A Question of Pride (3 page)

And she'd let him, because she loved him, and she'd known, even then, that her complete acquiescence to his wants was the only way she would keep him.

He might not love her in return, but he made her feel beautiful and infinitely desirable. And sometimes his loving would move on to a plane beyond the physical norm. He would worship her, pay homage to every single inch of her, until she could only lie boneless, barely breathing amid the clouds of sensation he was arousing in her. It was at these times that she could convince herself that he loved her, because in the giving of so much Max would become lost himself. Their bodies moved to a rhythm of their own creation, and he would tremble, that big, dark being who so enveloped her, he would tremble in her arms and
be
hers, for those few precious moments, completely hers. It would shake him, though. Max never liked what overtook him at those times, and in the aftermath he would grow morose—angry, almost. He never remarked on it, but she knew; he hated losing control to such a degree, because in doing so he was revealing a desperate need for her. Clea had a suspicion that Max had rarely—if ever—experienced such a depth of emotion with any other woman, and it frightened him, made him feel threatened by what could develop between them. After a night like that he would draw back a little, become remote and unreachable and maybe not come near her for days.

Last night had been one of those times. That was what made his gesture in her office earlier all the more confusing, because he had come forwards when usually he would be backing off. He had acted very much out of character, and it confused her—bothered her at a time when she was confused and bothered enough.

It was dark outside now, the street lights turning everything a dull gold colour. Hardly anyone seemed to be moving down on the ground now, and once again the feeling of being very much alone assailed her.

She took a deep gulp at the whisky, then grimaced at the bitter taste. She didn't even like the stuff, yet she had felt the need for some kind of bolster—still did, for her nerves were screaming for release. Pain, fear, depression, and a thousand other emotions were vying for domination, while she stood, as outwardly calm as she always appeared.

Thank God for self-control! Clea mocked herself bitterly, then scorned herself for the self-deception.

She wasn't in control, she was in shock.

A pale hand drifted to the flat of her stomach, and Clea looked down at it, her slender fingers spread out across the dark cloth of her tailored skirt. How long would she remain like this—slim, neat-figured? Not long; she was already in her second month of pregnancy. Her condition would begin to show soon.

Max had planted a seed inside her, and it was going to grow into a baby, a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed baby. She trembled at the sudden and unexpected jolt of emotion that gave her. A baby ...

hers and Max's baby ... Abortion was out! she decided, with a fierceness that yet again surprised her.

Marriage to Max was out. She took another gulp of whisky.

And her job. That was going to have to go. She couldn't stay here now, not without losing her pride.

Max would hate it if he had to see her every day, growing big with his child, her figure—the body that was all that kept him coming back to her—becoming distorted and unattractive. No, she couldn't remain working here.

She would have to go and see Joe, and plead with him to release her from her contract of employment without letting Max know. She would have to sever all reliance on Max before she told him why, or he would insist on keeping her on here, if only out of a sense of duty to her. She couldn't stand that. She couldn't stand the humiliation, working here and seeing him day after day, knowing that they would never again share a look, a tender touch ...

Stop it!

Clea swung away from the window, angry with the way her rambling thoughts had gone. 'Drinking alcohol won't help much, either,' she rebuked herself out loud. 'Neither your mood, nor the baby you're carrying.' She walked into Max's cloakroom and poured the remains of her drink into the washbasin, then rinsed out the glass, taking it back to the drinks cabinet and replacing everything as it should be.

'Go home, Clea,' she ordered herself.

But she didn't make any move towards the door: instead, she made for the deep alcove where Max had two large leather chesterfield couches arranged by a low walnut table and several elegant green planters.

She sat down wearily on one of the couches, leaning her dark head back and closing her eyes.

How was she going to manage? She had her flat, of course. It was hers, bought and paid for while her father had been alive. It had been the family home, then—and a happy one. She smiled at the memories conjured up in the quietness of Max's office. Her father was half-Italian. He had run his own very exclusive restaurant in London until he'd become ill. Then the business had had to be sold, because he could no longer look after it. When he'd died, he'd left her mother and herself financially secure. No debts, their own home to live in for as long as they wanted. But none of this was any compensation to the wife and child he'd left behind. Clea had worried for a time that her mother would never recover from her grief.

That had taken five years to fade. Then, just twelve months ago, she'd married James Laverne. He'd literally swept the fragile Amy off her feet. Again Clea smiled at the memory. Poor Amy had had no chance! James had seen her and simply tumbled into love! His pursuit of her mother had been intensive—and amusing. They had a lovely home in Shepperton now—a cosy love-nest that anyone would envy.

Amy had only been eighteen years old when she'd had Clea. She'd married the tall, dark and strikingly handsome Paolo Maddon against the wishes of her parents, at the very young age of seventeen, then went about proving all their premonitions of disaster wrong by remaining devoted to her husband beyond his death. And Paolo had been equally devoted to her. Amy was a tiny honey-blonde creature, with an air of defencelessness about her that went more than skin deep. She needed taking care of, for she was the dependent type by nature, and the five years she had spent without her first husband had probably been the worst ones of poor Amy's life. Now she had James to love and take care of her. And it was nice; Clea always felt a warm feeling inside when she thought of her mother and James, for their devotion to each other was just as strong as that between her father and Amy ...

When James and Amy had married, they'd insisted Clea keep the flat as her own. 'You must have it, dear,' Amy had insisted when Clea had argued. 'I don't need the money we would get by selling, and your father would want you to live here. He loved this flat,' she said on a soft sigh. That dark Italian man would never fade from her mother's most tender thoughts—even the ultra-possessive James acknowledged that. 'We spent many wonderful years here. You have it,' she insisted again. Then I won't feel so guilty for deserting you.'

It had been the master stroke that had won Clea over. Amy might be delicate by nature but she wasn't stupid. She gave Clea no room to refuse. Now she was grateful for that humble surrender, for having the flat as her own was going to make things a lot easier for her in the future months ... Her old bedroom would make an ideal nursery ...

God! Her heart reeled. Pain, fear and excitement all culminated to form a mass of conflict inside her, and she dragged herself up off the couch, determined this time to go home to do her thinking.

Max's desk stood with its shiny top clear of paperwork. She walked slowly over to it, running her fingertips over the smooth wood. He always left his desk completely clear like this ... Again his desire for neat and tidiness showed. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Clea sighed and turned towards the door as the ache inside her became unbearable.

Money ... She considered this as she closed the door to Max's office and went about tidying her own desk. Her salary here had been exceptional, but she'd fallen into the habit of spending rather a lot on clothes since she'd met Max. It had all been a front she'd put up for his benefit. Max liked his women to look chic, elegant—like himself.

He wouldn't like her all blown up and looking like a balloon; she wasn't that sure that she fancied it much herself, wearing clothes that resembled tents, and trying to keep cool during those hot summer months and the final stage of her pregnancy.

October.

He—she—it—
he,
it was easier to think of the baby as a
he.
He would have to be dark-haired—how else could it be with two such dark-haired parents? If her mother couldn't manage to inject any of her fairness into Clea, then this poor soul had little chance of receiving any of his grandmother's fairer beauty.

She had her mother's eyes, though, Clea mused. Big lavender-blue eyes on a baby boy with Max's strong, sturdy build ...

On a muffled sob, Clea grabbed up her coat and bag and rushed for the door.

The phone began ringing as she was preparing herself something to eat. Clea clutched at the sink, closing her eyes tightly and willing the jangling noise to stop. It would be her mother, calling for their weekly chat, as was her habit.

She didn't want to speak to Amy just now. She didn't want to speak to anyone—but her mother even less. She would have to sound happy, normal, and she felt neither. She would have to lie; she was finding herself doing that a lot recently. Amy would ask how she was, and she would have to say she was feeling fine, when in fact she felt lousy—absolutely lousy.

It was reaction, she told herself, as the telephone went on ringing and her nerve-ends began jangling along with the harsh noise. She was experiencing the reaction she had tried to hold at bay all day. She was aching with it, her heart pumping at a pounding pace.

'Shut up!' she gritted between clenched teeth. Her knuckles were white where she was gripping the sink.

She was shivering, icy cold with it, a clammy sweat breaking out on her brow before springing out to drench her whole body. 'I'm not in!' she moaned achingly. 'I'm not in, Mother!'

Trust.

The word leaped like some leering apparition in front of her closed eyelids. Her mother
trusted
her daughter to behave morally. Clea
didn't trust
Max to be faithful—even to a lover. Max
trusted
her to guard against an unwanted pregnancy. She had failed her mother, she had failed Max. He had failed no one—because he had never requested her trust.

The telephone stopped.

Clea wilted heavily against the sink, her legs like jelly beneath her. The silence was a relief—sheer, utter relief—and she stayed as she was for a few moments, absorbing the peace, allowing her nerves time to settle again.

The half-prepared meal was thrown away in favour of a bath. Clea soaked herself for ages, not thinking, not feeling, just making her mind a complete blank and allowing the silence to enfold her like a blanket of empty comfort.

White-faced, despite the bath, Clea wrapped herself in her old red dressing-gown and padded through to her sitting-room. She had changed little in here since her mother had left. The room still held all the old knickknacks that made it home. A framed photograph of her with her parents, all looking at each other with love. The Axminster carpet that had been there for as long as she could remember. The Dralon three-piece suite, with its chunky loose cushions filled with soft swansdown. She should have gained some sort of comfort from the room, but she didn't, because the Clea of the times this room projected would not have got herself into this mess. She would never have risked hurting her parents in this way.

Damn Max!

She curled up in a chair, huddling into the warm robe as though the winter night had penetrated the room, when in fact the flat was centrally heated and quite warm. Her hair fell around her face and shoulders in a cloud of midnight-blue, enhancing her oval face and the paleness of her skin—an unnatural paleness for the usually vibrant Clea. Her mouth, too, was showing the signs of immense strain. Gone was the natural red fullness that gave away her deep, sensual nature. Instead, her lips were drawn tight and colourless. If Max saw her now he would be shocked by the change in her in just a few short hours.

Max ... She had a whole weekend to get through with Max before she could begin to do anything about her situation. She could put him off, of course, but she didn't want to. She wanted this last weekend with him—needed it, in fact.

The telephone began ringing again, and she dived out of the chair to snatch up the receiver because she couldn't stand to listen to it ringing out a second time.

'Yes?' she snapped.

'Clea? Where have you been? I rang earlier but there was no reply ...'

So, it was Max, not her mother who had rung. 'I was in the bath,' she lied, gripping tightly at the receiver.

'Oh.' Silence, an awkward silence that puzzled her.

Then, 'Are you alone?'

Clea leaned wearily against the wall behind her, wondering dully what he was getting at. He didn't usually call her up when they had their arrangements already made, and for some reason this diversion from his norm rankled her.

'No,' she lied again, finding it easier each time. 'I have a man waiting for me, you happen to be disturbing us.' Of course she was alone! she scorned silently. Wasn't she always alone without him?

'Don't tease, Clea.' His voice was pitched low and husky, creating within her a desperate need to see him, touch him. 'I was worried about you. I've been worrying about you all evening. Are you sure you're OK?'

She took in a steadying breath, sucking her lips back against her teeth to stop herself from saying something she would regret, from blurting out the whole sad mess to him. 'I'm fine ... really, Max,' she assured him when she could trust herself to speak. 'Just tired. I was on my way to bed.'

Another silence, a strange, loaded silence that she couldn't decipher. What was the matter with him?

Could he be drunk? It would be a first if he was. Max knew his own limits.