Almost Forever (22 page)

He flashed her a brilliant smile, standing and holding his hand out to her. Claire put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet and into his arms, kissing her long and hard. “Don't worry. Between your mother and mine, this wedding will be perfect. Nothing would dare go wrong.”

To Claire's consternation, he didn't take her to one of the small jewelry stores she'd anticipated. Instead she found herself seated in a luxurious salon while the manager brought trays of glittering jewels for her inspection. What on earth was Max thinking about? Surely he didn't think he had to compete with Jeff Halsey in the material things he could give her? Claire knew that Max was certainly not poor; his salary was far more than comfortable, but it didn't make him a millionaire. He didn't have to compete with Jeff in anything, because he had Jeff outclassed in everything.

But there the rings were, waiting for her to make a selection. “What I really want is a plain simple old-fashioned wedding band,” she said, frowning slightly.

“Certainly,” the manager said politely, starting to take away the tray of diamonds and emeralds and rubies.

“No, leave that,” Max instructed. “We'll look these over again while you're bringing the tray of wedding bands.”

Claire waited until the manager was out of hearing then turned to Max. “I prefer a wedding band, truly.”

He looked amused. “Darling, we'll have our wedding bands, and don't look so surprised. Of course I intend to wear a ring. I've waited long enough to be married. I'm not going to waffle about it. But this is for your engagement ring.”

“But I don't need an engagement ring.”

“Strictly speaking, no one
needs
any sort of jewelry. An engagement ring is just as old-fashioned and traditional as a
wedding band, a symbolic warning to other primitive and marauding males that you aren't available.”

Despite her misgivings Claire couldn't keep herself from smiling in answer to the twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, is that what you're doing, warning off other primitives?”

“One never knows what caveman instincts lurk beneath a silk shirt.”

Claire knew. She looked at him, and her breath caught as she remembered the wild sensuality behind his calm mask. Most people would never realize just how primitive he really was, because he disguised it so well with his lazy, good-humored manner. He was tolerant, so long as he could get his way with charm and reason, but she sensed the danger in him.

“That was supposed to be a joke,” he said lightly, touching her cheek to dispel the look she was giving him. “Take another look at these rings, won't you, before the poor man gets back with that other tray.”

She did look at them then shook her head. “They're too expensive.”

He laughed—he actually laughed. “Love, I'm not a pauper. Far from it. I promise you that I won't have to go in debt for any of these rings. If you won't choose, I'll do it for you.”

He bent over the tray, eyeing each ring carefully. “I really don't care for diamonds,” Claire tried, seeing that he was determined.

“Of course not,” he agreed. “They wouldn't suit you, not even with that sexy black velvet gown of yours. Pearls are for you. Try this ring.” He plucked a ring from its velvet bed and slipped it on her finger.

Claire looked down at it, and a feeling of helplessness came over her. Why couldn't it have been a truly hideous ring that she would have hated on sight? Instead it was a creamy
pearl, surrounded by glittering baguettes, and it looked just right on her slender hand.

“I thought so,” he said in satisfaction as the manager returned with a tray of wedding bands.

Claire was silent as they left, still trying to come to terms with the changes this wedding would bring in her life, had already brought even though they weren't married yet. Max put his arm around her and held her close, as if trying to shield her from the worries that darkened her eyes.

“What is it, love?” he asked, following her into the tiny house that she liked so much, but which had turned out to be only a temporary stopping place in her life.

“There are so many problems, and I'm not certain how to deal with them.”

“What sort of problems?”

“The wedding for one thing. It seems impossible, with so much to be done and the distance involved, the problems of transportation and housing and getting everything coordinated. The cake, the dresses, the tuxedos, the flowers, the receptions. Not only that, I've been divorced, and a white wedding is out of the question, if we can even have a church wedding at all.”

He held up his hand, halting her tense litany. “What did you just say?” he asked politely.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “You know very well what I said.”

“Then let me reassure you on two points, at least. One, we will be married in my family church, and no one will think anything of the fact that you've been married before. Two, you will definitely wear white.”

“That's totally unsuitable.”

“Let's talk it over with your mother, shall we? I think she'll agree with me.”

“Of course you think that! Has any female ever
not
agreed with you?” she said with a groan.

“You, love,” he teased. “Is there anything else bothering you?”

It was obvious that she wasn't getting anywhere with him. She sat down and twined her fingers together, watching him with somber dark eyes. “I've been thinking about my job. I realize that it's only reasonable that I leave the company after we're married, and I certainly haven't been there long enough to get attached to the job, but I do want to continue working somewhere.”

He watched her in silence for a moment, as if trying to read her thoughts. “If that will make you happy,” he finally said in a gentle tone. “I want you to be happy with our marriage, not trapped in a gilded cage.”

She was wordless; he'd never suffered from self-doubt, so how could she tell him that she wasn't worried about herself being happy but rather that he wouldn't be happy with her? He sat down beside her and eased her into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. “Don't worry about any of that, love. Let our mothers worry about the wedding, and we'll just enjoy watching them run about. I expect we'll have our share of problems after we're married, but let's not anticipate them, hmmm? They may never materialize.”

Whenever he had her in his arms, Claire felt reassured. Her hand drifted across his chest, absently stroking the hard muscles she found there. Beneath her ear his heartbeat picked up a beat in speed.

“I believe we've found another subject that needs discussing,” he muttered as he tightened his arms around her. “How likely is it that you're pregnant after last night?”

She caught her breath then concentrated and counted in her mind. “It isn't likely, not right now.”

His mouth nuzzled under her ear, finding the soft little
hollow there and filling it with kisses. Claire caught her breath again, her eyes closing as pleasure began heating her blood. Her breasts tautened, aching for his touch, and his uncanny sense of timing told him exactly when to cup his palm over her.

“I'll be more cautious until after we're married, then, but I damned well refuse to do without you for six weeks.” His mouth was at the corner of hers, his breathing mingling with hers. Blindly Claire turned her head until the contact was complete, her arms sliding around his neck.

Much later he swore softly as he got out of bed. “I'm not fond of this business of leaving you in the middle of the night,” he said in sharp displeasure. “Why don't you move in with me?”

Claire drew the sheet up to cover her, a little alarmed by the thought of living with him. Of course they would live together after they were married, but she would have six weeks to get used to the idea. She had lived alone and liked it for quite some time now. The loss of privacy wouldn't be an easy thing to handle. “Where would I put my furniture?”

“Don't be logical,” he said in frustration, buttoning his shirt. “Bloody hell, we do have some details to work out, don't we? Would you prefer to live in my apartment, or should we go house hunting?”

“I've never seen your apartment,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “I suppose we should begin looking for a house, as we'll need one eventually.”

For the children he planned, she thought. She lay on the bed watching him dress, her body nude and still throbbing from the power of his lovemaking, and she thought of being pregnant with his children, of nursing them and watching them grow. “How many children do you want?” she whispered.

He looked down at her, seeing her soft, slim body outlined by the sheet, and the dark wells of her eyes. His
hands stilled on the buttons. “Two, I think. Perhaps three. How many do you want?”

“That doesn't matter. I would be content with one, or half a dozen.” No, the number wasn't important at all.

Slowly he began undoing his buttons and stripped off his shirt again. Tossing it aside, he unzipped his pants and stepped out of them. “You make me react like a teenager,” he said, his eyes narrow and bright. Lowering himself onto the bed with her again, he forgot the irritation of living apart, and Claire forgot to worry. When he was making love to her, nothing else was real.

 

Instead of making the long drive to Houston, they flew down that Friday afternoon, and Max rented a car at the airport. It was already night, but the humid heat enveloped them like a wet blanket, and Claire sighed tiredly. It had been a hectic week, though they hadn't really done anything. But, rather than wait for the weekend, Alma had called every night about some detail that had to be discussed immediately.

She closed her eyes, wanting to rest on the drive to her parents' house. As excited as Alma was, Claire had no hope of getting to bed before midnight—there would be endless discussions about subjects they had already discussed endlessly.

“We're here, love,” Max said, touching her arm to wake her.

Claire sat up, startled that she had dozed so quickly. She started to get out of the car, then sank back against the seat. “We aren't at Mother's.”

“No, we aren't,” he agreed, taking her hand and urging her from the car.

“You kept the apartment?”

“It seemed reasonable. I knew I would have to be coming here on business several times a year, and we'll be visiting your parents. Until the original tenant returns, I see no reason to give it up.”

Claire was oddly reluctant as they went up in the elevator. She hadn't been in his apartment since the night they had first made love. Her face was burning as he opened the door and she stepped into the elegant black-tiled foyer, with the gilt-framed mirror over the lovely Queen Anne table. She had a vivid memory of her underwear lying discarded on the black tile.

Max dropped their overnighters where he stood and locked the door. His eyes were hot. “We'll go to your parents' house tomorrow.”

By now Claire was intimately familiar with that look. She retreated, her heart pounding, and stopped abruptly when she came up against the table.

“Perfect,” he crooned, his strong hands closing on her waist and lifting her up.

She buried her hot face against his shoulder. “Here?”

“It's my favorite memory, darling. You were so beautiful…so wild…so ready for me. I've never wanted any woman the way I want you.”

“I hated myself for being so shameless,” she confessed softly.

“Shameless? You were so beautiful, you took my breath.”

Beautiful wasn't a word that Claire was accustomed to hearing in connection with herself, but that night, in Max's arms, she felt beautiful. She would always blush when she remembered that foyer, but thereafter it was with excitement and remembered pleasure, never again with embarrassment.

 

“I don't see why you shouldn't wear white,” Alma said, making a note in a thick notebook she'd already half-filled with reminders. “This isn't the fifties, after all. Not white-white, of course, that's not your color, but you've always looked beautiful in a creamy golden-white.”

Alma and Martine had a full head of steam going, making plans enthusiastically. It was her wedding, but Claire was the
only calm one. Since she'd arrived that morning, she had listened to the constant chatter, letting them discuss every detail to death before they remembered to ask either her or Max's opinion. Occasionally she looked at Max, and the amusement in his eyes helped her to remain rational.

“The wedding will have to be in England,” Alma pronounced, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “I checked, and it's impossible to reserve a church here that's large enough to hold that many people on such short notice. Max, are you certain there won't be any problem in getting your church?”

“I'm positive.”

“Then it's England, and let your mother know. Better yet, give me her number and I'll call her. This schedule is going to be murder. Claire, you have to have your dress made here; there won't be time after we get to England. And we'll have to find one of those big garment boxes for shipping the dress over, but I suppose the dressmaker can help with that.”

“I could buy a ready-made dress in England,” Claire suggested.

“And take the chance of not being able to find what you want? No, that would be awful. Let's see, we'll need to be there at least three days early. Make that a week. Will that inconvenience your family, Max?”

“Not at all. There are so many of us, a few dozen more won't even be noticed. If you don't mind, I'll handle the plane reservations for the group. Do you have a list of everyone?”

Alma scurried around for her list of guests and wrote out another copy of it for Max. He glanced at it, then folded it and put it away in his pocket, not at all dismayed by the prospect of organizing the transportation of so many people to another country. Knowing what she did about executives, Claire thought that his assistant would probably inherit the burden.