t took two long weeks for the negotiations to be hammered out; it was a hard fact for Spencer-Nyle to accept, but Sam Bronson still had a card they couldn't trump: himself. He was, in effect, the most valuable asset of Bronson Alloys. It was his genius, his instinct, his research, that produced the alloys. They were trying to buy the man as much as the company, and Sam knew it, they knew it, and they knew he knew it. To keep the man, they had to keep him happy, and keeping him happy meant making concessions. The job security of his employees was guaranteed; no one would be brushed aside in the usual house cleaning that came with a takeover. Benefits were sharply increased and raises were given, and even though the overall structure of the company would be changed, the employees would be happy because they would be very well taken care of.

Yet in the end Max still managed to work out an agreement that cost Spencer-Nyle less than what Anson had feared. He did it with cool, relentless negotiating, not giving in on anything he thought was excessive, and inch by inch working Bronson into a position they both found acceptable. He had to give Bronson credit; the man was as tough as nails, fighting as hard as he could for his company, even though the end had been inevitable from the first.

And Claire was there every day, calmly taking notes, her very presence controlling the tempers that threatened to flare. There was something about her cameo-smooth features and velvety dark eyes that made people control their anger and their language. Max watched her closely without appearing to, so hungry for just the sight of her that he couldn't stop himself. He hadn't tried to call her again; not only would she probably accuse him of trying to get information from her, but he preferred to wait until he could devote himself completely to making her see reason. Time would work in his favor to blunt the edge of her anger. He watched her closely, incessantly, trying to read the thoughts behind that smooth blank face. She had to be furious with him, but there was no hint of it in her speech or actions. She was as remotely polite with him as she would be with a stranger, as if he meant nothing to her, as if they had never made love with frantic, explosive need. After a week Max decided that he would rather have her scream curses at him—anything—than treat him with that immense indifference. He could handle anger and tears; it was her mental distance that frustrated him to the point of madness.

Claire knew that Max watched her, though she never reacted to it in any way. The only way she could function was to posh all her pain and sense of betrayal into a small part of her mind and lock them away. She didn't think about them; she didn't agonize over what might have been. She had survived the destruction of the life she'd built once before, and she was determined to do it again. The end of every day marked a small victory for her: a day that she had gotten through without breaking down. She couldn't wallow in self-pity; she had to complete the task she'd set for herself, getting through the days one at a time. She couldn't guess how long the negotiations would continue, so she didn't try to make plans or look forward to the day when Max was gone. It could be days, or weeks, or even months, if he remained to oversee the changeover to Spencer-Nyle ownership.

Sam hadn't discussed Max with her, and he acted as if he had forgotten that she had been involved with him. In actuality, there was little chance for them to talk; it seemed there was never a spare minute, and someone was always in the office. Max and his associates were going over the books, which meant they were constantly underfoot, and Sam, like Claire, guarded his words.

The final meeting was long and exhausting, the boardroom filled with stale smoke and the stench of old coffee. Tempers were frayed and voices hoarse from hours of talking. Claire took notes until her fingers cramped, and her back felt as if it were breaking in two from sitting for so long. The odors in the closed room made her stomach roll threateningly, so she hadn't been able to eat lunch when sandwiches and fresh coffee were brought in. All she wanted was to escape into the fresh air and listen to the silence. Late in the afternoon a thunderstorm hammered the city, washing the streets with a deluge of rain. Sam, with an understanding glance at Claire's pale face, got up and opened the window to let in a gust of cool, fresh, rain-sweetened air. The heavy purple clouds had completely covered the sky, and the streetlights came on as premature dusk settled over the city. With the breaking of the storm there seemed to come a break in the negotiations; everyone was tired and sleepy, and the pounding of the rain against the windows had a soporific effect. Points that had been crucial just that morning no longer seemed so important; what was important was reaching agreement, getting it over with and going home.

At last it was done, and men in rumpled shirt-sleeves wearily shrugged into their coats, shaking hands and smiling. Claire gathered her notes together; she had a few more chores before her day was ended. Quietly she slipped from the boardroom and walked to her office; she planned to type the final agreement that night. She was exhausted, her body aching, but she wanted to finish the documents while her notes were still fresh. The contracts would be needed first thing in the morning, so it was either do them immediately or come in to work early; she elected not to put the chore off. It was much more peaceful now than it would be tomorrow morning. The building was empty, except for the weary men who had negotiated the details of the takeover; there would be no phone calls, no interruptions, no series of small crises to handle. All she had to do was finish her work and leave.

She had barely begun typing the documents on the computer terminal when the office door opened. She glanced up inquiringly, and an expressionless mask slipped over her face when she saw it was Max. Without a word she went back to work.

He strolled with indolent grace to her desk and leaned his arm on top of her computer terminal. A frown knitted his brow as he saw what she was doing. "That doesn't have to be done tonight," he said.

"I have to do it now, or come in early in the morning." She kept her gaze on her work. Why didn't he go away? His presence made her tense and started that dull ache in her heart that she had briefly forgotten.

"Let it wait." It was a crisp command, and he reached down to flick off the power switch to the terminal. The screen went blank, wiping out everything she had put into the machine. "You're exhausted, Claire, and you haven't had anything to eat today. I'm going to take you to dinner; then we're going to talk. You've put me off long enough."

She looked at him now, sitting back in her chair and raising cool eyes to his. "I can't think of anything we could talk about, Mr. Conroy. I don't have any more corporate secrets you'd be interested in."

Dark fury washed over his face. "Don't push me," he said in a voice like splintered ice. "I've let you hold me off for two weeks now, but that's at an end."

"Is it?" she asked indifferently and reached to turn on the terminal again. "Excuse me, I have work to do." She couldn't let herself respond to him, couldn't react to him in any way, or she would slide out of control. For the past two weeks she'd been holding on by a thread; it wouldn't take much to snap it.

Max turned the computer off again, punching the switch with controlled violence. His eyes were blue-green fire, burning like lasers. "You're coming with me. Get your bag—and don't turn on this bloody damned machine again," he snarled as she reached for the switch.

Claire stared straight ahead at the blank screen. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

His eyebrows lifted. "Do you want me to force you? You forget that you're an employee of Spencer-Nyle now."

"I've forgotten nothing, but my job doesn't require me to associate with you away from the office. I've gotten very particular of the company I keep." She faced him calmly, determined never to let him see the desolation inside her. Staring at him, she saw an entirely different man from the one she had thought she knew. He wasn't the epitome of a controlled, reserved, rather old-fashioned Englishman, after all. He was a fire behind mirrors that reflected the image he chose, a ruthless, determined man who let nothing stop him. His facade was that of an even-tempered and sophisticated man of the world, civilized to his fingertips, but it was a lie. He was an elegant savage, a shark cutting through opalescent seas, dazzling people with his beautiful image before he attacked.

He was very still, his eyes glittering the way they did when something displeased him. His mouth was a grim white line. "I know you're angry, but you'll still listen to me if I have to carry you to my apartment and tie you to the bed."

"I'm not angry," Claire pointed out, and she wasn't. She hurt too much to be angry. She could feel a tiny trembling beginning deep inside her as her exhaustion grew, and she knew she couldn't handle this scene right now. "As you pointed out, I'm your employee now; if you don't want me to work tonight, I won't. But I won't go anywhere with you, either. Good night, Mr. Conroy." She reached for her bag and stood, and Max lashed out, catching her arm in a grip that bruised.

"Don't call me Mr. Conroy," he said evenly.

"Why? Is that an alias, too?"

"No, and neither is Benedict; that's my middle name."

"How appropriate. Benedict Arnold was a spy, too."

"Damn you, I didn't spy," he rasped. "There were no papers gone through, no conversations taped. You gave me that information without any urging on my part."

Her dark eyes didn't even flicker. "You sought me out at Virginia's party because you knew I worked here."

"That's not important! Yes, I deliberately introduced myself to you. It was possible that you had some helpful information about Bronson Alloys." He shook her lightly. "What does that matter?"

"It doesn't, not at all." She glanced down at his hands, and her voice was cold. "You're hurting me."

He released her, something shadowy moving in his eyes as he watched her rub her upper arms. "That was business; it has nothing to do with us."

"How nice for you, to be able to put areas of your life in tidy little compartments and not let them touch! I'm not like that. I think that if a person is dishonorable in one thing, he will be in another."

"Don't be so damned unreasonable—"

"That was quite a blitzkrieg you put on," Claire interrupted, her voice rising as she felt her control slipping. Fiercely she groped to regain it. "Does Anson Edwards know what a prize he has in you? Has any woman ever resisted you when you turn on the heat? I fell for it completely, so you can give yourself a pat on the back. Poor man," she breathed, her eyes burning. "So handsome that women only treated you like a body without a soul, you were tired of meaningless sex and wanted someone to be a real friend. I must have the word 'fool' stamped on my forehead, because you knew just what line to feed me. You turned on the charm, forced yourself into my life and got the information you wanted, then waltzed out again, fine. I was a fool once, but don't expect me to be a fool again! I'm not really stupid; I don't have to have my face rubbed in it!" Breathing hard, she turned away, rubbing her forehead with a trembling hand. Perhaps she was stupid, at that; she hadn't learned all that much from Jeffs betrayal. It had made her cautious, but not cautious enough. In the end she'd walked back into the vicious trap of loving a handsome, charming man who could have anyone he wanted and had dreamed the fool's dream that he might love her in return.

"I didn't 'waltz out'!" he yelled, glaring down at her. Max rarely lost his temper. It was seldom necessary; he usually got what he wanted without having to put out that much effort, simply by using his charm and sensuality. But his reactions to Claire had been extreme from the beginning, and the cold contempt in her eyes triggered something fierce inside him. "I was called back to Dallas. You should know. You were in bed with me when the call came!''

The little remaining color washed out of her face, and she gave him an uncontrolled look of such naked pain that he halted. "Claire…" he began, reaching out for her, but she recoiled from him so violently that she bumped into the edge of the desk and sent papers flying.

"How kind of you to remind me," she whispered. Her eyes were black in her paper-white face. "Get away from me."

"No. It was good between us; I want to have it again. I won't let you push me out of your life."

She was visibly shaking, and he wanted to put his hands on her to support her but didn't dare. All of a sudden her icy reserve had shattered before his eyes, leaving a woman who was almost staggering with pain. The realization struck him like a blow to the chest, taking his breath. She wasn't an aloof, controlled woman, a little unfeeling, a challenge to his male sexuality. She put a buffer between other people and herself in an effort at self-protection because she felt too much and was too easily and too deeply hurt by life. He hadn't understood her at all, casually counting on his sex appeal and charm to smooth things over as he'd always done, and so intent on getting her into bed that he'd overlooked all of the small signals she'd given him. God, what had he done to her? How deeply had he hurt her to put that look on her face?

"You don't have any choice about it," she said jerkily. "Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to trust you again? You lied to me, and you used me. It was all in a good cause, though, so that makes it all right in your eyes. The end justifies the means, right? Please, just leave me alone."

"No," he said harshly, feeling a sudden, intense twist of pain in his gut at the thought that he might have lost her forever. He couldn't accept that; he wouldn't accept that! For reasons he couldn't analyze, Claire had become increasingly precious to him, filling his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night. The night he'd spent with her had made him want more, a lot more.

"I'd say you're going to have to, at least for now," Sam interrupted from the doorway, his voice as cool as the look in his eyes. "Stop badgering her; she's worn out."

Max didn't move a muscle except to turn his head to look at Sam, but suddenly there was something wild about him, a fine tension in his lean, deceptively muscled body, his eyes icy and lethal. "This doesn't concern you," he said, and he was every inch the predatory, aggressive male, with the primitive instinct to fight whenever another male approached the woman he'd marked as his.

"I'd say it does. After all, it was my company that you took, using the information Claire gave you."

Max froze, then looked sharply at Claire. "He knows?"

Dumbly she nodded.

"Claire told me right away," Sam said, leaning against the door. "As soon as she realized who you were. Her sense of honor is too strong for corporate games; she wanted to quit right then, but I talked her out of it." At Max's lifted brow, he added, "I knew she'd never let herself make that mistake again."

Claire couldn't stay and listen to them talk about her; she felt exposed and raw, her deepest secrets laid out for the world to examine and chuckle over. A small sound of distress escaped her as she walked past Max, keeping her head averted.

"Claire!" He moved swiftly, catching her arm again and pulling her to a halt. Desperately she wrenched at her arm, trying to twist it from his grip, but he caught her other arm and held her still in front of him. Biting her lip, she stared fixedly at the knot of his tie and struggled for control. Why did he have to hold her so close? She could feel his warmth, smell the exciting male muskiness of his skin. His nearness reminded her of things she would have to forget in order to survive. Her body felt the touch that had driven her to such feverish heights of pleasure and reacted wildly, independent of her control. Her nipples hardened, wanting the touch of his hands, his mouth; her legs quivered, wanting to wrap about his hips, and the emptiness in her wanted to be filled.

"Let me go," she whispered.

"You're not in any shape to drive; you haven't eaten all day, and you look as if you might faint at any moment. I'll drive you home," he insisted.

"I wouldn't go with you to a dogfight," she said, using her last ounce of defiance. His grip slackened, and she pulled free, taking the chance to walk out of the office without him. It might be the only opportunity she had, and she was too upset to tolerate any more. Another minute and she would be weeping, completing her humiliation.

Her hurried steps carried her out of the building and to the parking lot; it was still raining lightly, but gusts of wind battered her, and flashes of lightning in the low-hanging purple clouds lit the darkness with momentary brilliance. The storm intensified the darkness, making the efforts of the streetlights seem ineffective. Her heels tapped sharply on the wet pavement as she ran to her car. She reached it and stopped to unlock it and only then heard the footsteps behind her. Cold terror washed down her spine, and tales of rape and robbery flooded her mind. Grasping her keys like a weapon, she whirled to face any assailants, but there was no one close to her. On the other side of the parking lot Max walked to his car and got in, and Claire sagged with relief.

Her hands were shaking as she opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, cautiously locking the door again. What if it had been a mugger or a rapist? How many articles had she read that warned women against going to their cars alone at night? She'd been foolish to let her emotions push her into a dangerous situation, and she drew a deep breath. She had to get control of herself.

She was still shaky, and the rain made the streetlights reflect dizzyingly on the wet streets; she drove with extra care, not wanting to risk an accident. She didn't notice the car behind her until she turned down the street to her apartment building and the other car turned, too. Nervously she peered into the rearview mirror, trying to tell what kind of car it was, but the headlights were right in her eyes, and she couldn't see anything. Was she so on edge tonight that she was becoming paranoid? Quickly she found a parking place and pulled into it, deciding to wait until the other car had gone on before she got out.

But the other car slowed and pulled into the empty parking space beside her. It was a black Mercedes, and the man driving it had golden hair that gleamed like a halo in the silvery artificial glow of the streetlight.

Still shaking, Claire leaned her head on the steering wheel. He was determined to talk to her, and she was beginning to realize that he didn't give up once he'd decided to do something. How had she ever thought him civilized? He was as ruthless as any Viking, and she feared him as well as loved him because he would destroy her if she didn't find a way to keep him at a distance, to protect herself with indifference.

He tapped on the window, and she jerked her head up.

"It's raining harder," Max said, his voice muffled, through the glass. The rain beaded and ran down the windshield, emphasizing his words. "Let's go in, dear. You're going to get soaked if you wait much longer; I think a new storm is coming in."

She flinched at the endearment, amazed at how easily it rolled off his tongue. How many other women had been fooled by his glib lies?

He wasn't going to give up and go away, and she was too tired to sit out in the car indefinitely. Gathering her wavering strength, she got out of the car and carefully locked the door, then hurried up the sidewalk without looking at him.

He stretched out his arm and opened the door for her and was right beside her in the elevator. Claire clutched her keyring, keeping it ready. Damn him, why wouldn't he give up? What did it matter to him, anyway?

Catching her wrist firmly, he relieved her of the keys and opened the door, stepping inside to turn on the lights and pulling her in with him. He released her wrist to close the door, and tossed her keys onto the small table that stood by the door, her catchall table that she had found in a flea market and refinished. Fixedly she stared at the table; it wasn't a Queen Anne, like the one in his foyer. She remembered the way he had lifted her onto that elegant Queen Anne table and moved between her thighs, and for a moment she thought she really might faint, after all. Her legs felt wobbly, and there was a faraway roar in her ears. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen would steady her.

"Sit down," Max said roughly, propelling her toward the couch. "You look dead white. Are you pregnant?"

Stunned, she stared helplessly at him, sinking down onto the cushions as her legs folded beneath her. "What?" she gasped.

"You haven't eaten. You're pale. You've lost weight, and cigarette smoke is making you ill." He enumerated all the things that had been haunting him since that explanation had first blasted into his mind. "Did you think I wouldn't notice that Sam opened the window for you this afternoon? Why would you tell him and not me?"

"I haven't told him anything," she protested, thrown off balance by his line of questioning. "I'm not pregnant!"

"Are you certain? Have you had your period this month?"

For the first time that night color flooded her cheeks. "That isn't any of your business!"

His face was grim as he stood over her. "I think it is. I didn't protect you that night—any time that night—and I don't think you're on the pill. Are you?" Her expression was answer enough. "No, I didn't think so."

"I'm not pregnant," she repeated doggedly.

"I see. You're simply on a diet, is that it?"

"No. I'm exhausted; it's as simple as that."

"That's another symptom."

"I'm not pregnant!" she yelled, then buried her face in her hands, aghast at her loss of control.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes!"

"All right," he said with sudden calm. "I apologize for upsetting you, but I wanted to know. Now sit there while I get something for you to eat."

The last thing she wanted was something to eat; she wanted him to get out of her apartment so she could fall facedown on her bed and sleep. But she couldn't chase him out, because her legs were lead weights, and suddenly it wasn't worth the effort of setting up. She sat there staring blankly in front of her, wondering how she could have been so stupid as not to have considered the possibility of a pregnancy, but the truth was that it hadn't entered her thoughts at all. Nature had assured her that she wasn't pregnant, but she hadn't thought of it even then. It was a good thing, because she wasnt sure she could have borne the added stress. What if she had been pregnant? Would it have been all right this time? Would she have held her own baby in her arms? Max's baby, with golden hair and eyes like the sea. Suddenly pain shot through her, because it wasn't to be, and she wished it could have been.

She was so completely exhausted that to continue sitting upright was asking too much of her body. With a quiet little sigh she sank back against the cushions of the couch, her eyelashes sinking down as if pulled by a force she couldn't withstand. With the suddenness of a black curtain dropping down, she was asleep.

When Max came back into the living room with a tray loaded with a selection of sandwiches, a glass of milk for Claire and a cup of coffee for him, because he was hungry too, he was braced to receive all her hurt accusations, but he was also ready to stay there all night, if necessary, to explain his side of it and convince her that they had something special between them. Then he saw her curled against the cushions, one arm folded in her lap and the other hanging to the side in that limp way that indicated deep sleep. Her hand was lying palm upward, her fingers curled slightly, and he stared down at the peculiar, innocent vulnerability of her open palm, so soft and pink. Memory seared him. Sometime during the night they had spent together, during one of those frantic, greedy matings, he'd taken her hand and carried it down his body, and every muscle in him had jerked in reaction to her gentle fingers closing around him. He jerked now in reaction to the memory, his body growing hard and sweat popping out on his brow.

He swore soundlessly and set the tray down, bringing his surging appetite under iron control. Now wasn't the time to seduce her, assuming that he could even get her to wake up. He looked at the tray of food, then at Claire, sleeping so deeply. She needed both food and rest, but evidently her body had taken over and given sleep the highest priority. The kindest thing now would be to let her sleep, even though it meant postponing that talk once again.

Bending down, he gently slid his arms around her, one under her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her easily. Her head fell sideways against his shoulder, her gentle breath warming his flesh through his shirt, and he stood still for a moment with her clasped in his arms, his eyes almost closed as he drank in her nearness, the softness of her body in his arms and the faint, elusive sweetness of her skin. Until then he hadn't realized quite how much he'd missed her, but now the delicious agony of holding her again almost made him groan aloud. She fit into his arms in a way no other woman ever had. Max had held many soft, trembling bodies against him and beneath him, but now he couldn't recall any of the others. Only Claire. She made him feel oddly complete, and the thought disturbed him, because that meant he was incomplete without her.

He carried her into the bedroom and eased her down onto the bed. She was so soundly asleep that she didn't even murmur but lay exactly as he'd placed her. With the expertise of a man who had undressed many women, Max removed the short lightweight jacket she wore, then pulled her blouse free of the skirt. It was a thin silk blouse, and beneath it he could see the lacy edge of her camisole, reminding him of the marvelously sexy underwear she wore. Reminding him? He wiped his perspiring forehead. His problem was forgetting.

Reaching beneath her, he unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt then worked the garment down her legs. She wasn't wearing a camisole, but a full-length slip, all silk and lace. His hands began a fine trembling as he pulled off her shoes and set them aside. He didn't dare go any farther. Not only would she not appreciate being stripped naked, but he was suddenly afraid that his control would snap if he continued. He thought of the satin and lace garter belts she wore, and the filmy underpants, and his body flooded with heat. Bloody hell! He swore furiously, silently, forcing himself to his feet. Her penchant for sexy underwear was likely to give him a fetish.

With effortless strength he lifted her and turned the cover back, then placed her between the sheets. She looked so tired, he thought, pushing back a strand of hair from her temple. Her face was pale and strained, with dark shadows under her eyes, but it was a relief to know that it was only exhaustion instead of the strain of early pregnancy that had put those marks there. He had never before lost control like that, not only of his body, but of his mind; he had always made certain that his partner was protected and been more than willing to assume responsibility if she hadn't taken care of it herself. Then, and only then, would he unleash his sexuality, lose himself in the sensual pleasures of the flesh. But with Claire, he hadn't even thought of it. He had had only one thought, to penetrate, and had been blind to everything else. Even now he was stunned by the driving urgency he'd felt, the simple and powerful animal instinct to mate that had taken control. He didn't like the feeling. He'd always thought that the power of his mind could control the lusty appetites of his body. His icy, superlative intelligence had always been in control… until Claire had responded to him, and the restraints he'd been placing on himself had shattered under the violent surge of desire.

He hadn't even had the control, the consideration, to take her to bed. He had simply lifted her onto the table in the foyer, pushed her velvet skirt to her waist and thrust into her. She was such a delicate woman, as finely made as the finest porcelain, and he'd taken her with all the finesse of a conquering warrior. The only thing that kept him from being completely disgusted with himself was the memory of her response, the way she had clung to him, twisted against him, the little whimpers in her throat as she met his thrusts, the way she had cried out and the sweet inner clenching that had signaled her peak of satisfaction. Behind her distant manner was a capacity for passion that overwhelmed him and made him hunger for her. He wanted her all for himself.

Realizing that he was shaking with the need to take her again, he turned away from the bed while he still could. Where Claire was concerned, his self-control was almost negligible.

He went into the living room, wolfed down several of the sandwiches and drank the pot of coffee he'd made, not worrying about the effect of the caffeine on his system so late at night. A deep frown furrowed his brow as he considered the situation with Claire.

Until that night he hadn't doubted his ability to talk her around eventually. Never in his life had he been denied anything he really wanted; nature had given him an enormous advantage in coupling his face and body with a superior intellect. But for the first time he wasn't certain that he would win. He had seen behind Claire's shield and, for the first time, seen the vulnerability of the real woman and realized the necessity for that shield. She felt too much, loved too deeply, gave herself too completely… and betrayal would strike a crippling blow at that too-tender heart.

Whatever happened, he had to make certain that she couldn't hide from him, and he knew her well enough to realize that would be her first form of defense. She would do whatever she could to put distance between them, mentally if not physically. Time was on her side. Soon he would have to return to Dallas, and they would be separated by more than two hundred miles; he would be traveling to other cities, putting even more distance between them. He considered his options, and a plan formed in his mind. The thing to do was to take her to Dallas with him; the problem was in getting her there.

He cleaned up after himself then went into the bedroom to check on her, to assure himself that she was really all right. She was still sleeping soundly, and a healthy pink color was beginning to return to her cheeks as she rested. Thoughtfully he looked at her alarm clock, then picked it up to make certain the alarm was turned off. Let her sleep as long as she needed. He wrote a short note and propped it on the clock, then let himself out of the apartment. He had plans to make, and it wasn't too late at night to set them in motion.

A faint grin relieved the grimness of his expression as he drove through the rainy Houston night. It wouldn't hurt Rome to be jarred out of a sound sleep by a telephone call; after all, it had been Rome's call three weeks before that had pulled Max out of the bed he'd been sharing with Claire. Fate had a way of evening things out.