“If you’re certain…”
“I’m certain, believe me.”
She finally got off the phone with Martine and glanced anxiously at the clock. It was almost six. She hurriedly finished drying her hair, but she didn’t have time to do anything with it except leave it loose. He’d said to dress casually, so she pulled on beige linen pants and topped them with a loose blue sweater with a deep neckline and a shawl collar. Was that too casual? Max was always so well dressed, and he had the English sense of formality. Another look at the clock told her that she didn’t have time to dither over her clothes; she still had to do her makeup.
Just as she pulled a brush through her hair one last time, the doorbell rang. It was six-thirty exactly. She picked up her bag and hurried to open the door.
“Ah, you’re ready, as usual,” he said, and fingered the collar of her sweater. “You’ll need a jacket. The rain has turned chilly.”
Tiny raindrops glittered on his tweed jacket and in his golden hair as he leaned against the doorframe, waiting for Claire to get a jacket. When she rejoined him, he draped his arm over her shoulders in a friendly fashion.
“I hope you’re hungry. I’ve outdone myself, if I do say so.” His smile invited her to share his good humor, and when he hugged her into his tall body as they walked, she was content to lean against him. To be that close to him was a painful pleasure that she knew she should resist, but for the moment she simply couldn’t pull away. She felt the heat of his body, the strength of the arm that lay so casually over her shoulders, and smelled the warm, clean scent of his skin. Her eyes closed briefly on the longing that welled inside her but she pushed it away. It would do no good to pretend, even for a moment, that the way she felt could ever come to anything—all it would bring her was pain. She was destined to be Max’s buddy, and that was all the arm around her shoulders signified.
“I hope you like seafood,” he said as they entered his apartment. The gilt-edged mirror over the Queen Anne table reflected their movements as he took her jacket from her and shrugged out of his then hung both in the small coat closet in the foyer. Attracted by the mirror, Claire watched him in its reflection, noticing the grace of his movements in even that small chore.
“This is Houston. The Gulf is at our back door. It would be unpatriotic or something not to like seafood.”
“Shrimp in particular?”
“I love shrimp in particular.” She licked her lips.
“Would that include shrimp creole?”
“It would. Are we having shrimp creole?”
“We are. I got the recipe in New Orleans, so it’s authentic.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine you puttering around in a kitc
hen,” she said, following him into the narrow, extremely modern kitchen, where everything was built-in and at his fingertips. A delicious spicy aroma filled the air.
“I usually don’t but when I develop a taste for a certain dish, I learn how to prepare it. How else could I have shrimp creole when I’m in England for a visit? It’s a certain thing my mother’s cook has never prepared it. Then again, I had to learn how to do Yorkshire pudding for the same reason—different continent. The table is already set, will you help me carry all this through?”
It was difficult for her to believe that he had moved into the apartment only that morning. He seemed so at home there, and the apartment itself bore no signs of unpacking. Everything was in place, as if it had all been waiting for him, and he’d simply strolled in. The table was perfectly set, and when they were seated, Max uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured it into their glasses. The wine was crisp and clean, just what she wanted with the spicy shrimp creole and wild rice. They were relaxed together, and Claire both ate and drank more than she usually did. The wine filled her with warmth, but pleasantly so, and after dinner they both continued to sip the wine while they cleaned up the dinner dishes.
Max didn’t insist that she leave the dishes for him, and that amused her—he wasn’t that domesticated. He saw no reason why she shouldn’t help him. It was difficult for two people to maneuver in the narrow kitchen, and they were continuously bumping into each other, but even that was pleasant. The brush of his body against hers gave her such secret pleasure that a couple of times she deliberately didn’t move out of his way. Such behavior was uncharacteristic of her, because it bordered on flirtatiousness, and Claire had never been a flirt. She wasn’t good at it, like Martine. Martine could smile and bat her eyelashes and make teasing little innuendos, but Claire wasn’t at ease with sexual games, even when they weren’t meant to be taken seriously.
The wine had relaxed her even more than she had realized. As soon as they sat down in the living room, she felt her muscles begin to turn into butter, and she sighed drowsily. She took another sip of the golden wine, and Max took the glass from her hand to set it on the coffee table.
“I think you’ve had your limit. You’re going to go to sleep on me.”
“No, but I am tired,” she admitted, leaning her head back. “It was a busy day, even for a Monday.”
“Anything unusual?” He sat down beside her, his eyes shielded by lowered lashes.
“You might say that. Sam—that’s Mr. Bronson, my employer—heard a rumor that we may be the target of a takeover attempt.”
“Oh?” His attention was focused on her, his body tense despite his relaxed pose. “How did he hear that?”
“Sam has remarkable sources and remarkable instincts. What bothers him the most is the possibility that a foreign company may be behind it.”
His face was expressionless as he reached behind her and began kneading the muscles of her neck and shoulders, his fingers making her give a quiet mmmm of pleasure. “Why is that particularly disturbing?”
“Because Sam is in the process of developing an alloy that could have far-reaching possibilities, especially in space,” she murmured, then heard her own words echoing in her ears, and her eyes popped open. “I can’t believe I told you that,” she said in horror.
“Shh, don’t worry. It won’t go any further,” he soothed, resuming the massaging motion. “If the production of the alloy is that important to national security, why isn’t it classified? That would protect him from a takeover by a foreign company.”
“Sam is a maverick. He doesn’t like rules and regulations or the strict supervision he knows would come with government intervention and protection. He wants to perfect the alloy first, do all of his research and experimentation at his own speed, under his own rules. He’ll go to the government, of course, if the rumor turns out to be true. He won’t let the alloy go to another country.”