His hunger, his need, for her were becoming more urgent. It wasn’t just the physical need for release, though that was strong enough—he wasn’t accustomed to celibacy. No, his strongest need was the primitive urge to bind her to him now, before she found out the truth, but he found himself uncharacteristically hesitant, his usual self-assurance fading. What if this wasn’t the right time? What if she rebuffed him? What if she retreated completely? He would have lost even her friendship, and to his surprise he wanted her friendship very much, as much as he wanted her physically. He wanted all of her, her mind as well as her body.
She smothered a yawn, and he laughed, reaching out
to massage her shoulder, the light touch filling him with pleasure. “You need to be asleep. Why haven’t you told me to leave?”
Claire curled up on the couch, tucking her feet under her, and sipped her coffee contentedly. It was so peaceful, sitting there together and drinking their coffee, making desultory conversation. Her heart was beating in that slow, heavy way it did whenever she was with him, and in that moment she was happy. “I’m comfortable with you,” she replied, and knew that she was lying. Her nerves were alive and acutely tuned to him, her senses assailed by his nearness. She could smell him, feel his warmth, look at him, and her flesh ached to be even closer to him. How foolish she was to love too fast, too much, but it was out of her control and perhaps had been from the very beginning.
He reached out and took her hand, folding her fingers in his and rubbing his thumb over her silky skin. “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, not to 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.
It was an admirably restrained kiss, but it lingered, and he opened his lips over hers. Automatically she parted her own lips to adjust the fit. His taste filled her mouth, his lips firm and warm. Pleasure rose in her, and for a moment she almost melted against him, almost raised her arms to twine them around his neck. Then panic twisted her stomach. She didn’t dare let him know, or she would never see him again! Swiftly she turned her head away, breaking the contact of their mouths.
He pressed his lips to her temple, and his strong hands rubbed up her back in a long, slow sweep. He didn’t want to push her too far. Just for a moment she had responded to him, and the taste of her had gone to his head like a potent wine. His body was responding strongly to her nearness. He didn’t dare hug her to him the way he wanted, because there was no way he could hide his arousal. Reluctantly he let her go, and she immediately took a protective step away from him, her face set in a blank mask. Suddenly he was determined not to let her retreat, as she had done so many times before. He was a man; he wanted her to see him as one. “Why are you so uneasy whenever I touch you?” he asked, tipping her chin up with his finger so she couldn’t hide her face from him. She was too good at hiding her thoughts, anyway, and he needed every little clue he could get. He wanted to be able to see her face, her eyes.
“You said you wanted to be friends,” she replied stiffly.
“Friends aren’t allowed to touch?”
His whimsical tone made her feel as if she were making far too much of things, and perhaps she would have been—if she hadn’t felt far more for him than just friendship. But she was in love with him, and even his most casual touches tormented her with mingled pleasure and longing.
“You told me that you wanted a friendship without sex.”
“Surely not. I don’t believe I’ve taken leave of my senses.” Gently he rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “What I said was that I was tired of being pursued simply as a sexual trophy.”
Claire was both astounded and alarmed. Had she so completely misread the situation? He was looking down at her with amusement, and she began to tremble. “Don’t look so frightened,” he soothed, moving his hand down to stroke her bare arm. “I’m attracted to you, and I’d like very much to kiss you occasionally. Is that so alarming?”
“No,” she stammered.
“Good, because I intend to continue kissing you.” His lashes veiled his eyes, allowing only a thin glittering line of turquoise to show, but Claire sensed his burning triumph and satisfaction, and she became even more uneasy. It was just like those times when she had glimpsed something ruthless in him, as if he weren’t what he seemed at all. It didn’t help that his look of triumph was immediately gone, because it left her feeling disoriented, not knowing anything for certain.
He bent and kissed her again, then left, and Claire stood staring at the door long after it had closed behind him. He seemed to have decided that he wanted more than simple friendship from her, and she didn’t know how to protect herself. She was without any emotional defenses and so terribly vulnerable to any hurt he might give her. She loved him, but she felt that she didn’t know him at all.
CHAPTER 6
Max placed a call to Dallas as soon as he got back to his apartment, wanting to pass along the information Claire had given him as soon as possible. He knew that Anson would take action on it first thing in the morning; by Monday, the takeover would be in motion. His job wasn’t finished, of course—he would have to oversee the transfer of ownership and negotiate the endless details that were always so important to the anxious personnel of the acquired company, but the major hurdle had been cleared. Max Benedict could become Max Conroy again, and he could turn his attentions on Claire.
Claire. She was the most complex, elusive woman he’d ever known. She kept herself hidden away, not letting anyone get close enough to really know her, but that was about to change. The irritating restraint he’d placed on himself was at an end. He would take it slow with her, gradually getting her accustomed to his touch. As torturous as this past week had been, it had had a positive side in that she was already used to his company. She was relaxed with him, and despite his frustration, the undemanding companionship he’d shared with her had had its own charm. Claire wasn’t a chatterbox, and the time he spent with her had been punctuated by peaceful silences. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman, and he didn’t know why.
She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. She was quietly pretty, with a fragile bone structure and eyes as dark as midnight pools, eyes that were full of dreams. She wasn’t voluptuous—her body was almost reed slender, yet undeniably feminine. There was a softness to Claire that he found very appealing. He wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her, get behind the blank wall that she kept between herself and other people; he wanted to know her thoughts, what she felt, what dreamworld she drifted away to when those dark eyes turned shadowy and faraway.
Added to that, he liked her as a person. Max was passionately fond of women in general, but his intense sexuality sometimes got in the way of friendship—a woman was in his bed before they had a chance to know each other as people. The restraints that had been necessary in his relationship with Claire had allowed liking and friendship to grow. He liked talking to her; she was thoughtful and never malicious, and she wasn’t uncomfortable with occasional silences. It would be extremely pleasant to wake up next to Claire, to spend lazy mornings with her, reading the newspaper and lingering over breakfast, talking if they felt like it and simply being silent if they didn’t.
There had been only one other woman he had liked in the same manner, and he thought about her for a moment. Sarah Matthews, his friend Rome’s wife: she was incredibly gentle, and incredibly strong. Max had been on the verge of loving her, and in fact did love her for the very special person she was, but she had made it p
lain from the beginning that Rome was the only man in the world for her, and the way Max felt about her had never grown into the area of intimacy. Now she and Rome were his closest friends, and their marriage was stronger than ever, more passionate than ever.
He would like to have that with Claire.