Rome hadn’t been pleased by the late phone call the night before. “Damn it, Max, this had better be good,” he’d growled. “Jed is cutting teeth and raising hell about it, and we’d just gone to sleep after getting him settled.”
“Kiss Sarah good-night for me,” Max had said, amused by Rome’s grouchiness.
Rome told him where he could go and how he could get there, and in the background Max had heard Sarah’s laughter. “This is important,” he’d finally said. “Is there a job opening in the office? Any job?”
They worked so well together that Rome hadn’t wasted any time asking unimportant questions, like for whom, and why. They trusted each other’s instincts and plans. Rome had been silent for a moment, his steel-trap brain running through the possibilities. “Delgado in finance is being transferred to Honolulu.”
“Good God, what strings did he pull to get that?”
“He understands money.”
“All right, who’s taking his place?”
“We’ve been talking about bringing Quinn Payton in from Seattle.”
Max had been silent in his turn. “Why not Jean Sloss in R and D? She has a degree in business finance, and she’s done a damned good job. I think she’s executive material.”
By that time Rome had seen a pattern in all this moving around. “Who do you suggest to replace Jean Sloss? I agree that she deserves a promotion, but she’s good enough that replacing her won’t be easy.”
“Why not Kali? She’d love to work in R and D, and it would be a chance for her to eventually move into a managerial position. She knows the company.”
“Damn it, she’s my secretary!” Rome had roared. “Why don’t you move your own secretary?”
Max had considered that, but didn’t think Claire would take the job. On second thought, being Rome’s secretary would be too close and make working difficult, too. “Forget Kali, then. Caulfield, the general office manager…what’s his secretary’s name? Her qualifications are good, and she’s ambitious. Carolyn Watford, that’s it.”
“I’m taking all this down. We’re not in the habit of playing musical offices. Who takes Carolyn Watford’s place?”
“Claire Westbrook.”
After a long pause of silence Rome had said, “I’ll be damned,” and Max had known he didn’t have to make any further explanations.
“I’ll see what I can do. It won’t be easy, moving this many people around on such short notice. When can I let you know?”
“Sometime before lunch tomorrow,” Max had said.
“Hell!” Rome had snorted, and hung up, but he had been on the phone before ten o’clock with the all-clear. Rome Matthews was a mover and a shaker; when he decided something would be done, it was better not to stand in his way, and Anson Edwards generally gave him a free hand.
Max hadn’t considered that he would have more trouble convincing Claire to move than Rome had had in shaking up an entire office, but he should have known. He had made enough mistakes in dealing with her, mistakes that had come back to haunt him, that he should have been expecting it. If he could just get her to Dallas, he would have plenty of time to convince her that he wasn’t a complete bastard after all. If it took time to rebuild her trust in him, he was willing to take that time. He had hurt her, and the knowledge was eating away at him. It had been true when Claire accused him of compartmentalizing his life. He hadn’t allowed for the possibility that Claire would think he had used her solely for the purpose of getting that information. Now he couldn’t get her to listen to him, and he had the cold feeling inside that even if she did, she wouldn’t believe him. He had destroyed her trust in him, and only now was he realizing how rare and precious that trust was.
* * *
Claire did her usual Saturday morning chores, finding comfort in the routine while she tried to get her thoughts in order and make a logical decision. She scrubbed and waxed the kitchen floor, cleaned the bathroom from top to bottom, did her laundry, and even washed the windows, trying to burn up the anger that consumed her. With a shock she realized that she was not just angry, she was furious. She was usually calm—she couldn’t even remember the last time she had been truly angry, so angry that she wanted to throw something and scream at the top of her lungs. Damn him, how dare he! After using her as callously as he had, now he actually expected her to uproot herself and change her entire life, agree to move to another city and in doing so throw herself into continuous contact with him. He had said she wouldn’t be working for him, but she would be in the same building, in the same city, and he had made it plain that he didn’t consider things over between them. How had he said it? “When I make love to you again, you’ll be awake.” Again. That was the key word.
His gall made her almost incoherent with anger, and she muttered to herself as she cleaned. It was odd, but she couldn’t remember being angry when Jeff had left her for Helene. She had been tired and grief-worn over the baby, and bitterly accepting that Jeff should want someone else, but she hadn’t been angry. Only Max had touched her deeply enough to find the core of passion inside her. He brought out all the emotions and feelings she had spent a lifetime controlling and protecting: love, fierce desire, even anger.
She still loved him; she didn’t even try to fool herself on that score. She loved him, she burned for him, she wanted him, and the flip side of the coin was her deep anger. It was nature’s decree that for every action there should be a balancing reaction, and that was also true of emotions. If she hadn’t loved him so deeply, she would have been able to shrug away his betrayal and accept it as a lesson in trusting the wrong person. But because she loved him, she wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. She wanted to scream at his arrogant assumption that she was his for the taking, and she wanted to show him just how wrong that assumption was.
She could tell him to keep his job, turn her back on him, and walk away—that would show him that he couldn’t use her and expect her to fall back into his bed whenever he beckoned. That would show him that she was perfectly capable of living without him…or would it? Wouldn’t it instead be admitting that he had hurt her so badly that she couldn’t face seeing him every day? She had to admit that joining the unemployment line when she had the offer of a good job was a drastic, illogical move. He would know how much he had hurt her, and her pride demanded that she put up a good front. It was somehow essential to her self-esteem that she prevent him from knowing that his betrayal had hurt her so deeply that the wound was still bleeding.
But what other choice did she have? If she went to Dallas, she would be playing right into his hands, dancing to his tune like a marionette on a string.
Claire straightened from her dusting, her mouth set firmly and her eyes deeply thoughtful. What she had to do was not allow Max to be a factor in her decision at all. This was her job, her financial future, and she shouldn’t allow anger to cloud her judgment. Even if she went to Dallas, she wouldn’t have to dance to Max’s tune; when it came down to it, she was a woman, not a marionette. The choice, and the decision, were hers.
Looking at it like that, from a logical point of view, she knew that she would take the job. Perhaps that would be the best way of putting up a good front. If she went on about her life as normal, it would seem as if Max hadn’t made such a disastrous impact on her heart, and only she would know the truth.
Once the decision was made it was as if a weight had lifted. The difficult part would be telling her family, and Claire chose to tell Martine first. That afternoon she drove out to Martine’s house in the suburbs, a ritzy location that accurately reflected Martine’s and Steve’s dual success. Martine’s house wasn’t cool and picture-perfect, though. It reflected Martine’s warmth and outgoing personality, as well as her joy in her children.
A tricycle was parked next to the first step, and a red ball lay under a manicured shrub, but most of the cheerful tangle of toys was in the fenced backyard that surrounded the pool. Because it was a warm, sunny Saturday, Claire directed her steps toward the back. As she rounded the corner of the house, the tapping of her heels on the flagstones warned Martine of someone’s presence, and she lazily opened her eyes. Just as Claire had expected, her sister was stretched out on a deck chair, lazing in the sun in a diminutive white bikini that had to make Steve choke whenever he saw it. Even wearing no makeup and with her golden blond hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail with an ordinary rubber band, Martine was gorgeous and sexy.