Almost Forever (16 page)

“I'd say you're going to have to, at least for now,” Sam interrupted from the doorway, his voice as cool as the look in his eyes. “Stop badgering her. She's worn out.”

Max didn't move a muscle except to turn his head to look at Sam, but suddenly there was something wild about him, a fine tension in his lean, deceptively muscled body, his eyes icy and lethal. “This doesn't concern you,” he said, and he was every inch the predatory, aggressive male, with the primitive instinct to fight whenever another male approached the woman he'd marked as his.

“I'd say it does. After all, it was my company that you took, using the information Claire gave you.”

Max froze, then looked sharply at Claire. “He knows?”

Dumbly she nodded.

“Claire told me right away,” Sam said, leaning against the door. “As soon as she realized who you were. Her sense of honor is too strong for corporate games. She wanted to quit right then, but I talked her out of it.” At Max's lifted brow, he added, “I knew she'd never let herself make that mistake again.”

Claire couldn't stay and listen to them talk about her. She felt exposed and raw, her deepest secrets laid out for the world to examine and chuckle over. A small sound of distress escaped her as she walked past Max, keeping her head averted.

“Claire!” He moved swiftly, catching her arm again and pulling her to a halt. Desperately she wrenched at her arm, trying to twist it from his grip, but he caught her other arm and held her still in front of him. Biting her lip, she stared fixedly at the knot of his tie and struggled for control. Why
did he have to hold her so close? She could feel his warmth, smell the exciting male muskiness of his skin. His nearness reminded her of things she would have to forget in order to survive. Her body felt the touch that had driven her to such feverish heights of pleasure and reacted wildly, independent of her control. Her nipples hardened, wanting the touch of his hands, his mouth; her legs quivered, wanting to wrap about his hips, and the emptiness in her wanted to be filled.

“Let me go,” she whispered.

“You're not in any shape to drive. You haven't eaten all day, and you look as if you might faint at any moment. I'll drive you home,” he insisted.

“I wouldn't go with you to a dogfight,” she said, using her last ounce of defiance. His grip slackened, and she pulled free, taking the chance to walk out of the office without him. It might be the only opportunity she had, and she was too upset to tolerate any more. Another minute and she would be weeping, completing her humiliation.

Her hurried steps carried her out of the building and to the parking lot. It was still raining lightly, but gusts of wind battered her, and flashes of lightning in the low-hanging purple clouds lit the darkness with momentary brilliance. The storm intensified the darkness, making the efforts of the streetlights seem ineffective. Her heels tapped sharply on the wet pavement as she ran to her car. She reached it and stopped to unlock it and only then heard the footsteps behind her. Cold terror washed down her spine, and tales of rape and robbery flooded her mind. Grasping her keys like a weapon, she whirled to face any assailants, but there was no one close to her. On the other side of the parking lot Max walked to his car and got in, and Claire sagged with relief.

Her hands were shaking as she opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, cautiously locking the door again. What if
it had been a mugger or a rapist? How many articles had she read that warned women against going to their cars alone at night? She'd been foolish to let her emotions push her into a dangerous situation, and she drew a deep breath. She had to get control of herself.

She was still shaky, and the rain made the streetlights reflect dizzyingly on the wet streets. She drove with extra care, not wanting to risk an accident. She didn't notice the car behind her until she turned down the street to her apartment building and the other car turned, too. Nervously she peered into the rearview mirror, trying to tell what kind of car it was, but the headlights were right in her eyes, and she couldn't see anything. Was she so on edge tonight that she was becoming paranoid? Quickly she found a parking place and pulled into it, deciding to wait until the other car had gone on before she got out.

But the other car slowed and pulled into the empty parking space beside her. It was a black Mercedes, and the man driving it had golden hair that gleamed like a halo in the silvery artificial glow of the streetlight.

Still shaking, Claire leaned her head on the steering wheel. He was determined to talk to her, and she was beginning to realize that he didn't give up once he'd decided to do something. How had she ever thought him civilized? He was as ruthless as any Viking, and she feared him as well as loved him because he would destroy her if she didn't find a way to keep him at a distance, to protect herself with indifference.

He tapped on the window, and she jerked her head up.

“It's raining harder,” Max said, his voice muffled through the glass. The rain beaded and ran down the windshield, emphasizing his words. “Let's go in, dear. You're going to get soaked if you wait much longer—I think a new storm is coming in.”

She flinched at the endearment, amazed at how easily it
rolled off his tongue. How many other women had been fooled by his glib lies?

He wasn't going to give up and go away, and she was too tired to sit out in the car indefinitely. Gathering her wavering strength, she got out of the car and carefully locked the door, then hurried up the sidewalk without looking at him.

He stretched out his arm and opened the door for her and was right beside her in the elevator. Claire clutched her keyring, keeping it ready. Damn him, why wouldn't he give up? What did it matter to him, anyway?

Catching her wrist firmly, he relieved her of the keys and opened the door, stepping inside to turn on the lights and pulling her in with him. He released her wrist to close the door, and tossed her keys onto the small table that stood by the door, her catchall table that she had found in a flea market and refinished. Fixedly she stared at the table; it wasn't a Queen Anne, like the one in his foyer. She remembered the way he had lifted her onto that elegant Queen Anne table and moved between her thighs, and for a moment she thought she really might faint, after all. Her legs felt wobbly, and there was a faraway roar in her ears. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen would steady her.

“Sit down,” Max said roughly, propelling her toward the couch. “You look dead white. Are you pregnant?”

Stunned, she stared helplessly at him, sinking down onto the cushions as her legs folded beneath her. “What?” she gasped.

“You haven't eaten. You're pale. You've lost weight, you feel ill.” He enumerated all the things that had been haunting him since that explanation had first blasted into his mind. “Did you think I wouldn't notice that Sam opened the window for you this afternoon? Why would you tell him and not me?”

“I haven't told him anything,” she protested, thrown off balance by his line of questioning. “I'm not pregnant!”

“Are you certain? Have you had your period this month?”

For the first time that night color flooded her cheeks. “That isn't any of your business!”

His face was grim as he stood over her. “I think it is. I didn't protect you that night—
any time
that night—and I don't think you're on the pill. Are you?” Her expression was answer enough. “No, I didn't think so.”

“I'm not pregnant,” she repeated doggedly.

“I see. You're simply on a diet, is that it?”

“No. I'm exhausted. It's as simple as that.”

“That's another symptom.”

“I'm not pregnant!” she yelled, then buried her face in her hands, aghast at her loss of control.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!”

“All right,” he said with sudden calm. “I apologize for upsetting you, but I wanted to know. Now sit there while I get something for you to eat.”

The last thing she wanted was something to eat. She wanted him to get out of her apartment so she could fall facedown on her bed and sleep. But she couldn't chase him out, because her legs were lead weights, and suddenly it wasn't worth the effort of getting up. She sat there staring blankly in front of her, wondering how she could have been so stupid as not to have considered the possibility of a pregnancy, but the truth was that it hadn't entered her thoughts at all. Nature had assured her that she wasn't pregnant, but she hadn't thought of it even then. It was a good thing, because she wasn't sure she could have borne the added stress. What if she had been pregnant? Would it have been all right this time? Would she have held her own baby in her arms? Max's baby, with golden hair and eyes like the sea. Suddenly pain shot through her, because it wasn't to be, and she wished it could have been.

She was so completely exhausted that to continue sitting upright was asking too much of her body. With a quiet little sigh she sank back against the cushions of the couch, her eyelashes sinking down as if pulled by a force she couldn't withstand. With the suddenness of a black curtain dropping down, she was asleep.

When Max came back into the living room with a tray loaded with a selection of sandwiches, a glass of milk for Claire and a cup of coffee for him, because he was hungry too, he was braced to receive all her hurt accusations, but he was also ready to stay there all night, if necessary, to explain his side of it and convince her that they had something special between them. Then he saw her curled against the cushions, one arm folded in her lap and the other hanging to the side in that limp way that indicated deep sleep. Her hand was lying palm upward, her fingers curled slightly, and he stared down at the peculiar, innocent vulnerability of her open palm, so soft and pink. Memory seared him. Sometime during the night they had spent together, during one of those frantic, greedy matings, he'd taken her hand and carried it down his body, and every muscle in him had jerked in reaction to her gentle fingers closing around him. He jerked now in reaction to the memory, his body growing hard and sweat popping out on his brow.

He swore soundlessly and set the tray down, bringing his surging appetite under iron control. Now wasn't the time to seduce her, assuming that he could even get her to wake up. He looked at the tray of food, then at Claire, sleeping so deeply. She needed both food and rest, but evidently her body had taken over and given sleep the highest priority. The kindest thing now would be to let her sleep, even though it meant postponing that talk once again.

Bending down, he gently slid his arms around her, one under her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her
easily. Her head fell sideways against his shoulder, her gentle breath warming his flesh through his shirt, and he stood still for a moment with her clasped in his arms, his eyes almost closed as he drank in her nearness, the softness of her body in his arms and the faint, elusive sweetness of her skin. Until then he hadn't realized quite how much he'd missed her, but now the delicious agony of holding her again almost made him groan aloud. She fit into his arms in a way no other woman ever had. Max had held many soft, trembling bodies against him and beneath him, but now he couldn't recall any of the others. Only Claire. She made him feel oddly complete, and the thought disturbed him, because that meant he was incomplete without her.

He carried her into the bedroom and eased her down onto the bed. She was so soundly asleep that she didn't even murmur but lay exactly as he'd placed her. With the expertise of a man who had undressed many women, Max removed the short lightweight jacket she wore, then pulled her blouse free of the skirt. It was a thin silk blouse, and beneath it he could see the lacy edge of her camisole, reminding him of the marvelously sexy underwear she wore. Reminding him? He wiped his perspiring forehead. His problem was forgetting.

Reaching beneath her, he unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt then worked the garment down her legs. She wasn't wearing a camisole, but a full-length slip, all silk and lace. His hands began a fine trembling as he pulled off her shoes and set them aside. He didn't dare go any farther. Not only would she not appreciate being stripped naked, but he was suddenly afraid that his control would snap if he continued. He thought of the satin and lace garter belts she wore, and the filmy underpants, and his body flooded with heat. Bloody hell! He swore furiously, silently, forcing himself to his feet. Her penchant for sexy underwear was likely to give him a fetish.

With effortless strength he lifted her and turned the cover back, then placed her between the sheets. She looked so tired, he thought, pushing back a strand of hair from her temple. Her face was pale and strained, with dark shadows under her eyes, but it was a relief to know that it was only exhaustion instead of the strain of early pregnancy that had put those marks there. He had never before lost control like that, not only of his body, but of his mind. He had always made certain that his partner was protected and been more than willing to assume responsibility if she hadn't taken care of it herself. Then, and only then, would he unleash his sexuality, lose himself in the sensual pleasures of the flesh. But with Claire, he hadn't even thought of it. He had had only one thought, to penetrate, and had been blind to everything else. Even now he was stunned by the driving urgency he'd felt, the simple and powerful animal instinct to mate that had taken control. He didn't like the feeling. He'd always thought that the power of his mind could control the lusty appetites of his body. His icy, superlative intelligence had
always
been in control…until Claire had responded to him, and the restraints he'd been placing on himself had shattered under the violent surge of desire.

He hadn't even had the control, the consideration, to take her to bed. He had simply lifted her onto the table in the foyer, pushed her velvet skirt to her waist and thrust into her. She was such a delicate woman, as finely made as the finest porcelain, and he'd taken her with all the finesse of a conquering warrior. The only thing that kept him from being completely disgusted with himself was the memory of her response, the way she had clung to him, twisted against him, the little whimpers in her throat as she met his thrusts, the way she had cried out and the sweet inner clenching that had signaled her peak of satisfaction. Behind her distant manner
was a capacity for passion that overwhelmed him and made him hunger for her. He wanted her all for himself.