set the real Max free.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She wore pearls.
Nestled in the vee of her dark blue shirt, the iridescent orbs glowed in two perfect loops against warm skin. Delicate, decidedly feminine. And not at all like the sharp-edged Charlotte Caissie he’d grown to admire.
Max couldn’t take his eyes off them. They fascinated like a mesmerist’s swinging watch, lulling him into a strange disquiet. Cee Cee seemed unaware of his distraction as she grabbed up her coat and keys. They hadn’t spoken since the incident on the couch. She hadn’t come back out of the bedroom, and he’d spent the night on those cushions that still held her heat and scent, not sure how to interrupt her signals.
“Don’t make any plans for this evening,” she told him. And, without further explanation, she was out the door.
Her brusque dismissal annoyed him enough for a frown to settle in and linger. He’d grown used to her solicitous care, to having her fuss and fawn and shelter. Now this. Was it because of his aborted attempt at romance? Max scowled. How had he misread her interest? The signs were practically neon arrows. The way she watched his mouth when he talked, the way she brushed him by calculated accident. The way she responded to his touch, his kiss as if about to spontaneously combust.
Max recognized the symptoms because he’d felt the same way.
That telltale sign of another sniffing around what was his had triggered a deep, instinctive need to re-mark his territory. Basic, fierce, possessive. And undeniable. Even thinking about it now quickened that same growling aggression, pushing him to grab on and hold tight. Though he might not remember Charlotte Caissie, he now knew what they were to each other. Mated. Meant to be. Forever.
Max found great comfort and a terrible kind of terror in that realization.
A huge, cold pit of emptiness opened around him, making that vacant space where his memories had been a pock mark in comparison. Because the tough, tempting human hybrid was an integral part of who he’d been. Who he was. Without her . . . he’d be nothing.
His brooding was interrupted by a jovial Giles St. Clair’s “Morning, boss man.”
Max regarded his friend/jailer with a gleam of speculation. Perhaps he was going about things the wrong way. He’d been busy trying to find out who he was and how those around him fit into the world he’d once made for himself. What he should have considered was the place he’d held in Charlotte’s. And who knew more about his personal life than the affable wise guy? No sense tiptoeing around it.
“Tell me about Charlotte.”
The ever-obliging Giles didn’t hesitate. “Whatduya wanna know?”
“Everything.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The faint glitter of dust motes rising in the heat toward the soaring peak of St. Bartholomew’s sanctuary made Cee Cee smile. Angel dust, Mary Kate Malone had confided when they were children. Perhaps. But Cee Cee knew St. Bart’s true guardian angel had fangs and claws instead of a halo and went by the name of Max Savoie.
His money had rebuilt the majority of the structure after it was ravaged by fire. Beneath the gleam of newly polished surfaces, that acrid taint lingered. His generosity had kept a severely injured Mary Kate alive until their shared DNA could begin to repair her under Susanna Duchamps’ supervision. Yet, for all her progress, Charlotte’s best friend still bore the scars from that night, and from those that had defaced their innocence as teens.
Nothing damaged could ever be perfect again. Cee Cee understood that, accepted that. But it could be made stronger. She was proof. So was Mary Kate. And Max. That truth bound them together with ties more resilient than friendship, than debt, than guilt. With the help of Susanna’s miraculous therapies, Mary Kate was rediscovering just how strong. She’d not only awakened from her hospital bed before Last Rites had been spoken, she’d returned to a purposeful existence
CHAPTER SEVEN
She wore pearls.
Nestled in the vee of her dark blue shirt, the iridescent orbs glowed in two perfect loops against warm skin. Delicate, decidedly feminine. And not at all like the sharp-edged Charlotte Caissie he’d grown to admire.
Max couldn’t take his eyes off them. They fascinated like a mesmerist’s swinging watch, lulling him into a strange disquiet. Cee Cee seemed unaware of his distraction as she grabbed up her coat and keys. They hadn’t spoken since the incident on the couch. She hadn’t come back out of the bedroom, and he’d spent the night on those cushions that still held her heat and scent, not sure how to interrupt her signals.
“Don’t make any plans for this evening,” she told him. And, without further explanation, she was out the door.
Her brusque dismissal annoyed him enough for a frown to settle in and linger. He’d grown used to her solicitous care, to having her fuss and fawn and shelter. Now this. Was it because of his aborted attempt at romance? Max scowled. How had he misread her interest? The signs were practically neon arrows. The way she watched his mouth when he talked, the way she brushed him by calculated accident. The way she responded to his touch, his kiss as if about to spontaneously combust.
Max recognized the symptoms because he’d felt the same way.
That telltale sign of another sniffing around what was his had triggered a deep, instinctive need to re-mark his territory. Basic, fierce, possessive. And undeniable. Even thinking about it now quickened that same growling aggression, pushing him to grab on and hold tight. Though he might not remember Charlotte Caissie, he now knew what they were to each other. Mated. Meant to be. Forever.
Max found great comfort and a terrible kind of terror in that realization.
A huge, cold pit of emptiness opened around him, making that vacant space where his memories had been a pock mark in comparison. Because the tough, tempting human hybrid was an integral part of who he’d been. Who he was. Without her . . . he’d be nothing.
His brooding was interrupted by a jovial Giles St. Clair’s “Morning, boss man.”
Max regarded his friend/jailer with a gleam of speculation. Perhaps he was going about things the wrong way. He’d been busy trying to find out who he was and how those around him fit into the world he’d once made for himself. What he should have considered was the place he’d held in Charlotte’s. And who knew more about his personal life than the affable wise guy? No sense tiptoeing around it.
“Tell me about Charlotte.”
The ever-obliging Giles didn’t hesitate. “Whatduya wanna know?”
“Everything.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The faint glitter of dust motes rising in the heat toward the soaring peak of St. Bartholomew’s sanctuary made Cee Cee smile. Angel dust, Mary Kate Malone had confided when they were children. Perhaps. But Cee Cee knew St. Bart’s true guardian angel had fangs and claws instead of a halo and went by the name of Max Savoie.
His money had rebuilt the majority of the structure after it was ravaged by fire. Beneath the gleam of newly polished surfaces, that acrid taint lingered. His generosity had kept a severely injured Mary Kate alive until their shared DNA could begin to repair her under Susanna Duchamps’ supervision. Yet, for all her progress, Charlotte’s best friend still bore the scars from that night, and from those that had defaced their innocence as teens.
Nothing damaged could ever be perfect again. Cee Cee understood that, accepted that. But it could be made stronger. She was proof. So was Mary Kate. And Max. That truth bound them together with ties more resilient than friendship, than debt, than guilt. With the help of Susanna’s miraculous therapies, Mary Kate was rediscovering just how strong. She’d not only awakened from her hospital bed before Last Rites had been spoken, she’d returned to a purposeful existence
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