Almost Forever (9 page)

He eased Claire down on the couch, stretching her out
full-length on her stomach. “What're you doing?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Just rubbing your back,” he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. He used the strength of his hands to find the kinks left by tension, and silence fell between them, except for the gentle sound of Claire's sighs. Max noticed her eyelids drooping again, and a smile tugged at his chiseled lips. She was actually going to go to sleep on him. That had never happened to him before, at least not this early in the evening. Women had gone to sleep in his arms, after the loving, but Claire seemed totally unaware of his sexuality. Even when their bodies had brushed in the kitchen, while they were cleaning up, she'd given no sign that she noticed it; it was as if she didn't even know sex existed.

He looked down at her, her honey-blond hair spread out across the couch, her lips soft and relaxed, those enormous, velvet-brown eyes closed. His hands looked big against her slender back; if he put his thumbs together on her spine, his spread fingers would reach around to the sides of her breasts. He could feel the fragile cage of her ribs beneath the soft fabric of her sweater and the even softer silk of her skin. She was asleep, in more ways than one—he wanted to wake her up and take her to bed, then wake her up sexually. He wanted to make her aware of him, so that she never again looked at him with that maddening distance in her eyes. But not yet. Not quite yet. He couldn't take the chance of frightening her off until he had found out all he needed to know for that bloody damned takeover. But then…then he would move, and Claire Westbrook would find out what it was like to be a woman in his bed.

His hands trembled as he looked down at her, and for the first time he wondered what she would say when she discovered his true identity. She would be angry, of course—he couldn't imagine her
not
being angry—but he thought he
could handle her anger. It was the thought that she might be hurt that disturbed him. He didn't want to hurt her in any way. He wanted to hold her, make love to her,
cherish
her, damn it! It was insupportable that he might lose the trust he had so slowly earned from her, that she would no longer give him any of her slow smiles or quiet company. He'd met no other woman like Claire, no one so gentle or remote. He never knew what she was thinking, what dreams went on behind those dark eyes. Max was extraordinarily acute where women were concerned. Only Claire eluded him, and every smile, every thought, she gave him was like a treasure, because it allowed him closer to the secret woman behind her aloof facade.

Tenderness filled him as he watched her. She really was exhausted; if he couldn't take her to his bed, then she needed to be in her own. Gently he woke her, enjoying the way she blinked her dark eyes at him in confusion. Then she realized where she was, and a blush of mortification spread over her cheeks. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, scrambling to her feet. “I didn't mean to fall asleep.”

“Don't worry about it—you were tired. What are friends for? I'd have let you sleep on the couch, but I thought you'd be more comfortable in your own bed.” They walked to the foyer, and he held her jacket for her. He was quiet on the drive back to her apartment, and Claire was still too sleepy to be interested in talking, either. It was raining again, a slow drizzle that kept the streets wet, and the chill made her huddle deeper into her jacket.

He checked her apartment while she watched, knowing that he would get that arrogant look if she suggested that he didn't need to do it. “I'll call you tomorrow,” he said, coming back to her and cupping her chin in his hand.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, feeling that each hour until she saw him again would seem a year long. “Max?”

He lifted a brow at her hesitant tone, waiting.

“What I said about the alloy…”

“I know. I promise, I won't say a word about it. I understand how sensitive that information can be.” It was a promise he felt safe in giving, since he had no need to discuss the alloy with anyone. Anson already knew about it. Their problem now was the possibility—no, the probability—that a foreign interest, almost certainly unfriendly, was working behind the scenes to gain that technology through a takeover using a domestic company as a front. Bronson would move swiftly to protect his company from such a threat, and in doing so also protect it from other takeover attempts.

She looked so incredibly soft and sleepy, her defenses down. He tilted her chin up and bent to kiss her lightly, his mouth closing over hers before she realized he wasn't going to give her another brotherly peck on the cheek. He kept the contact light and swift, but almost immediately she stiffened and backed away from him, that damned blank look coming over her face. He dropped his hand and stepped away from her, as if he hadn't noticed anything, but a primal rage burned in his gut. Damn her, someday soon he'd make her see him as a man!

“I'll call tomorrow,” he said again. “I have to investigate a few details, so I'll be busy until early afternoon, but I'll call you before you leave work.” Without waiting for her agreement, he let himself out and walked away.

“C
laire, dear, I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this,” Alma argued gently. “It's just a small party to repay some social favors, and I'd like for you to come. Your father and I would both like you to come. We don't see enough of you. Martine and Steve will be there.”

Knowing it was useless, because when Alma used that gentle voice it meant that she'd dug in her heels and wasn't budging an inch, Claire tried again. “Mother, I don't like going to parties.”

“Well, I don't like giving them. They're too much trouble, but I do it because it's expected and helps your father.”

Which meant that Alma was doing her duty, Martine and Steve were doing their duty by showing up as the supporting cast, and Claire, as usual, was failing to come up to par, by refusing to do her part. Claire winced inside.

“You can leave early, I know you have to work tomorrow,” Alma soothed, reading her victory in Claire's silence.
“And bring Max Benedict with you—from the rumor flying around town, Harmon and I think we should be better acquainted with him.”

“What rumor?” Claire asked, horrified.

“That things look pretty serious between you. Really, you could at least have warned me, so I wouldn't have to act as if I knew what everyone was talking about.”

“But we
aren't
serious! We're just friends.” Claire had repeated that statement so often that she was beginning to feel like a parrot who knew only one phrase.

“You haven't been seeing him regularly?”

Only every day, but how could she tell Alma that without it sounding as if there was a passionate romance going, when it wasn't a romance? It was…well, it was almost like a partnership. They provided each other with companionship, simple, undemanding companionship. “I've seen him, yes.”

“Leigh Adkinson saw you having lunch with him on Monday, Bev Michaels saw you having dinner with him on Tuesday, Charlie Tuttle saw you with him last night in a mall, shopping. Every day! That's pretty regular, dear. Now, I'm not pushing you—let the relationship develop at its own pace. But, really, it would be so much more comfortable if Harmon and I were better acquainted with him.”

“I'll be at the party,” Claire said quietly. She might as well capitulate and get it over with, because Alma wasn't about to give up.

“With Max.”

“I don't know. I haven't talked to him about today. He may have a date.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Alma chuckled. “Thank you, dear. We'll see you both tonight.”

Claire hung up, biting her lip in consternation. What a way to begin the morning! Alma's call had come mere seconds
before Claire's alarm clock had gone off. Well, her mother might be certain that Max didn't have a date, but Claire wasn't. Max was too much of a man not to have a love life, and since he didn't have that sort of relationship with Claire, nor did he seem interested in developing one, it followed that he would be seeing other women. If not tonight, then soon. A rest from strenuous pursuit was one thing, but a healthy man wouldn't let it go on too long. Max had a man's needs, and Claire had seen how women followed him with their eyes.

He couldn't have made it more obvious that he wasn't physically attracted to her. He hadn't kissed her again after that brief kiss on Monday night. As light as it had been, it had sent tingles of electricity shooting all through her body, and she had had to force herself to step away from him, to keep him from seeing how it had affected her. That one small touch and she had been ready to throw herself at him, just like all those other women. She had cried herself to sleep that night, certain she'd made a fool of herself and that he would never come near her again, but he'd called her the next day as promised and didn't seem to have noticed what had happened. Perhaps she had covered it well enough that he didn't suspect.

It didn't seem possible that it had been only a week since she'd met him. She had seen him every day, usually twice a day, when he met her for lunch, and after work, too. She sometimes felt as if she knew him better than she'd ever known anyone before, even Jeff, but at times Max was like a stranger. If she looked up quickly…she would occasionally catch him watching her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. If crossed, he could be a hard man, but he always kept himself under strict control, and it was that control that made her trust him.

She thought of not even asking him to go to her mother's party. She could go by herself, stay long enough to be polite
then plead tiredness and go home early. That would satisfy Alma. But it would also mean that Claire wouldn't see Max that day, and emptiness filled her at the thought. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed herself up on the pillows and punched out his number on the telephone.

It rang only once before he answered it, his voice deep and a little husky with sleep. As always, Claire's heart gave a tiny leap at hearing him speak.

“It's Claire. I'm sorry to wake you,” she apologized.

“I'm not sorry you woke me,” he said and yawned. “I had planned to call you as soon as I woke, anyway. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that. Mother just called. She's giving a cocktail party tonight and insists that I be there.”

“Am I invited?” he asked with that smooth, cool self-confidence that often amazed and disconcerted her. Max was always so certain of what he was about. It was as if he knew Alma had insisted that Claire invite him and as if he was equally aware that Claire, being herself, would find it difficult to ask him. The more he seemed to see inside her mind, the more Claire tried to keep him from doing just that. She was in love with him; he wasn't in love with her. If he knew that…he would pity her, and he would also stop seeing her.

“You don't mind?”

“I like your family. Why should I mind?”

“People are talking about us.”

“I don't give a bloody damn what people say,” he said calmly then yawned again. “What time is the party?”

“Seven.”

“Of course. Everything starts at seven. I'm going to be a bit tight on time, darling. I have to go out of town today, and I'll be shaving it down to a whisker if I drive all the way to my apartment, then to your apartment, then to your parents'
house. Would it inconvenience you terribly if I simply got ready at your apartment? It would save almost forty-five minutes in driving time.”

Her heart gave that stupid little leap again at the thought of his using her bathroom to shower in and then dressing in her bedroom. “No, it wouldn't be a bother,” she managed to say. “It's a good idea. What time will you be here?”

“About six. Will that give you time?”

“Yes, of course.” She would have to hurry, but she thought she could make it. It usually didn't take her long to get ready, and she had time to wash her hair before going to work. That would help.

“I'll see you tonight, then.”

It was a horribly busy day; Alma's phone call had set the tone for the entire day. No matter how she hurried, Claire seemed to be a step behind all day long—even routine tasks developed aggravating complications. Part of her job was to shield Sam from unnecessary interruptions, which meant that she had to handle them herself, and there were some things that simply couldn't be put off to the next day. She worked through lunch, trying not to wonder where Max was and wishing that she were with him, wherever he was.

It was midafternoon when the emergency reappraisals arrived by special delivery, and a slow smile moved across Sam's face when he read them. With a gesture of supreme satisfaction he tossed the reports on his desk and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “Even better than I'd hoped,” he told Claire. “The real estate values have quadrupled in the past year. We're safe, and I was really beginning to sweat it. Trading has picked up in our stock, though no pattern has developed yet. Someone's definitely after this company, but they're not going to get it. Take a look at that reappraisal.”

Claire read through the documents, amazed at the way the value of the land had skyrocketed. Once again Sam's instincts had been right. It was really uncanny, the way his long shots all seemed to pan out. He had bought that land as a hedge against inflation, and now the land would probably be what saved the company from an unfriendly takeover attempt, and Sam wouldn't have to entangle himself in government regulations before he was finished with his research.

Of all days, she was almost twenty minutes late leaving work. It was fifteen to six when she let herself into her apartment, and she pulled off her clothes as she dashed to the bedroom. She jumped in and out of the shower, and had just dried off and pulled on her robe when the doorbell rang. She pressed her hands to her clean face, wishing that she had at least had time to put on her makeup, but there was nothing she could do about that now.

“I had to work late,” she stammered in explanation when she opened the door to Max. “Let me get fresh towels and the bathroom is yours.”

He carried a fresh suit and shirt and a small traveling kit. A shadow of beard darkened his jaw, but his smile was relaxed. “Don't worry, we'll be on time,” he assured her, following her into the bedroom. He placed his clothing on the bed and carried the kit into the bathroom while she got fresh towels for him. Coming back out of the bathroom, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it across the bed, then began tugging at his tie. Her breath caught in her chest, and she turned away to sit down at her dresser, picking up a brush and pulling it through her hair without having any realization of what she was doing. She tried not to watch him, but the edge of her mirror caught him, and there was no way she could look away. He pulled his shirt free of his pants then unbuttoned it and pulled it off. For all his leanness he was un
expectedly muscular, his torso roped with long, smooth muscles that rippled when he moved. Dark brown curls grew across his chest, fascinating her with the discovery that his body hair was dark instead of blond, though she should have guessed, because his brows and lashes were dark brown, creating a striking contrast with his golden hair and framing his brilliant eyes.

To her relief he didn't take his pants off, though she wouldn't have been surprised if he had. Max was probably very comfortable with being nude in front of a woman, and he had no reason to be ashamed of his body. He was beautiful, even more beautiful than she'd dreamed, his body rippling with fluid strength that was usually hidden by his clothing.

He took his fresh pants off the hanger and took them into the bathroom with him. It wasn't until she heard the shower start that Claire recalled the need to hurry. She forced herself to begin applying her makeup, but her hands were shaking and she botched her eye makeup twice before she got it right. The shower stopped, and her mind immediately supplied a picture of Max standing there naked, drying himself on her towels. Hot color surged into her cheeks. She had to stop thinking about him! She was making a nervous wreck out of herself, when she should be concentrating on getting ready.

“Bloody hell!” he muttered clearly, then raised his voice. “Claire, I forgot my razor. Do you mind if I borrow yours?”

“No, go ahead,” she called back. He was shaving; she would have time to dress before he came out. Jumping up, she got out fresh underwear and pulled it on, not taking the time to savor the sensation of cool silk on her skin as she usually did. She smoothed hosiery on her legs, not daring to hurry with that task or she would put a run in the delicate fabric. Now, what to wear? She opened the closet door and hurriedly surveyed the contents—she didn't have that many dresses
suitable for a cocktail party. The water had stopped running in the bathroom; he would be out any moment. She jerked a cream-colored jersey dress off the hanger and pulled it over her head just as the bathroom door opened. Hidden in the folds of material, her face flamed red at the spectacle she was making of herself, with her head and upper torso fighting to emerge from the garment, while her lower body was exposed in only skimpy panties, a garter belt and hosiery. Turning her back on him, she tugged the dress into place and began fumbling with the back zipper.

“Allow me,” he said, his voice very close. His warm hands brushed hers aside, and he efficiently pulled up the tab of the zipper then hooked the tiny hook at the top. His hands dropped. “There.”

Keeping her face averted, she muttered a stiff thanks and returned to the dresser to repair the damage she'd just done to her hair. He was whistling under his breath as he finished dressing, and for a moment she envied his casual attitude, which was a measure of how accustomed he was to that type of situation. She leaned toward the mirror to apply her lipstick and saw him unzip his pants to tuck in his shirt. Her hand was shaking, and she had to take extra care with the lipstick to keep from smearing it.

Then he appeared in the mirror, standing behind her and bending down to check his hair, an abstract frown on his face. “Is everything in place?” he asked, standing back for her inspection.

She had to look at him then, and her eyes drifted over him. Again his charcoal-gray suit was ultraconservative but extremely well tailored. He knew what looked best on him; with his looks, trendy clothes would have made him too overpowering, like a neon light. The plain, unadorned clothes he chose enhanced rather than challenged his golden Viking
beauty. Perhaps the lean, high-cheekboned beauty of his face had a Celtic origin, but there was something, perhaps that touch of ruthlessness that she had sometimes sensed in him, that made her think again that many generations back he might have had a Viking ancestor who had gone raiding on English shores and left behind a reminder of his visit. “No, you're perfect,” she finally said, and he couldn't guess how much she meant those words.

“Let me look at you.” He took her hand, drew her from the chair and turned her for his inspection. “You're just right—wait, you need earrings.”