Almost Forever (2 page)

Then a warm hand touched the small of her back, and she glanced up in surprise as Max Benedict appeared at her side. “I'm sorry I was detained,” he apologized smoothly. “Are you ready to leave, Claire?”

He made it sound as if they had other plans, and Claire was desperate enough to seize the opportunity of escape. “Yes, of course. Max, I'd like you to meet Helene and Jeff Halsey.”

He took over, all suave courtesy as he murmured his name, inclined his head over Helene's hand and shook Jeff's. Claire almost laughed at the dazed look in Helene's winsome blue eyes. She might be happily married and very pregnant, but that didn't make her immune to Max Benedict's charm! Then he glanced at his watch and murmured, “We really must go, dear.”

“Go” was exactly what Claire wanted to do. With an effort she kept a smile on her face as she listened to Max say all the polite things; then his hand applied a steady pressure on her back as he walked with her to the bedroom, where she'd put her small evening bag. She dug it out from under a tangle of other bags, lacy shawls, a few unglamorous raincoats and several mink jackets. He stood in the doorway waiting for her. He didn't say anything, and Claire wasn't able to read anything in his expression. Why had he rescued her? It had certainly been a deliberate action on his part, but she couldn't think of any reason why he should have made the effort. After all, they were complete strangers; the brief conversation
they'd had on the terrace hadn't been enough to qualify them as even casual acquaintances. She was more than a little wary of him, and all her defenses sprang into place.

But first there was an exit to make, and getting out of there took priority over everything else right then. What better way to do it than on the arm of the most breathtaking man whom she'd ever seen? Handsome, charming men had a few uses, after all; they weren't much on permanency, but they were great for making impressions.

A curiously cynical smile touched his perfectly carved lips, as if he'd read her mind. “Shall we?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She left the party on his arm, but as soon as the door was closed behind them she stepped away from his touch. The streetlights spread their silvery light over the lawn and the tangle of cars parked in the driveway and along the street, obscuring the faint stars that blinked overhead. The spring night was warm and humid as the young season celebrated its birth with an exuberant burst of heat, determined to banish the last of the winter chill. A bird chirped shyly in a tree, then fell silent as their footsteps on the sidewalk disturbed it.

“Did the bitch set that up deliberately?” he asked in such a calm, cool voice that for a moment Claire wasn't certain she'd heard the steel in his tone. She glanced up and found his face undisturbed by any hint of temper, and decided that she'd been mistaken.

“It was awkward, but not tragic,” she finally said, unwilling to share with this stranger even a hint of what it had actually cost her. She'd never been able to let anyone see what went on inside her mind; the more something hurt, the more she retreated behind a meaningless smile and blank, immovable remoteness. It was a trait that, when she'd been a child, had infuriated and frustrated her mother, who had been
determined that her youngest daughter would follow in the footsteps of her other daughter, who was bright and beautiful and talented and could melt stone with her sunny laughter. But the more she tried to force Claire out of her backwardness, the more Claire had retreated, until eventually Alma Westbrook had given up.

Suddenly aware from the silence that had fallen between them that her thoughts had wandered again, Claire stopped on the sidewalk and held out her hand. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Benedict. It was nice meeting you.” Her tone was polite but final, making it clear that she considered the evening at an end.

He took her hand but didn't shake it. Instead his fingers clasped hers lightly, warmly, a touch that didn't demand anything. “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night, Claire?” he asked, then added, “Please,” as if he sensed the refusal that she'd been about to make.

She hesitated, vaguely disarmed by that “please,” as if he didn't know that he could have the company of almost any woman he wanted, whenever he wanted. Almost. “Thank you, but no.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly, and she saw the glitter of his vivid eyes. “Are you still carrying a torch for your ex-husband?”

“That's none of your business, Mr. Benedict.”

“You didn't say that a moment ago. I rather thought you were relieved by my interference in something that is now none of my business,” he said coolly.

Her head lifted, and she took her hand from his. “Payback time, is it? Very well. No, I'm not still in love with Jeff.”

“That's good. I don't like rivals.”

Claire looked at him in disbelief, then laughed. She didn't want to dignify that last statement by challenging him; what did he think she was, the biggest fool alive? She had been,
once, but not again. “Goodbye, Mr. Benedict,” she said in a dismissive tone and walked to her car.

When she reached out to open the car door, she found a lean, tanned hand there before hers. He opened the door for her, and Claire murmured a quiet thank-you as she got in the car and took her keys from her bag.

He rested one arm on the roof of the car and leaned down, his turquoise eyes narrowed and as dark as the sea. “I'll call you tomorrow, Claire Westbrook,” he said, as cool and confident as if she hadn't already dismissed him.

“Mr. Benedict, I've tried not to be rude, but I'm not interested.”

“I'm registered,” he replied, amusement twitching at his mouth, and despite herself Claire found herself staring at his lips, almost spellbound by their seductive perfection. “I've had all my shots, and I'm reasonably well mannered. I'm not wanted by any law-enforcement agency, I've never been married, and I'm kind to children. Do you require references?”

A warm laugh bubbled past her control. “Is your pedigree impressive?”

He squatted in the open door of the car, smiling at her. “Impeccable. Shall we discuss it over dinner tomorrow night?”

There was a small, curious softening inside of her. Without allowing herself to dwell on it, she'd realized for some time that she was lonely. What harm could there be in having dinner with him? She certainly wasn't going to fall in love with him—they would talk and laugh, enjoy a nice meal, and perhaps she would make a friend.

She hesitated a long moment then gave in. “All right. Yes, thank you.”

He laughed outright now, his white teeth gleaming. “Such enthusiasm! My dear, I promise I'll be on my best behavior. Where shall I pick you up, and at what time? Eight?”

They agreed on the time, and Claire gave him directions to her apartment. A moment later she was driving away, and by the time she stopped at the first traffic signal, her brow was furrowed in consternation. Why had she agreed to go out with him? She'd sworn to avoid his type like the plague, yet he'd neatly worked around her defenses and made her laugh, and she found herself liking him. He didn't seem to take himself too seriously, which would have made her run at top speed in the opposite direction. He'd also shown kindness in coming to her rescue….

He was far too dangerous to her peace of mind.

By the time she let herself into her apartment, she had decided to cancel the date, but as she closed the door and locked it, the empty silence of the rooms rushed at her, overwhelming her. She had refused to get a cat, feeling that would be the crowning symbol of her aloneness, but now she wished that she had some sort of pet, anything, to welcome her home. A cat or a dog wouldn't care if she never quite measured up to expectations. A full belly, a warm bed and someone to scratch it behind the ears was all a pet would expect. Come to think of it, she thought tiredly, that was all humans needed. Food, shelter and affection.

Affection. She'd had the food and shelter, all the material trappings of an upper-middle-class childhood. She'd even had affection, but it had been the absentminded, exasperated crumbs of the doting love that her parents had given to Martine. Claire couldn't even blame them; Martine was perfect. Some sisters might have lorded it over a shy, gawky younger sister, but Martine had always been kind and patient with Claire and even now worried about her. No matter how busy Martine was with her thriving law practice, her popular, outgoing children and her equally busy husband, she always made time to call Claire at least twice a week.

Still, something inside Claire had always shriveled at her parents' obvious preference for Martine. She could remember staring at herself in a mirror as a child and wondering what was wrong with her. If she had been ugly or possessed a nasty disposition, at least then she would have been able to find some reason for not being quite good enough to please her parents. But even though she hadn't been as beautiful as Martine, she'd still been a pretty child, and she'd tried so hard to please everyone, until she'd realized that her best wasn't going to be good enough and began to withdraw. That was what was wrong with her: she simply wasn't up to par. Martine was beautiful; Claire was merely pretty. Martine was a sunny, outgoing child; Claire was prone to unexplained bouts of tears and shrank from people. Martine was talented, a marvelous pianist and an outstanding art student; Claire refused to study any sort of music and often hid herself away with a book. Martine was brilliant and ambitious; Claire was bright but didn't apply herself. Martine married a handsome, equally ambitious young lawyer, went into practice with him and had two gorgeous, happy children; Claire had married Jeff—the one time in her life she'd ever pleased her mother—but the marriage had fallen apart.

Now, from a distance of five years, Claire had a very clear view of her marriage and the reasons it had failed. Most of it had honestly been her fault. She had been so terrified of failing to live up to what she thought everyone expected of her as Mrs. Jefferson Halsey that she had dashed around trying to be the perfect social hostess, the perfect homemaker, the perfect sport and had spread herself so thin that there had been almost nothing left over for Jeff. At first he'd tolerated it; then the gulf between them had widened and his eye had begun wandering…and settled on Helene, who was beautiful, older than Claire and marvelously self-assured. Only Claire's unexpected
pregnancy had prevented a divorce right then. To his credit, Jeff had been tender and kind to Claire, even though her pregnancy had been the end of his relationship with Helene. He loved Helene, but Claire was his wife and carried his child, and he refused to devastate her by asking for a divorce.

Then she had miscarried. He waited until she had recovered physically then told her that he wanted out. Their divorce had probably disappointed half of Houston in its lack of acrimony. Claire had known that it was over before she'd ever lost the baby. They divorced quietly, Jeff married Helene as soon as it was legally possible, and within a year Helene had presented him with a son. Now she was pregnant again.

Claire washed her face and brushed her teeth, then got into bed and picked up her book from the night table, trying not to think of the baby she'd lost. That was the past, as was her marriage, and really, the divorce had been the best thing that had ever happened to her. It had forced her to wake up and take a good look at herself. She had been wasting her life trying to please everyone else, rather than herself. She was going to
be
herself, and for the past five years, she had been. On the whole, she was content with the life she'd made for herself. She had a good job; she read when she liked and as much as she liked. She listened to the music she preferred. She was really closer now to Martine than she'd ever been before, because Claire no longer felt threatened by her older sister. She was even on better terms with her parents…if only her mother would stop pushing her to “find a nice young man and settle down.”

Claire didn't go out a lot—she couldn't see any point in it. She wasn't inclined to settle for a lukewarm marriage based on common interests, and she wasn't the type to inspire red-hot passion. She had learned control and how to protect herself with that control. If that made her cool and unrespon
sive, that was fine. Better that than to leave herself open to the devastating pain rejection brought.

That was the life she'd chosen and deliberately built for herself; why, then, had she accepted a dinner date with Max Benedict? Despite his sense of humor, he was still a playboy, and he had no place at all in her life. She should politely but firmly break their date. Claire closed her book, unable to read it, after all; Maxwell Benedict's handsome face kept swimming before the print. Her brown eyes were troubled as she turned out the lamp and pulled the sheet up to cover her. Despite all the warnings of her instincts, she knew that she wasn't going to break the date.

 

Max sat in his hotel room, his feet propped on the coffee table and a pot of coffee at his elbow. His brow was furrowed with an intense frown as he read one of the thick reports he'd received in the mail. One lean forefinger stroked his left eyebrow as he read; his reading speed was phenomenal, and he had almost finished. Absently he reached for the coffeepot, and the frown turned impatient as he realized that the pot was nearly empty. He replaced the pot on the tray and pushed it aside. Coffee! He'd become addicted to the stuff, another American habit that he'd acquired.

Swiftly he finished the report then tossed it aside. His eyes narrowed to slits. Anson had picked up hints that another company was after Bronson Alloys. That was a disturbing development in itself, but even more alarming were the rumors that this company had ties to China. If the rumors were true, then word had somehow gotten out that Bronson had developed an alloy that was lightweight and almost indestructible, superior to the alloy used for spy planes. So far, the alloy itself was only a rumor—nothing had been announced, and if
anything had been developed, Sam Bronson was keeping it to himself. Still, the rumors were persistent.