“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.”
She’d forgotten them. Quickly she slipped pearl-drop earrings into her ears, and Max nodded, checking his watch. “We have just enough time to get there.”
Perhaps it was just a small cocktail party, but the driveway was already choked with cars when they arrived at her parents’ house. Alma and Harmon were both popular and outgoing, drawing people to them with the magnetism of their personalities. Inevitably Claire felt herself tensing as she walked up to the door with Max close beside her.
The door opened before they reached it, and Martine stood laughing at them, resplendent in an emerald-green dress that showed off her beautiful figure and made her glow with color. “I knew you’d be here,” she said in triumph, hugging Claire. “Mom has been in a dither that you wouldn’t come.”
“I told her that I would,” Claire said, reaching deep inside herself for the composure that she kept like a shield between herself and others, even her family.
“Oh, you know how she has to fret over something. Hello, Max, you’re looking as beautiful as ever.”
He laughed, a deep sound of true amusement. “You really must work to get over that shyness.”
“That’s what Steve tells me. Oh, here come the Waverlys. I haven’t seen Beth in ages.” She waved past them to the approaching couple.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know. Ask Mom, if you can find her. She was in the den, but that was five minutes ago, so it’s anyone’s guess where she is now.”
Max put his hand on her waist as they walked into the crowded living room, and Claire immediately felt the impact of everyone’s eyes as they turned to survey the new arrivals. She knew their thoughts, knew that everyone had heard the rumors and was looking them over, trying to decide if the rumors were true.
“You did make it!” Alma beamed, sailing across the room to kiss Claire’s cheek. She turned that thousand-watt smile on Max, whose mobile lips twitched into a devilish grin. Before either Alma or Claire could guess what he was about, he took Alma in his arms and kissed her lips, then did it again. Alma laughed, but she was blushing when he released her.
“Max, what are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“Kissing a pretty woman,” he replied blandly, the tone of his voice belied by the wicked twinkle in his eyes. He reached out and brought Claire back into the circle of his arm. “Now Claire and I are going to find something to eat. I’m starving, and she didn’t have time for dinner, either.”
Claire felt frozen as she walked beside him to the kit
chen, feeling the eyes boring into her back like knife blades. He’d kissed Alma twice, which meant that he’d kissed her mother more than he’d kissed her. She had stood to the side, envying the brilliant, easy charm that both Max and Alma possessed, wishing that she had the gift of laughter. Martine could do it, too, have people eating out of her hand within moments of meeting them. All her life she’d been surrounded by beautiful, charming people, but none of that magical self-assurance had rubbed off on her.
The breakfast bar in the kitchen was crowded with hors d’oeuvres and finger sandwiches, and Max raided it shamelessly, but Claire only nibbled at a sandwich. Automatically she replenished the trays as Max depleted them and finished the condiment tray that Alma had been in the middle of preparing before she had rushed off to greet her guests. Alma rushed back into the kitchen, her glowing smile bursting over her face when she saw that Claire had completed the preparations. “Bless you, dear. I completely forgot what I was doing. You always did keep your common sense. I can’t count the times Harmon has told me to slow down and think before I do something, but you know how deep an impression it’s made.”
Claire smiled quietly at her mother, thinking that she did love her very much even though it had never been easy, growing up in the shadow of a beautiful mother and an equally beautiful sister. Both Alma and Martine were warm and outgoing people, without an ounce of maliciousness. It wasn’t their fault that Claire had always felt overshadowed by them.
She picked up the heavy tray, and Max promptly relieved her of the burden. “Show me where you want it,” he said firmly when Claire turned to him with her brow raised in question. “You’re not to try to carry these trays yourself.” He looked at Alma as she began to lift one of the trays, and the cool warning in his eyes made her drop her hands and step back.
“Masterful, isn’t he?” Alma whispered to Claire as they followed Max’s broad shoulders back into the living room.
“He has set ideas on what’s proper,” Claire said in understatement.
Max carried all the trays in, then became immersed in a conversation with Harmon, Steve and several other men. Periodically his eyes sought out Claire, wherever she was in the room, as if reassuring himself that she wasn’t in need of him.
Claire sipped on a margarita and surreptitiously checked the time, wondering when they would be able to leave. The cocktail party wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, but she was tired. The pressure of the hectic day, the hectic week, was telling on her. Bracing herself, she tried to concentrate on the conversation around her.
Someone turned on the stereo, but since Harmon was an ardent blues fan, the selection was limited. The smoky, mournful wail of a saxophone lured several people into dancing. Claire danced with Martine’s law partner, then with her father’s best friend, then with an old friend from school. She was on her second margarita when it was taken from her hand, placed on the table, and Max turned her into his arms.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” he asked as they swayed to the low music.