Almost Forever. Linda Howard

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.