Nothing was working out the way she had planned. She hadn’t intended to go out with Max again; she had intended to do her job and ignore him, but he hadn’t given her a choice about that. He was taking over again, and with her defenses down she was helpless to do anything about it. All her intentions had gone down the drain with her anger. She could no longer make any plans or form any intentions. All she could do was face the fact that she loved him, and take each day as it came.
* * *
Claire was so nervous that she kept dropping the pins she was using to put up her hair. It was her first day on a new job, and Max was taking her out to dinner. She needed to concentrate on the job, but she kept thinking of Max. He simply wouldn’t leave her head.
A pin flew from her trembling fingers again, and she muttered an impatient “damn!” as she leaned down to retrieve it. She had to calm down, or the day would be a disaster.
Finally she got her hair securely pinned, and with a frantic glance at the clock she put on the jacket that matched her gray skirt, grabbed her purse and left the house at a run. She wasn’t certain how long it would take her to drive to the Spencer-Nyle building in the early morning traffic, so she had cautiously allowed an extra fifteen minutes, then used most of that picking up hair pins. What an impression it would make to be late on her first day!
But she made it with five minutes to spare, and a smiling receptionist directed her to Theo Caulfield’s office on the fifth floor. A tall, dark man with a face like granite paused in passing, his dark eyes on Claire. She felt his gaze and glanced at him then quickly looked away. He was vaguely familiar, but she was certain she’d never met him. There was an almost visible force about him, and the receptionist became obviously nervous when she realized that the man was listening.
“Are you Claire Westbrook?” he asked abruptly, moving to Claire’s side.
How had he guessed, unless he was Theo Caulfied? She looked up at him, feeling dwarfed by his powerful build despite the three-inch heels she wore, and hoped that he wasn’t her new boss. He couldn’t be a comfortable man to work with. Because he made her nervous, too, she reacted by hiding behind her usual mask of composure.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Rome Matthews. I’ll show you to your office and introduce you to Caulfield. Good morning, Angie,” he said to the receptionist as he led Claire away.
“Good morning, Mr. Matthews,” the receptionist said faintly to his back.
His name was familiar, too. Claire darted another look up at that hard, almost brutally carved face and remembrance shot through her. His picture had been beside Max’s in that article she’d read, when she had discovered Max’s true identity. He was executive vice president and Anson Edwards’s right-hand man, his chosen successor. How did he know her name, and why was he personally escorting her to her office?
Whatever his reason, he wasn’t inclined to make explanations. He asked polite questions, whether she liked Dallas, had she gotten settled yet, but she could feel him watching her. His hand was on her elbow, and she was surprised by the gentleness of his touch.
“Here it is,” he said, drawing her to a halt and reaching out to open a door. “You’ll have your hands full, you know. Your predecessor had to be on her new job today, so you’ll be training yourself.”
Claire thought of running while she still could, but a man came out of the inner office on hearing their voices, an
d she was trapped. To her relief Theo Caulfield was an ordinary man, middle-aged and thin, without the intimidating force of Rome Matthews. He, too, seemed nervous at the other man’s presence and visibly relaxed when the short introductions were performed and the executive vice president took himself off to his own office.
To her relief her duties were fairly routine, and she settled in quickly. Theo Caulfield was quiet and meticulous, but not fussy. She missed Sam, but he was far happier in his laboratory than he had ever been in an office. Perhaps the takeover had been best for him, as well as for the company.
* * *
Max called her just before the day was over—the only time she had heard from him—to tell her to dress casually for dinner. Claire hurried home to her little house, afraid that he would take it as a signal that she wanted to stay in if she weren’t ready when he arrived. How casual was casual? She opted to play it safe with a plain skirt and blouse and flat heels, and was waiting to open the door before he could knock.
“Where are we going?” she asked, eyeing his slacks and open-neck silk shirt.
“We’re having dinner with some friends of mine,” he said, drawing her to him for a quick kiss. “How did it go today? Any trouble settling in?”
“No, it wasn’t difficult. It’s mostly the routine work of an assistant.”
Max asked her several questions about her day, distracting her. She was still unfamiliar with the city, so she wasn’t concerned with where they were going until she noticed they were in a residential section. “Where are we?” she asked.
“We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“At Rome’s house. We’re having dinner with him and his wife, Sarah.”
“What?” Claire asked faintly. “Max, you can’t just take me to someone’s house when they haven’t invited me!” And Rome Matthews’s house, of all people! She wasn’t comfortable with him; he was the most overpowering man she’d ever seen.
He looked amused. “They have invited you. Sarah told me that if I didn’t have you with me tonight, not to come myself.” There was an unmistakable note of affection in his voice. He turned into the driveway of a sprawling, Spanish-style house, and Claire tensed.
He put his hand on her back as they walked up the brick walk to the front door, and if it hadn’t been for that pressure at her back, Claire would have turned around and left. He rang the bell, and in a moment Rome Matthews opened the door himself.
Claire stared, almost not recognizing the high-powered executive in the man who stood there, clad in tight-fitting jeans that molded his powerful hips and legs, and a red polo shirt. His face was infinitely more relaxed, and there was amusement in his dark eyes. Even more amazingly, he held a chubby toddler in one strong arm and a tiny elfin girl in the other. Somehow Claire hadn’t imagined him as a family man, especially one with young children. Then her eyes were drawn to the two children, and she gasped. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered, automatically reaching out her hands. The children both had their father’s black hair and eyes and olive complexion, with the gorgeous rosy cheeks that only young children have. Two pairs of wide inquisitive dark eyes stared at her. Then the baby gave a chuckle and launched himself out of his father’s arms, straight into hers, his fat hands outstretched.