Intimate Betrayal by Donna Hill Page B

again.
    â€œDo you keep a journal?” Maxwell asked out of the blue, almost as if he’d just taken a short hop through her thoughts.
    Reese turned to him. Her right eyebrow arched. “Why did you ask me that?”
    â€œIt just seems like you would. Keeping notes, a diary orjournal is a good way to record your thoughts. I would think that your…situation is a basis for you being a journalist as well. Always searching for the truth, uncovering information.” He glanced at her. “So, do you?”
    â€œYes, Sherlock,” she retorted, mystified by his astuteness. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
    â€œDid you keep a diary before—the accident?”
    Sadly she shook her head. “I only wish that I had.” Then she chuckled halfheartedly. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t remember where I’d put it.”
    â€œThat’s unfortunate, but it’s just so amazing to me how you’ve managed to cope all of these years. What about school? How did you function?”
    â€œThat’s one of the curious things of this whole illness. After I came out of the coma, I was able to function relatively normally. I knew how to read, write, dress—everything. I hadn’t forgotten any of it. But my life, my family, friends, places I’d been, things I’d heard or seen were gone as if they’d never existed.”
    Maxwell frowned and his admiration for Reese Delaware grew. She was a phenomenal woman. And to look at her and be in her presence, one would never suspect all that she’d endured. She was a survivor, strong and determined, like the great Sphinx of Egypt. But beneath the tough, got-it-together exterior was a very vulnerable woman who needed—and quite possibly needed more than he would ever be able to give. The thought saddened him.
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    They’d been on the road for more than two hours, driving in comfortable silence punctuated by brief comments about the magnificent scenery or the balmy air.
    By degrees, Reese felt her entire self uncoil and relax as she gave in to the calming sensations that filled her spirit. She took in her surroundings and noticed that they turnedonto the exit marked San Diego. Well, at least she had an idea what town they were headed for.
    â€œWe’re almost there,” Maxwell announced.
    â€œAlmost where?”
    â€œYou’ll see.” He grinned.
    It was close to a half hour later when Maxwell turned onto a long sandy drive. Up ahead sat an architect’s dream. The stunning structure was a model of glass, chrome, and wood. Even from where she sat, she could see the entire interior of the two-story home, with winding staircases and timeless furnishings.
    He pulled into the underground garage and cut the engine. “Come on. Let me show you around.”
    Reese followed him around the rambling abode, awestruck. Words to describe the hideaway palace escaped her.
    Every room on the second level opened to a deck where the beach was clearly visible. And as much as she hated to cook, she could easily change her tune if she had a kitchen like Max’s. Light streamed in from every angle, dancing off of the chrome and aluminum fixtures and utensils. The center island was a work of art in black and white marble that matched the gleaming tile floors.
    â€œKick off your shoes and make yourself at home,” he instructed. “Today is your day. If you feel like dancing,” he said giving her a low bow, “we have—” he pressed a button in the wall “—music.” The silky, sexy voice of Marvin Gaye’s “Distant Lover” floated through the air. “If you feel like swimming, the heated pool is below.” He indicated a door that led to the basement. He grinned mischievously as he watched the expression of childlike wonder skip across her face. “Should you care to immerse yourself in a jettison of aquatic relief, the Jacuzzi is upstairs.”
    Reese beamed in