Almost Forever (13 page)

Moving slowly, her body protesting, she slid out of the bed and groped around on the floor until she found the crumpled velvet heap of her gown. At the door she paused, looking back at his barely visible form on the bed, but he still slept deeply. Tears welled in her eyes; was it wrong to leave him now? What would happen if she woke beside him in the morning light, without the shield of darkness to protect her from the possibility that he might see too much? She wanted to creep back to his side and curl up in his arms, but she turned away.

“Come back here.”

His voice was low, rough with sleep. She stood there with her back to him. “It's better that I leave now,” she whispered.

“No, I won't let you.” She heard the rustle of the bed as he left it; then he was behind her, his naked body hot against her back. His arms circled her waist, and the gown slipped from her fingers to the floor.

“Have I frightened you?” he asked, his mouth against her neck. “Is it because I hurt you?”

Her head moved slowly from side to side in denial. “You didn't hurt me,” she said.

“I was on you like a rutting bull, love, and you're so soft.” His lips moved to her shoulder and found the tender hollow there. His hot breath wafted over her skin like a caress, and she felt her breasts tighten in automatic response. “So delicate. Your skin is like silk.” His hands were on her breasts now, and her head dropped back against his shoulder, her eyes closing as delight spiraled in her again.

“Come back to bed,” he urged softly. “I know you're uneasy, but everything will be all right. I promise. We'll talk in the morning.” Sometime during the next day he would tell her who he really was, and he was glad that this night had
happened. It bound her to him, gave him an advantage in handling her. She would be angry, of course, but he didn't think it would be anything he couldn't handle.

She went to him, allowing herself to believe that it really would be all right. And a small while later, lying beneath him with the now-familiar fire burning inside her, she forgot why she had ever been uneasy.

 

The shrill ringing of the telephone woke her. Beside her, Max uttered an obscenity and sat up in the bed, reaching for the receiver to halt the intrusive noise. Bright sunlight filled the room, and she pulled the sheet higher under her chin then closed her eyes again. She didn't feel quite ready to face the morning yet, and she wished the phone hadn't rung.

“It's too bloody early in the morning to be funny,” Max snarled into the receiver, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He listened a moment then said, “I don't give a damn what time it is, whenever I've just woke, it's too early. What is it?”

When he hung up the phone a few minutes later, he cursed under his breath before rolling over to look at her. Claire opened her eyes and stared at him, uncertainty plain on her face.

“I have to go to Dallas,” he said, putting out his hand to finger her hair. “This morning.”

She swallowed and tried for a casual tone. “It must be urgent—this is Sunday.”

“It is. Bloody hell, what timing! I wanted to spend the day with you. We badly need to talk about what's happening between us, and there are some other things I wanted to tell you, but now they'll have to wait.”

“It can wait,” she whispered.

B
ut could it? After hurriedly taking her home, Max had left, and Claire hadn't heard from him since. She hadn't really been surprised when Sunday passed without a call; his business in Dallas must have been urgent to require him on a Sunday, but she had expected to hear from him on Monday. In such a short length of time he had insinuated himself so deeply into her life and her heart that now things didn't feel right without him. She hurried home after work on Monday, afraid that she might miss his call, but her telephone sat in silence, and the longer the silence stretched, the more she became convinced that something was wrong. She didn't know what it might be, but there was a sense of unease growing inside her. What was it that he had wanted to talk about? She knew it had to be important; his expression had been too serious, even a little grim. But it had all gone unsaid, and it shouldn't have—whatever it was, that had been the time for it, and now that time had passed.

She slept badly, too worried to rest, her awakened body reminding her of the pleasure he had given her, the things he had taught her. It was amazing that she had been married to Jeff for years without learning that she could go mad with desire, that a man's touch could turn her into pure molten need. No, not just a man. One man. Max.

Why didn't he call?

Lack of sleep left shadows under her eyes the next day, and when she looked in the mirror, the sense of impending doom intensified. She stared at the fathomless dark pools of her eyes, trying to see beyond them into the woman she was, deep into herself where she sensed these things without really knowing what they were. Had he found her lacking somehow? Had she been clumsy? Had he been appalled to find that she was just like all the others, easy to bed and easy to forget? Had he done just that, forgotten her?

But he had been wild to have her, so wild that he hadn't even taken her to the bedroom, hadn't even removed their clothing. A hot blush colored her cheeks at the memory. In the foyer, of all places, like savages in evening clothes. Her reserve had been shattered, his control destroyed, and they had merged together with primitive force. It had to mean something to him.

But he was so sophisticated, while in many ways she was not. Had that night been normal for him? Was it nothing to him but more of the same?

There were no answers in the mirror.

It was after lunch when the call came at work, and Sam spent a long time in his office. When he came out, he was pale.

“I've just been notified of a takeover attempt,” he said quietly.

Claire looked up at him, waiting.

“It's Spencer-Nyle, in Dallas.”

It was an enormous corporation, spreading out into diverse
fields, and the chairman of the board was legendary for his crafty moves. Sam and Claire looked at each other, knowing that it was really only a matter of time. Had the takeover attempt been by anyone closer to Bronson Alloys in size, they would have had a good chance to fight, but Spencer-Nyle could swallow them whole and never even strain. Sam might win the first round, because of the real estate values, but the war would go to Spencer-Nyle.

“They can't be foreign-backed,” Claire said, shocked and puzzled.

“No. It seems we were being threatened on two fronts, but I didn't see it. I was too worried about keeping my research secure.”

“When will they make their offer?”

“That's up to them, but I'd better use however much time we have left to strengthen our position.”

“Can we possibly win?”

“Anything is possible.” He grinned suddenly. “If we put up such a fight that the takeover would be more trouble than we're worth, they might pull out of it.”

“Or you could find a white knight.”

“White knight or hostile takeover, the end result would be the same—the company would belong to someone else. I suppose I could give in gracefully, but hell, I've always liked a good fight. Let Anson Edwards and his team of hatchetmen work to get us.”

Now that the moment was actually there, Sam seemed to relish the thought of a fight. Claire wondered a moment at his mentality—he actually enjoyed conflict. But there were people who thrived on challenge; Martine was one of them. Put a mountain in front of her and she climbed it, it was as simple as that. Claire preferred to go around it. She approached a challenge head-on only when the other paths were blocked.

There was a lot to be done. The board of directors had to be notified, and proper action had to be discussed. Until a firm offer was received, they had little to go on. As the principal stockholder and chairman of the board, Sam's opinion carried a lot of weight, but he was still answerable to the board.

The phone rang off the hook. Claire worked late and was even grateful that the pressure kept her mind off Max, at least a little. She was almost afraid to go home, afraid that he wouldn't call and she would have to spend another night with that silent telephone. At least this way she didn't know.

But eventually she had had to go home, so she put on some music to fill the apartment with noise. Odd, but the silence had never bothered her before; she had welcomed it, enjoying the peace and solitude after the hectic pace of her job. Max had changed that, had turned her interests outward, and now the silence grated on her nerves. The music abolished the quiet outside but couldn't touch the stillness inside.

He wasn't going to call. She knew it, sensed it.

Had she been only the last warm body in a long line of warm bodies in his bed? Was that all she had been to him, a challenge, so that once she capitulated the challenge was gone? She didn't want to think that; she wanted to trust Max completely, but more and more she remembered those tiny jarring moments when she had seen the hardness beneath his perfect manners, as if the cosmopolitan gentleman were only a veneer. If that were so, then the image he projected was just that, an image, and she didn't really know him at all. Several times she had thought that, but now she was terrified that it was true.

 

Max brooded in his office, wishing that he could call Claire, but things were in motion now, and it would be in the best interests of both sides if he had no more contact
with her until the takeover was settled. To see her now would put her in an awkward position, possibly subject her to undeserved hostility. Damn Anson for calling him back so soon, before he had a chance to talk to her and explain things! He wasn't worried about making her see reason; he was very experienced, and he knew the power of the weapon he had over her, the power of sensuality. Beneath that aloof, ladylike exterior was a woman who burned for his touch, whose own sensuality exploded out of control during his lovemaking. No, he could handle Claire's anger. What worried him was the pain and confusion she must be feeling because he had seemingly walked out of her life after that unbelievable night they had shared. He didn't want anything or anyone to hurt her, but he was very much afraid that he had, and that thought caused a tightening in his chest. Damn this bloody takeover to hell and back! It wasn't worth hurting Claire.

The senior vice president, Rome Matthews, entered his office. It was late and they were both in their shirt-sleeves, and they were friends as well, so Rome didn't bother with the formality of knocking.

“You've been glaring at that file for the past hour,” Rome commented. “Is something bothering you about Bronson's?”

“No. We won't have any trouble,” Max said, assured on that point, at least.

“You've been edgy since you got back from Houston.”

Max leaned back in his chair and hooked his hands behind his head. “Isn't Sarah waiting for you?”

Rome's black eyes glittered the way they did when he was on to something, and he had the determination of a bulldog. Sprawling his big frame in an office chair, he watched Max through narrowed eyes. “Well, I'll be damned,” he drawled. “You're acting just like I did when Sarah used to drive me
crazy. God, I love it! It's poetic justice. You, my friend, have woman trouble!”

Max scowled at him. “Funny, is it?”

“Hilarious,” Rome agreed, a wolfish grin lighting his hard, dark face. “I should've guessed sooner. Hell, you were in Houston a week. Something would have been seriously wrong if you
hadn't
found a woman.”

“You have a perverted sense of humor,” Max said without heat, but also without smiling.

“Who is she?”

“Claire Westbrook.”

Because Rome had studied the file on Bronson Alloys, he knew the name and knew her connection with the company. He also knew that the vital information needed for the takeover to be successful had come from her. One brow lifted. “Does she know who you are?”

“No,” Max growled, and Rome gave a soundless whistle.

“You're in trouble.”

“Damn it, I know that!” Max got to his feet and paced the expanse of his office, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I can handle that, but I'm worried about her. I don't want her hurt by this.”

“Then call her.”

Max shook his head. A call wouldn't work, he knew that. He had to be where he could hold her, soothe her with his touch, reassure her that what was between them was real.

“You're going to be back in Houston in a couple of days. Anson is really pushing this. She'll have to know then who you are.”

“I intend to tell her before anyone else knows.” Frowning, he stared out the darkened window at the myriad lights and angles of the Dallas skyline. He wanted to be with Claire now, lying in bed with her and stroking the in
toxicating softness of her skin. He wasn't sleeping well, wanting her, tortured by his aching loins. If he had had difficulty getting her out of his mind before, it was damned impossible now.

 

Claire tried to eat the sandwich she had brought for lunch, but it was tasteless, and after a few bites she rewrapped it in cellophane wrap and tossed it into the garbage can. She hadn't had much appetite, anyway. The office was empty. Sam was at lunch, as was almost everyone else. It was Friday, almost a week since she had seen Max or heard from him. A small eternity. She had stopped expecting the call, but something inside her was still marking time. Two days. Three. Four. Soon, a week. Eventually it would be a month, and perhaps someday the pain would be a little duller.

The most important thing was to keep her time filled, to stay busy. She began typing a stack of letters. Correspondence had doubled this week in direct relation to the notification Spencer-Nyle had given that it was interested in Bronson Alloys. It really couldn't have happened at a better time, she told herself—it left her less time to brood.

It was amazing how happy Sam seemed to be. He was preparing for this like a football coach preparing his team for the annual game against an arch rival, with almost unconcerned enthusiasm. He was actually enjoying it! The stockholders were coming out pretty well, too. The price of the stock had shot up as soon as the news got out.

Sam had been doing some research into Spencer-Nyle in general, and Anson Edwards in particular, and had come up with an impressive array of articles on the man. His desk was littered with them when Claire carried the letters in to leave them for his signature. A business magazine lay open on his desk, folded to an article on Spencer-Nyle, and Claire curi
ously picked it up. A color picture of Anson Edwards was on the first page. He didn't look like a corporate shark, she thought. He was trim and nondescript, with no outstanding features, the sort of man who blended into a crowd, except for the sharp intelligence obvious in his eyes.

The article was surprisingly interesting and went into some depth. She carried the magazine back to her desk to finish reading it. Then she turned the page, and Max's face stared up at her.

She blinked, stunned, and tears blurred her eyes. She closed her eyes, willing the tears away. Just a picture of him stirred up a whirlwind of pain and memories and aching love. If only she knew what had happened!

Opening her eyes, she looked at the picture again. There was another picture beside it of a dark man with penetrating dark eyes, and beneath both photos was the caption: “Roman Matthews, left, and Maxwell Conroy, are Anson Edward's handpicked lieutenants, and corporate America generally considers Spencer-Nyle to have the nation's best team of executives.”

They had his name wrong. He was Maxwell Benedict, not Maxwell Conroy. Her hands shook as she held the magazine, her eyes skimming to find the text concerning him. There it was. She read it then reread it, and finally the truth sank in. He was Maxwell Conroy, not Benedict at all, and he had romanced her so intensely in hopes of getting information about Bronson Alloys from her. Perhaps he'd even planned to snoop in her papers, but that hadn't been necessary. She had
given
him the information he needed. She had a vivid memory of herself talking to him, trusting him, never dreaming that he was a spy for another corporation! After he had what he wanted, he had left. It was that simple, and that terrible.

Slowly, painstakingly, Claire reread the entire article, some tiny part of herself hoping against hope that she had misunderstood, but the second reading was even worse, because the
details she had skipped the first time only supported the facts. Maxwell Conroy was an Englishman who had emigrated first to Canada, where he had been employed at a branch of Spencer-Nyle and had swiftly climbed the corporate ladder. He had been transferred to the Dallas headquarters four years ago, gained American citizenship, and was acquiring a reputation for engineering lightning-fast takeovers, moving in and taking control before the target company could be warned and devise any sort of defense.

She felt numb all over, as if paralyzed. Even her face was still, and it was an effort to blink her eyes, to swallow. Lightning-fast takeovers. He moved in; he took control; he walked away. Yes, he had done exactly that. She hadn't had a chance. He had played her like the expert he was, reeling her in so gently that she hadn't even realized she'd been hooked. She thought of her gullibility in swallowing that line he'd fed her, about how tired he was of being pursued as a sexual object, how he just wanted a friend. She had actually believed it! How had he kept from laughing in her face?