  He raised one paw, and Max took it.  Pandora and Bailey followed suit, with Bailey licking Max’s hand as if to seal the bargain.  That did a lot to set my mind at ease.  These guys are very suspicious and extremely protective of me; if they liked Max, I seriously doubted I had anything to worry about.  I have always trusted animals’ instincts; they listen to and heed theirs, whereas humans have long since discarded attending to our most basic instincts in favour of a cognitive appraisal, often to our detriment.  The four of them seemed to be enjoying this a bit too much, so I intervened.

 

“Max, if you let them, they'll keep you here all night.”  He looked up at me as he stood erect.

 

“But for our plans, I would happily let them do so.  I had a wonderful dog once …many years ago; he saved my life on more than one occasion.  I miss him still.”  Must have been one Hell of a dog and combined with yet another reference to his past, my curiosity was increasing by the minute.  Perhaps I could get a bit of information about his dog out of him over dinner.  “But we must go, or we shall be late for our reservation.”  We were out the door within two minutes.

 

He handed me into the car, and when he got in and closed the door, I got a whiff of his aftershave, one I’d only encountered at the men’s toiletries section of Neiman’s and had remembered because I fell in love with it …Cool Water.  More evidence of his good taste because while I could definitely smell it, it was just a whisper, as it should be.  You would have to be in close quarters – such as his car or perhaps dancing with him – to detect it.  He wore fragrance in the same way I did; it should be only the ripple in a clear mountain pool, not a tidal wave that swamps you.

 

After the time spent with the pups, we were running a bit late, and Max hit the interstate at 78 miles an hour as Fogo de Chao was almost an hour’s drive from my house.  We didn’t talk much en route, as I dislike distracting a man when he's driving, but Max glanced my direction several times, probably to see if I had dug my nails through his upholstery.  He was a good driver and didn’t rattle me once, and that’s a rare thing for me.  We pulled into the valet parking area of the restaurant, and Max handed over his keys as we walked inside. 

 

We danced a couple of times before dinner and during cocktails, and while he was an excellent dancer, I sensed that he did so only when he felt it was expected of him …curious.  Dinner was wonderful, and Max was the best dinner companion I’d ever had, hands down.  I found out that his long-dead dog had been a German Shepherd, or Alsatian, as he called it; his name had been Caesar.  He had been bred for defense purposes and trained accordingly.  From the way he talked, I was wondering if he had been with the SAS but that didn’t wash as Ted would have found that.  I’d known a few of those guys, as well as a few from Delta Force, Navy Seals, and Marine Recon and they were all pretty first-rate people.  This was the first time I had dated one of that type, as the others had all been men I’d known through work, and my policy on dating a colleague is that the screwing you get ain’t worth the screwing you get.  I decided to get brave and ask a bit about his firm.

 

“Max, you said Wednesday night that you’re in K & R …tell me a bit about your firm.”  He cocked his head in the way I was learning was second nature to him and looked at me for a moment, almost as if he was deciding how much to say.  He finally looked as if he’d decided to trust me – at least a little – and spoke.

 

“I am a full partner in a three-man firm.  The others had formed the firm early in 2001 and invited me to join them in 2002.  We knew of each other prior to that time but had not met.  Initially, they took me on faith.  I was an employee for almost a year, at which time I was invited to buy into the firm as a partner; I accepted.  I believe I have lived up to their expectations.  They are good men; it is an honour to call them friends and colleagues.”

 

“May I ask their names?  I have your card, but that doesn’t tell me much.”  I was wondering if I knew either of them.  He considered that for a moment.

 

“Terrence Thorne and Dean O’Reilly …Terry and Dino.  They were with Luthan Risk in London prior to establishing their own firm.”  That checked out and again, the names sounded vaguely familiar; perhaps I had seen them on a briefing sheet at some point in time.

 

“How did you meet them?”

 

“We have friends in common.”  Thanks, Max.  That helps me a bunch …not.

 

“Terry Thorne and Dean O’Reilly?  The names seem familiar, but I can’t quite place them.”  He straightened in his chair and looked at me, his face becoming somewhat guarded.  I realised later that sanity precluded my making any connections at that point.

 

“I doubt you know them.  I cannot imagine your paths would have crossed.”

 

“Don’t think I know them, Max, but I may have seen their names on briefing sheets.”  It was his turn to look surprised, and I’d decided to shake him up a bit.

 

“Briefing sheets?”

 

“Max, I was a forensic profiler with the Behavioural Analysis Unit at the FBI prior to entering academia; I’m still in the information loop.  It’s not impossible I’d have seen their names.  But met them?  No, I don’t think so.  I have a steel-trap memory for people I’ve actually met; I have to, and I’d have put their names with their faces immediately.”  That’s actually true.  People I’ve only seen but not met will just niggle away at me, as Max’s face was doing.  He looked relieved.  Why?  I was becoming less suspicious of him but more curious; there is a qualitative difference between the two.  Okay, I’d made the pitch, and he had evaded my point, so I just did what I always do and hit the dilemma head on.

 

“Max, I’ve seen you somewhere before Wednesday night.  I don’t know where, and I don’t know when, but I have seen you before.  I've been  honest with you.  What’s it going to take for you to give me a clue as to who you really are?  I believe you when you tell me you’re a partner in Thorne, Espan, and O’Reilly, but that isn’t all of the story, and I know it isn’t.  What’s the rest of it?” 

 

Max closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and looked across the table at me.

 

“We must talk.  Given your honesty with me, there are things about me you have a right to know.  Reagan, I believe that I can trust you, but what I have to say cannot be said here.  We can return to your home or go to my loft.  The choice is yours.”  I looked at him and thought I had rarely seen a man with so much that he wanted – and yet feared – to say written on his face and in his body and made up my mind.

 

“Let’s go back to my place.  If it gets too late, I have a guest room.  I’ve never liked sleeping on someone’s couch.”  His smile was so relieved that it was heartbreaking.  He reached across the table, taking my hand in his.

 

“Thank you.”  Call me crazy if you like, but there was just something about this man that was solid and real, and I knew I could trust him with my life.

 

*

 

Two-and-a-half hours later we were sitting in my lounge, me in stunned silence and Max more than a bit apprehensive.  I stood, picking up our glasses, and broke the five-minute silence.

 

“We both need a refill.  Take off your shoes and prop up your feet, Max.  I’ll be right back.”  He ignored the instruction and followed me into the kitchen, shaking his head as I picked up the bottle of cognac.

 

“No, I have had too much already.”  He ran one hand through his hair and over the stubble on his jaw as he looked at me, his face haggard, his eyes haunted by unseen ghosts.  “I should go.”

 

“No.”  He ignored that comment and turned, walking to the foyer and picking up his suit coat from the stand beside the door and started to put it on.  I caught one sleeve and tugged it away from him.

 

“I said no, Max.  You’re exhausted.  You’ve had too much to drink, and if you leave now, at best you’ll get pulled over and arrested for DUI.  At worst, you’ll become another statistic on the side of the road.”

 

“I cannot stay the night in your home.  You are an unmarried woman …it would be improper.”

 

“Bullshit.”  His head jerked around as he looked at me.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You aren’t going anywhere, Max.  You’re physically exhausted and emotionally drained.  You’re staying here tonight.”

 

“I could not possibly do….”

 

“I’m not giving you a choice,” and I snatched the keys from his hand, dropping them down the front of my dress.  “If you’re so damned determined to go home, then come and get your bloody keys.  If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll shut the Hell up and follow me down the hall to the guest room.”  I turned away from him and walked toward to the aforementioned room, flipping on the light as I entered.  I removed the throw pillows from the bed and tossed them into the closet, then pulled back the spread and sheets and turned round.  He was standing in the door, watching me in silence.

 

“There are fresh towels in the bath and the toothbrush in the holder is new.  Toothpaste is in the drawer, and there’s a razor there if you want to shave in the morning, though don’t do so on my account.  I’ll wake you about half an hour before breakfast is ready.  Now go to bed.  You look like hammered shit.”  I walked past him out the door, and he caught my hand as I passed.  I turned to look at him, and my heart lurched.  He raised my hand to his lips and turned it over, softly kissing the palm before he gently returned it to my side and let go.

 

“Thank you.”  I couldn’t speak because of the sudden constriction in my throat, so simply nodded and walked away.

 

*

 

It had been just after two when I collapsed into my bed.  It was after three now, and I was still awake, the thoughts chasing themselves through my mind like the torrent of a river overflowing with the spring’s thaw.  The story he had told me was beyond belief.  Things like that were yarns one spun to children begging for fairy tales, and yet, I believed him.  Before going to bed I had called Ted again, and while I waited on the phone, he had checked out Terrence Thorne and Dean O’Reilly.  Everything Max had told me was verifiable, although Ted still couldn’t find anything on any of the three that dated back more than five years.  It was if they had appeared out of thin air.  I heard a cry from the guest room and bolted out of the bed, not taking the time to grab my robe.  I sleep in oversized t-shirts that come halfway to my knees, and Max had already seen my knees in the dress I’d worn the evening before. 

 

When I silently entered the guest room, Max was lying on his back, one arm resting on his forehead, tears streaking from the corners of his eyes and into his hair.  I sat on the side of the bed, placing my hand on the side of his face.  He opened his eyes and looked at me.

 

“I apologise for disturbing your rest.  I sometimes have nightmares …my wife and my son ….” 

 

“I wasn’t asleep, Max.  It wouldn’t have mattered if I had been.  Are you alright now?”  He took a deep breath and blew it out.

 

“As well as ever.  At times I wonder if I will ever be alright again.”  I nodded; strangely, I understood.

 

“Move over.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said move over.  I can’t get in with you lying in the middle of the bed …scoot over.”

 

“Certainly not!  It would not be appropriate.”  His sense of honour was getting on my last frigging nerve.

 

“Fine!  Then I’ll lay on top of you!”  He moved over.  I climbed into the bed and lay beside him, moving my arm beneath his head, and moving him along until he lay beside me but on his side and with his head on my shoulder.  “Now go to sleep.  I won’t leave you, Max.  I promise.”  I felt him slowly relax, and finally, he slept.  I think I was asleep within minutes after he was, and neither of us woke until sometime well after daylight when Bear nudged my hand with his nose, asking to be let outdoors.  It had been a long night, and now Max and I had to decide what was on the horizon for us.  We were already well beyond the point of no return.

 

 

NOTES

Alice band

A head band to hold longer hair back from one's face, similar to the black band Alice in Wonderalnd wore in her hair.