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Now, from a distance of five years, Claire had a very clear view of her marriage and the reasons it had failed. Most of it had honestly been her fault. She had been so terrified of failing to live up to what she thought everyone expected of her as Mrs. Jefferson Halsey that she had dashed around trying to be the perfect social hostess, the perfect homemaker, the perfect sport and had spread herself so thin that there had been almost nothing left over for Jeff. At first he’d tolerated it; then the gulf between them had widened and his eye had begun wandering … and settled on Helene, who was beautiful, older than Claire and marvelously self-assured. Only Claire’s unexpected pregnancy had prevented a divorce right then. To his credit, Jeff had been tender and kind to Claire, even though her pregnancy had been the end of his relationship with Helene. He loved Helene, but Claire was his wife and carried his child, and he refused to devastate her by asking for a divorce.
Then she had miscarried. He waited until she had recovered physically then told her that he wanted out. Their divorce had probably disappointed half of Houston in its lack of acrimony. Claire had known that it was over before she’d ever lost the baby. They divorced quietly, Jeff married Helene as soon as it was legally possible, and within a year Helene had presented him with a son. Now she was pregnant again.
Claire washed her face and brushed her teeth, then got into bed and picked up her book from the night table, trying not to think of the baby she’d lost. That was the past, as was her marriage, and really, the divorce had been the best thing that had ever happened to her. It had forced her to wake up and take a good look at herself. She had been wasting her life trying to please everyone else, rather than herself. She was going to be herself, and for the past five years, she had been. On the whole, she was content with the life she’d made for herself. She had a good job; she read when she liked and as much as she liked. She listened to the music she preferred. She was really closer now to Martine than she’d ever been before, because Claire no longer felt threatened by her older sister. She was even on better terms with her parents … if only her mother would stop pushing her to “find a nice young man and settle down.”
Claire didn’t go out a lot; she couldn’t see any point in it. She wasn’t inclined to settle for a lukewarm marriage based on common interests, and she wasn’t the type to inspire red-hot passion. She had learned control and how to protect herself with that control. If that made her cool and unresponsive, that was fine. Better that than to leave herself open to the devastating pain rejection brought.
That was the life she’d chosen and deliberately built for herself; why, then, had she accepted a dinner date with Max Benedict? Despite his sense of humor, he was still a playboy, and he had no place at all in her life. She should politely but firmly break their date. Claire closed her book, unable to read it, after all; Maxwell Benedict’s handsome face kept swimming before the print. Her brown eyes were troubled as she turned out the lamp and pulled the sheet up to cover her. Despite all the warnings of her instincts, she knew that she wasn’t going to break the date.
Max sat in his hotel room, his feet propped on the coffee table and a pot of coffee at his elbow. His brow was furrowed with an intense frown as he read one of the thick reports he’d received in the mail. One lean forefinger stroked his left eyebrow as he read; his reading speed was phenomenal, and he had almost finished. Absently he reached for the coffeepot, and the frown turned impatient as he realized that the pot was nearly empty. He replaced the pot on the tray and pushed it aside. Coffee! He’d become addicted to the stuff, another American habit that he’d acquired.
Swiftly he finished the report then tossed it aside. His eyes narrowed to slits. Anson had picked up hints that another company was after Bronson Alloys. That was a disturbing development in itself, but even more alarming were the rumors that this company had ties to Eastern Europe. If the rumors were true, then word had somehow gotten out that Bronson had developed an alloy that was lightweight and almost indestructible, superior to the alloy used for the SR-71 spy planes. So far, the alloy itself was only a rumor; nothing had been announced, and if anything had been developed, Sam Bronson was keeping it to himself. Still, the rumors were persistent.
He didn’t like it. Any move by another company would force him to make his own move, perhaps before he was ready, which would increase the chance for failure. Max didn’t intend to fail. He despised failure; his personality was too intense and fiercely controlled to accept anything less than total victory in whatever he attempted.
He picked up the report again and thumbed through it, but he allowed his thoughts to drift. The woman, Claire Westbrook … she wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Anson had thought that she might be the weak link, and Max had coolly expected that he could charm her as effortlessly as he did every woman. It hadn’t worked out that way. She was cool and calm, almost too controlled, and unresponsive; even though she had eventually accepted his dinner invitation, Max had the impression that she’d done so for her own reasons.
His eyes narrowed. From the time he’d reached puberty, the female sex had practically been at his feet. He appreciated women, enjoyed them, desired them, but women had come easily for him. This was the first time a woman had looked at him with a cool, blank expression then turned away in total disinterest, and he didn’t like it. He was both irritated and challenged, and he shouldn’t feel either of those responses. This was business. He would use his charm to get the needed information without a qualm; corporate war was just that: war, despite the outward civility of three-piece suits and board meetings. But seduction had never been a part of his plan, so his unwilling attraction to her was doubly unwelcome. He couldn’t afford the distraction. He had to concentrate on the job at hand, get the information in a hurry and make his move.
He knew his nature was intensely sensual, but always before, his physical needs and responses had been controlled by the power of his icy intellect. He was master of his body, not the other way around. That was part of his character; nature had given him both a towering intelligence and a sexual appetite that would have taken control of a man of lesser intellect, but he was brilliant, and his mental capacities were so intense and focused that he controlled his physical needs and never unleashed the driving power of that portion of his nature. His unwilling attraction to Claire Westbrook both angered and disconcerted him; it was totally out of place in this situation.
She was pretty, but he’d had women who were far more beautiful. She hadn’t responded to him or flirted or in any way indicated that she was attracted to him. The only unusual thing about her were her eyes, huge and velvety brown. There was no reason for him to be thinking about her, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
Chapter Two
The shrilling of the telephone startled Claire out of sleep the next morning, and her soft mouth curved in a wry smile as she rolled over to lift the receiver and stop the intrusive noise. “Hello, Martine,” she said, her voice husky with sleep.
There was a short pause, then Martine laughed. “I wish you wouldn’t do that! How did you know?”
“I thought you might call this morning to check up on me. Yes, I went to Virginia’s party, and no, I wasn’t the belle of the ball.”
“You’re answering my questions before I ask them,” Martine said in fond exasperation. “Did you enjoy yourself anyway?”
“I’m not the social type,” Claire hedged, sitting up in bed and stuffing a pillow behind her back. She didn’t mention meeting Max Benedict or that she was having dinner with him. Martine would ask a thousand questions and become all excited over something that was basically unimportant. Claire didn’t expect the dinner date to be the beginning of a fabulous romance; Max could have any woman he chose, so he wasn’t likely to settle for anything but the best. This was just a dinner date, nothing more or less, an evening out with a man who was new in town and didn’t know many people. It was probably a respite for him to meet a woman who didn’t chase him.
Martine sighed; experience had taught her that if Claire didn’t want to talk about something then no amount of prying or badgering could change her mind. For someone so retiring and unassuming, Claire was stubborn. Because Martine loved her sister and recognized how vulnerable and sensitive Claire was, she refrained from badgering her and instead gracefully changed the subject, laughing as she recounted a horrendous piece of mischief that her eight-year-old son had gotten into that morning.
They chatted for a few moments then said goodbye. Claire hung up the receiver and lay back on the pillows, her dark eyes reflective as she stared at the ceiling. Her thoughts kept going back to Max Benedict, and his features formed in her mind; she saw his eyes, vivid turquoise, but the shade of turquoise kept changing. Sometimes they were more green than blue, sometimes more blue than green, and twice she had seen a flash of something in his eyes that had startled her, but she hadn’t recognized it. It was as though she’d seen a shadow in the sea that was gone in an instant and left behind only the swirling, breathtaking turquoise waters, yet reminding the observer of the dangers of the sea. Perhaps he had dangers hidden in his depths, hidden behind the beauty that nature had given him. All human beings had hidden depths, of course, but some people were deeper than others, and some very shallow, but all had their private defenses. Did he use his appearance as a barrier, deflecting interest with his looks the way a mirror turns back the sun?
He was surprisingly controlled; perhaps some people wouldn’t see that, but Claire was more sensitive than most. She recognized control because she had had to learn it. As a child, she had seethed with pent-up emotion, a wild flood of love and devotion just waiting to be given to someone who would love her for herself. She had thought Jeff was that person, and she had released the torrent of passion, driving herself to be the perfect wife for him, only to fail again. Now she no longer waited for that one person; she had been hurt, and she refused to let anyone hurt her ever again. She had locked her emotions and passions away and was more content without them.
But how would those turquoise eyes look if that cool control were banished and passion heated their depths? How would he look while making love?
Claire sat up, pushing away the disturbing mental image. It was Saturday; she had chores to do. She pulled off her nightgown and let the wisp of silk fall across the bed, and for a moment her eyes enjoyed the contrast of the pink silk lying on the white eyelet lace of the comforter. She loved pretty things. That part of her personality was carefully hidden away and protected, but it was expressed in her preference for exquisite lingerie, in the harmonious colors that she gathered around her. Her bed was white, the carpet a softly blushing peach color, and around the room were touches of rose and jade. The bath towels that she bought were thick and lush, and she enjoyed the feel of them on her skin. So many things delighted her: fresh rain on her face, or the warm sunshine; a ray of light through a jar of plum jelly; the translucent beauty of a green leaf in spring; the plush texture of carpet beneath her bare feet. Because she hung back, she saw more than the people who hurried through life.
She had slept late, so she had to hurry through the housekeeping and laundry that she did every Saturday in order to allow herself enough time to do her hair and nails. She was restless and on edge, all because of a man with vivid sea-colored eyes and sunshine in his hair, and that response was unusual enough to bring all her instinctive defenses springing into place. She would have to be on guard every moment, against herself more than Max. The weakness was hers, the same weakness that had let her believe that Jeff loved her as much as she loved him, because that was what she had wanted to believe. Jeff hadn’t misled her; she’d misled herself. Never again.
Even so, pride wouldn’t allow her to look anything but her best when she went out with Max, and she took a long time over her makeup. Her features were delicate, with high cheekbones and a wide, soft mouth; blusher brought color to those cheekbones, and lipstick made her mouth look even softer. Smudged eyeliner and smoky shadow turned her dark eyes into pools of mystery. After putting up her honey-blond hair, leaving a few tendrils curling loosely at her temples, she slipped pearl-drop earrings in her ears and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The old-fashioned hairstyle suited her, revealing the clean lines of her cheek and jaw, the slenderness of her throat, but she looked disturbingly solemn, as if secrets were hiding behind her eyes.
She was ready when the doorbell rang at exactly eight o’clock and had been ready long enough to become nervous; the peal of the doorbell made her jump. Quickly, before her nerve failed her, she opened the door. “Hello. Come in, please. Would you like a drink before we go?” Her voice was calm and polite, the voice of a hostess doing her duty without any real enthusiasm. Instinctively Claire moved a little away from him; she’d forgotten how tall he was, and she felt dwarfed.
His pleasant expression didn’t waver as he held his hand out to her, palm up. “Thank you, but we haven’t time. On such short notice, I had to take reservations that were somewhat earlier than I’d planned. Shall we go?” His outstretched hand was steady and unthreatening, but the gesture was a command. Claire had the distinct impression that he had noticed her withdrawal and was demanding her return. He wanted her to step within reach of his hand, his touch, perhaps even place her hand in his in a gesture of both trust and obedience.
She couldn’t do it. The small confrontation took only a moment, and she ended it when she stepped away to get her bag and the waist-length silk jacket that went with her oyster-colored silk chemise. It wasn’t until she turned around and found herself staring at his chest that she realized he hadn’t let the moment end. She froze.
He plucked the jacket from her hands and held it up for her to slip her arms into the sleeves. “Allow me,” he said in his cool, precise voice, so devoid of any real emotion that Claire wondered if her reaction had been an overreaction, that his out-held hand had been a mannerly gesture rather than a subtle command. Perhaps if she had gone out more, she wouldn’t be so wary and skittish now; Martine had probably been right in urging her to become more socially active.
She let him help her with the jacket, and he smoothed the small collar, his touch brief and light. “You look lovely, Claire, like a Victorian cameo.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, disarmed by the gentle, graceful compliment. Suddenly she realized that he had sensed her agitation and was trying to put her at her ease, using his almost courtly manners to reassure her, and the odd thing was that it worked. He was controlled, unemotional, and she liked that. People who acted on the urges of their emotions and glands were unreliable.
His hand was on the small of her back, resting there with a slight warm pressure, but now it didn’t disturb her. She relaxed and found that she was looking forward to the evening, after all.
His choice of car further reassured her. She would have been suspicious of a flamboyant sports car, but the sedate, solidly conservative black Mercedes-Benz wasn’t the car of someone who was attracted to flash and glitter. He was dressed as conservatively as a banker, too, she noticed, glancing at his gray pinstriped suit. It was wonderfully cut, and his lean, elegant frame gave the suit a look of dash and fashion that it wouldn’t have possessed on any other man, but it still wasn’t the peacock attire of a playboy.
Everything he did put her more at ease. He carried on a light, casual conversation that put no pressure on her; he didn’t use innuendos or sly double meanings or ask any personal questions. The restaurant he’d chosen was quiet, giving the impression of privacy but not intimacy. Nothing he did was in any way meant to impress her; he was simply dining out with a woman, with no strings attached, and that was immensely reassuring.
“What sort of work do you do?” he asked casually, dipping an enormous Gulf shrimp into cocktail sauce before biting into it with frank enjoyment. Claire watched his white even teeth sink into the pink shrimp, her pulse speeding up in spite of herself. He was just so impossibly handsome that it was difficult to refrain from simply staring at him.
“Secretarial.”
“For a large company?”
“No. Bronson Alloys is small, but growing rapidly, and we have outstanding prospects. It’s a publicly held company, but I work for the major stockholder and founder, Sam Bronson.”
“Do you enjoy your work? Being a secretary seems to have lost all its attraction for a lot of people; the push is to be an executive, with a secretary of your own.”
“Someone has to be the secretary,” Claire said, smiling. “I don’t have either the talents or the ambition to be an executive. What company are you with? Will you be in Houston permanently?”
“Not permanently, but I could be here for several months. I’m investigating certain properties for investment.”
“Real estate?” Claire asked. “Are you a speculator?”
“Nothing so dashing. Basically what I do is make feasibility studies.”
“How did you come to be transplanted from England to Texas?”
He gave a negligent shrug. “Business opportunities are more plentiful over here.” Max studied her smooth, delicate face, wondering how she would look if any real warmth ever lit her dark eyes. She was more relaxed now than she had been, but there was still that lack of response from her that both irritated and intrigued him. So long as he kept the subject impersonal and made no move that could be interpreted as that of an interested male, she was relaxed, but she withdrew like a turtle into its shell at the least hint of masculine aggressiveness or sexuality. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to be attracted to her or even flirt with her. The less masculine he was, the better she liked it, and the realization angered him. What he wouldn’t give to force her out of that frozen nunnery she’d locked herself into, to make her acknowledge him as a man, to make her feel some sort of passion!
Claire looked away, a little rattled by the cold, unreadable expression in his eyes. For a moment his face had lost its expression of suave pleasantness and taken on the hard, determined lines of a Viking warrior. Perhaps that was the ancestry that had given him his golden hair and sea-colored eyes, rather than an Anglo-Saxon heritage.
What had she said to bring that expression to his face? It had been only a polite question; she’d been so careful not to step over the bounds she’d set for herself, saying nothing that could be construed as reflecting a personal interest in him.
“Last night,” he said abruptly. “That was deliberate viciousness, wasn’t it? Why?”
Claire’s head jerked around, the only sign she gave that she was disturbed by the change of subject. Her dark eyes went blank. “Yes, it was deliberate, but nothing came of her efforts. It isn’t important.”
“I don’t agree.” His crisp accent bit off the words. “You were upset, though you carried it off well. Why was that little scene staged?”
She stared at him, that blank look still in her eyes, as if a wall had been erected in her mind. After a moment he realized that she wasn’t going to answer him, and a powerful surge of anger shook him, made him want to grind his teeth in frustration. Why was she so damned aloof? At this rate he’d never get close enough to her to get any of the answers he needed! He wanted this damned thing over with; with business out of the way, he could concentrate on Claire and his irritating attraction to her. He had no doubt that if he were able to devote himself fully to her, he would be able to get behind those barriers to the woman. He had never yet failed to get a woman he wanted; there was no reason why Claire should be his first failure. She might be the most challenging woman of his experience, though, and the thought quickened his interest.
How could he gain her trust if she retreated every time he advanced? A small frown furrowed his brow as he studied her openly, trying to read her mind. If she retreated, then she must feel threatened by him, yet he hadn’t done anything to warrant that reaction. Most women were attracted to him on sight, gravitating to him like a compass needle to the magnetic north pole, but Claire made an obvious effort to keep a certain distance from him. In a flash of insight Max realized that it was his looks that made her so wary, and his frown deepened. She had seen the playboy persona and felt threatened by it; she was probably determined not to become another one of his women. Bloody hell! She would run like a frightened rabbit if she realized that her reaction was attracting him far more surely than a blatant play for him. Max was accustomed to being pursued by women; a woman who retreated from him brought out the primitive male urge to chase fleeing prey.
She was soft, tender prey, he thought as he watched a delicate tinge of color sweep over her cheeks. She was disconcerted by the way he was staring at her, but he liked looking at her. She had a gentle, intelligent face, and he kept getting caught by those enormous dark eyes, as velvety as melted chocolate. Her coloring was exquisite, like delicate china; did she have any idea how enormously appealing her dark eyes were? Probably not. Her ex-husband’s wife was a real beauty, but if he’d been given the choice between the two women, Max would unhesitatingly have chosen Claire. He’d been stunned by the courage and dignity with which she’d handled the situation at the party the night before; how many other women would have kept their poise under those circumstances? Watching her coolly, deliberately, he knew that he wanted her.
He’d have her, too, but first he had to get past those damnable barriers.
“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Don’t treat me as everyone else does.”
Startled, Claire looked at him, her eyes widening. What did he mean? How did everyone else treat him? “I don’t understand,” she finally murmured.
His eyes were green ice, with no hint of blue in them. “It’s poetic justice, my dear. My face makes me a target, a sexual trophy to be nailed on the wall above the bed, figuratively speaking, of course. Most women have no interest in me other than as a stud; I could be brainless for all the concern they have in me personally. I enjoy the sex, yes; I’m a healthy man. But I also enjoy conversation, music and books, and I would damn well prefer being considered as a person as well as a warm body.”
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.
“No, my brother is the eldest. I’m second in line. Is your family a large one?”
“No, not really. Just my parents, and my sister Martine and her family. There are cousins in Michigan and an aunt who lives in Vancouver, but the relationship isn’t close.”
“A large family has its advantages, but there are also times when it closely resembles a zoo. Holidays are chaos.”
“Do you go home for all the holidays?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes it isn’t possible, but I pop over on the odd weekend.”
He made it sound as if it were only a matter of getting in a car and taking a half-hour drive, instead of “popping over” on a transatlantic flight. She was still marveling at that when he turned the conversation to her job; he asked interested questions about the sort of work done at Bronson Alloys, the market for special alloys and the uses for them. It was a fairly complicated subject, and Claire had studied intensely when she’d first gotten the job as Sam Bronson’s secretary, trying to understand the processes and the practical applications of Sam’s metallurgical genius; she knew her ground well but had to make a special effort to keep abreast. The ease and rapidity of Max’s understanding was amazing; she could talk to him as naturally as if he also worked in the field, without having to pause continually for complicated explanations.
Then they began talking about real estate, and the way Max explained it, it sounded fascinating. “You don’t actually buy the real estate yourself?”
“No. I act as a consultant, investigating properties for people who are interested buyers. Not all property is suitable for investment or expansion. There are the geological considerations, first of all; some land simply isn’t stable enough to support large structures. There are other variables, of course: the depth of the water table, any bedrock, things that effect the price effectiveness of locating a building on that particular plot of ground.”
“You’re a geologist, too?”
“I’m a gatherer of facts. It’s like putting a puzzle together, with the difference that you have no idea what the finished product will look like until it is finished.”
They lingered over coffee, still talking, and gradually Claire realized how hungry she’d been for simple conversation, for the sharing of ideas and opinions. He was extraordinarily intelligent, but he didn’t parade his mental capabilities about for anyone to admire; his intelligence was simply there, a part of him. For her part, Claire had always been unusually studious, losing herself in the varied worlds offered by books, and she was both astonished and delighted to discover that one of his favorite writers was Cameron Gregor, a wild Scotsman whose books were horribly difficult to find and who was her own favorite.
They argued fiercely for almost an hour over which book was Gregor’s best; Claire forgot her reserve, leaning toward him with her eyes shining, her face lit with pleasure. After a while Max realized that he was arguing for the sheer pleasure of watching her, not because of any real difference of opinion. When passion brightened her face, she was almost incandescent; jealousy began to eat at him, because all of that fire was for books, and none for him.
Finally he held up both hands, laughing. “Shall we stop trying to change the other’s mind and dance instead? We’ve totally ignored the music.”
Until that moment Claire hadn’t even realized that a band was playing, or that the dance floor was crowded with people swaying to the slow, bluesy tunes. A saxophone was crying pure mournful notes that almost brought tears to her eyes; it was her favorite type of music. He led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms.
