A Question of Pride (15 page)

'What the hell's the matter with you?' he suddenly exploded. 'What the hell is it you
want
from me?'

'Nothing!' she all but screamed at him. 'I want absolutely nothing from you.' Her mouth wanted to turn down in a sneer, but it ended up quivering with an onset of tears instead, her eyes stinging hotly. 'You want to meet my family? OK, I'll arrange it!' she cried wildly, hands flailing, body shaking so much it affected her voice. 'You want to play the responsible father? I won't stop you! But don't you
dare
come in here—into my home, spouting out commands at me, treating me like one of your damned employees who's—who's turned temperamental on you. You know nothing about me, do you?' she went on thickly, while the coffee-maker blubbed and popped, and Max stood, pinned to the spot by her hysterical outburst. 'What I think, feel, like and don't like? You know I'm good in bed,' she sneered at him. 'You're probably even quite proud of how well you taught me in that area. You know I can type a neat letter, answer a telephone, make—make your damned coffee—' Her hand made an uncontrollable swipe at the glass coffee-maker, only by sheer bad aim missing sending the whole lot, boiling coffee and all, flying like the fated jug. 'Just how you damned well like it! There he stands!' She sent that same hand flailing in his direction in a scornful gesture. 'Mr God Almighty Max Latham! God's gift to women and computers!

So—so damned wrapped up in himself and his own importance that he can't see past his own ego!' He went to speak, but Clea glared him into silence, bending towards him slightly, hands on hips, like a shrew.

'I'm not playing the martyr! I'm not being oh, so damned self-righteous by refusing your so-called offer! I know exactly what I was to you—and what a damned bloody mess I've put that neat and tidy life of yours in! So don't come in here, spouting nice brisk platitudes at me to prove how honourable you are—how responsible! I find it insulting to my intelligence! You don't need me, Max! Or this baby! And I won't become an ever-grateful weight around your neck, just to appease your feelings of guilt because you happened to realise that I wasn't deliberately trying to threaten your precious freedom!’

What was she saying? She came to a halt as abruptly as she had flared up. Max, white-faced and stance as taut as a bow-string, stared at her for long excruciating seconds, a warning nerve twitching at the corner of his clenched jaw.

She stood, holding her breath, fatally aware that retribution was well overdue. Her unruly tongue had been given too much leeway recently, it seemed to have forgotten how to keep still.

The inevitable came, with two giant strides from those long legs that brought him up against her trembling body. His hands came up to grasp her upper arms, they gave a vicious tug, and she found herself flattened, baby and all, up against the rock-hard length of his furious frame.

'You asked for this,' he hissed, just before his head came down and took her mouth in a bruising kiss meant to punish.

Her mind went into a spin, shock mingling with the injection of a fierce awareness of his body that made her groan against his mouth. It had been so long—so long since they'd kissed—that even this punishing embrace was like a banquet to her starved senses.

'Max—' She tried to free her mouth, fighting both him and herself.

'You're so beautiful!' he choked, refusing to let her go. but the kiss altered, became softer and more coaxing. 'So damned beautiful. How the hell have I kept my hands off you for so long?'

He glared down at her pale face for a moment, as if wishing her to the devil, then he was brushing light, enticing kisses along her upper lip, touching his tongue to the sensitive corners of her mouth, dragging from her a soft sigh of pleasure. His hands slackened and became caressing. Clea clung shamefully to him, unable to find the strength to push him away. It had always been like this for her: one touch from him and she was his slave. And there lay the reason for all her hostility, she noted tragically. She had always known that to let him get this close would mean disaster.

'Max ...' she murmured, when he eventually allowed her to speak. 'About what I just said ... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it.'

He straightened a little, but didn't let her go, his hands light on her shoulderblades. 'Why not—if you meant it?' His kiss-softened mouth twisted. 'You don't like me very much, do you?' he added with bitter wryness.

Clea shook her head mutely. Liking had never come into her feelings for him.

'One hell of a mess,' he murmured softly.

'One hell of a mess,' she ruefully agreed.

She wanted to move away, break contact with him, but her defences had tumbled, and she found herself in desperate need of this small physical contact just now. Max seemed to understand, because he held her like that for a long while before gently putting her away from him.

'The—the coffee,' she stammered nervously.

'I don't want any now, thanks,' drawled Max, as though amused by the suggestion. He moved towards the kitchen door, turning to look at her once his hand had made contact with the doorhandle. 'Have dinner with me tomorrow night?'

Clea stiffened, taken by surprise. She hadn't expected him to want see her again so soon after ... 'I don't think...'

'I'll revise that remark,' he cut in drily. 'You
will
have dinner with me tomorrow night, Clea,' he stated arrogantly. 'And in the mean time you can think about how best we can arrange to meet your family. I'll see you about seven, tomorrow night. Bye for now.'

And he was gone, with one of his usual impeccable exit lines, leaving her feeling ever so slightly bemused.

Why had that happened? Clea found herself puzzling later that night. And, more to the point, why had Max let it happen? She could excuse herself, because her own feelings had always been more deeply involved than his had ever been. Yet Max had deliberately set out to knock her off guard today. Every word and gesture had been carefully produced to make her sit up and take notice of him, realise that he was determined to show a different side to himself. For what end?

She didn't know, but spent most of that night and the following day worrying over it, until her mind whirled with the effort, and was in the end no closer to fathoming him out.

By the time seven o'clock came around, she was in a high state of nervous tension. Another blisteringly hot day hadn't helped her find her usual calm, nor had a sudden rush at the office when a late consignment of software came in, and had to be immediately dished out to frantically screaming customers.

The doorbell went dead on time. Clea muttered something derogatory beneath her breath and went to answer it. 'Whoever designed this dress forgot to allow for the handicaps of pregnancy,' she grumbled, not even looking at Max before she was turning away from him to walk back down the hall, struggling irritably with the back zip on her new white voile dress. 'I can't do it!' she sighed, dropping her hands so they hung tensely by her sides, her face a picture of frustration as she turned to face him again. 'My hair's a mess, my dress won't fasten—and I'm sure I've put on two stone since I bought this thing!' She gave the lovely white cloth an impatient tug. 'I don't think I want to go out, after all.'

Max swallowed a smile; he was sensitive enough to know Clea wouldn't appreciate it at this moment.

His gaze ran over her, enjoying the picture she made, with her skin glowing from a recent shower and smelling of that elusive scent he always associated with Clea. No make-up, it was just too hot for sticky cosmetics and she didn't need them. Her hair has been recently washed, too, and shone with health and vitality. She looked absolutely beautiful, the new dress an exquisitely designed fall of fine white pleats from a wide-yoked collar that curved her slender throat and lay flat against her skin all the way to the full swell of her breasts—or would do, he amended wryly, if the dress was zipped properly.

'Turn around,' he told her drily. She was pouting like a petulant child, just asking to be kissed into good humour. 'I can easily do up your dress. Your hair is lovely—all wild and free, just how I like it. You haven't put on any weight whatsoever, you're just fed-up, that's all, and most probably hungry. The weather is too hot, and you work too hard, so you're tired and tetchy. Now turn around.'

Clea looked, actually looked at him for the first time. It was his indulgent manner that made her take notice of him, but it was his appearance that held her suddenly breathless. She had never seen him dressed so beautifully casual before, in cream silk shirt and caramel coloured trousers that lay flat against his lean hips, the light material faithfully following the long powerful lines of his legs.

'Taking me to McDonalds?' she quipped, to hide her sudden agitation.

His twisting smile was appreciative of the jibe. 'No,' he replied glibly, waiting for her to turn so he could zip up her dress, while she was reluctant to let him.

She didn't want Max seeing her naked back, she didn't want him to learn just how altered her body was since he'd looked on it last. Her eyes went wide as she stared mutely up at him, and in the end Max sighed mockingly and stepped around behind her. Her fingers clutched at the two pieces of material. Max prised them away with firm gentle hands.

'Stop it,' he said when she stiffened at the first touch of his fingers against her heated skin. 'I've seen you in less ... Here.' He twisted her hair into one thick tress and passed it to her over her shoulder. 'Hang on to this.'

Clea hung on—like a lifeline, breath suspended as those tormenting fingers brushed upwards along her spine, drawing the zip with them.

'There,' he murmured. 'Ordeal over.' He reclaimed her hair, and Clea shut her eyes tightly on a release of tension—then was taken completely by surprise when she felt the warm touch of his mouth against her exposed nape. It was barely there before it was gone, too brief an intrusion for her to have time to protest, and her hair was being carefully arranged about her shoulders.

'Let's go,' he said huskily.

It was quite hot outside, the sun still high enough to make Clea blink as she stepped out into it. So maybe it was the glare of the sun that could be blamed for what happened next, or maybe some of the blame could be because of the deep sense of disappointment she found herself struggling with at Max's deft defusing of a tense situation.

She didn't see or hear the two young teenagers racing towards her on skateboards. It was only the quick reaction of the man behind her that saved her from a potentially serious accident. Max's arms whipped around her midsection, dragging her back against him as first one boy then the other whizzed madly by.

Her shocked surprise transferred itself to her baby and he kicked out in protest, causing Max to start as the kick thumped against his splayed palm.

It was sheer reaction that made him snatch his hand away, but Clea couldn't stop the embarrassed blush from staining her cheeks, and she moved shakily away from him, going to stand by the car while Max followed at a slower pace. He was pale, his face drawn into troubled lines.

Clea felt a pang of sympathy for him. How different things would have been had they been in love and looking forward together to the birth of their first child. Max had just experienced, for the first time, the living movement of his own creation inside her womb. For any normal father this would have been an uplifting experience, but for Max? Whatever he was feeling, she thought gravely, he was doing so deeply.

Sad, that he couldn't show it. And she knew her sympathy to be well placed, for, whatever else she regretted about her association with Max, she would never regret having his child.

'Where are we eating?' she asked, breaking into the silence filling the small confines of the car, and watching him covertly.

'What?' He sounded far away, his expression wearing that glazed look of grim thoughtfulness. 'Oh ...'

They were heading towards Knightsbridge. 'A surprise.' He managed a teasing smile for her, but it was a little strained.

Clea tried again. 'Well,' she exclaimed lightly. 'You're certainly not dressed for the Ritz!'

'Does it hurt?'

'What?' It was her turn to sound surprised.

'When he kicks like that,' Max explained huskily, throwing a quick frowning glance at her, 'does it hurt?'

Clea sucked in a controlled breath. He wasn't enquiring out of bland curiosity; he was concerned, really concerned. 'Sometimes,' she answered wryly. 'But most of the time I find the experience—comforting.' It was difficult to put into words something that was essentially a spiritual thing. 'I would be more concerned if he didn't move. But, yes, sometimes the movement can press on a nerve or accidentally kick out at something painful.'

'I apologise for reacting the way I did.'

'There's no need. I understood.'

'No, you didn't,' he muttered roughly. 'You couldn't possibly understand.'

She opened her mouth to demand he explain that last remark. It had been said with a touch of derision aimed directly at her—but Max cut in on her, effectively killing the subject. 'We're here,' he said, and diverted her by turning the car into a narrow driveway leading to a car park belonging to a block of residential apartments. The area was vaguely familiar to Clea, but she couldn't recall there being a restaurant around here.

He reversed the car into a slot between a Mercedes and a Rolls Royce, then killed the engine, sitting back in his seat and turning to look at her.

'My apartment,' he told her levelly.

Cleaslid her gaze towards the impressive brick building.

Max's apartment was on the fourth storey, covering the whole floor. Six bay windows—she counted them carefully, three to one side of the central lift shaft, three to the other. Did a couple of those bays belong to Mr and Mrs Walters, who looked after him? Or did Max command the whole floor to himself?

He owned the whole building, Clea knew, because during the course of her duties while working for him, she had done correspondence for him regarding the other leases.

She was unsure as to why she was concentrating her whole attention on these unimportant facts, when the situation was so unprecedented that she should be concerning herself with questioning his motives for bringing her here.