Intimate Betrayal. Donna Hill
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the room with electricity was something so powerful, it frightened her with its force.
Sure, she’d been turned on by men before and relished the thrill of watching them when she played “the game.” This was no game—and whatever it was, she couldn’t let it interfere with what she’d come to do. She would not. Getting at the truth was what drove her. It was what woke her up in the morning. If she couldn’t find it or have it in her own life—she’d be damned if she wouldn’t uncover it in everyone else’s.
The elevator slowly descended. Reese exited and strolled out into the sprawling complex of the Plaza. For now, she would put thoughts of Maxwell Knight aside. She’d deal with him tomorrow. What she needed was a good night’s sleep so that she’d be sharp enough to duel with him toe to toe.
But sleep was not to come. For the first time in three years, the nightmares began again.
Chapter 2
The following morning, Reese took special care in preparing for what she knew would be a day of confrontation.
She’d barely slept two hours the entire night. She’d tossed, turned, leaped up in a sweat, dozed and began the process again.
Her hands were shaking when she attempted to stroke her lashes with mascara. “Must be those five cups of coffee you drank in less than an hour,” she muttered to her reflection, attempting to smile.
Pressing her lips together, she shut her eyes and hung her head, bracing herself with her palms against the cool white porcelain sink. Her head pounded.
It had been three years since she’d had the nightmares. The headaches had all but disappeared. She no longer had to take the prescription medication for the pain; over-the-counter painkillers worked just fine. Until last night. The pain had gotten so intense, she’d had to call her physician in Chicago to phone in a prescription to the all-night drugstore.
She tasted salt in the corner of her mouth. She opened her eyes to see the tears slide slowly down her cheeks. “Not again,” she whispered. “Please not again.”
Maxwell knotted his silk tie and clipped it to his blue pin-striped shirt with a gold clasp bearing his initials: MJK. He took a final look in the mirror, his reflection bringing to the forefront his mixed ancestry. He peered a bit closer and brushed his finger across his left eyebrow where a martial arts mishap had left its mark.
He breathed heavily and shrugged into his jacket. The look of the corporate executive never suited him, but he also realized that it was all part of the facade. Although he always felt more comfortable in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, he’d always done what was necessary to fit in. Thinking that perhaps by doing so, he’d avoid the extra looks, the questions that had dogged him most of his life.
Maxwell was never ashamed of his mixed Japanese and African-American heritage. For the most part, his exotic looks acted as a magnet, drawing people to him. It was the questions, raised eyebrows, and murmurs of feigned understanding that bugged him the most. He couldn’t answer the questions about his natural mother. He never knew her. According to James Knight, his father, his mother Suki had been killed in Japan shortly after his birth. James had married his stepmother, Claudia, some months later. And since Maxwell could not answer the questions about his Japanese mother, he’d created a picture of her to assuage the missing link of his life.
Over time, he’d gradually built up a wall around himself, keeping people and questions at bay. Yet there was a part of him that believed there was more to the story than his father cared to divulge.
He shook his head, scattering his ruminating. Now was not the time to indulge in things he could not change. So he continued to walk the line between being black and being Japanese, hoping that one day the two worlds would somehow meld into one.
Leaving his bedroom, he collected his keys and briefcase and walked out into the warm, early summer morning to face his day and the probing of Reese Delaware, a day he’d spent years trying to avoid.
Reese was already seated in the reception area when he got off the elevator. She was so engrossed in typing something onto her laptop computer, she didn’t even look up, apparently unaware of his arrival. For a moment, he was glad to see her in her bright lime green linen suit. She wore her hair differently, he noted. Her shoulder-length tresses were pulled away from her face and neck and piled on top of her head in a tumble of jet black curls.
Then, just as quickly as the moment of joy had filled him, it was replaced with the realization that her only purpose was to dig into his life. His smooth brow creased into a frown. Loudly, he cleared his throat. Her head snapped up. Their eyes connected and the charge popped back and forth between them.
“Good morning. Glad to see you’re an early riser,” he greeted. He turned abruptly and strode down the hall to his office, his gait smooth and measured.
Reese took an exasperated breath and snapped her laptop shut. Collecting her things from the seat next to her, she rose and followed him down the corridor to his office. “Why did you come in through the peon entrance? You do have a private elevator,” Reese queried in a taunting note, quickening her pace.
Maxwell pressed his palm on the scanner and stepped beyond the opened doors. “I’m in the habit of taking a quick run through of my facilities before I settle in for the day, if you must know, Ms. Delaware,” he grumbled in a caustic tone. He opened the door to his office.
“I have a very full day today, Ms. Delaware.”
“Are we back to formalities so soon?” she retorted, closing the door behind her.
He turned toward her, and his heart slammed hard against his chest. “Habit,” he offered, knowing that his real reason was the threat of intimacy. Calling her by her first name personalized her, softened her, took her from being a prying journalist to a breathtaking woman. A situation he had no intention of indulging.
Reese shrugged. “Suit yourself, Max.” Meandering across the room, she took real note of her milieu. Maxwell Knight surrounded himself with an eclectic blend of Asian and African art.
His desk was of black lacquer, embossed with intricate jade and gold carvings along its edges. To the far left was a low wooden table surrounded by four pillows covered in brilliant African prints of oranges, golds and bronzes. Above the arrangement, hanging on the wall were two frightening looking swords, with black and gold handles and blades crafted from the finest steel. They glistened menacingly in the sunlight. On the opposite wall, beyond the partition that housed his drafting table, was an enormous wall unit of black lacquer and glass that encased an array of hand-carved statues and artifacts, including a set of African counting sticks. And then there was the bookcase that contained volume upon volume of every imaginable type of literature. Yes, Maxwell Knight was a very interesting man indeed, but it would take all of her skills and whatever else she needed to crack through the veneer he’d painted over himself.
“What’s on our agenda?” She took a seat, and pulled a notepad from her briefcase.
“I have a meeting with the R & D techs—the Research and Development technicians,” he corrected, noting the puzzled look on her exquisite face, “at ten.”
“Will you be discussing the computer chip?”
“Yes, it’s part of the meeting,” he answered tersely, avoiding her steady amber gaze.
Reese nodded and made a note. “Will it be a problem if I bring a tape recorder into the meeting?”
Maxwell’s head snapped in her direction. “I don’t recall inviting you, nor do I recall your asking to attend.”
“Consider it asked,” she tossed back, glaring at him.
“Fine,” he conceded on a growl deep in his throat. “But tape recording is out of the question and if I ask you to leave the room, I expect that you will—without a problem.”
She flashed a coy smile. “Do I appear to be the type of woman to cause problems?” Languorously she crossed her long