Sometime later he found her standing in the middle of the bedroom, her shoes off, her stockinged feet sunk into the thick dove-gray carpet. Her eyes were open, but that dreamy far-away look was in them again, and he knew that she was unaware of his presence. She was motionless, the tiniest of smiles on her face as she drifted in her thoughts. He stopped, watching her, wondering what dreams pleased her so much and if she wore that same look of contentment after lovemaking, when everything was quiet and dark and the frenzied heat had passed. Had she worn that look for her ex-husband or for another man? The sudden twist of jealousy in his gut was unwelcome and left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He crossed the room and put his hand on her arm, determined to draw her away from those dreams and back to him. “All finished with the paperwork. Are you ready to go?”
She blinked, and the dreams vanished from her eyes. “Yes. I was just enjoying the room.”
He looked down at her bare feet. “Especially the carpet.”
She smiled. “The colors, too. Everything blends together so nicely.”
It was a mellow room, large and well lit, with the soothing gray carpet and peach walls. The bed was covered with a thick melon-colored comforter, and the melon was used again in a large ceramic urn in the corner that held an enormous philodendron. The bed was oversize, piled high with pillows; it was perfect for a tall man, and more than roomy enough for two people. He looked at the bed then at Claire as she bent down to slip on her shoes. He would have her in that bed before this was finished, he promised himself.
She gave him the list she’d made of what he would need to buy. He read it briefly then folded it and put it in his pocket. “We’ve certainly made short work of this; we have most of the afternoon left. Would you like to have a late lunch or an early dinner?”
She thought of inviting him home to eat dinner with her but hesitated; she had never before invited a man to eat at her apartment. The apartment was her place of privacy, and she had been reluctant to share it. But she didn’t want the day to end, and somehow she didn’t mind the thought of his presence in her home. “Why don’t we go back to my apartment?” she offered a bit nervously. “I’ll cook dinner. Do you like orange-glazed chicken?”
“I like food,” he stated, glancing at her as they left the apartment and wondering at her obvious unease. Was cooking dinner for him such an ordeal? Both the invitation and the occasion were casual yet something about it bothered her. A woman with her social experience should be completely relaxed with such a simple evening, but nothing about Claire was as it should have been. He wondered if he would ever understand what went on in her mind.
The telephone began ringing as they entered her apartment, and Claire excused herself to answer it.
“Claire, guess what!” her mother said enthusiastically. Claire didn’t even attempt to guess, knowing from experience that her mother wouldn’t pause long enough to allow an interruption, and she was right. Alma rushed headlong into her next sentence. “Michael and Celia are being transferred to Arizona, and they’ve stopped to visit on the way through. They’ll only be here this one night, and we’re having a family cookout. How soon can you be here?”
Michael was Claire’s cousin from Michigan, and Celia was his wife. Claire was fond of them both, but she had already invited Max to dinner, and she couldn’t just throw him out now, even though Alma took it for granted that Claire would drop everything and rush right over. “Mother, I was just about to cook dinner—”
“Then I’ve called just in time! Martine and Steve are already here; I tried to call you earlier, but you were out.”
Claire took a deep breath. She didn’t want to tell her mother that she was entertaining, because she never did so, and Alma would immediately attach far greater significance to it than it warranted, yet she didn’t see any way out of it. “I have company. I can’t just rush over—”
“Company? Anyone I know?”
“No. I’ve invited him to dinner—”
Immediately Alma’s maternal curiosity switched on. “Who?”
“A friend,” Claire said, trying to evade any further questions, but knowing it was a hopeless maneuver. She looked up to see Max grinning at her, his turquoise eyes twinkling. He signaled that he had something to say, and she interrupted Alma’s barrage of questions before her mother could get up speed. “Hold on just a minute, Mother. I’ll be right back.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “My cousins have arrived from Michigan, and they’ll only be here overnight, so Mother wants me to come over for a cookout,” she explained.
“And you have already invited me to dinner,” he finished, coming close to her and taking the phone out of her hand. “I have the perfect solution.”
“Mrs. Westbrook,” he said into the phone, “my name is Max Benedict. May I offer a solution and invite myself to your cookout, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition on you? Claire really would like to see her cousins, but she has me on her hands, and she’s too well mannered to withdraw her invitation to dinner, and I’m too hungry to do the polite thing and take myself off.”
Claire closed her eyes, not having to hear the other half of the conversation to know that Alma had completely melted at the sound of Max’s deep, smooth voice and that seductive English accent. Part of her was amused, but another part of her went into a panic at the thought of taking Max to meet her family. Everyone in her family was outstanding in some way, and she tended to fade into the background, overshadowed by their more exuberant personalities. Max perceived her as quiet; if he saw her with her family, he would realize that mousy was a more accurate description, and suddenly she knew she couldn’t bear that. Something in her would die if he compared her to Martine, then looked back at her as if wondering what had gone wrong with the family genes.
“Thank you for taking pity on me,” Max was drawling. “I’ll have Claire there shortly.” He hung up the phone, and Claire opened her eyes to find him watching her intently, as if wondering why she was so reluctant to attend her family’s impromptu outing. “Don’t look so frightened,” he advised, winking at her. “Perhaps I don’t have on my best bib and tucker, but I’ll be on my best behavior.”
There was still a residue of terror in her eyes as she turned away. “It isn’t you,” she confessed, trying to make light of it. “Family gatherings tend to overwhelm me; I’m not at my best in a crowd.” That was a massive understatement, she thought, resigning herself to the bleak hours ahead of her. “Excuse me while I change clothes and—”
“No,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and effectively halting her flight. “You look wonderful as you are. You don’t need to change clothes, brush your hair, or freshen your lipstick. Waiting will only make you more nervous.” He watched her thoughtfully, wondering at the sudden urge he had to protect her, but there it was. There was something about her that made him want to gather her close and keep everything hard and hurtful away from her. The realization that he wasn’t being completely honest with her gave him a tight feeling in his chest; what would happen when she found out who he really was? Would she withdraw completely from him, her soft, dark eyes becoming cold and remote? A chill ran down his back at the thought, and he knew he couldn’t let it happen. Somehow, some way he had to engineer the takeover without alienating Claire.
His eyes were narrowed and brilliant as he watched her, and Claire felt uneasiness grow in her. He saw too much, read her too well. The realization that she was so vulnerable to him frightened her, and instinctively she withdrew behind a quiet, polite, blank wall as he led her back out to the car, his hand still clasping hers in what would have been a comforting grip if she had