Almost Forever (19 page)

“Exactly.” Claire's dark eyes turned almost black. “He makes me so angry I could
spit!
”

Martine raised a militant fist. “Give him hell, honey!” Seeing the anger in Claire's face made Martine want to dance around the yard. Too often Claire held her emotions in, hiding her vulnerabilities from the rest of the world. Even when she
had lost her baby, Claire had been pale and quiet. Only Max had ever jostled her out of her composure. Claire might not think that Max cared for her at all, but Martine had seen Max watching her sister, and thought Claire was seriously underestimating the strength of his attraction to her. There was no doubt that he loved a challenge—he had that sort of fire in his eyes, that self-confident arrogance. But Claire didn't realize that she was an ongoing challenge, with her silences and perceptions, and the depths of her personality. If Martine read him correctly, Max would be fascinated by the complexity of Claire's character. And, damn him, if he hurt Claire again, he'd have to answer to Martine for it!

Claire felt as if she had made a momentous decision, but she was calm, even though the thought of changing her life so completely was a wrenching one. She had lived in her quiet, cozy apartment for five years, and it hurt to think of leaving, yet she knew that she had made the only logical choice. It was just that she preferred changes to come slowly, so she could adjust to them, rather than in a confusing rush.

She sat in silence that night, looking around and trying to accustom herself to the idea of a new apartment, a different city. She wasn't in the mood for either television or music, and she was too disturbed to find refuge in a book. There were plans to be made, work to be done—she had to find another apartment, get the utilities turned on, pack…say goodbye to her family. Martine already knew, but Alma would be the difficult one. It wouldn't really be goodbye, but it would be the end of easy access to her family. The distance between them would be great enough that she couldn't just get in the car and drive over whenever the whim took her.

Her doorbell rang, and she answered it without thinking. Max filled the doorway, looking down at her with a peculiarly intense glitter in his eyes. Claire tightened her hand on the
doorknob, not stepping back to allow him entrance. Why couldn't he leave her alone? She needed time by herself to get accustomed to the sweeping changes she was making in her life.

The glitter in his eyes intensified as he realized that she wasn't going to invite him inside. He put his hand on hers and gently but forcefully removed it from the doorknob, then stepped forward, crowding her back into the apartment. He shut the door behind him. “Are you sitting here brooding?” he asked shortly, glancing around the silent apartment.

Claire moved away from him, her face closed. “I've been thinking, yes.”

Strong habits had been established in the short time they had been together—Claire went automatically to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, then turned to find him leaning in the doorway, still watching her in a way that made her want to check all her buttons to make certain they were fastened. She would have to brush past him to get to the living room, so she opted for retaining the relatively safe distance between them and remained where she was. “You might as well know,” she said, throwing the words into the silence between them. “I've decided to take the job.”

“Is that what you've been brooding about?”

“It's a major change,” she replied coolly, using every ounce of self-control she possessed. “Didn't you have any doubts when you relocated from Montreal to Dallas?”

Curiosity sharpened his gaze even more. “Ah, yes, I've been meaning to ask you about that. Exactly how did you discover my last name?”

“I read a magazine article on Spencer-Nyle. It had a picture of you.”

He strolled into the kitchen, and Claire turned away to get two mugs out of the cabinet. Before she could turn around again, he was behind her, his arms braced on the cabinet on
either side of her, effectively trapping her. “I had intended to tell you that morning, when we woke up,” he said, bending his head to take a little nip at her ear. Claire sucked in her breath and twisted her head away, both alarmed and angered by the way his slightest touch made her pulse race. He ignored her movement of rejection and nuzzled her ear again, continuing his explanation whether she wanted to hear it or not. “But that phone call interrupted everything, and by the time I got back to Houston, you'd already found out, damn my luck!”

“It doesn't matter,” she protested tightly. “What could you have said? ‘By the way, dear, I'm an executive with a company that has targeted your company for takeover, and I've been using you to get information'?” She mimicked his clipped accent and saw his hands clench on the cabinet in front of her.

“No, that wasn't what I would have said.” He pushed himself away from her, and Claire turned, clutching the coffee mugs to her chest, to find him staring at her with barely restrained violence in his eyes. “I wouldn't have said anything at all until you were in bed with me. Trying to reason with you has turned out to be a waste of time.”

“Oh?” she cried. “I think it's terribly
un
reasonable of you to think you could just waltz back into my life and pick up where you'd left off, after what you did!” She slammed the mugs down onto the cabinet, then stared at them in horror. What if she'd broken them? She never lost her temper, never screamed or threw things or slammed them down, but now it seemed as if her anger was so close to the surface that Max could bring it out every time he spoke to her. She was reacting in a way that was totally unlike herself. Or maybe, she thought grimly, she was simply discovering facts about herself that she'd never before suspected. Max had a talent for drawing intense reactions from her. Grimly she sought control again, taking another calming breath. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you might want to know more about the job before you made your decision,” he muttered, still looking furious. He admitted to himself that he was lying. He had wanted to see her—he had no other reason.

“I appreciate the thought,” Claire said, as distant as the moon. She poured coffee into both mugs and extended one to him, then took a seat at her tiny kitchen table, which was just big enough for two. Max took the chair opposite her, still scowling as he drank his coffee.

“Well?” she prompted a few minutes later, when he still hadn't said a word.

His frown deepened. “You'll be secretary to the general office manager, Theo Caulfield. The departments of payroll, insurance, general accounting, data processing, maintenance, office supplies and equipment, as well as the secretarial pool, are all under his control, though each department has its own manager. It's a demanding job.”

“It sounds interesting,” she said politely, but she was being truthful. A job that diverse had to be interesting, and challenging.

“You'll need to work late occasionally, but the extra hours won't be excessive. You have two weeks to get settled. I would give you a month but the office is in an uproar with a lot of transfers, and you're needed on the job.” He didn't add that he was the reason the office was in an uproar. “I'll help you look for an apartment. You helped me, so I owe you a favor.”

Claire's face stiffened at the mention of his apartment; it was only an expensive prop, a part of his hoax. That apartment had given him the appearance of stability and permanence. “No, thank you. I don't need your help.”

His face turned dark, and he set his mug down with a thump. “Very well,” he snapped, getting to his feet and hauling her up with a strong grip on her arm. “You're determined not
to give an inch, not even to listen to my side of it. Be safe, behind those walls of yours, and if you ever think of what you might be missing, think of this!”

His mouth was hot and strong. His arms crushed her against him, as if he couldn't get her close enough. His tongue went deep, reminding her.

Claire whimpered, tears burning her eyes as the wanting curled in her again, as hot and alive as it had ever been.

Max pushed her away, breathing hard. “If you think that has anything to do with business, you're a damned fool!” he said harshly and slammed out of the apartment as if he couldn't trust himself to stay a minute longer.

T
o her surprise, Claire was too busy during the following two weeks to feel much anxiety over her move to Dallas. Finding an apartment wasn't easy—she spent hours inspecting and rejecting, getting lost time and again in the unfamiliar city but somehow having fun doing it. Alma, once she'd gotten over the shock of one of her daughters moving out of her immediate reach, threw herself into the apartment search with all her typical zest and spent days touring Dallas with Claire, ruthlessly hunting out any potential trouble spots in an apartment. Claire let her mother go on, amused by that overflow of energy. It was odd that the older she became, the closer Claire grew to her family. At some point, their beauty and self-confidence had ceased to intimidate her. She loved them and was proud of their accomplishments.

Even Martine was dragged into the apartment hunting, and together they made a list of the most suitable locations then began narrowing the choices. Claire didn't like the ultramod
ern condos, despite their conveniences, and though she hadn't really considered a house, in the end it was a tiny, neat house that won over the apartments. The rent was remarkably reasonable because of its size. Getting it ready for Claire to move in became a major family project. Claire and her father repainted the rooms in white to make them seem larger, while Alma and Martine bought material and sewed curtains to fit the odd-size windows. Steve put new dead-bolt locks on the doors and locking screens on the windows, then sanded and polished the old-fashioned wooden floors. Brad and Cassie, the children, romped in the postage-stamp yard and appeared periodically with demands for sandwiches and Kool-Aid.

On the day she moved in the entire house was in chaos, with the movers carting furniture and boxes in, while she and Alma and Martine tried to put everything in some sort of order. Harmon and Steve kept out of the decision-making, simply standing by to provide muscle if needed. Claire was headfirst in a box of books when a cool voice said from the door, “Would another pair of hands be welcome?”

Claire straightened abruptly, her face still as she tried to deal with the way the sound of his voice affected her. For two weeks Max had been as polite as a stranger, and she had been tormented by a lingering sense of loss. The tumult of moving, with its mingled moments of hilarity and frustration, and her pure physical exhaustion from so much work, had buffered her somewhat from her thoughts, but there were still far too many moments when she wished she had never found out the truth about him, that the hurt and anger would all just go away. The distance between them the past two weeks had hurt, too, though she had tried to ignore it. Why had he shown up now, strolling into the middle of the overflowing mess with that indefinable grace of his?

Harmon groaned, straightening from his task. “Another
strong back is just what we need! Take the other end of this table—it weighs a ton.”

Max picked his way over the cluttered floor to help Harmon lift the table and put it where Claire had directed. Alma sailed out of the kitchen, and a glowing smile broke over her face when she saw Max. “Oh, hello! Did you volunteer, or were you kidnapped?” she asked, going over to hug him.

“I volunteered. You know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen,” he said, smiling as he returned Alma's hug.

Claire turned back to the box of books she'd been unpacking, a tiny frown darkening her eyes. She hadn't told Alma all the circumstances behind her move to Dallas, but neither had she thought that her family would be having any further contact with Max. Perhaps Martine had revealed some things, but Claire didn't know and didn't want to ask. Would Alma have been so friendly to Max if she had known the truth? This could be a little awkward—they knew Max as Max Benedict, but he was really Max Conroy. Should she let them continue thinking that was his name or reintroduce him? What could she say? “Conroy is Max's real last name; he just uses Benedict as an alias occasionally.” She thought that Miss Manners probably hadn't ruled on this particular situation, so she decided to say nothing.

He fit in easily with her family, joking and conversing as effortlessly as he had before. They didn't know that this congeniality was a disguise for the driving power of his true personality. She watched him, but didn't talk to him except to answer direct questions and she sensed that he was watching her, too. She'd thought that he'd given up, but now she remembered telling Martine that he wasn't even familiar with the term. He hadn't given up—he'd simply been waiting. He calmly wrote down her unlisted telephone number, copying it off the telephone, and when he looked up to find her
watching him, he lifted an eyebrow in silent invitation for her to make an issue of it. Claire simply turned away to continue her chores. Attacking him now over a telephone number would make her look like an ungrateful wretch after he'd worked tirelessly most of the day, helping her get settled.

It was late when everything was put in its place, and everyone was yawning widely. Rather than attempt the long drive back to Houston that night, her family had elected to stay in a motel and drive back the next morning. Somehow Claire found herself waving goodbye to them from her new porch, with Max standing beside her as if he belonged there.

“Why did you come here?” she asked quietly, watching the taillights disappear down the street. The warm night sounds of chirping insects and the rustle of leaves in the trees from a slight breeze surrounded them, where only a moment ago there had been laughter and noisy yawns and enthusiastic cries of “Bye! Take care now. I'll call you tomorrow!”

“To help you with your things,” he said, holding the screen door open for her as she reentered the house. She didn't trust his bland tone for a minute. “And to make certain that you're comfortable. Nothing more sinister than that.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“You're welcome. Is there any coffee left in the pot?”

“I think so, but it is probably undrinkable by now. You drink too much coffee, anyway,” she said without thinking, going into the kitchen to pour out the stale coffee. He stopped her as she was beginning to make a fresh pot.

“You're right. I don't need any more coffee,” he said, taking the pot out of her hand and placing it in the sink. Grasping her elbow, he pulled her around to face him. “What I need is this.”

His other arm went around her waist, bringing her up against him, and he bent his head. His mouth closed over hers, and the hot, heady taste of him filled her. He kissed her with
deep, greedy hunger, until a painful hunger of her own began to coil in her body. Both angered and alarmed by the desire he could arouse so effortlessly, she jerked her mouth from his and pushed against his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscles beneath her palms.

To her surprise he let her go easily, releasing her and stepping back. Satisfaction was plain in his eyes, as if he'd just proved something to himself. He must have felt her response; for a brief moment she hadn't been able to prevent herself from melting against him, her body seeking his.

“I wish you hadn't come,” she whispered, her dark eyes locked on him. “Why involve yourself with my family? How do I tell them that you aren't Max Benedict, after all?”

“You don't have to tell them anything—they already know. I've explained it to your mother.”

Shocked, Claire stared at him. “What?” she stammered. “Why? When did you tell her?
What
did you tell her?”

He answered readily enough. “I told her that the takeover of Bronson Alloys by my company has complicated our relationship, but that I transferred you to Dallas so we would still be together and could work out the problems.”

He made it all sound so simple, as if he hadn't abandoned her as soon as he'd gotten the information he wanted! It was true that he hadn't been expecting the phone call that had forced him to return to Dallas, but it was also true that he hadn't made any attempt to contact her after that until the actual mechanics of the takeover had put him back in Houston. Now, in his typical high-handed fashion, he believed that all he had to do was move her to Dallas and the “complications” would be settled.

Her expression was so troubled, for once so easily read, with all her doubts and hurt there for him to see, that he had to fight the urge to pull her against him and shelter her in his
arms. Max had never known failure with a woman he wanted; they came easily into his arms and his bed, and they had always been so easy to read. It was ironic that Claire, the one woman he couldn't easily understand, should be the woman he wanted more intensely than he'd ever dreamed he would want a woman. He couldn't tell what she was thinking—her defenses were too strong, her personality too complex. Yet every glimpse he had of the inner woman only made him hungrier to find out more about her, to get deeper into her mind. Looking at her now, with her clothes grimy from the day's labors, her hair straggling down from its topknot, her face free of makeup and her velvety dark eyes full of pain and uncertainty, Max felt something jolt in his chest.

He was in love with her.

The realization stunned him, though now that he recognized it for what it was, he knew that the feeling had been there for some time. He had labeled it as attraction, desire, even challenge, and it was all of those, and more. Of all the women in the world, he hadn't loved any of the soft, willing beauties who had shared his bed and would have done anything for him. Instead it was a difficult, aloof, yet extraordinarily vulnerable woman who made him feel as if he would explode with joy if she smiled at him. He wanted to protect her, he wanted to discover all the hidden depths of her character, he wanted to lose himself in the unexpected and shattering passion she had to offer.

Claire moved away from him, rubbing the back of her neck tiredly and not seeing the arrested expression on his face. “How did you explain your change of name?”

It took a minute before he could gather himself and make sense of what she had asked. “I told her the truth, that I had been looking for certain information and didn't want Bronson to know my true identity.”

Claire thought Alma was so charmed by Max that she would be prepared to believe anything he said. “What did she say?”

An appreciative smile quirked Max's mouth as he remembered exactly what Alma had said. That lady did have a way with words, though he could hardly tell Claire that her mother had said, “If you hurt my daughter, Max Benedict, or Conroy, or whoever you are, I'll have your guts for garters!” Claire didn't seem to realize how fiercely protective her entire family was of her.

“She understood,” was all he said, watching Claire as she retreated even more, continually expanding the distance between them. She was so wary!

“I'm sure she did,” Claire sighed.

Impatiently Max closed the gap between them, his quick strides carrying him to her side. Claire looked up, startled by his sudden movement, then gave a soft cry as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up so her eyes were level with his. “Yes, your mother understood—it's a pity you don't!” he muttered, then put his mouth on hers.

There was a tiny, despairing cry deep inside her mind. How could she keep control of herself if he kept kissing her? Especially kisses like these, deep, hungry kisses, as if he couldn't get enough of her taste. His lips released hers and slid down to her throat, nipping at her skin as they went. He held her so firmly that his hands were hurting her, and she didn't care. Her eyes closed firmly, and tears welled beneath her lashes.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” she cried rawly. “Do you just chase anything that runs? Did it hurt your pride that I told you to leave me alone?”

He raised his head; his eyes were burning green fire. He was breathing harshly. “Is that what you think? That my ego is so enormous I can't stand for a woman to turn me down?”

“Yes, that's what I think! I'm a challenge to you, nothing more!”

“We burned each other up in bed, woman, and you think it was nothing more than gratifying my ego?” He put her on her feet, infuriated that she continually put the worst interpretation on his actions.

“You tell me! I don't know you at all! I thought you were a gentleman, but you're really a savage in a tuxedo, aren't you? Your instincts are to win, regardless of how ruthless you have to be to get what you want!”

“You know me pretty well, after all,” he snapped. “I go after what I want, and I want you.”

Claire shivered, alarmed by the hard expression on his face. Swearing under his breath, he took her in his arms again, holding her head against his chest, his fingers threading into her soft hair. “Don't be afraid of me, love,” he whispered. “I won't hurt you. I want to take care of you.”

As what? As a mistress? She shook her head blindly, the motion limited by the way he held her to his chest.

“You'll trust me again, I promise.” He murmured the words against her hair, and his hands slid down to stroke her back. Claire found that her hands were clenched on his shirt and that she was clinging instead of trying to push him away. “I'll make you trust me, love. We'll get to know each other. We have the time. There will be no more masks between us.”

He bent his head and kissed her again, and this time Claire's self-control wasn't strong enough to keep her from responding. Blindly she rose on tiptoe, straining against him, her mouth opening under the probing of his tongue. She kept making foolish mistakes where Max was concerned, and the latest one was the idea that she would be able to keep him at a distance. Shaking with love and pain that mingled into a tangled knot, she let the pleasure sweep through her, because
there was nothing she could do to stop it. His hand was on the buttons of her shirt, and there was nothing she could do to stop that, either. She trembled, waiting in an agony of anticipation for his touch, her body craving his heat and strength. Then his fingers were on her, sliding inside her opened shirt to cup her naked, swelling flesh, and electricity shot from her hardened nipples straight to her loins.