See You In My Dreams

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  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2003 by Mary Varble

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  See You In My Dreams

  The laundry room door opened, and Max emerged, clad only in a forest green bath towel, wrapped around his trim waist.

  Good grief. As if she needed any more temptation. “Max, really."

  “Excusé moi,” he said, his eyes alight with mischief. “Everything I had was soaked."

  “Yeah, well you'd better get some dry clothes before you catch cold.” How in the hell was she supposed to concentrate with his parading around in a towel. His body was sculpted with broad planes of muscle rippling across his back. And she did not want to think about his firm butt, except there it was, covered only by a towel that looked like it might fall any second.

  Inspiring ... To say the least. Too bad she wasn't writing a romance novel.

  “I'm going. I'm going. I don't want to risk offending your tender sensibilities.” Max bowed and turned to leave.

  She jumped up and protested, “I'm not offended. I'm—” she stopped, stunned by what she'd almost said.

  “What?"

  “Never mind."

  “Were you tempted, Nikki? I'm tempted every minute we're in the same room.” Max walked toward her. “And when I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you,” he murmured, his voice deepening with emotion.

  Her knees grew weak ... like always whenever he spoke in those soft, sensual tones, his accent stronger. Like a fool, she backed away.

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

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  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  http://www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2003 by Mary Varble

  ISBN 1-59088-040-4

  Published In the United States Of America

  August 2003

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  To my mother

  from whom I inherited my love for reading.

  To my undaunted critique partners

  who slogged through

  all one-hundred-forty-two thousand words

  of the first draft.

  "Society is a masked ball, where every one hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding.”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson,

  The Conduct of Life,

  "Worship” (1860)

  PART I

  THE RUNAWAY

  One

  October 1989

  Nikki looked from left to right and over her shoulder before sliding into the dark, shadow-filled alley. Anyone with a smattering of brains avoided dark alleys. But for now, this one looked empty. Three street kids had disappeared in the last month, and she didn't plan on being number four. Like her, they were runaways who preferred living on the streets to home—not so sweet—home.

  She reached in her jacket pocket and grinned when she located the match and a half-smoked cigarette. Scratching the match against the concrete block wall behind her, she lit the butt and took a long drag on her second smoke of the day. The tang of menthol flooded her throat. “Shit.” she muttered, flinging the butt away.

  Shivering, she pulled her jacket tighter around her chest. Leaning against the rough concrete wall, she wished it were August instead of early October in the Big Apple. The fall days were still warm, but the temperature dropped at night. “Better find a place to stay pretty soon before I freeze my butt off,” she muttered.

  Her only friend was a seventeen-year-old hooker who worked for a pimp everyone called The Professor. At least she had a warm place to take her johns. Fine, if you were willing to pay the price.

  But Nikki wasn't—not yet, no matter how The Professor pressured her to become one of his girls. And in spite of the way her friend made her living, as pathetic as it might seem, Nikki was grateful for the hooker's friendship. The older girl had been on the streets for over two years, and it was Kayla who'd given Nikki a quick street-culture education. She hadn't glossed over anything—who to watch out for, which places would give her leftovers after closing and where she could crash for the night without having some buggy pervert decide she was the girl of his dreams.

  She took a deep breath. Time to head for the shelter and find a warm bed for the night before they ran out of beds. Maybe she could even make it to the shelter without running into The Professor. But no, as she stepped into the light, someone grabbed her arm. “Hey.” she yelled, trying to jerk away from the last person in the world she ever wanted to touch her—The Professor.

  His watery blue eyes looked her up and down like she was his dessert menu. The old fart had to be at least forty years old, she guessed—a real geezer—dressed like he thought he was something special—navy blazer, maroon tie and sharply creased white slacks. His blond hair hung in lank strands over the collar of a pale blue shirt. His preference for wearing blazers and ties had earned him his nickname—that and his stuck-up way of talking.

  Fancy duds aside, the man plain scared the bejesus out of her. It wasn't just the way he looked at her. There was something deep-down evil about him—like maybe he tortured puppies when he was a kid.

  “Need a place for the night, Nikki? I could find you a warm bed—or two,” he said, his face wreathed in a smarmy smile that didn't quite reach his cold, fish eyes.

  “No way. I'm headed to the shelter."

  The Professor laughed. “I'm afraid you're too late. The shelter's full. But my offer still stands. Think about it."

  She straightened herself to her full five-feet, ten-inches. “I know what your offer stands for,” she spat. “I'd rather freeze to death than work for you."

  “You might just do that, little girl, and it would be such a terrible waste. I'm sure I could find you quite a few clients.” His icy gaze traveled up and down her body, giving her the absolute creeps. “Think about it. You could be making good money, you know. Ask your friend. She doesn't spend the night huddled on a cot,” he said, nodding toward the shelter, “all by herself."

  Nikki shook her head, trying to shut out his voice. She'd heard it all before. He was a total pervert, just like all the men who cruised the streets looking for a good time. Only he was worse. The Professor might try to hide his true nature behind fancy speech and clothes, but he was still the slimiest piece of work she'd ever seen.

  Cold, and more than a little scared, she couldn't help but think about it. A warm bed would be nice for a change, but the cost was too high. Sooner or later, her mama'd said, Nikki would end up selling her body if she dropped out of school.
Damn. And she just hated for her mama to be right about anything. I'll show her. One thing for sure, she'd never go back home; Mama didn't want her back anyway.

  The touch of The Professor's hand on her arm wrenched Nikki into the present. “No. Leave me the hell alone.” She struggled to free her arm, but this time his grip held firm.

  “No? Stuck-up little bitch.” His voice roughened as he dropped his fancy speech. “You need to learn your place.” He drew back as if to belt her one. “You might even like it."

  Feeling his grasp loosen, she yanked with all her might. Freed, she took off, running in long, great strides down the crowded street, weaving in and out, looking over her shoulder as she did, until she bumped into an immovable object.

  She turned, looked up and found the immovable object was the chest of a tall, handsome man. Gazing into his clear, green eyes that twinkled with amusement, she remembered her rusty manners and uttered a single word, “S-sorry."

  “Watch what you're doing!” exclaimed a mink-draped brunette who stood alongside another elegant couple.

  “It's all right, Jolie,” he said quickly to the brunette, then turned back to Nikki. “Are you all right, mademoiselle?” he asked.

  Nikki gaped. Without a doubt, he was the best-looking man she'd ever seen. When she drew herself to her full height, her eyes were nearly level with his, but his broad shoulders and muscular chest made her feel almost small. Her hands slid down his chest. She felt the coiled power in his body, as well as the fine wool of his overcoat. She stepped back, but couldn't keep her gaze off him. Dark chestnut hair waved back from his face and hung nearly to his shoulders. An irresistible impulse seized her. She reached out to run her fingers through his wavy hair, but stopped short.

  To cover her confusion, or maybe because of it, her words tumbled out as if they weren't connected to her brain. “Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry. I was—uh, just trying to get away from that—uh, someone.” She cast another hurried glance over her shoulder. The Professor stood about ten yards away, leaning casually against a lamppost, watching her and smiling his freakish smile.

  “Was he trying to hurt you?” her victim asked.

  Heart pounding, Nikki pulled her gaze away from The Professor. “Yeah,” she said, “but I'm fine.” She looked up into the man's vivid eyes again and her pulse gave a strange kick. “He won't bother me any more—at least not tonight."

  The man's brunette companion stepped forward and touched his arm as if she owned him. “Don't get involved, Maxim. This has nothing to do with us."

  So that was his name. Maxim. She rolled it around in her mind and decided she liked the sound of it. Different. It suited him.

  Maxim turned and frowned at his companion. “Jolie, I shall see he doesn't annoy her further. Can you not see she is frightened? It will take but a moment."

  The woman huffed and shot Nikki a look of disdain. Trying not to be intimidated by the other woman's elegance, Nikki shrugged and glared back.

  She watched with disbelief as her rescuer strode toward The Professor. The pimp might make his living intimidating and selling women, but he was obviously no match for the handsome Maxim, who stood at least four inches taller than the pimp and had shoulders twice as wide. She giggled at the sight of The Professor's shrinking, while Maxim spoke quietly to him.

  Although unable to hear what her hero said, Nikki saw the intensity with which it was delivered. Maxim's imposing manner and fists clenched at his sides left no doubt in her mind that Maxim could—and would—act on any threat he made. A white knight had come to her rescue, except it looked like her hero might be going home with the Wicked Witch of the West. Well, they say you can't have everything, Nikki told herself with a heavy sigh. But just once she'd like to have something.

  Maxim strode back to where she stood. “I don't think he will bother you again tonight,” he said, while fishing in his inner jacket pocket.

  Dumbfounded, Nikki watched as he pulled out a business card and scribbled on the back of it with a gold pen.

  “If he does, call me.” He thrust the card toward her. “Here, my home number is on the back."

  Nikki took it, feeling her mouth drop open. Was he for real? Was he on drugs?

  Jolie gasped, “Maxim."

  Deciding it was time to make her exit before she was forced to wipe her feet on a mink coat, Nikki shoved the business card into her jeans pocket without taking time to look at it. “Uh, thanks. Guess I'd better get going.” Without another word, she took off in a dead run.

  Maxim might be a hunk, but the broad hovering at his side was a flat-out bitch. Tempted to look back at him just one more time, she resisted. Okay, so she was afraid she'd see them laughing at her, but so what? Maybe her life was pathetic compared to theirs, but it was her life, and she didn't care to be the butt of their jokes.

  ~ * ~

  Max didn't laugh. He stared after the girl, still stunned by his rash behavior. “Wait here,” he ordered his friends, leaving them in a confused huddle as he sprinted to catch up with the tall, willowy blonde halfway down the block. He felt a strange compulsion to ensure she would be all right—at least for the night. He had already formed half a plan, but first he had to catch her. “Wait.” he called. “I want to help you."

  The runaway came to a dead stop, turned around and stared at him with the widest blue eyes he'd ever seen—eyes that were full of distrust ... not that he blamed her.

  “Look, get outta my way. Thanks for getting The Professor off my back, but I don't need any more help. Not your kind anyway."

  “What do you mean, my kind?” Max experienced a flash of irritation. Her youth and her beauty were at odds with her cynicism. But then, he supposed her life had been difficult.

  “The only kind of help men offer down here."

  Her husky voice made her sound older than she appeared. Just how old was she, and how long had she been on the streets? She was tall and extremely thin. Did she use drugs? “I'm sorry, mademoiselle. I meant I could give you a job."

  “A job?” Her mouth fell open; her blue eyes widened. “Just what d'you think I can do? I don't know how to do anything.” Then giving him an impudent smile, she added, “But I'm getting pretty good at it."

  Max couldn't hold back; he laughed at her saucy response. Unaffected, yet cynical beyond her years. Would she be able to adapt to the world he had in mind? And did he even have the right to ask her to try? One thing he did know, he couldn't leave her on the streets. She had too much potential. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to think I was...” He began again, “I own a modeling agency. I think you..."

  “A model? Get real. I didn't fall off the truck last night,” she laughed, then nailed him with another skeptical stare.

  His professional eye found her entrancing. Unforgettable azure eyes, the singular geometry of her face—the camera would love her.

  “But, mademoiselle, I can help you.” He struggled for inspiration. He didn't blame her for not trusting him, but neither could he allow her to run down the street and out of his life. Once again, he noticed how thin she was. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night, somewhere around here so you'll feel safe. A free meal, no strings attached, as they say. You may choose the place."

  The blonde appeared to consider his offer, then shrugged. “I don't know. I guess dinner would be okay, maybe, but..."

  Max threw up his hands in frustration. “Are you always this stubborn when someone is trying to help you?” He couldn't believe the skin-and-bones beauty before him would actually refuse a meal, much less a serious job offer. Disgusted, he turned and walked away.

  “Sally's,” she called after him.

  He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

  She pointed. “Over there, ‘cross the street."

  Max gave a small sigh of relief, noting the location of the hand-painted sign. He nodded. “Seven, tomorrow night?"

  She gave him another long, appraising look and nodded. “Yeah, I'll try to be there."

  Her desultory response g
ave him serious doubts he would ever see her again. He fumbled for his wallet and removed a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, take it. Use it for food and lodging ... somewhere safe.” While he accepted he might never see her again, he found his concern for her safety overwhelming and a trifle baffling. Was it because...?

  The girl took the bill, held it up to the light and then, to his great surprise, handed it back to him, shaking her head. “It's too much,” she said simply. “A twenty's enough."

  Astonished, Max insisted, “Please keep it. I want to help you. No conditions, I promise. Besides, you'll need it if you decide not to meet me tomorrow night."

  Max watched tears form in her wide blue eyes. He took her hand and placed the bill in it, folding her long, slender fingers around it. A disturbing jolt of sensation hit him. She's just a kid, he warned himself. What was it about her? It was more than her potential as a model. He didn't want to leave her, but he struggled against his surging base instincts. “I have to rejoin my friends now, but if you come to Sally's tomorrow night, we'll talk more. All right?” He resisted the urge to touch her again, forcing his hands into his jacket pockets.

  She nodded, but continued to stare at him as if he were a visitor from another planet. He supposed she had seen little kindness in her young life. Inexplicably, he wanted to change that. It was a compulsion he didn't quite understand. In the past, he'd supported charitable causes, but never before had he felt compelled to do anything so personal. Merde. He forced himself to admit the truth. The girl was the double of his late wife.

  Max left her standing on the street. Whether she would take the money and spend it on drugs and alcohol instead of food and shelter, he had no idea. But given the circumstances, he'd done what he could. Tomorrow, maybe she would allow him to do more.

  He remained thoughtful as he rejoined his friends in front of the small, off-Broadway theater. Ignoring Jolie, he turned to his friend and attorney, Ned Landry. “What do you think? I'm going to give her a job."