The senior vice president, Rome Matthews, entered his office. It was late and they were both in their shirt-sleeves, and they were friends as well, so Rome didn’t bother with the formality of knocking.
“You’ve been glaring at that file for the past hour,” Rome commented. “Is something bothering you about Bronson’s?”
“No. We won’t have any trouble,” Max said, assured on that point, at least.
“You’ve been edgy since you got back from Houston.”
Max leaned back in his chair and hooked his hands behind his head. “Isn’t Sarah waiting for you?”
Rome’s black eyes glittered the way they did when he was on to something, and he had the determination of a bulldog. Sprawling his big frame in an office chair, he watched Max through narrowed eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled. “You’re acting just like I did when Sarah used to drive me crazy. God, I love it! It’s poetic justice. You, my friend, have woman trouble!”
Max scowled at him. “Funny, is it?”
“Hilarious,” Rome agreed, a wolfish grin lighting his hard, dark face. “I should’ve guessed sooner. Hell, you were in Houston a week. Something would have been seriously wrong if you hadn’t found a woman.”
“You have a perverted sense of humor,” Max said without heat, but also without smiling.
“Who is she?”
“Claire Westbrook.”
Because Rome had studied the file
on Bronson Alloys, he knew the name and knew her connection with the company. He also knew that the vital information needed for the takeover to be successful had come from her. One brow lifted. “Does she know who you are?”
“No,” Max growled, and Rome gave a soundless whistle.
“You’re in trouble.”
“Damn it, I know that!” Max got to his feet and paced the expanse of his office, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I can handle that, but I’m worried about her. I don’t want her hurt by this.”
“Then call her.”
Max shook his head. A call wouldn’t work, he knew that. He had to be where he could hold her, soothe her with his touch, reassure her that what was between them was real.
“You’re going to be back in Houston in a couple of days. Anson is really pushing this. She’ll have to know then who you are.”
“I intend to tell her before anyone else knows.” Frowning, he stared out the darkened window at the myriad lights and angles of the Dallas skyline. He wanted to be with Claire now, lying in bed with her and stroking the intoxicating softness of her skin. He wasn’t sleeping well, wanting her, tortured by his aching loins. If he had had difficulty getting her out of his mind before, it was damned impossible now.
* * *
Claire tried to eat the sandwich she had brought for lunch, but it was tasteless, and after a few bites she rewrapped it in cellophane wrap and tossed it into the garbage can. She hadn’t had much appetite, anyway. The office was empty. Sam was at lunch, as was almost everyone else. It was Friday, almost a week since she had seen Max or heard from him. A small eternity. She had stopped expecting the call, but something inside her was still marking time. Two days. Three. Four. Soon, a week. Eventually it would be a month, and perhaps someday the pain would be a little duller.
The most important thing was to keep her time filled, to stay busy. She began typing a stack of letters. Correspondence had doubled this week in direct relation to the notification Spencer-Nyle had given that it was interested in Bronson Alloys. It really couldn’t have happened at a better time, she told herself—it left her less time to brood.
It was amazing how happy Sam seemed to be. He was preparing for this like a football coach preparing his team for the annual game against an arch rival, with almost unconcerned enthusiasm. He was actually enjoying it! The stockholders were coming out pretty well, too. The price of the stock had shot up as soon as the news got out.
Sam had been doing some research into Spencer-Nyle in general, and Anson Edwards in particular, and had come up with an impressive array of articles on the man. His desk was littered with them when Claire carried the letters in to leave them for his signature. A business magazine lay open on his desk, folded to an article on Spencer-Nyle, and Claire curiously picked it up. A color picture of Anson Edwards was on the first page. He didn’t look like a corporate shark, she thought. He was trim and nondescript, with no outstanding features, the sort of man who blended into a crowd, except for the sharp intelligence obvious in his eyes.
The article was surprisingly interesting and went into some depth. She carried the magazine back to her desk to finish reading it. Then she turned the page, and Max’s face stared up at her.
She blinked, stunned, and tears blurred her eyes. She closed her eyes, willing the tears away. Just a picture of him stirred up a whirlwind of pain and memories and aching love. If only she knew what had happened!
Opening her eyes, she looked at the picture again. There was another picture beside it of a dark man with penetrating dark eyes, and beneath both photos was the caption: “Roman Matthews, left, and Maxwell Conroy, are Anson Edward’s handpicked lieutenants, and corporate America generally considers Spencer-Nyle to have the nation’s best team of executives.”
They had his name wrong. He was Maxwell Benedict, not Maxwell Conroy. Her hands shook as she held the magazine, her eyes skimming to find the text concerning him. There it was. She read it then reread it, and finally the truth sank in. He was Maxwell Conroy, not Benedict at all, and he had romanced her so intensely in hopes of getting information about Bronson Alloys from her. Perhaps he’d even planned to snoop in her papers, but that hadn’t been necessary. She had given him the information he needed. She had a vivid memory of herself talking to him, trusting him, never dreaming that he was a spy for another corporation! After he had what he wanted, he had left. It was that simple, and that terrible.
Slowly, painstakingly, Claire reread the entire article, some tiny part of herself hoping against hope that she had misunderstood, but the second reading was even worse, because the details she had skipped the first time only supported the facts. Maxwell Conroy was an Englishman who had emigrated first to Canada, where he had been employed at a branch of Spencer-Nyle and had swiftly climbed the corporate ladder. He had been transferred to the Dallas headquarters four years ago, gained American citizenship, and was acquiring a reputation for engineering lightning-fast takeovers, moving in and taking control before the target company could be warned and devise any sort of defense.