accentuated his narrow hips and long legs. He stood with one foot crossed over the other ankle in a negligently masculine pose while he cradled a thick, white crockery mug in his hands.
He lifted the mug to his lips. He regarded her over the rim in silence.
His perusal made her self-conscious. He was regarding her as a man who was interested in a woman.
But that was absurd. He had seen enough of her scars to know how ugly they were. Besides, she had no desire to interest any man. She was still mourning her husband.
Then why had she made Max so damn sexy?
Her pulse skipped. She told herself to ignore it. “Where have you been for the past three days?” she asked.
He swallowed and lowered the mug. “I was out of town.”
“Okay. Where?”
“Manhattan.”
Well, ask a stupid question . . . “I missed you.”
“Do you still believe you made me up?”
“I hurt your feelings when I said that, didn’t I?”
“How could you? You don’t believe I’m real.”
“You’re real to me, Max. Don’t you remember?”
His image blurred at the edges for a few seconds, then firmed once more. “How am I going to get through to you? I’m not who you think I am.”
“Yes, you said that already. Fine. Then tell me who you are.”
“I’m a man, not a boy.”
“Obviously.”
“And you should be careful about inviting me into your mind. Don’t assume I’ve got a conscience or that I’m going to watch out for you.”
“Why are you so determined to make out that you’re bad?”
“You need to accept the fact that I’ve changed.”
“You couldn’t have changed that much, or you wouldn’t be so concerned about warning me.”
He frowned.
“Hah. Gotcha there, didn’t I?”
“This isn’t a game, Deedee.”
“Whatever, I’m glad you decided to come back. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Don’t you have any real friends to talk to?”
She and Stanford had had dozens of friends. They’d had a very busy social life. She also knew scores of people through the fund-raising she’d done. She had Leo, too. Helen had invited her to confide in her many times.
But Delaney didn’t want to burden her grandmother. There were personal things she wouldn’t be comfortable discussing with Leo. She’d drifted apart from the other friends she’d known before she’d married Stanford. The rest were from his world, not hers. Many of them had shared Elizabeth’s reservations about their marriage, although they had been too wellbred and probably too afraid of Stanford to show it while he’d been alive. That had changed after his death. Few had made the effort to visit her during her recovery, and the ones who did had seemed so uncomfortable she’d been relieved when they stopped coming.
The lump she felt in her throat had nothing to do with the smell of the mud, but she refused to give in to self-pity. She was alive while so many of the people she loved weren’t. Her problems were nothing compared to that. “They’re not like you, Max.”
“Yeah, I bet they aren’t.”
“I don’t have to pretend with you.” She laughed shakily. “That sounds silly. All you and I ever did was play pretend.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes, I know. And you’ve changed. I got the message. What I meant was that with you, I can be honest. I don’t need to be brave. You see the real me. That’s a rare and precious thing between friends, and I don’t care whether you’re a fantasy or a hallucination or an undigested piece of beef; we are friends, Max.”
“Beef?”
“Dickens’s Christmas Carol . The ghost of Marley.”
His lips twitched. “I’m no ghost. It might be simpler if I was.”
She had a crazy urge to fling herself across the path so she could feel his touch once again. She wished he was real. That must be why he kept bringing up the subject. “You said you didn’t want to help me remember, but couldn’t we just talk? What’s the harm in that?”
He didn’t reply. His image
He lifted the mug to his lips. He regarded her over the rim in silence.
His perusal made her self-conscious. He was regarding her as a man who was interested in a woman.
But that was absurd. He had seen enough of her scars to know how ugly they were. Besides, she had no desire to interest any man. She was still mourning her husband.
Then why had she made Max so damn sexy?
Her pulse skipped. She told herself to ignore it. “Where have you been for the past three days?” she asked.
He swallowed and lowered the mug. “I was out of town.”
“Okay. Where?”
“Manhattan.”
Well, ask a stupid question . . . “I missed you.”
“Do you still believe you made me up?”
“I hurt your feelings when I said that, didn’t I?”
“How could you? You don’t believe I’m real.”
“You’re real to me, Max. Don’t you remember?”
His image blurred at the edges for a few seconds, then firmed once more. “How am I going to get through to you? I’m not who you think I am.”
“Yes, you said that already. Fine. Then tell me who you are.”
“I’m a man, not a boy.”
“Obviously.”
“And you should be careful about inviting me into your mind. Don’t assume I’ve got a conscience or that I’m going to watch out for you.”
“Why are you so determined to make out that you’re bad?”
“You need to accept the fact that I’ve changed.”
“You couldn’t have changed that much, or you wouldn’t be so concerned about warning me.”
He frowned.
“Hah. Gotcha there, didn’t I?”
“This isn’t a game, Deedee.”
“Whatever, I’m glad you decided to come back. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Don’t you have any real friends to talk to?”
She and Stanford had had dozens of friends. They’d had a very busy social life. She also knew scores of people through the fund-raising she’d done. She had Leo, too. Helen had invited her to confide in her many times.
But Delaney didn’t want to burden her grandmother. There were personal things she wouldn’t be comfortable discussing with Leo. She’d drifted apart from the other friends she’d known before she’d married Stanford. The rest were from his world, not hers. Many of them had shared Elizabeth’s reservations about their marriage, although they had been too wellbred and probably too afraid of Stanford to show it while he’d been alive. That had changed after his death. Few had made the effort to visit her during her recovery, and the ones who did had seemed so uncomfortable she’d been relieved when they stopped coming.
The lump she felt in her throat had nothing to do with the smell of the mud, but she refused to give in to self-pity. She was alive while so many of the people she loved weren’t. Her problems were nothing compared to that. “They’re not like you, Max.”
“Yeah, I bet they aren’t.”
“I don’t have to pretend with you.” She laughed shakily. “That sounds silly. All you and I ever did was play pretend.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes, I know. And you’ve changed. I got the message. What I meant was that with you, I can be honest. I don’t need to be brave. You see the real me. That’s a rare and precious thing between friends, and I don’t care whether you’re a fantasy or a hallucination or an undigested piece of beef; we are friends, Max.”
“Beef?”
“Dickens’s Christmas Carol . The ghost of Marley.”
His lips twitched. “I’m no ghost. It might be simpler if I was.”
She had a crazy urge to fling herself across the path so she could feel his touch once again. She wished he was real. That must be why he kept bringing up the subject. “You said you didn’t want to help me remember, but couldn’t we just talk? What’s the harm in that?”
He didn’t reply. His image
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