A Question of Pride (11 page)

Max, the arcing hand and his biting grip on her upper arm all became insignificant as she began trembling violently, quivering from head to toe. The pressure inside her head increased, balls of brightly coloured lights propelled themselves against the back of her eyes and exploded into a million excruciating fragments, and she whimpered again, a pathetically weak sound, just before she felt herself go heavy.

Then there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Blackness assailed her, and thankfully gave her an escape route.

Maxwatched in a kind of horrified fascination as Clea crumpled to the floor in a deep faint. The angry hold he'd had on her was insufficient to halt her fall, so that all he could manage to do was control it a little, numbly watching the way her arm, once released, fell heavily against her limp body.

The utter silence in the room buzzed in his ears; the actuality of what he had almost done still damning him, for his right arm was still raised in readiness to strike. The shock of it wiped his face clear of everything but appalled horror at himself.

He stared down at the inert heap of electric-blue wool and flailing black hair, swallowed tensely, then fell to his knees beside her, gently turning her over and away from the arm that still protected her face from his pending blow. Everything about her looked blue, her clothes, her hair—and even the frightening pallor of her skin.

'Clea—' he breathed hoarsely, shocked by his own actions, by the way he had caused this to happen.

Then he was sucking in a deep breath of air and pulling himself together, scooping her limp frame into his arms and carrying her to the sofa. She was heavy in faint, boneless. He had never seen her looking so ill and vulnerable before. It gave him a harsh twinge of self-disgust to acknowledge that it was directly due to him that he was seeing her this way ... Oh, God, Clea!

He began rubbing gently at her cold hands, but there seemed to be no circulation getting through; her skin was opaque in patches, the pressure of his fingers leaving indentations in the pale, lifeless skin.

'Clea—' he urged huskily, willing her to come around.

She did so slowly. A small nerve flickered at the corner of her mouth, then her eyelids fluttered and life seemed to seep back into her limbs, making her stir a little.

Max continued to rub at her hands, and it was upon them that she focused her confused gaze first. Then, as painful memory returned, she stiffened, pulling free of his grasp and lifting very wary eyes to his.

'I wouldn't have done it.' He rushed into denial, his voice rough and rattling. He looked as white as a sheet, shock holding his jaw rigid. 'It was reaction. I wouldn't have hit you.'

No? Max had lost complete control of himself for those few terrifying seconds. She had always considered his self-control formidable. Now she knew that wasn't true. And she had no wish to incite him to that point again, so she remained very still and said not a word, letting her lids slip downwards again while she tried to steady the shakiness still clamouring inside her ... Max had almost hit her, and her shock to this was almost as debilitating as the fear that had enveloped her for those few pole-axing seconds.

He was watching her; she could feel his concerned gaze on her as she lay. To his eyes, she seemed to be still struggling with faintness, but really she just didn't know how to handle the situation any more and was using her faintness to hide behind. His breathing was the only sound in the quiet oppressiveness of the room, short and rasping, as though he, too, was labouring under shock.

He moved away after a while, going over to where she kept the brandy. Poor Max, she thought wearily.

He hadn't known what was going to hit him when he'd arrived here tonight with his sombre face and cool words of understanding.

'Drink some of this.' He was back at her side, running an arm around the back of her shoulders to lift her a little.

Clea flinched. 'Don't touch me,' she whispered, dragging herself up to lean on the arm of the sofa and away from him, running trembling fingers through her hair. He held the brandy glass between clenched fingers; she noticed the tension in them, and felt a twinge of satisfaction that she had managed to throw him this much. But she took the glass from him, acknowledging the necessity of the harsh spirit.

The foul-tasting stuff burned her at the back of her throat as it slid down, and she grimaced, but at least she felt some warmth filter back into her and was able to pass the glass back to him with a steady hand.

He moved away again without a word, and Clea lay back against the sofa arm, feeling utterly drained.

Her head was throbbing, and her heart was pumping out slow, heavy beats that sounded in her ears. It was inevitable, she supposed, as bitterness once again welled up inside her, that things should have come to this. It didn't help her to know that she'd handled the whole scene very badly. That her stupid emotions had all become knotted and in the way of a clear, calm and precise explanation. Stupid, unwanted things, like love and need and fear of the aloneness she was going to have to face, had all come to complicate everything for her. But what she struggled with now, in the heavy atmosphere of her lounge, was the hard and fast realisation that she'd been hoarding a secret hope that he would prove her completely wrong and react in a way that would make her heart sing.

Now she knew, and her thin smile was full of self-derision.

She pulled herself into a sitting position, sliding her feet to the floor and pushing her tumbled hair from her pale face. Max was slumped in the chair, his lean body hunched over his spread knees, eyes brooding on the glass of brandy dangling from long fine-boned fingers.

'It was an accident,' she muttered huskily into the silence. 'You were a fool, Max, to get involved with a naive idiot like me.' Clea sighed as she leaned wearily back against the sofa, watching him dully. 'I took those pills in good heart. I was just too stupid—or badly informed—to know that I couldn't afford to miss taking them with the regularity I was doing. I don't want anything from you,' she told him clearly, so as to make that point plain, if nothing else. 'It was my error, and I'll take full responsibility for the consequences.'

'We'll get married,' he responded quietly, as though she hadn't spoken at all. 'As soon as I can arrange it, we'll get married.'

Clea made a sound of tired impatience. 'Have you listened to
anything
I've been saying tonight? You don't
need
to marry me!' she cried in weary exasperation. 'By several strokes of good luck, I'm in a position to have this baby without you having to give up your precious freedom. I don't want to marry you, Max,' she told him bluntly. 'You aren't my idea of good husband material.'

His head jerked up at that, and Clea saw how pale and haggard he looked. Good, she thought, at least that shows he isn't going to come through this completely unscarred. Then his lip curled, and he looked more like the cynical Max she knew well.

'Don't be stupid!' he clipped. 'This is no longer a matter between just you and me. We have the child to consider ... We'll get married, and that's all there is to it. No child of mine is going to grow up in a one-parent situation. He'll have
my
name, and
my
support and protection—just as
you
will have, too.'

'And what about love, and trust, and fidelity?'

'Are you referring to me?' he enquired haughtily. 'You know, without my having to tell you, that I'm—fond of you.'

'Do I?'

He waved a dismissing hand at her, his expression restless and vaguely uncomfortable. 'And the other two you've always had from me. We'll make a success of it—for the child's sake, we'll ...'

'I know about Dianne Stone.' Clea dropped in gently. James had supplied the full title to fit the model.

She was a tall, sylph-like blonde, and very beautiful. Clea had seen a picture of her in a copy of her mother's
Vogue
magazine. She'd felt that beauty cut into her like a knife, because Dianne Stone had something that Clea only pretended to have: sophistication, a 'must' if you intended to have an affair with Max.

She watched, with detached interest, the guilty colour run up his face as he stared blank-eyed at her, and Clea allowed herself a bitter smile. Caught you in one move! she thought. Now get yourself out of it! She was momentarily shocked by her capacity to hate him as she did at this moment; hate was the one emotion she had never expected to feel towards Max.

He shot abruptly from the chair, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets as he moved jerkily over to the window, reaching out to lift the curtain a little, so he could gaze broodingly out on the dark night. The quietness had a dull thump to it now. The kind you get when all other emotion has been well and truly done to death.

'How did you find out?' He didn't even attempt to deny it.

'She rang the office to speak to you,' Clea told him.

The muttered oath from the window area was self-explicit and unrepeatable. Clea pulled a wry face at his right to be angry. Max went to great pains to cover all contingencies—to keep his life running on that straight and tidy path he'd plotted for himself.

'I'm sorry that had to happen,' he said gruffly. His back was stiff, the hand gripping the curtain white-knuckled against the dark red velvet.

For some unaccountable reason, that gruff apology seemed to signal the end to her self-control. Clea felt the weak tears flood the back of her eyes, and dropped her face into her hands, crying quietly when she knew she should be exhibiting strength and presence of mind. It happened so unexpectedly that she found she hadn't sufficient resources to stem the flood once it started. She felt so cold and alone, hurt and very, very vulnerable. It was all so—so—
sordid!

'God, Clea, don't cry!' Max was suddenly beside her, squatting by her chair and trying to pull her into his arms. She fought him off, refusing the comfort he was offering, refusing his pity. She wished she was alone now, to hurt in privacy. She wished he would just go!

But he wouldn't go. Max wasn't feeling comfortable enough yet to turn and walk away. His hands came up to cover hers, fingers curling around hers in an effort to force them away from her face, his touch achingly familiar, the slight tremor running through him an indication of the fraught state he was in.

He held her hands tightly, forcing her to look at him through sheer strength of will. 'It was never my intention to hurt you, Clea,' he murmured roughly. 'Dianne—Dianne was a mistake. Already in the past!

She was nothing but a—' He pulled himself up short with a snapped closing of his taut mouth, whatever he'd been going to say severed before it made any sense to her. His gaze sought hers with anxious urgency. 'We can make this work for us!' he insisted. 'You can't go through this on your own—and I don't want you to. I want... I want to shoulder my share of the responsibility.'

He had been doing so well until then, she had even felt a slight weakening in her stubborn resolve—until then. Now, frantically, she shook the dark fall of hair. 'I
won't
marry a man who thinks I trapped him into it. I
won't
marry a man who was already looking about for someone else!'

'You're
wrong!'
he grated. 'I am—very fond of you. No! Don't turn away from me! I won't let you cut me out like this!'

Fond? God! Had he
no
idea how much that hurt? 'No!'

They became involved in a pathetic struggle, she trying desperately to free herself from his urgent grasp, he determined to make her stay still and listen. Their ragged breathing was the only sound in the fraught atmosphere of the room. And suddenly, it seemed that the tables had turned, and it was Max taking the defensive stand, and Clea the offensive—although neither seemed to be aware of it.

'Fondisn't enough!' she choked. 'I don't want you to be fond of me. I don't want you to "shoulder your responsibility"! I couldn't live with it, don't you see?' She appealed for understanding, violet eyes wide with misery and bright with looming tears. 'You would hate it!' Clea dragged in a shaky breath and tried to calm herself. 'You value your freedom more than anything else. You don't w-want to be m-married, tied down to one w-woman. You couldn't cope! Your whole foundation is built around your freedom of will.'

Max stared at her, stunned into speechlessness. He searched his mind for his defence, and found, with a shock, that he had none. Abruptly, he sat back on his heels, his hands leaving her to fall on to his spread thighs, dark head lowering in defeat.

'I'll make a drink.' Clea struggled out of the chair, needing to get away from him before she gave in to the desire to take him in her arms and comfort him. For Max was suffering a little at her hands, and the gentle side to her nature was appalled by her own ruthlessness.

The kitchen was a relief after the tensions of the lounge, and Clea hovered there, delaying the moment when she would have to return to whatever awaited her in the other room, because she and Max had by no means finished.

This time it all had to be said, a conclusion reached— and accepted on both sides. And, before she faced him again, Clea knew she had to sort her swirling thoughts into some kind of comprehensible order.

Surely he must have some idea how she felt about him? But then, she reminded herself wearily, Max had never been interested in her, Clea, the person, not really. He saw only the shape of her body. His interest had been in the sensual woman who warmed his bed and delighted his senses, or the super-efficient woman who ran his office; but not Clea, the person, not
her.

Max had never asked for her love. He had asked for nothing but the regular use of her body when he'd desired it. It Wasn't his fault that her reasons for allowing him the liberty were widely different. She had accepted his terms five months ago, and he couldn't now be blamed for her own folly. But now he would accept her terms—and her chin came up proudly as she picked up the laden tray—because hers were the right ones to deal with an impossible situation.