Claire was stunned, so stunned that she forgot the alarm that had been racing up and down her spine as he had stared at her with such cold ferocity. “But I’m not—that is, I haven’t been chasing you,” she stammered.
“No, with you it’s the opposite. You took one look at me and decided that with this face I can’t possibly be anything more than a playboy, letting myself be used as a living ornament in any woman’s bed.”
She was aghast; that was exactly what she’d thought at first, and now she was ashamed of herself. Claire was unusually sensitive, and because she was so easily hurt she went out of her way to keep from hurting anyone else. The idea that she had so casually labeled this man as pretty but useless appalled her. She had other reasons for wanting to keep her distance from him, but he didn’t know them—to him, it must seem as if she had simply written him off as being shallow and immoral, without getting to know him at all. He was angry, and he had every right to be.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized in a soft, earnest voice. “It’s true that I did think you were a playboy, but it’s also true that I realize I’m not in your league.”
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that? Just what is ‘my league’?”
Claire dropped her eyes, unable to meet that piercingly bright stare, and found that his hands were in her line of vision. They were lean, aristocratic hands, beautifully fashioned, but strong for all that. Was the man like his hands?
“Claire,” he prompted.
At last she looked up, her face composed, as usual, but her eyes revealed some of her vulnerability. “You’re far more sophisticated than I, of course, and far more beautiful. I’m sure women chase you unmercifully, but the other side of the coin is the fact that you can probably have any woman you want. I really don’t want to be your next target.”
He didn’t like her answer at all; his facial muscles didn’t move, but still his displeasure was a definite chill brushing across her skin.
“Then why did you come out with me? I realize I was being a trifle persistent, but you allowed yourself to be persuaded.”
“I was lonely,” she said, then looked away again.
At that moment the waiter appeared with their dinner, and the interruption gave Max time to control the explosion of fury in his mind. Damn her to hell! So she accepted his invitation only because she was lonely? Evidently he rated above television, but only just! He wondered savagely if his ego could take much more.
When they were alone again, he reached across the table and caught her hand, holding her delicate fingers firmly when she automatically tried to draw away. “You aren’t a target,” he said tersely. “You’re someone I met and liked, someone who looked at me without any hint of speculation about how well endowed I am or how bloody versatile I am in bed. Do you think I don’t get lonely, too? I wanted to be able to talk to you. I want a friend. Sex is something that can be had whenever I take the urge.”
There was color in her face again, as if she were faintly embarrassed, but suddenly there was a twinkle in her eyes. He’d seen it briefly the night before, and its reappearance caught his attention, made him realize how really lovely she was with that light dancing in her dark eyes. “Do they really?” she asked in a scandalized whisper.
He felt a bit disoriented, as if he’d just had a blow to the head. A moment before he’d been angry, but now he found himself completely bemused by the teasing humor of her expression. He shifted his grip on her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of her fingers, absently savoring the feel of her soft flesh. “Ladies have become incredibly bold. It’s disconcerting to meet a woman and five minutes later find her hand inside my trousers.”
She laughed, and he felt himself become warm. At last he was gaining some ground with her! That was the way—she was lonely and badly needed a friend, while all her defenses were set up to deflect any romantic or seductive move. She wanted a friend, not a lover. Max didn’t agree with her choice, but he would have to go along with it for now or risk frightening her away.
“Could we be friends?” he asked gently, determined to act with restraint. Claire simply wasn’t like the women he had pursued with single-minded intensity; she was softer, more sensitive, with secret dreams in her eyes.
Claire’s lips still held a little smile. Friends? Was it possible to be friends with a man who was as sleek and beautiful as a cheetah? And why would he want to be friends with her? She was nothing out of the ordinary, while he was completely unordinary. Yet perhaps he really was lonely. Claire understood loneliness. She had chosen it as the safest course in life, but there were still times when she longed for someone to whom she could talk without guarding all but her shallowest layers. It wasn’t that she wanted to unburden her heart; it was the simple, everyday conversation of friends that she needed so badly. She had never had that even with Martine, dearly though she loved her. Martine was so courageous and outgoing that she couldn’t understand the hurts and fears of someone who lacked that courage. Nor had Claire ever been able to confide in her mother, because she had always feared and flinched from the inevitable comparison with Martine. Even when there was no comparison, fear of it had kept Claire silent.
“You could help me look for an apartment tomorrow,” he suggested, drawing her back from her thoughts. “A week in a hotel is straining my tolerance.”
His tone was testy, and Claire smiled at his accent, more clipped than usual. “I’d be happy to look with you. Do you have anything in mind?”
“My dear, I don’t know anything about Houston. I’m totally in your hands.”
“Buy a newspaper tomorrow and circle the
apartments that you like best, and we’ll drive around to see them. What time would you like to start?”
“As early as it’s convenient for you—after all, I’m at your mercy.”
She doubted that he was ever at anyone’s mercy, but a light, happy feeling was swelling in her. His eyes were a warm, brilliant turquoise now, and his smile would have turned the head of a statue. She wasn’t proof against his charm, and suddenly it didn’t worry her.
Their food had been cooling in front of them, and they both realized it simultaneously. As they ate, Claire began to watch him with growing amazement. How could someone so lean eat so much? His manners were faultless, but nevertheless the amount he ate would have done a stevedore proud. His metabolic rate had to be high, because his movements were characterized by an indolent grace; he didn’t burn off calories with nervous energy.
She said as much, and he smiled at her. “I know. My mother used to scold me for eating too much in company. She said it made it appear as if they kept me in a dungeon on starvation rations.”
“Do you have a large family?”
“There seem to be hundreds of us,” he said blithely. “Aunts and uncles and cousins by the score. In the immediate family, I have one brother and three sisters, and eight assorted nieces and nephews. My father is dead, but my mother still rules us all.”
“Are you the eldest?” Claire asked, fascinated by his large family.