laire, dear, I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this," Alma argued gently. "It's just a small party to repay some social favors, and I'd like for you to come. Your father and I would both like you to come; we don't see enough of you. Martine and Steve will be there."

Knowing it was useless, because when Alma used that gentle voice it meant that she'd dug in her heels and wasn't budging an inch, Claire tried again. "Mother, I don't like going to parties."

"Well, I don't like giving them. They're too much trouble, but I do it because it's expected and helps your father."

Which meant that Alma was doing her duty, Martine and Steve were doing their duty by showing up as the supporting cast, and Claire, as usual, was failing to come up to par, by refusing to do her part. Claire winced inside.

"You can leave early; I know you have to work tomorrow," Alma soothed, reading her victory in Claire's silence. "And bring Max Benedict with you; from the rumor flying around town, Harmon and I think we should be better acquainted with him."

"What rumor?" Claire asked, horrified.

"That things look pretty serious between you. Really, you could at least have warned me, so I wouldn't have to act as if I knew what everyone was talking about."

"But we aren't serious! We're just friends." Claire had repeated that statement so often that she was beginning to feel like a parrot who knew only one phrase.

"You haven't been seeing him regularly?"

Only every day, but how could she tell Alma that without it sounding as if there was a passionate romance going, when it wasn't a romance? It was…well, it was almost like a partnership. They provided each other with companionship, simple, undemanding companionship. "I've seen him, yes."

"Leigh Adkinson saw you having lunch with him on Monday; Bev Michaels saw you having dinner with him on Tuesday; Charlie Tuttle saw you with him last night in a mall, shopping. Every day! That's pretty regular, dear. Now, I'm not pushing you; let the relationship develop at its own pace. But, really, it would be so much more comfortable if Harmon and I were better acquainted with him."

"I'll be at the party," Claire said quietly. She might as well capitulate and get it over with, because Alma wasn't about to give up.

"With Max."

"I don't know. I haven't talked to him about today. He may have a date."

"Oh, I don't think so," Alma chuckled. "Thank you, dear. We'll see you both tonight."

Claire hung up, biting her lip in consternation. What a way to begin the morning! Alma's call had come mere seconds before Claire's alarm clock had gone off. Well, her mother might be certain that Max didn't have a date, but Claire wasn't. Max was too much of a man not to have a love life, and since he didn't have that sort of relationship with Claire, nor did he seem interested in developing one, it followed that he would be seeing other women. If not tonight, then soon. A rest from strenuous pursuit was one thing, but a healthy man wouldn't let it go on too long. Max had a man's needs, and Claire had seen how women followed him with their eyes.

He couldn't have made it more obvious that he wasn't physically attracted to her; he hadn't kissed her again after that brief kiss on Monday night. As light as it had been, it had sent tingles of electricity shooting all through her body, and she had had to force herself to step away from him, to keep him from seeing how it had affected her. That one small touch and she had been ready to throw herself at him, just like all those other women. She had cried herself to sleep that night, certain she'd made a fool of herself and that he would never come near her again, but he'd called her the next day as promised and didn't seem to have noticed what had happened. Perhaps she had covered it well enough that he didn't suspect.

It didn't seem possible that it had been only a week since she'd met him. She had seen him every day, usually twice a day, when he met her for lunch, and after work, too. She sometimes felt as if she knew him better than she'd ever known anyone before, even Jeff, but at times Max was like a stranger. If she looked up quickly…she would occasionally catch him watching her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. If crossed, he could be a hard man, but he always kept himself under strict control, and it was that control that made her trust him.

She thought of not even asking him to go to her mother's party; she could go by herself, stay long enough to be polite then plead tiredness and go home early. That would satisfy Alma. But it would also mean that Claire wouldn't see Max that day, and emptiness filled her at the thought. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed herself up on the pillows and punched out his number on the telephone.

It rang only once before he answered it, his voice deep and a little husky with sleep. As always, Claire's heart gave a tiny leap at hearing him speak.

"It's Claire. I'm sorry to wake you," she apologized.

"I'm not sorry you woke me," he said and yawned. "I had planned to call you as soon as I woke, anyway. Is something wrong?''

"No, nothing like that. Mother just called; she's giving a cocktail party tonight and insists that I be there."

"Am I invited?" he asked with that smooth, cool self-confidence that often amazed and disconcerted her. Max was always so certain of what he was about. It was as if he knew Alma had insisted that Claire invite him and as if he was equally aware that Claire, being herself, would find it difficult to ask him. The more he seemed to see inside her mind, the more Claire tried to keep him from doing just that. She was in love with him; he wasn't in love with her. If he knew that… he would pity her, and he would also stop seeing her.

"You don't mind?"

"I like your family. Why should I mind?"

"People are talking about us."

"I don't give a bloody damn what people say," he said calmly then yawned again. "What time is the party?"

"Seven."

"Of course. Everything starts at seven. I'm going to be a bit tight on time, darling. I have to go out of town today, and I'll be shaving it down to a whisker if I drive all the way to my apartment, then to your apartment, then to your parents' house. Would it inconvenience you terribly if I simply got ready at your apartment? It would save almost forty-five minutes in driving time."

Her heart gave that stupid little leap again at the thought of his using her bathroom to shower in and then dressing in her bedroom. "No, it wouldn't be a bother," she managed to say. "It's a good idea. What time will you be here?"

''About six. Will that give you time?"

"Yes, of course." She would have to hurry, but she thought she could make it. It usually didn't take her long to get ready, and she had time to wash her hair before going to work. That would help.

"I'll see you tonight, then."

It was a horribly busy day; Alma's phone call had set the tone for the entire day. No matter how she hurried, Claire seemed to be a step behind all day long; even routine tasks developed aggravating complications. Part of her job was to shield Sam from unnecessary interruptions, which meant that she had to handle them herself, and there were some things that simply couldn't be put off to the next day. She worked through lunch, trying not to wonder where Max was and wishing that she were with him, wherever he was.

It was midafternoon when the emergency reappraisals arrived by special delivery, and a slow smile moved across Sam's face when he read them. With a gesture of supreme satisfaction he tossed the reports on his desk and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. "Even better than I'd hoped," he told Claire. "The real estate values have quadrupled in the past year. We're safe, and I was really beginning to sweat it. Trading has picked up in our stock, though no pattern has developed yet. Someone's definitely after this company, but they're not going to get it. Take a look at that reappraisal."

Claire read through the documents, amazed at the way the value of the land had skyrocketed. Once again Sam's instincts had been right. It was really uncanny, the way his long shots all seemed to pan out. He had bought that land as a hedge against inflation, and now the land would probably be what saved the company from an unfriendly takeover attempt, and Sam wouldn't have to entangle himself in government regulations before he was finished with his research.

Of all days, she was almost twenty minutes late leaving work. It was fifteen to six when she let herself into her apartment, and she pulled off her clothes as she dashed to the bedroom. She jumped in and out of the shower, and had just dried off and pulled on her robe when the doorbell rang. She pressed her hands to her clean face, wishing that she had at least had time to put on her makeup, but there was nothing she could do about that now.

"I had to work late," she stammered in explanation when she opened the door to Max. "Let me get fresh towels and the bathroom is yours."

He carried a fresh suit and shirt and a small traveling kit. A shadow of beard darkened his jaw, but his smile was relaxed. "Don't worry, we'll be on time," he assured her, following her into the bedroom. He placed his clothing on the bed and carried the kit into the bathroom while she got fresh towels for him. Coming back out of the bathroom, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it across the bed, then began tugging at his tie. Her breath caught in her chest, and she turned away to sit down at her dresser, picking up a brush and pulling it through her hair without having any realization of what she was doing. She tried not to watch him, but the edge of her mirror caught him, and there was no way she could look away. He pulled his shirt free of his pants then unbuttoned it and pulled it off. For all his leanness he was unexpectedly muscular, his torso roped with long, smooth muscles that rippled when he moved. Dark brown curls grew across his chest, fascinating her with the discovery that his body hair was dark instead of blond, though she should have guessed, because his brows and lashes were dark brown, creating a striking contrast with his golden hair and framing his brilliant eyes.

To her relief he didn't take his pants off, though she wouldn't have been surprised if he had. Max was probably very comfortable with being nude in front of a woman, and he had no reason to be ashamed of his body. He was beautiful, even more beautiful than she'd dreamed, his body rippling with fluid strength that was usually hidden by his clothing.

He took his fresh pants off the hanger and took them into the bathroom with him. It wasn't until she heard the shower start that Claire recalled the need to hurry. She forced herself to begin applying her makeup, but her hands were shaking and she botched her eye makeup twice before she got it right. The shower stopped, and her mind immediately supplied a picture of Max standing there naked, drying himself on her towels. Hot color surged into her cheeks. She had to stop thinking about him! She was making a nervous wreck out of herself, when she should be concentrating on getting ready.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered clearly, then raised his voice. "Claire, I forgot my razor. Do you mind if I borrow yours?"

"No, go ahead," she called back. He was shaving; she would have time to dress before he came out. Jumping up, she got out fresh underwear and pulled it on, not taking the time to savor the sensation of cool silk on her skin as she usually did. She smoothed hosiery on her legs, not daring to hurry with that task or she would put a run in the delicate fabric. Now, what to wear? She opened the closet door and hurriedly surveyed the contents; she didn't have that many dresses suitable for a cocktail party. The water had stopped running in the bathroom; he would be out any moment. She jerked a cream-colored jersey dress off the hanger and pulled it over her head just as the bathroom door opened. Hidden in the folds of material, her face flamed red at the spectacle she was making of herself, with her head and upper torso fighting to emerge from the garment, while her lower body was exposed in only skimpy panties, a garter belt and hosiery. Turning her back on him, she tugged the dress into place and began fumbling with the back zipper.

"Allow me," he said, his voice very close. His warm hands brushed hers aside, and he efficiently pulled up the tab of the zipper then hooked the tiny hook at the top. His hands dropped. "There."

Keeping her face averted, she muttered a stiff thanks and returned to the dresser to repair the damage she'd just done to her hair. He was whistling under his breath as he finished dressing, and for a moment she envied his casual attitude, which was a measure of how accustomed he was to that type of situation. She leaned toward the mirror to apply her lipstick and saw him unzip his pants to tuck in his shirt. Her hand was shaking, and she had to take extra care with the lipstick to keep from smearing it.

Then he appeared in the mirror, standing behind her and bending down to check his hair, an abstract frown on his face. "Is everything in place?" he asked, standing back for her inspection.

She had to look at him then, and her eyes drifted over him. Again his charcoal-gray suit was ultraconservative but extremely well tailored. He knew what looked best on him; with his looks, trendy clothes would have made him too overpowering, like a neon light. The plain, unadorned clothes he chose enhanced rather than challenged his golden Viking beauty. Perhaps the lean, high-cheekboned beauty of his face had a Celtic origin, but there was something, perhaps that touch of ruthlessness that she had sometimes sensed in him, that made her think again that many generations back he might have had a Viking ancestor who had gone raiding on English shores and left behind a reminder of his visit. "No, you're perfect," she finally said, and he couldn't guess how much she meant those words.

"Let me look at you." He took her hand, drew her from the chair and turned her for his inspection. "You're just right—wait, you need earrings."

She'd forgotten them. Quickly she slipped pearl-drop earrings into her ears, and Max nodded, checking his watch. "We have just enough time to get there."

Perhaps it was just a small cocktail party, but the driveway was already choked with cars when they arrived at her parents' house. Alma and Harmon were both popular and outgoing, drawing people to them with the magnetism of their personalities. Inevitably Claire felt herself tensing as she walked up to the door with Max close beside her.

The door opened before they reached it, and Martine stood laughing at them, resplendent in an emerald-green dress that showed off her beautiful figure and made her glow with color. "I knew you'd be here," she said in triumph, hugging Claire. "Mom has been in a dither that you wouldn't come."

"I told her that I would," Claire said, reaching deep inside herself for the composure that she kept like a shield between herself and others, even her family.

"Oh, you know how she has to fret over something. Hello, Max, you're looking as beautiful as ever."

He laughed, a deep sound of true amusement. "You really must work to get over that shyness."

"That's what Steve tells me. Oh, here come the Waverlys. I haven't seen Beth in ages." She waved past them to the approaching couple.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Claire asked.

"I don't know. Ask Mom, if you can find her. She was in the den, but that was five minutes ago, so it's anyone's guess where she is now."

Max put his hand on her waist as they walked into the crowded living room, and Claire immediately felt the impact of everyone's eyes as they turned to survey the new arrivals. She knew their thoughts, knew that everyone had heard the rumors and was looking them over, trying to decide if the rumors were true.

"You did make it!" Alma beamed, sailing across the room to kiss Claire's cheek. She turned that thousand-watt smile on Max, whose mobile lips twitched into a devilish grin. Before either Alma or Claire could guess what he was about, he took Alma in his arms and kissed her lips, then did it again. Alma laughed, but she was blushing when he released her.

"Max, what are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"Kissing a pretty woman," he replied blandly, the tone of his voice belied by the wicked twinkle in his eyes. He reached out and brought Claire back into the circle of his arm. "Now Claire and I are going to find something to eat; I'm starving, and she didn't have time for dinner, either."

Claire felt frozen as she walked beside him to the kitchen, feeling the eyes boring into her back like knife blades. He'd kissed Alma twice, which meant that he'd kissed her mother more than he'd kissed her. She had stood to the side, envying the brilliant, easy charm that both Max and Alma possessed, wishing that she had the gift of laughter. Martine could do it, too, have people eating out of her hand within moments of meeting them. All her life she'd been surrounded by beautiful, charming people, but none of that magical self-assurance had rubbed off on her.

The breakfast bar in the kitchen was crowded with hors d'oeuvres and finger sandwiches, and Max raided it shamelessly, but Claire only nibbled at a sandwich. Automatically she replenished the trays as Max depleted them and finished the condiment tray that Alma had been in the middle of preparing before she had rushed off to greet her guests. Alma rushed back into the kitchen, her glowing smile bursting over her face when she saw that Claire had completed the preparations. "Bless you, dear. I completely forgot what I was doing. You always did keep your common sense; I can't count the times Harmon has told me to slow down and think before I do something, but you know how deep an impression it's made."

Claire smiled quietly at her mother, thinking that she did love her very much even though it had never been easy, growing up in the shadow of a beautiful mother and an equally beautiful sister. Both Alma and Martine were warm and outgoing people, without an ounce of maliciousness. It wasn't their fault that Claire had always felt overshadowed by them.

She picked up the heavy tray, and Max promptly relieved her of the burden. "Show me where you want it," he said firmly when Claire turned to him with her brow raised in question. "You're not to try to carry these trays yourself." He looked at Alma as she began to lift one of the trays, and the cool warning in his eyes made her drop her hands and step back.

"Masterful, isn't he?" Alma whispered to Claire as they followed Max's broad shoulders back into the living room.

"He has set ideas on what's proper," Claire said in understatement.

Max carried all the trays in, then became immersed in a conversation with Harmon, Steve and several other men. Periodically his eyes sought out Claire, wherever she was in the room, as if reassuring himself that she wasn't in need of him.

Claire sipped on a margarita and surreptitiously checked the time, wondering when they would be able to leave. The cocktail party wasn't as bad as she'd feared, but she was tired. The pressure of the hectic day, the hectic week, was telling on her. Bracing herself, she tried to concentrate on the conversation around her.

Someone turned on the stereo, but since Harmon was an ardent blues fan, the selection was limited. The smoky, mournful wail of a saxophone lured several people into dancing. Claire danced with Martine's law partner, then with her father's best friend, then with an old friend from school. She was on her second margarita when it was taken from her hand, placed on the table, and Max turned her into his arms.

"You're tired, aren't you?" he asked as they swayed to the low music.

"Exhausted. If tomorrow weren't Friday, I don't think I could make it."

"Are you ready to leave?"

"More than ready. Have you seen Mother lately?"

"She's back in the kitchen, I think. The nation's dairy farmers would be in ecstasy if they could see the amount of cheese that has been consumed tonight," he said dryly.

"You ate your share, I noticed."

His mouth quirked. "I burn off the calories."

Sighing, she stepped back from his embrace. "Let's find Mother. I think we've stayed long enough to be polite."

Alma was indeed in the kitchen, dicing cheese into another heap of small squares. She looked up when they entered, and a mixture of dismay and resignation crossed her features. "Claire, you can't be leaving!" she protested. "It's still early."

"I know, but tomorrow's a working day." Claire leaned forward to kiss her mother's cheek. "I've enjoyed myself. Really."

Alma looked at Max for reinforcement. "Can't you get her to stay a little longer? She has that stubborn look, and I know she won't listen to me."

Max's arm went around Claire's waist, and he, too, bent to kiss Alma's cheek. "That isn't a stubborn look; it's a tired look," he explained easily, employing his charm as he smiled at Alma, pacifying her. "It's my fault; I've had her out every night this week, and the lack of sleep is catching up with her."

It worked, but then, Claire had never doubted him. Alma was beaming at him. "Oh, all right, take her home. You must come back with her; we haven't really had a chance to get to know you."

"Soon," he promised.

It was a silent drive back to Claire's apartment, but when she offered him coffee he came inside with her. After making the coffee and carrying the cups into the living room, they sat on the couch and sipped quietly. Claire kicked off her shoes, sighing in relief and wiggling her toes.

Max's gaze was on her slender feet, but his mind was on other matters. "What happened that you had to work late today?"

"Everything. It was just one of those days, and it didn't help that Sam was so edgy. He's almost certain there's going to be a takeover attempt, and soon; there's been increasing trading in our stock. Even though he has an ace in the hole, the waiting and wondering are nerve-racking."

"What's his ace in the hole?" Max asked, his voice sleepy, almost disinterested.

It was a new situation for Claire, actually being able to sit down and discuss her day at work with someone. She had never talked about her day before; she couldn't remember if anyone had ever asked. Small talk was a subtle sort of intimacy, letting someone into her mind by sharing the details of her life with them, and she had always instinctively kept to herself. But it was so easy to talk to Max; he listened, but he didn't make a big deal of it.

"Real estate," she said, smiling a little. His lashes lifted to reveal a lazy gleam of interest. "I thought that might interest you."

"Ummm," he said, an indistinct sound of agreement.

"Sam invested in some property that has quadrupled in value. The reappraisal came in today, and it was even better than he'd hoped.''

"Land values can do that. They go up and down like a roller-coaster. The trick is to buy just before the price bottoms out, and sell just before it goes over the top. The value must really be astronomical to be enough to protect him against a takeover." He sat up more alertly and finished his coffee.

"I'll get you a refill," Claire said, getting up and going into the kitchen before he could refuse. She reappeared almost immediately with the pot, and Max watched her walk toward him, her slender body moving gracefully. She looked so quiet and restrained, but he knew what was beneath that ladylike dress. He'd seen the satin panties, the shockingly sexy garter belt and filmy hosiery. A garter belt, for God's sake! His body jolted with response now just as it had then, and he clenched his teeth. He'd had a difficult time keeping his mind off her underwear and his hands off her body; he kept seeing her with that dress over her head, baring her slender hips and legs to his view. The need to take her to bed was growing out of control, fed by frustration that she was so unaware of him as a man and by anger that she would freeze up on him if he tried to change the situation. He wasn't accustomed to abstinence, and he didn't like it one damned bit.

Claire picked up the conversation where they had left off, sitting down beside him again. "I wouldn't call the land value astronomical, but we're a small enough company that it doesn't have to be. Anyone making a bid for the company is going to come short by several million dollars."

He jerked his thoughts back to what she was saying. Damn it, she was practically handing him the information he needed on a silver platter, and he couldn't keep his mind on the conversation. He wanted very much to stretch her out on the couch and lift that dress over her head again, to run his hands over her and feel the softness of her skin, but that would have to come later.

"How much was the appraisal?" he asked. He watched her closely, wondering if she would answer him. It was a bold move, asking outright for the information he needed, but she had already given him the major part of it, and the actual appraisal would only fill in the details. He kept his face carefully blank, hiding his intense interest in her answer.

"Almost fourteen million."

Damn, that would make a difference! "What did they do? Find oil on it?" he muttered.

She laughed. "Close."

Mingled satisfaction and relief filled him; the job was done. It hadn't taken long, and had been relatively easy. The difficult part had been restraining himself from making a move on Claire and scaring her off, but now the job was out of the way and he could concentrate on her. She could try hiding behind that shell of hers, but he was free to pursue his own interests now, and Claire was his interest. He wanted her; he had no doubt that he would have her. He was a master at seduction, and no woman had ever resisted him for long when he made the effort to charm her into his bed. But with Claire, he'd been handicapped by his professional concerns, forced to restrain himself. She was already accustomed to his company, and she had come to accept his casual touches; it wouldn't be long before she was also accepting the most intimate touches between a man and a woman.

His hunger, his need, for her were becoming more urgent. It wasn't just the physical need for release, though that was strong enough; he wasn't accustomed to celibacy. No, his strongest need was the primitive urge to bind her to him now, before she found out the truth, but he found himself uncharacteristically hesitant, his usual self-assurance fading. What if this wasn't the right time? What if she rebuffed him? What if she retreated completely? He would have lost even her friendship, and to his surprise he wanted her friendship very much, as much as he wanted her physically. He wanted all of her, her mind as well as her body.

She smothered a yawn, and he laughed, reaching out to massage her shoulder, the light touch filling him with pleasure. "You need to be asleep. Why haven't you told me to leave?"

Claire curled up on the couch, tucking her feet under her, and sipped her coffee contentedly. It was so peaceful, sitting there together and drinking their coffee, making desultory conversation. Her heart was beating in that slow, heavy way it did whenever she was with him, and in that moment she was happy. "I'm comfortable with you," she replied, and knew that she was lying. Her nerves were alive and acutely tuned to him, her senses assailed by his nearness. She could smell him, feel his warmth, look at him, and her flesh ached to be even closer to him. How foolish she was to love too fast, too much, but it was out of her control and perhaps had been from the very beginning.

He reached out and took her hand, folding her fingers in his and rubbing his thumb over her silky skin. "Claire," he said in a quiet voice, drawing her gaze to him. Her eyes were dark pools, soft and velvety. "I want to kiss you."

He felt the way her hand jerked in his, and he tightened his grip just enough to hold her. "Do I frighten you?" he asked, amused.

Claire looked away from the laughter in his face. "I don't think it would be a good idea," she said, her voice going stiff. "We're just friends, remember, and—"

He got to his feet, laughing at her as he pulled her up and took the coffee cup from her free hand to set it down. "I'm not going to bite you," he said and kissed her.

It was a light, swift touch, exactly the way he had kissed her before. "There, did that hurt?"

His vivid eyes were dancing. He was teasing her, and she relaxed. She had thought that he meant a different kind of kiss, and she didn't dare let him kiss her deeply. She wasn't certain of her control; if he kissed her with any degree of passion, she felt that she would explode in unbridled response. He wouldn't have any doubt then about the way she felt. He was too experienced, had been with too many women who were desperate to hold him, not to recognize the same lovesick symptoms in her. It was far better that he tease her rather than feel sorry for her.

Then he kissed her again.

It was an admirably restrained kiss, but it lingered, and he opened his lips over hers. Automatically she parted her own lips to adjust the fit. His taste filled her mouth, his lips firm and warm. Pleasure rose in her, and for a moment she almost melted against him, almost raised her arms to twine them around his neck. Then panic twisted her stomach; she didn't dare let him know, or she would never see him again! Swiftly she turned her head away, breaking the contact of their mouths.

He pressed his lips to her temple, and his strong hands rubbed up her back in a long, slow sweep. He didn't want to push her too far; just for a moment she had responded to him, and the taste of her had gone to his head like a potent wine. His body was responding strongly to her nearness; he didn't dare hug her to him the way he wanted, because there was no way he could hide his arousal. Reluctantly he let her go, and she immediately took a protective step away from him, her face set in a blank mask. Suddenly he was determined not to let her retreat, as she had done so many times before. He was a man; he wanted her to see him as one. "Why are you so uneasy whenever I touch you?" he asked, tipping her chin up with his finger so she couldn't hide her face from him; she was too good at hiding her thoughts, anyway, and he needed every little clue he could get. He wanted to be able to see her face, her eyes.

"You said you wanted to be friends," she replied stiffly.

"Friends aren't allowed to touch?"

His whimsical tone made her feel as if she were making far too much of things, and perhaps she would have been—if she hadn't felt far more for him than just friendship. But she was in love with him, and even his most casual touches tormented her with mingled pleasure and longing.

"You told me that you wanted a friendship without sex."

"Surely not. I don't believe I've taken leave of my senses." Gently he rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. "What I said was that I was tired of being pursued simply as a sexual trophy."

Claire was both astounded and alarmed. Had she so completely misread the situation? He was looking down at her with amusement, and she began to tremble. "Don't look so frightened," he soothed, moving his hand down to stroke her bare arm. "I'm attracted to you, and I'd like very much to kiss you occasionally. Is that so alarming?"

"No," she stammered.

"Good, because I intend to continue kissing you." His lashes veiled his eyes, allowing only a thin glittering line of turquoise to show, but Claire sensed his burning triumph and satisfaction, and she became even more uneasy. It was just like those times when she had glimpsed something ruthless in him, as if he weren't what he seemed at all. It didn't help that his look of triumph was immediately gone, because it left her feeling disoriented, not knowing anything for certain.

He bent and kissed her again, then left, and Claire stood staring at the door long after it had closed behind him. He seemed to have decided that he wanted more than simple friendship from her, and she didn't know how to protect herself. She was without any emotional defenses and so terribly vulnerable to any hurt he might give her. She loved him, but she felt that she didn't know him at all.