A Question of Pride (14 page)

'Whew, it's hot,' she sighed as she reached him, hiding her discomfort behind a feigned airiness, handing him her canvas bag as though it were the natural thing to do— not that the bag was heavy, there was hardly anything in it. It was just the heat getting to her, and Max. She smiled shyly up at him, still flushed, her expression becoming contrite. 'I'm sorry for what I said this morning,' she apologised gruffly, deciding to get it over with. His eyes were warm on her, dark and smoky. She hadn't seen them so unguarded for months. 'I was in a rush, and my mother had just rung off after issuing one of her lectures. I'm afraid you caught me at a bad moment.'

Her bag dangled from his hooked fingers by its aqua-blue straps. Why she had handed him her bag she had no idea, she certainly wouldn't have dared doing such a thing at one time. Yet he didn't seem bothered. He was smiling.

'Then, in future, I'll enquire if you've spoken to your mother
before
I start to nag!' He was looking at her with laughter in his eyes, trying to make her comfortable, telling her he understood, when really she didn't understand herself why she had attacked him like that.

She shifted uneasily, feeling a little overawed by this softer, more indulgent Max. He looked what he was, a successful man of business, a man who was comfortable in luxury and elegance. Clea carried no social chips on her shoulder, yet he managed to make her feel a trifle inadequate at this moment.

Oh, what the heck! she thought on a burst of happiness. The sun was shining, and she was experiencing a delicious contentment with life. Max was here, and
he
looked happy ... She lifted her face up to his, and beamed him a smile that wrinkled her small nose with a touch of that same impishness the doctor had enjoyed earlier.

'I'm off to buy some clothes that fit!' she claimed, with only a touch of defiance in her purple gaze.

He ran his gaze mockingly over her, eyes glinting when he saw the return of her blush. 'I rather like it,' he announced with a smile. 'You look sort of—clownish. All baggy pants and beaming face. I like it.'

'Clownish!' Clea repeated in affront. 'You think I look
clownish?'

'An endearing clown,' he assured teasingly, his chest heaving on an uplift of spirit.

The sun shone down on them, and perhaps it was its doing that they both experienced a warmth inside as well as out—or perhaps it was because, at last, the tension between them was beginning to evaporate.

Maybe she had needed to say something truly hurtful to snap her out of the bitter hostility she had felt towards him. Or maybe time did heal a little, and she was at last finding it in her heart to forgive him.

Whatever, there was a definite shift in the mood between them, and it was a relief to feel it so.

As if he couldn't resist the need, Max reached out with a finger to trail it slowly down one of her flushed cheeks. 'Hello,' he said huskily.

'Hello,' Clea returned. Why, neither knew, except that the greeting seemed to announce the acceptance of some new fragile, if elusive, terms between them.

They stared mutely at one another for a long moment, then Max sucked in a deep breath and let it slowly out again. 'Shopping?'

Clea nodded. 'New clothes for the fat lady.'

He took her arm and guided her to the passenger door of the car, helping her inside. 'New clothes for the fat lady,' he repeated, with tongue-in-cheek solemnity.

It was only as they were driving along that an idea hit her, and Clea turned to look speculatively at him.

'Are you actually considering coming shopping with me?' she enquired curiously.

His mouth twitched, his quick glance in her direction full of teasing charm. 'I'm very good at choosing clothes for fat ladies,' he assured her.

Clea laughed, but didn't really believe him. 'You can't spare the time—and you know it.' She, above anyone, knew how hard Max had to work daily just to keep on top of things at the office.

'And you forget that I'm the boss,' he pointed out. 'I can do anything I damned well please. And I fancy shopping with you,' he added, with some of his usual arrogance. 'After all—who is there to sack me for playing truant?'

'No one,' she mocked. 'No one would dare! You'd probably have them assassinated if they tried!'

'You do have a low opinion of me,' Max observed, with more candour than amusement. 'How about you playing truant with me—and I'll throw in lunch as a bonus for good behaviour ... surely if my company can survive without its chairman for a day, Gattings can survive the same without his secretary?'

Clea thought about it. The whole thing was getting a bit bizarre. It was one thing to attempt burying the hatchet, but quite another to allow her guard to slip too far where Max was concerned. She had never known him to be quite so approachable. There was something decidedly fishy about his attitude, and yet, it was nice. It tugged at that thin thread of need she had where he was concerned. Could one day hurt her that much? Yes, a small voice replied. It could hurt a great deal.

'OK.' She threw all warnings to the wind and smiled at Max. 'Find me a phone, so I can tell Brad that the doctor insists I rest, and we'll shop together—with lunch thrown in,' she reminded him firmly.

His gaze sharpened. 'And did he—tell you to rest?' he enquired with studied lightness.

Clea wagged a finger at him in a fair mimic of the doctor's pen-wagging gesture. 'Slow down, young lady—or I'll hospitalise you!' She shrugged carelessly unaware of her companion's sudden gravity. 'He doesn't seem to understand that I feel so well! What with my mother, James, the doctor—and
you,
all lecturing me, I feel suffocated by overconcern sometimes. Only Brad treats me like a normal human being. Thank God! I think I'd go a little mad if he started nagging, too.'

She watched Max automatically stiffen at the mention of Brad Gattings. He didn't like the man, he had told her often enough. He considered Brad a womaniser, and
she
considered his criticism hilarious since, to her, he was only describing himself! A bit like the pot calling the kettle black!

'The trouble with Gattings is, he neither knows nor cares what's good for you,' Max muttered as they drove on. 'He'd use that charm of his on any beautiful woman—if it meant him getting what he needed from her.'

'Are you insinuating that Brad—'

'No,' he cut in curtly, anticipating her. 'He's not so stupid as to burn his boats where you're concerned while you're so indispensable to him.'

The tension was back, like little invisible devils, flitting between them, prodding them both with barbed forks.

'Like you did, you mean,' she muttered.

The silence was uncomfortable; they drove for quite a while before Max replied, and when he did, Clea jumped nervously.

'I won't let you set me up, Clea,' he warned softly, his meaning quite clear. 'I've got your measure now, so be warned. I won't take the flak from your sanctimonious gun any more.'

Sanctimonious! 'I don't know what you mean,' she denied offishly, oddly discomfited by his choice of word, because she was certain Max had chosen it carefully.

'Yes, you do,' he stated quietly. 'So just be careful from now on, sweetheart, because you may find yourself in too deep if you try pitting those vicious wits against mine from now on.'

Clea frowned. He was challenging her for some reason known only to himself. It sent a warning shiver down her spine. Max had come out of hiding, she realised uncomfortably. She wasn't sure that she liked the idea.

Surprisingly,Clea did enjoy the day, and by the time Max drew up outside her flat, she was at peace with him, enough to invite him in for coffee.

Max carried in the mounds of packages she had accumulated during the day, his expression still rueful at the amount of shopping a woman could pack into a few hours. They'd eaten lunch in a nice French restaurant, lingering over coffee because they'd been talking intently over some subject that, now, Clea couldn't bring back to mind. If she was honest, Max had made a surprising impact on her today. Oh, not in the old way—that had never really disappeared, anyway—no, he had actually impressed her with the serious and thinking side of his character. She had seen this side of him while working for him, of course, but never outside the office. She had once wondered if he ever did use his intelligence in any other way than on the problems of computer technology. Now she knew he did.

'My mother wants to meet you,' he announced blandly on walking into the kitchen, after ridding himself of her packages. 'And I think it's time I met your family.'

Clea didn't reply immediately, appearing to be busy with the coffee-maker, and loading the tray. She had this unreasonable dread of meeting his mother. Clea felt sure she must be some kind of paragon to have mothered a son like Max—the arrogance and assertiveness had to come from somewhere, didn't it?

'Don't misunderstand me,' he went on, after watching her troubled face for a while. 'I haven't put the marriage idea away. I just think that this—this stalemate we've been locked in through the last months should come to an end, and be resolved before the baby is born. It seems a good beginning, to get to know our respective families. They will, after all, be playing an important role in the baby's life.' His blue eyes studied her elusive ones with an unswerving steadiness.

Finding herself on the defensive, Clea shrugged, 'I don't see how meeting my—'

'Now, let's just get one thing straight,' he cut in grimly. A gap of a good two yards separated them, but she suddenly felt under attack. He pointed a warning finger at her. 'I won't be cut out of this baby's life. I won't be consigned to the role of intruder, just because you think you have all the answers neatly slotted into their correct boxes—which puts me in the one marked "Louse".' Clea flinched. 'At the moment, I can see no solution, other than playing this thing the way you've decided it has to be played, since you seem to hold all the most important cards—the delicacy of your condition being the main one, because it stops me from forcing any issue you feel sensitive about, in case I upset you too much ...'

'It's not a game, Max,' she cut in derisively.

'You're dead right!' he grated. 'It's not. It may do you well to remember that. As I was saying ...' He took in a controlled breath, as though trying to curb a desire to snarl, while she stood, blinking at the rebuke. 'I have had to come to terms with the fact that you don't see me as good husband material.' He threw back her own words from months ago, with notable contempt. 'Now you have to come to terms with the fact that I will
not
be pushed rudely to the sidelines of my child's existence. So, we'll start by laying the foundations, upon which to build some kind of working relationship that will be acceptable to both of us. Beginning with a meeting of our respective families.'

Clea made a play of sorting out the tray, hurt that he should now be wishing to take an interest in her family, for the baby's sake, when he hadn't bothered to do so for herself alone.

'Fair enough,' she conceded on a small shrug, then came back with her own little dig, 'Of course, I can't guarantee that my parents will want to meet you.' She felt a sting of satisfaction when his face stiffened.

'But I'll speak to them, see if I can arrange a night when we can go over there for dinner ...'

'No.' He threw her into confused silence by shaking his head, then took her by surprise by smiling ruefully. 'If you don't mind,' he murmured. 'I would rather meet them on my own ground. I'd prefer to give them dinner, at my apartment.'

'Ah.' Once again Clea felt the hurt he had unwittingly inflicted on her. She had never been honoured with a visit to his apartment. In all those months of close intimacy, Max had never taken her there, never allowed her to cross that invisible line drawn for mistresses. Now he was blandly removing the barrier—for the baby's sake—for appearance's sake—for his own conscience's sake! 'Then I'm sure they will be suitably—impressed,' she clipped, moving at last from the stiff position she had held since the conversation had begun.

I wish I smoked, she thought desperately. I need something to numb the nerves just now. The day had gone so well, too! Now he was spoiling it, and deliberately, she thought.

'Look—' His tone changed, became heavy. 'You gave clear guidelines on how I'm allowed to behave in this—this—'

'Mess!' she bit out, then turned angrily on him, her hands gripping the worktop, while her eyes flashed with unusual fury. 'Will you stop talking to me as though I were just another statistic in your damned computerlike mind?'

He looked taken aback, his head held haughtily, as he stared at her. 'I'm sorry,' he murmured gruffly. 'I didn't mean to—'

'Oh, you never
mean
to do anything, do you, Max?' she said scornfully, banging mugs on to a tray. 'You never meant to complicate your life with an unwanted baby! You never meant to make me feel cheap, dirty, underhand! You never meant to get yourself in this—distasteful position in the first place! It isn't your fault!' she cried, flushed now, in full aggrieved flow. 'So here we are, discussing the solutions your damned logical brain has come up with to an—illogical situation! And you actually expect me to comply!'

'Put that milk jug down,' he said quietly, eyeing her warily, 'before you drop it.'

Clea stared blankly at the small white china jug in her hand, and was amazed to see how much she was trembling. Her whole body was shaking: hands, arms, body, legs. On a flash of sheer, blinding fury she lifted her hand and took aim.

Even as she threw the jug, and watched it flying in a topsy-turvy fashion towards Max's head, she was shocked at her own loss of control, stunned to find she was actually capable of reacting so childishly.

It missed, but only because Max ducked, and the jug splintered against the wall behind him, shattering into a thousand tinkling fragments to the tiled floor.

They stood, staring at each other, the jug ignored now as silence of a violent kind filled the space around them. Max was as shocked as she. He was looking at her as though, seeing a stranger, a rather dangerous stranger.