“Claire,” he said in a quiet voice, drawing her gaze to him. Her eyes were dark pools, soft and velvety. “I want to kiss you.”

He felt the way her hand jerked in his, and he tightened his grip just enough to hold her. “Do I frighten you?” he asked, amused.

Claire looked away from the laughter in his face. “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said, her voice going stiff. “We’re just friends, remember, and—”

He got to his feet, laughing at her as he pulled her up and took the coffee cup from her free hand to set it down. “I’m not going to bite you,” he said, and kissed her.

It was a light, swift touch, exactly the way he had kissed her before. “There, did that hurt?”

His vivid eyes were dancing. He was teasing her, and she relaxed. She had thought that he meant a different kind of kiss, and she didn’t dare let him kiss her deeply. She wasn’t certain of her control; if he kissed her with any degree of passion, she felt that she would explode in unbridled response. He wouldn’t have any doubt then about the way she felt. He was too experienced, had been with too many women who were desperate to hold him, to not recognize the same lovesick symptoms in her. It was far better that he tease her rather than feel sorry for her.

Then he kissed her again.

Also available from LINDA HOWARD

HEARTBREAKER

SARAH’S CHILD

TEARS OF THE RENEGADE

MACKENZIE’S MOUNTAIN

COME LIE WITH ME

AN INDEPENDENT WIFE

LOVING EVANGELINE

ALL THAT GLITTERS

DIAMOND BAY

WHITE LIES

THE MACKENZIES

MIDNIGHT RAINBOW

AGAINST THE RULES

DUNCAN’S BRIDE

THE CUTTING EDGE

Almost Forever
Linda
Howard

www.mirabooks.co.uk

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Chapter One

Anson Edwards sat alone in his big plush office, his fingers steepled as he weighed the strengths of his two lieutenants, wondering which of the two would be best to send to Houston. His own strength was his ability to analyze quickly and accurately, yet in this instance he didn’t want to make a snap decision. Sam Bronson was an enigma, a man who played his cards close to his chest; it wouldn’t do to underestimate him. Instinct told Anson that an overt takeover attempt on Bronson’s metal alloy company would fail, that Bronson was wily enough to have hidden assets. Anson had to discover what those assets were, and their value, before he could realistically expect victory in his attempt to take Bronson Alloys under Spencer-Nyle’s corporate umbrella. He knew that he could take control simply by offering much more than the company could possibly be worth, but that wasn’t Anson’s way. He had a responsibility to the stockholders of Spencer-Nyle, and he wasn’t reckless. He would do what was necessary to take Bronson, but no more.

He could set a team of investigators on the job, but that would alert Bronson, and if Bronson were given any sort of warning he might be able to take evasive action that could drag into months. Anson didn’t want this; he wanted things to be over quickly. The best bet would be one man, a man whom he could trust in any situation. He trusted both Rome Matthews and Max Conroy completely, but which man would be the best one for the job?

Rome Matthews was his handpicked, personally trained successor; Rome was tough, smart, fair, and he set out to win at everything he did. But Rome had a formidable reputation. He was far too well-known in business circles, and Houston was too close to Dallas for Anson to hope that no one would know him. Rome’s very presence would trigger alarm in the business community.

Max Conroy, on the other hand, wasn’t that well-known. People tended not to take him as seriously as they did Rome; it was those male-model looks of his, as well as the lazy, good-humored image he projected. People just didn’t expect Max to work as hard at something as Rome would. But there was steel in Max Conroy, a ruthlessness that he kept skillfully disguised. That famous affability of his was only a pose; he kept the almost fearsome intensity of his character under strict control. Those who didn’t know him were always completely fooled, expecting him to be more playboy than executive.

So it would have to be Max, who would have a better chance of quietly gathering information.

Anson picked up a file again, leafing through the pages of information about key personnel with Bronson Alloys. Nothing could be learned from Bronson himself; the man was wary, and a genius. But a chain was only as strong as its weakest link, and Anson was determined to find Bronson’s weak link.

He came to the photograph of Bronson’s secretary and paused. Bronson appeared to trust his secretary completely, though there was no hint of romance between them. Anson frowned as he studied the photograph; the woman was a pretty, dark-eyed blonde, but no great beauty. There was a reserved expression in her dark eyes. She had been married to Jeff Halsey, the heir of a wealthy Houston family, but they had divorced five years ago. She was thirty-one now and hadn’t remarried. Anson checked her name: Claire Westbrook.

Thoughtfully he leaned back in his chair. Would she be vulnerable to Max’s seductive charm? It remained to be seen. Then he tapped the photograph in sudden decision. Claire Westbrook just might be the weak link in Bronson’s chain.

Claire slipped through the double doors onto the terrace and walked to the waist-high fieldstone wall that separated the terrace from the flower garden. Resting her hands on the cool stone, she stared blindly at the garden, not seeing the masses of blooms that were highlighted by strategically placed lights. How could Virginia invite Jeff and Helene, knowing that Claire had accepted an invitation? She’d done it deliberately, of course; she’d been gloating at the shock that Claire hadn’t been able to hide when her ex-husband arrived at the party with his beautiful, pregnant wife.

Tears burned at the back of Claire’s eyes, and she blinked to control them. She thought she could have handled an accidental meeting with aplomb, but she was stunned by Virginia’s deliberate cruelty. She and Virginia had never been close friends, but still, she’d never expected this. How ironic that Claire had accepted the invitation only at the urging of her sister, Martine, who thought it would do her good to get out of the apartment and socialize! So much for good intentions, Claire thought wryly, controlling the urge to cry. The episode wasn’t worth crying over, and it had taught her a lesson: never trust any of your ex-husband’s old girlfriends. Evidently Virginia had never forgiven Claire for being Mrs. Jeff Halsey.

“Did the smoke and noise become too much for you, too?”

Claire whirled around, startled by the words spoken so close to her ear. She’d been certain no one else was on the terrace. Determined not to let anyone know she’d been upset, she lifted one eyebrow in casual inquiry.

The man was silhouetted by the light coming through the double glass doors behind him, making it impossible to see his features, but she was certain she didn’t know him. He was tall and lean, his shoulders broad beneath the impeccable cut of his white dinner jacket, and he was so close to her that she could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne.

“I apologize; I didn’t intend to startle you,” he said, moving to stand beside her. “I saw you come out here and thought I’d enjoy some fresh air, too. We haven’t been introduced, have we? Maxwell Benedict.”

“Claire Westbrook,” she murmured in return. She recognized him now; they hadn’t been introduced before, true, but she’d seen him when he had arrived at the party. It was impossible not to notice him. He looked like a model, with thick blond hair and vivid eyes; Claire remembered thinking that a man with a face like his should be short, just to keep the scales balanced. Instead he was tall and moved with a casual masculine grace that drew every feminine eye to him. Despite the chiseled perfection of his face, there was nothing effeminate about him; his looks were wholly masculine, and whenever he looked at a woman, his gaze was full of male appreciation. Pretty women weren’t the only ones singled out for the megaton force of his charm; every woman, young or old, plain or pretty, was treated with a mixture of courtesy and appreciation that melted them, one and all, like a snowball in hot summer sunshine.

If he expected her to melt right along with the rest, she thought wryly, he was in for a disappointment. Jeff had taught her some hard lessons about handsome charming men, and she remembered every one of them. She was safe even from this man, whose charm was so potent that it was almost a visible force. He didn’t even have to flirt! His spectacular looks and flashing smile stunned, his crisp-edged British accent intrigued, and the quiet baritone of his voice soothed. Claire wondered if his feelings would be hurt when she failed to be impressed.

“I thought you seemed upset when you came out here,” he said suddenly, leaning against the wall with total disregard for the condition of his crisp white evening jacket. “Is anything wrong?”

My goodness, all that and he was perceptive, too! Claire shrugged, putting lightness in her tone when she answered, “Not really. I’m just not certain how to handle an awkward situation.”

“If that’s the case, may I be of any assistance?”

His offer was calm, polite and coolly controlled. Claire paused, vaguely intrigued despite herself. She had expected him to be smooth and sophisticated, but that element of control she sensed in him was out of the ordinary.

“Thank you, but it isn’t a major problem.” All she had to do was somehow make a graceful exit without anyone noticing that she was in full retreat. It wasn’t Jeff; she was long over him. But the baby that Helene carried was a reminder of a pain that she’d never gotten over, of the baby she’d lost. She’d wanted her baby so badly….

Behind them the double doors opened again, and Claire stiffened as Virginia rushed toward her, gushing false sympathy. “Claire, darling, I’m so sorry! I really had no idea Jeff and Helene would be here; Lloyd invited them, and I was as horribly surprised as you. You poor dear, are you very upset? After all, we all know how crushed you were—”

Maxwell Benedict straightened beside her, and Claire sensed his acute interest. Hot color burned in her cheeks as she broke in before Virginia could say anything more. “Really, Virginia, there’s no need to apologize. I’m not upset at all.” The casual coolness of her voice was utterly convincing, even though it was a complete lie. She had died a little inside when she’d heard that Helene was pregnant, and the sight of Jeff’s wife, so glowingly lovely and so proudly pregnant, had twisted her heart. She was still haunted by a sense of loss; that was the one pain she couldn’t seem to conquer.

Virginia hesitated, disconcerted by the total lack of concern Claire was showing. “Well, if you’re certain you’re all right … I had visions of you crying your heart out, all alone out here.”

“But she isn’t all alone,” Maxwell Benedict said smoothly, and Claire started as his warm arm slid around her shoulders. Automatically she began to move away, but his fingers tightened warningly on her bare shoulder, and she forced herself to stand still. “Nor is she crying, though I’d be delighted to offer her my shoulder if she felt so inclined. Well, Claire? Do you think you want to cry?”

Part of her disliked the easy way he’d used her first name, when they had only just met, but another part of her was grateful to him for giving her this opportunity to keep her pride and not let Virginia guess that her ploy had been successful, after all, though not in the way she’d planned. Tilting her head up to him the way she’d often seen her sister Martine do when intent on charming someone, Claire gave him her most brilliant smile. “I think I’d rather dance.”

“Then dance you shall, my dear. Excuse us, won’t you?” he said politely to Virginia, ushering Claire past their disappointed hostess and back into the house. After the relative peace of the terrace, the party seemed that much more crowded and noisy. The alcohol fumes mingled with the cigarette smoke, stifling her, but the music from the stereo rose above the clash of conversation and laughter, and they joined the group of people who were trying to dance in the middle of the room. Space was so limited that swaying in one spot was really all that could be done. Claire started to suggest that they forget about dancing, but he clasped her hand in his and drew her to him with his other arm, and she decided to dance this one dance. He wasn’t holding her close despite the press of the crowd, and again she sensed the strict control that seemed to govern his actions. Perhaps she’d misjudged him, she mused. Just because his face was as precisely sculpted as that of a Greek idol, she’d automatically assumed that he was nothing but a shallow playboy, but a playboy wouldn’t have that cool control. Perhaps it was his British reserve that she sensed.

“How long have you been in the States?” she asked, necessarily moving closer to him in order to be heard.

A rather whimsical smile curved his beautiful mouth. “How could you tell I’m not a native Texan?”

She chuckled. “A lucky guess.”

“Actually, I have a hybrid accent. When I go home for holidays or vacations, my family constantly complains that I talk too slowly.”

He hadn’t answered her original question, but she let it go. It was too noisy for conversation, anyway. She let her mind drift back to her present situation, and she considered ways of handling it that would be the least awkward for all of them. She certainly didn’t want to embarrass either Jeff or Helene; they had been as victimized by Virginia’s petty vengeance as Claire.

Just as the dance ended, someone called his name. Claire took advantage of his distraction to say politely, “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Benedict,” and walk away, while he was effectively trapped by the woman who had demanded his attention. Her mouth quirked in wry humor. It must be hell for him to have women constantly yapping at his heels; poor man, he probably suffered terribly … when he wasn’t taking full advantage of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw Virginia watching her closely, and conducting a sotto voce conversation with another woman, who was also eyeing her with intense curiosity. Gossips! She decided at that moment to defuse the situation by confronting it head-on. With her head high and a smile on her face, Claire walked up to Jeff and Helene.

Just before she reached them, she saw Jeff stiffen and an expression of alarm cross his face; he’d noticed the glitter of her eyes and probably wondered if she were going to cause a scandal with one of the passionate scenes that he remembered so well. With determined effort Claire kept the smile pasted to her lips. She had obviously made a mistake in avoiding anything except the most casual companionship with men in the five years since their divorce; her mother and sister thought she still pined for Jeff, and evidently Jeff shared that opinion, along with Virginia and the rest of their social circle. She didn’t know what to do about that now, except try to be casual and polite, to show that it really meant nothing to her at all.

“Hello,” she said brightly, addressing herself mostly to Helene. “I think Virginia invited the three of us to provide the entertainment for the evening, but I’m not willing to play her game. Shall we spoil her fun?”

Helene was quick; she put a smile in place. “I’d like to spoil her face; but by all means, let’s be civilized.”

As other people drifted close enough to hear what they were saying, Claire launched into a gay account of a recent shopping trip when everything had gone wrong. Helene countered with her own tale of hazardous encounters while shopping, and by that time Jeff had recovered enough to contribute by asking after Claire’s parents and her sister’s family. It was so civilized that she wanted to laugh aloud, but at the same time strain began to tighten her throat. How long would they have to keep this up? Pride was one thing, but standing here chatting with Helene, who was even more beautiful in her pregnancy, was almost more than she could bear.

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 and a warm bed, 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 absent-minded, 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 unresponsive, 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 Eastern Europe. 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 the SR-71 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.

He didn’t like it. Any move by another company would force him to make his own move, perhaps before he was ready, which would increase the chance for failure. Max didn’t intend to fail. He despised failure; his personality was too intense and fiercely controlled to accept anything less than total victory in whatever he attempted.

He picked up the report again and thumbed through it, but he allowed his thoughts to drift. The woman, Claire Westbrook … she wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Anson had thought that she might be the weak link, and Max had coolly expected that he could charm her as effortlessly as he did every woman. It hadn’t worked out that way. She was cool and calm, almost too controlled, and unresponsive; even though she had eventually accepted his dinner invitation, Max had the impression that she’d done so for her own reasons.

His eyes narrowed. From the time he’d reached puberty, the female sex had practically been at his feet. He appreciated women, enjoyed them, desired them, but women had come easily for him. This was the first time a woman had looked at him with a cool, blank expression then turned away in total disinterest, and he didn’t like it. He was both irritated and challenged, and he shouldn’t feel either of those responses. This was business. He would use his charm to get the needed information without a qualm; corporate war was just that: war, despite the outward civility of three-piece suits and board meetings. But seduction had never been a part of his plan, so his unwilling attraction to her was doubly unwelcome. He couldn’t afford the distraction. He had to concentrate on the job at hand, get the information in a hurry and make his move.

He knew his nature was intensely sensual, but always before, his physical needs and responses had been controlled by the power of his icy intellect. He was master of his body, not the other way around. That was part of his character; nature had given him both a towering intelligence and a sexual appetite that would have taken control of a man of lesser intellect, but he was brilliant, and his mental capacities were so intense and focused that he controlled his physical needs and never unleashed the driving power of that portion of his nature. His unwilling attraction to Claire Westbrook both angered and disconcerted him; it was totally out of place in this situation.

She was pretty, but he’d had women who were far more beautiful. She hadn’t responded to him or flirted or in any way indicated that she was attracted to him. The only unusual thing about her were her eyes, huge and velvety brown. There was no reason for him to be thinking about her, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Chapter Two

The shrilling of the telephone startled Claire out of sleep the next morning, and her soft mouth curved in a wry smile as she rolled over to lift the receiver and stop the intrusive noise. “Hello, Martine,” she said, her voice husky with sleep.

There was a short pause, then Martine laughed. “I wish you wouldn’t do that! How did you know?”

“I thought you might call this morning to check up on me. Yes, I went to Virginia’s party, and no, I wasn’t the belle of the ball.”

“You’re answering my questions before I ask them,” Martine said in fond exasperation. “Did you enjoy yourself anyway?”

“I’m not the social type,” Claire hedged, sitting up in bed and stuffing a pillow behind her back. She didn’t mention meeting Max Benedict or that she was having dinner with him. Martine would ask a thousand questions and become all excited over something that was basically unimportant. Claire didn’t expect the dinner date to be the beginning of a fabulous romance; Max could have any woman he chose, so he wasn’t likely to settle for anything but the best. This was just a dinner date, nothing more or less, an evening out with a man who was new in town and didn’t know many people. It was probably a respite for him to meet a woman who didn’t chase him.

Martine sighed; experience had taught her that if Claire didn’t want to talk about something then no amount of prying or badgering could change her mind. For someone so retiring and unassuming, Claire was stubborn. Because Martine loved her sister and recognized how vulnerable and sensitive Claire was, she refrained from badgering her and instead gracefully changed the subject, laughing as she recounted a horrendous piece of mischief that her eight-year-old son had gotten into that morning.

They chatted for a few moments then said goodbye. Claire hung up the receiver and lay back on the pillows, her dark eyes reflective as she stared at the ceiling. Her thoughts kept going back to Max Benedict, and his features formed in her mind; she saw his eyes, vivid turquoise, but the shade of turquoise kept changing. Sometimes they were more green than blue, sometimes more blue than green, and twice she had seen a flash of something in his eyes that had startled her, but she hadn’t recognized it. It was as though she’d seen a shadow in the sea that was gone in an instant and left behind only the swirling, breathtaking turquoise waters, yet reminding the observer of the dangers of the sea. Perhaps he had dangers hidden in his depths, hidden behind the beauty that nature had given him. All human beings had hidden depths, of course, but some people were deeper than others, and some very shallow, but all had their private defenses. Did he use his appearance as a barrier, deflecting interest with his looks the way a mirror turns back the sun?

He was surprisingly controlled; perhaps some people wouldn’t see that, but Claire was more sensitive than most. She recognized control because she had had to learn it. As a child, she had seethed with pent-up emotion, a wild flood of love and devotion just waiting to be given to someone who would love her for herself. She had thought Jeff was that person, and she had released the torrent of passion, driving herself to be the perfect wife for him, only to fail again. Now she no longer waited for that one person; she had been hurt, and she refused to let anyone hurt her ever again. She had locked her emotions and passions away and was more content without them.

But how would those turquoise eyes look if that cool control were banished and passion heated their depths? How would he look while making love?

Claire sat up, pushing away the disturbing mental image. It was Saturday; she had chores to do. She pulled off her nightgown and let the wisp of silk fall across the bed, and for a moment her eyes enjoyed the contrast of the pink silk lying on the white eyelet lace of the comforter. She loved pretty things. That part of her personality was carefully hidden away and protected, but it was expressed in her preference for exquisite lingerie, in the harmonious colors that she gathered around her. Her bed was white, the carpet a softly blushing peach color, and around the room were touches of rose and jade. The bath towels that she bought were thick and lush, and she enjoyed the feel of them on her skin. So many things delighted her: fresh rain on her face, or the warm sunshine; a ray of light through a jar of plum jelly; the translucent beauty of a green leaf in spring; the plush texture of carpet beneath her bare feet. Because she hung back, she saw more than the people who hurried through life.

She had slept late, so she had to hurry through the housekeeping and laundry that she did every Saturday in order to allow herself enough time to do her hair and nails. She was restless and on edge, all because of a man with vivid sea-colored eyes and sunshine in his hair, and that response was unusual enough to bring all her instinctive defenses springing into place. She would have to be on guard every moment, against herself more than Max. The weakness was hers, the same weakness that had let her believe that Jeff loved her as much as she loved him, because that was what she had wanted to believe. Jeff hadn’t misled her; she’d misled herself. Never again.

Even so, pride wouldn’t allow her to look anything but her best when she went out with Max, and she took a long time over her makeup. Her features were delicate, with high cheekbones and a wide, soft mouth; blusher brought color to those cheekbones, and lipstick made her mouth look even softer. Smudged eyeliner and smoky shadow turned her dark eyes into pools of mystery. After putting up her honey-blond hair, leaving a few tendrils curling loosely at her temples, she slipped pearl-drop earrings in her ears and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The old-fashioned hairstyle suited her, revealing the clean lines of her cheek and jaw, the slenderness of her throat, but she looked disturbingly solemn, as if secrets were hiding behind her eyes.

She was ready when the doorbell rang at exactly eight o’clock and had been ready long enough to become nervous; the peal of the doorbell made her jump. Quickly, before her nerve failed her, she opened the door. “Hello. Come in, please. Would you like a drink before we go?” Her voice was calm and polite, the voice of a hostess doing her duty without any real enthusiasm. Instinctively Claire moved a little away from him; she’d forgotten how tall he was, and she felt dwarfed.

His pleasant expression didn’t waver as he held his hand out to her, palm up. “Thank you, but we haven’t time. On such short notice, I had to take reservations that were somewhat earlier than I’d planned. Shall we go?” His outstretched hand was steady and unthreatening, but the gesture was a command. Claire had the distinct impression that he had noticed her withdrawal and was demanding her return. He wanted her to step within reach of his hand, his touch, perhaps even place her hand in his in a gesture of both trust and obedience.

She couldn’t do it. The small confrontation took only a moment, and she ended it when she stepped away to get her bag and the waist-length silk jacket that went with her oyster-colored silk chemise. It wasn’t until she turned around and found herself staring at his chest that she realized he hadn’t let the moment end. She froze.

He plucked the jacket from her hands and held it up for her to slip her arms into the sleeves. “Allow me,” he said in his cool, precise voice, so devoid of any real emotion that Claire wondered if her reaction had been an overreaction, that his out-held hand had been a mannerly gesture rather than a subtle command. Perhaps if she had gone out more, she wouldn’t be so wary and skittish now; Martine had probably been right in urging her to become more socially active.

She let him help her with the jacket, and he smoothed the small collar, his touch brief and light. “You look lovely, Claire, like a Victorian cameo.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, disarmed by the gentle, graceful compliment. Suddenly she realized that he had sensed her agitation and was trying to put her at her ease, using his almost courtly manners to reassure her, and the odd thing was that it worked. He was controlled, unemotional, and she liked that. People who acted on the urges of their emotions and glands were unreliable.

His hand was on the small of her back, resting there with a slight warm pressure, but now it didn’t disturb her. She relaxed and found that she was looking forward to the evening, after all.

His choice of car further reassured her. She would have been suspicious of a flamboyant sports car, but the sedate, solidly conservative black Mercedes-Benz wasn’t the car of someone who was attracted to flash and glitter. He was dressed as conservatively as a banker, too, she noticed, glancing at his gray pinstriped suit. It was wonderfully cut, and his lean, elegant frame gave the suit a look of dash and fashion that it wouldn’t have possessed on any other man, but it still wasn’t the peacock attire of a playboy.

Everything he did put her more at ease. He carried on a light, casual conversation that put no pressure on her; he didn’t use innuendos or sly double meanings or ask any personal questions. The restaurant he’d chosen was quiet, giving the impression of privacy but not intimacy. Nothing he did was in any way meant to impress her; he was simply dining out with a woman, with no strings attached, and that was immensely reassuring.

“What sort of work do you do?” he asked casually, dipping an enormous Gulf shrimp into cocktail sauce before biting into it with frank enjoyment. Claire watched his white even teeth sink into the pink shrimp, her pulse speeding up in spite of herself. He was just so impossibly handsome that it was difficult to refrain from simply staring at him.

“Secretarial.”

“For a large company?”

“No. Bronson Alloys is small, but growing rapidly, and we have outstanding prospects. It’s a publicly held company, but I work for the major stockholder and founder, Sam Bronson.”

“Do you enjoy your work? Being a secretary seems to have lost all its attraction for a lot of people; the push is to be an executive, with a secretary of your own.”

“Someone has to be the secretary,” Claire said, smiling. “I don’t have either the talents or the ambition to be an executive. What company are you with? Will you be in Houston permanently?”

“Not permanently, but I could be here for several months. I’m investigating certain properties for investment.”

“Real estate?” Claire asked. “Are you a speculator?”

“Nothing so dashing. Basically what I do is make feasibility studies.”

“How did you come to be transplanted from England to Texas?”

He gave a negligent shrug. “Business opportunities are more plentiful over here.” Max studied her smooth, delicate face, wondering how she would look if any real warmth ever lit her dark eyes. She was more relaxed now than she had been, but there was still that lack of response from her that both irritated and intrigued him. So long as he kept the subject impersonal and made no move that could be interpreted as that of an interested male, she was relaxed, but she withdrew like a turtle into its shell at the least hint of masculine aggressiveness or sexuality. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to be attracted to her or even flirt with her. The less masculine he was, the better she liked it, and the realization angered him. What he wouldn’t give to force her out of that frozen nunnery she’d locked herself into, to make her acknowledge him as a man, to make her feel some sort of passion!

Claire looked away, a little rattled by the cold, unreadable expression in his eyes. For a moment his face had lost its expression of suave pleasantness and taken on the hard, determined lines of a Viking warrior. Perhaps that was the ancestry that had given him his golden hair and sea-colored eyes, rather than an Anglo-Saxon heritage.

What had she said to bring that expression to his face? It had been only a polite question; she’d been so careful not to step over the bounds she’d set for herself, saying nothing that could be construed as reflecting a personal interest in him.

“Last night,” he said abruptly. “That was deliberate viciousness, wasn’t it? Why?”

Claire’s head jerked around, the only sign she gave that she was disturbed by the change of subject. Her dark eyes went blank. “Yes, it was deliberate, but nothing came of her efforts. It isn’t important.”

“I don’t agree.” His crisp accent bit off the words. “You were upset, though you carried it off well. Why was that little scene staged?”

She stared at him, that blank look still in her eyes, as if a wall had been erected in her mind. After a moment he realized that she wasn’t going to answer him, and a powerful surge of anger shook him, made him want to grind his teeth in frustration. Why was she so damned aloof? At this rate he’d never get close enough to her to get any of the answers he needed! He wanted this damned thing over with; with business out of the way, he could concentrate on Claire and his irritating attraction to her. He had no doubt that if he were able to devote himself fully to her, he would be able to get behind those barriers to the woman. He had never yet failed to get a woman he wanted; there was no reason why Claire should be his first failure. She might be the most challenging woman of his experience, though, and the thought quickened his interest.

How could he gain her trust if she retreated every time he advanced? A small frown furrowed his brow as he studied her openly, trying to read her mind. If she retreated, then she must feel threatened by him, yet he hadn’t done anything to warrant that reaction. Most women were attracted to him on sight, gravitating to him like a compass needle to the magnetic north pole, but Claire made an obvious effort to keep a certain distance from him. In a flash of insight Max realized that it was his looks that made her so wary, and his frown deepened. She had seen the playboy persona and felt threatened by it; she was probably determined not to become another one of his women. Bloody hell! She would run like a frightened rabbit if she realized that her reaction was attracting him far more surely than a blatant play for him. Max was accustomed to being pursued by women; a woman who retreated from him brought out the primitive male urge to chase fleeing prey.

She was soft, tender prey, he thought as he watched a delicate tinge of color sweep over her cheeks. She was disconcerted by the way he was staring at her, but he liked looking at her. She had a gentle, intelligent face, and he kept getting caught by those enormous dark eyes, as velvety as melted chocolate. Her coloring was exquisite, like delicate china; did she have any idea how enormously appealing her dark eyes were? Probably not. Her ex-husband’s wife was a real beauty, but if he’d been given the choice between the two women, Max would unhesitatingly have chosen Claire. He’d been stunned by the courage and dignity with which she’d handled the situation at the party the night before; how many other women would have kept their poise under those circumstances? Watching her coolly, deliberately, he knew that he wanted her.

He’d have her, too, but first he had to get past those damnable barriers.

“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Don’t treat me as everyone else does.”

Startled, Claire looked at him, her eyes widening. What did he mean? How did everyone else treat him? “I don’t understand,” she finally murmured.

His eyes were green ice, with no hint of blue in them. “It’s poetic justice, my dear. My face makes me a target, a sexual trophy to be nailed on the wall above the bed, figuratively speaking, of course. Most women have no interest in me other than as a stud; I could be brainless for all the concern they have in me personally. I enjoy the sex, yes; I’m a healthy man. But I also enjoy conversation, music and books, and I would damn well prefer being considered as a person as well as a warm body.”

Claire was stunned, so stunned that she forgot the alarm that had been racing up and down her spine as he had stared at her with such cold ferocity. “But I’m not—that is, I haven’t been chasing you,” she stammered.

“No, with you it’s the opposite. You took one look at me and decided that with this face I can’t possibly be anything more than a playboy, letting myself be used as a living ornament in any woman’s bed.”

She was aghast; that was exactly what she’d thought at first, and now she was ashamed of herself. Claire was unusually sensitive, and because she was so easily hurt she went out of her way to keep from hurting anyone else. The idea that she had so casually labeled this man as pretty but useless appalled her. She had other reasons for wanting to keep her distance from him, but he didn’t know them; to him, it must seem as if she had simply written him off as being shallow and immoral, without getting to know him at all. He was angry, and he had every right to be.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized in a soft, earnest voice. “It’s true that I did think you were a playboy, but it’s also true that I realize I’m not in your league.”

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that? Just what is ‘my league’?”

Claire dropped her eyes, unable to meet that piercingly bright stare, and found that his hands were in her line of vision. They were lean, aristocratic hands, beautifully fashioned, but strong for all that. Was the man like his hands?

“Claire,” he prompted.

At last she looked up, her face composed, as usual, but her eyes revealed some of her vulnerability. “You’re far more sophisticated than I, of course, and far more beautiful. I’m sure women chase you unmercifully, but the other side of the coin is the fact that you can probably have any woman you want. I really don’t want to be your next target.”

He didn’t like her answer at all; his facial muscles didn’t move, but still his displeasure was a definite chill brushing across her skin.

“Then why did you come out with me? I realize I was being a trifle persistent, but you allowed yourself to be persuaded.”

“I was lonely,” she said, then looked away again.

At that moment the waiter appeared with their dinner, and the interruption gave Max time to control the explosion of fury in his mind. Damn her to hell! So she accepted his invitation only because she was lonely? Evidently he rated above television, but only just! He wondered savagely if his ego could take much more.

When they were alone again, he reached across the table and caught her hand, holding her delicate fingers firmly when she automatically tried to draw away. “You aren’t a target,” he said tersely. “You’re someone I met and liked, someone who looked at me without any hint of speculation about how well endowed I am or how bloody versatile I am in bed. Do you think I don’t get lonely, too? I wanted to be able to talk to you; I want a friend. Sex is something that can be had whenever I take the urge.”

There was color in her face again, as if she were faintly embarrassed, but suddenly there was a twinkle in her eyes. He’d seen it briefly the night before, and its reappearance caught his attention, made him realize how really lovely she was with that light dancing in her dark eyes. “Do they really?” she asked in a scandalized whisper.

He felt a bit disoriented, as if he’d just had a blow to the head. A moment before he’d been angry, but now he found himself completely bemused by the teasing humor of her expression. He shifted his grip on her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of her fingers, absently savoring the feel of her soft flesh. “Ladies have become incredibly bold. It’s disconcerting to meet a woman and five minutes later find her hand inside my trousers.”

She laughed, and he felt himself become warm. At last he was gaining some ground with her! That was the way; she was lonely and badly needed a friend, while all her defenses were set up to deflect any romantic or seductive move. She wanted a friend, not a lover. Max didn’t agree with her choice, but he would have to go along with it for now or risk frightening her away.

“Could we be friends?” he asked gently, determined to act with restraint. Claire simply wasn’t like the women he had pursued with single-minded intensity; she was softer, more sensitive, with secret dreams in her eyes.

Claire’s lips still held a little smile. Friends? Was it possible to be friends with a man who was as sleek and beautiful as a cheetah? And why would he want to be friends with her? She was nothing out of the ordinary, while he was completely unordinary. Yet perhaps he really was lonely; Claire understood loneliness. She had chosen it as the safest course in life, but there were still times when she longed for someone to whom she could talk without guarding all but her shallowest layers. It wasn’t that she wanted to unburden her heart; it was the simple, everyday conversation of friends that she needed so badly. She had never had that even with Martine, dearly though she loved her. Martine was so courageous and outgoing that she couldn’t understand the hurts and fears of someone who lacked that courage. Nor had Claire ever been able to confide in her mother, because she had always feared and flinched from the inevitable comparison with Martine. Even when there was no comparison, fear of it had kept Claire silent.

“You could help me look for an apartment tomorrow,” he suggested, drawing her back from her thoughts. “A week in a hotel is straining my tolerance.”

His tone was testy, and Claire smiled at his accent, more clipped than usual. “I’d be happy to look with you. Do you have anything in mind?”

“My dear, I don’t know anything about Houston; I’m totally in your hands.”

“Buy a newspaper tomorrow and circle the apartments that you like best, and we’ll drive around to see them. What time would you like to start?”

“As early as it’s convenient for you; after all, I’m at your mercy.”

She doubted that he was ever at anyone’s mercy, but a light, happy feeling was swelling in her. His eyes were a warm, brilliant turquoise now, and his smile would have turned the head of a statue. She wasn’t proof against his charm, and suddenly it didn’t worry her.

Their food had been cooling in front of them, and they both realized it simultaneously. As they ate, Claire began to watch him with growing amazement; how could someone so lean eat so much? His manners were faultless, but nevertheless the amount he ate would have done a stevedore proud. His metabolic rate had to be high, because his movements were characterized by an indolent grace; he didn’t burn off calories with nervous energy.

She said as much, and he smiled at her. “I know. My mother used to scold me for eating too much in company. She said it made it appear as if they kept me in a dungeon on starvation rations.”

“Do you have a large family?”

“There seem to be hundreds of us,” he said blithely. “Aunts and uncles and cousins by the score. In the immediate family, I have one brother and three sisters, and eight assorted nieces and nephews. My father is dead, but my mother still rules us all.”

“Are you the eldest?” Claire asked, fascinated by his large family.

“No, my brother is the eldest. I’m second in line. Is your family a large one?”

“No, not really. Just my parents, and my sister Martine and her family. There are cousins in Michigan and an aunt who lives in Vancouver, but the relationship isn’t close.”

“A large family has its advantages, but there are also times when it closely resembles a zoo. Holidays are chaos.”

“Do you go home for all the holidays?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes it isn’t possible, but I pop over on the odd weekend.”

He made it sound as if it were only a matter of getting in a car and taking a half-hour drive, instead of “popping over” on a transatlantic flight. She was still marveling at that when he turned the conversation to her job; he asked interested questions about the sort of work done at Bronson Alloys, the market for special alloys and the uses for them. It was a fairly complicated subject, and Claire had studied intensely when she’d first gotten the job as Sam Bronson’s secretary, trying to understand the processes and the practical applications of Sam’s metallurgical genius; she knew her ground well but had to make a special effort to keep abreast. The ease and rapidity of Max’s understanding was amazing; she could talk to him as naturally as if he also worked in the field, without having to pause continually for complicated explanations.

Then they began talking about real estate, and the way Max explained it, it sounded fascinating. “You don’t actually buy the real estate yourself?”

“No. I act as a consultant, investigating properties for people who are interested buyers. Not all property is suitable for investment or expansion. There are the geological considerations, first of all; some land simply isn’t stable enough to support large structures. There are other variables, of course: the depth of the water table, any bedrock, things that effect the price effectiveness of locating a building on that particular plot of ground.”

“You’re a geologist, too?”

“I’m a gatherer of facts. It’s like putting a puzzle together, with the difference that you have no idea what the finished product will look like until it is finished.”

They lingered over coffee, still talking, and gradually Claire realized how hungry she’d been for simple conversation, for the sharing of ideas and opinions. He was extraordinarily intelligent, but he didn’t parade his mental capabilities about for anyone to admire; his intelligence was simply there, a part of him. For her part, Claire had always been unusually studious, losing herself in the varied worlds offered by books, and she was both astonished and delighted to discover that one of his favorite writers was Cameron Gregor, a wild Scotsman whose books were horribly difficult to find and who was her own favorite.

They argued fiercely for almost an hour over which book was Gregor’s best; Claire forgot her reserve, leaning toward him with her eyes shining, her face lit with pleasure. After a while Max realized that he was arguing for the sheer pleasure of watching her, not because of any real difference of opinion. When passion brightened her face, she was almost incandescent; jealousy began to eat at him, because all of that fire was for books, and none for him.

Finally he held up both hands, laughing. “Shall we stop trying to change the other’s mind and dance instead? We’ve totally ignored the music.”

Until that moment Claire hadn’t even realized that a band was playing, or that the dance floor was crowded with people swaying to the slow, bluesy tunes. A saxophone was crying pure mournful notes that almost brought tears to her eyes; it was her favorite type of music. He led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms.

They danced well together; he was tall, but her heels brought her up to a comfortable height, allowing her to nestle her head just under his chin. He knew just how to hold a woman, not so tightly that she couldn’t maneuver and not so loosely that she was unable to follow his lead. Claire gave a quiet sigh of pleasure; she couldn’t remember enjoying any evening more. The firm, gentle clasp of his fingers around hers told her that she was in capable hands, and still there was the sense of control about him that reassured her. Unconsciously she breathed in the faint scent of his cologne, so quiet that it was just barely there, and beneath that was the warm, musky scent of his skin.

Somehow it felt right to be in his arms, so right that she failed to notice her reaction, the way the rhythm of her heartbeat had increased just a little. She felt pleasantly warm, even though the restaurant was cool and her shoulders bare. They laughed and talked and danced together, and she hated for the evening to have to end.

When it did end, he walked her to the door of her apartment and unlocked it for her, then returned the key to her. “Good night,” he said in an oddly gentle tone.

She lifted her head and smiled at him. “Good night. I enjoyed the evening very much. Thank you.”

That breathtaking, whimsical smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I should be thanking you, my dear. I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Good night again, and sleep well.” He bent and pressed a light kiss on her cheek, his mouth warm and firm; then the brief pressure was lifted. It was a kiss as passionless as that of a brother, asking nothing of her, not even response. Smiling at her, he turned and left.

Claire closed and locked the door, a smile still on her lips. She liked him; she really liked him! He was intelligent, humorous, widely traveled, and remarkably comfortable to be with. He had been a perfect gentleman toward her; after all, he’d as much as told her that he could have sex any time he wanted it, so perhaps she was a welcome change for him. She was a woman who wasn’t after him. There was no pressure to perform, no sense of being pursued because of his startling physical beauty.

While they’d been dancing, Claire couldn’t help noticing that other women had followed him with their eyes, sometimes unconsciously. It was true that some women stared at him openly, with curiosity and even hunger evident in their expressions, but even those who would never think of leaving their own escorts hadn’t been able to keep from looking at him periodically. His golden good looks drew the eye like a natural magnet.

Even her own. Lying in her bed, pleasantly tired and relaxed on her silk sheets, she kept seeing his face in her mind’s eye. Her memory was a loop of film spliced to run endlessly, and she replayed every changing expression she’d seen, from anger to humor and every nuance in between. His eyes were green when he was angry, blue when he was thoughtful, and that vivid, wicked turquoise when he was laughing or teasing.

Her cheek tingled warmly where he’d kissed it, and sleepily she pressed her fingers to the spot. Sharp curiosity and a sense of regret pierced her; what would it have been like if he’d kissed her mouth, if there had been passion in his touch instead of the cool pleasantness with which he’d ended the evening? Her heart leaped at the thought, and her lips parted unconsciously. She wanted to know the taste of him.

Restlessly she turned on her side, forcing the thought away. Passion was one of the things she’d forced out of her life. Passion was dangerous; it made sane people suddenly turn into unreasonable maniacs. Passion meant a loss of control, and a loss of control ultimately led to terrible vulnerability. She was sometimes lonely, she admitted to herself, but loneliness was better than leaving herself open to the sort of devastating pain she’d barely survived once before. And she was afraid; that was another, more difficult thing that she admitted, lying there in the darkness. She lacked the self-confidence with which Martine faced every morning. She was afraid to let anyone get too close to her, because she might not be all they had expected, and she didn’t know if she could bear the pain of rejection.

It was far better to be friends rather than lovers. Friends didn’t risk as much; friendship lacked the intimacy that necessarily gave lovers the sure, deadly knowledge of where and how to inflict the most hurt when the relationship went bad.

And friendship was what Max wanted, anyway. If she threw herself at him, he would probably turn away in disgust. He didn’t want passion, and she was afraid of passion. Daydreams—or nighttime fantasies—about him were a waste of time.

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