LITMIR.BIZ

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In her throaty alto voice, she belted out the last line of the R&B classic “And I’m Telling You,” by Jennifer Holiday. “I don’t wanna be fre-e-e. I’m stay—in’ and you’re gonna love me! Yeah.” She winked and hurried out of the suite.

      When she reached the lobby, she was pleasantly surprised to see Carmen waiting.

      “Carmen,” she greeted, giving the older woman a quick peck on the cheek. “I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were just sending a car.”

      “The car is waiting. I just thought it would be nice if we rode together to the airport.”

      “I think so, too,” Reese said with a smile, threading her arm through Carmen’s. “What about Max—I mean, Mr. Knight?”

      “He always drives his own car to the airport.” She pushed through the revolving door and out into the balmy morning. “He hates being at the mercy of someone else,” she tossed over her shoulder with a wink and a smile.

      The double entendre was not lost on Reese.

      He knew he was early and that there was plenty of time before boarding. That wasn’t the point. Maxwell paced the waiting area, checking his watch every few minutes. He was edgy. His nerves felt like they were about to snap. The lack of sleep, haunted by dreams of Reese, compounded by the unexpected phone call from Victoria Davenport, had him ready to crush the first person who crossed him.

      After nearly two years of complete silence, she calls out of the blue. Why? And why now? She said she’d been thinking about him a lot lately and had been too afraid to contact him for fear of rejection again. She’d said she’d heard through the grapevine about the chip development and she wanted to congratulate him. She, too, was planning on being in Los Angeles within the week, and wondered if he would be in town. If so maybe they could get together—just for a drink—for old time’s sake.

      Maxwell frowned and checked his watch again, retracing his path across the sparkling tile floor. Victoria, he’d learned the hard way, was not a woman who did anything without a damned good reason. If she wanted to see him again, she had one, and he was pretty certain her reason had nothing to do with congratulations or unrequited love.

      He checked his watch, then compared it to the huge clock that hung above the reservationist’s station. “Where is she?” he fumed between clenched teeth.

      “Looking for someone?” Reese asked, easing up behind him to practically whisper in his ear.

      He spun around and when his eyes landed on her smiling face, his stomach coiled into a knot of need. “Where in the devil have you been?” he growled in greeting. “Or don’t you realize we have a flight to catch?” He turned away and strode toward the departure gate.

      “This trip is going to be longer than I thought,” she muttered to Carmen, who hid a smile behind her hand. Both women followed in comical military fashion behind the unsuspecting Maxwell Knight.

      Maxwell’s morning for stress was anything but over. Carmen had purposely seated them together. His intention was to sleep on the flight. But the heavenly scent of Reese’s body oil invaded his senses, her every movement sent waves of longing zinging through his veins.

      “Max…”

      “Reese…”

      They both looked at each other, speaking in unison.

      Maxwell’s stern countenance wavered and he smiled. “You first.”

      Reese took a breath, briefly looked down at her hands and then into the depth of his magnificent ebony eyes. “I don’t want to intrude on your life, Max. I want you to know that. And I don’t want you to think that I don’t have a conscience. Over the next few weeks, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I’m going to be asking you questions you’re not going to want to answer. But we can get past all of that.” Her eyes raced across the flawless honey-dipped face. “There’s something much more than just interviewer-interviewee going on between us.” Her husky voice lowered until it felt like a pulse beating in his body. “If I’m wrong, I want you to tell me—now.”

      Interminable minutes seemed to tick away before he spoke.

      “I wish I could tell you how wrong you are—that your instincts are off.” His large hand reached out and stroked the worry from her forehead. He clenched his jaw, the war of doubt still putting up a good fight. “But I can’t,” he finally said.

      Reese let out a long-held shaky breath. She pressed her lips together and clasped his hand within hers. “I swear to you, Max, you won’t regret it,” she whispered.

      He grinned like a young boy. “That remains to be seen, Ms. Delaware. But with Carmen behind the scenes orchestrating things, I never stood a chance.”

      She looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “Carmen?”

      “You must have guessed by now that Carmen thinks she’s my mother. And as my mother, she must tend to my happiness—whatever she decides that may be.” He chuckled. “I’m quite sure she made certain me and you would be sitting together on this flight, while she sat back there,” he added, hitching his thumb over his left shoulder.

      Reese twisted in her seat and looked over the heads behind her. She spotted Carmen peeking at her from above the top of a magazine. Reese grinned and Carmen gave her a thumbs-up sign.

      “Has Carmen always had a penchant for organizing your personal life?” Reese questioned, settling down into her seat.

      “She tries damned hard.” He chortled. “Most of the time she’s right.”

      “Do you generally take her advice?”

      For a brief moment a dark shadow seemed to pass across his features. Carmen had warned him about Victoria early in their relationship. He hadn’t listened. “For the most part.”

      Reese quickly sensed that there was more to the clipped statement, but would not press the point. There were so many things about Maxwell Knight that she wanted to discover, but her writer’s instinct and her female intuition reminded her it would be a very difficult road indeed.

      James Knight climbed the stairs to the attic of his two-story home. After receiving a large cash compensation from the military during his service, he’d had the house built. It was the house he’d tried to raise his son, Max, in. Instead, it was the house that he’d watched his life and his marriage crumble in. Beautiful on the outside with a wide front enclosed porch reminiscent of the plantations of the south, whitewashed with tall stately pillars and a perfectly manicured front and back lawn.

      His wife, Claudia, had spent innumerable hours finding just the right fabric, piece of furniture, work of art. The house on Pinecroft Court was a palace, but it was never a home. She’d tried—Lord knows she’d tried, but there was always a shadow that hovered between them. It was there waiting for him when he’d returned from Japan.

      Pushing open the attic door, he pulled a key from his pants pocket, crossed the small crawl space, and used the key to open an old footlocker.

      From within he pulled out a gray metal box filled with yellowed paper, photographs, and signed documents.

      James’s warm brown eyes clouded over. For more than fifteen years, what had been done had remained sealed away in his attic and in the “eyes only” files of the military.

      But governments change. Policy and administrations change. His son was being interviewed by one of the most renowned publications in the country. Everything would slowly begin to unravel. He knew it as sure as he knew it would rain by the aches in his knees.

      He pulled out a faded picture of a beautiful young geisha, Sukihara—Suki, whom he’d loved like no other. How different would his life have been if he’d remained in Tokyo…?

      Tokyo, April 1960

      The month of April is one of the busiest times in the geisha quarters. In the evenings, the teahouses and restaurants where the geishas—or

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