o her surprise, Claire was too busy during the following two weeks to feel much anxiety over her move to Dallas. Finding an apartment wasn't easy; she spent hours inspecting and rejecting, getting lost time and again in the unfamiliar city but somehow having fun doing it. Alma, once she'd gotten over the shock of one of her daughters moving out of her immediate reach, threw herself into the apartment search with all her typical zest and spent days touring Dallas with Claire, ruthlessly hunting out any potential trouble spots in an apartment. Claire let her mother go on, amused by that overflow of energy. It was odd that the older she became, the closer Claire grew to her family. At some point, their beauty and self-confidence had ceased to intimidate her. She loved them and was proud of their accomplishments.

Even Martine was dragged into the apartment hunting, and together they made a list of the most suitable locations then began narrowing the choices. Claire didn't like the ultramodern condos, despite their conveniences, and though she hadn't really considered a house, in the end it was a tiny, neat house that won over the apartments. The rent was remarkably reasonable because of its size. Getting it ready for Claire to move in became a major family project. Claire and her father repainted the rooms in white to make them seem larger, while Alma and Martine bought material and sewed curtains to fit the odd-size windows. Steve put new dead-bolt locks on the doors and locking screens on the windows, then sanded and polished the old-fashioned wooden floors. Brad and Cassie, the children, romped in the postage-stamp yard and appeared periodically with demands for sandwiches and Kool-Aid.

On the day she moved in the entire house was in chaos, with the movers carting furniture and boxes in, while she and Alma and Martine tried to put everything in some sort of order. Harmon and Steve kept out of the decision-making, simply standing by to provide muscle if needed. Claire was headfirst in a box of books when a cool voice said from the door, "Would another pair of hands be welcome?"

Claire straightened abruptly, her face still as she tried to deal with the way the sound of his voice affected her. For two weeks Max had been as polite as a stranger, and she had been tormented by a lingering sense of loss. The tumult of moving, with its mingled moments of hilarity and frustration, and her pure physical exhaustion from so much work, had buffered her somewhat from her thoughts, but there were still far too many moments when she wished she had never found out the truth about him, that the hurt and anger would all just go away. The distance between them the past two weeks had hurt, too, though she had tried to ignore it. Why had he shown up now, strolling into the middle of the overflowing mess with that indefinable grace of his?

Harmon groaned, straightening from his task. "Another strong back is just what we need! Take the other end of this table; it weighs a ton."

Max picked his way over the cluttered floor to help Harmon lift the table and put it where Claire had directed. Alma sailed out of the kitchen, and a glowing smile broke over her face when she saw Max. "Oh, hello! Did you volunteer, or were you kidnapped?" she asked, going over to hug him.

"I volunteered. You know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen," he said, smiling as he returned Alma's hug.

Claire turned back to the box of books she'd been unpacking, a tiny frown darkening her eyes. She hadn't told Alma all the circumstances behind her move to Dallas, but neither had she thought that her family would be having any further contact with Max. Perhaps Martine had revealed some things, but Claire didn't know and didn't want to ask. Would Alma have been so friendly to Max if she had known the truth? This could be a little awkward; they knew Max as Max Benedict, but he was really Max Conroy. Should she let them continue thinking that was his name or reintro-duce him? What could she say? "Conroy is Max's real last name; he just uses Benedict as an alias occasionally." She thought that Miss Manners probably hadn't ruled on this particular situation, so she decided to say nothing.

He fit in easily with her family, joking and conversing as effortlessly as he had before. They didn't know that this congeniality was a disguise for the driving power of his true personality. She watched him, but didn't talk to him except to answer direct questions and she sensed that he was watching her, too. She'd thought that he'd given up, but now she remembered telling Martine that he wasn't even familiar with the term. He hadn't given up; he'd simply been waiting. He calmly wrote down her unlisted telephone number, copying it off the telephone, and when he looked up to find her watching him, he lifted an eyebrow in silent invitation for her to make an issue of it. Claire simply turned away to continue her chores. Attacking him now over a telephone number would make her look like an ungrateful wretch after he'd worked tirelessly most of the day, helping her get settled.

It was late when everything was put in its place, and everyone was yawning widely. Rather than attempt the long drive back to Houston that night, her family had elected to stay in a motel and drive back the next morning. Somehow Claire found herself waving goodbye to them from her new porch, with Max standing beside her as if he belonged there.

"Why did you come here?" she asked quietly, watching the taillights disappear down the street. The warm night sounds of chirping insects and the rustle of leaves in the trees from a slight breeze surrounded them, where only a moment ago there had been laughter and noisy yawns and enthusiastic cries of "Bye! Take care now. I'll call you tomorrow!"

"To help you with your things," he said, holding the screen door open for her as she reentered the house. She didn't trust his bland tone for a minute. "And to make certain that you're comfortable. Nothing more sinister than that."

"Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. Is there any coffee left in the pot?"

"I think so, but it is probably undrinkable by now. You drink too much coffee, anyway," she said without thinking, going into the kitchen to pour out the stale coffee. He stopped her as she was beginning to make a freshpot.

"You're right; I don't need any more coffee," he said, taking the pot out of her hand and placing it in the sink. Grasping her elbow, he pulled her around to face him. "What I need is this."

His other arm went around her waist, bringing her up against him, and he bent his head. His mouth closed over hers, and the hot, heady taste of him filled her; he kissed her with deep, greedy hunger, until a painful hunger of her own began to coil in her body. Both angered and alarmed by the desire he could arouse so effortlessly, she jerked her mouth from his and pushed against his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscles beneath her palms.

To her surprise he let her go easily, releasing her and stepping back. Satisfaction was plain in his eyes, as if he'd just proved something to himself. He must have felt her response; for a brief moment she hadn't been able to prevent herself from melting against him, her body seeking his.

"I wish you hadn't come," she whispered, her dark eyes locked on him. "Why involve yourself with my family? How do I tell them that you aren't Max Benedict, after all?"

"You don't have to tell them anything; they already know. I've explained it to your mother."

Shocked, Claire stared at him. "What?" she stammered. "Why? When did you tell her? What did you tell her?"

He answered readily enough. "I told her that the takeover of Bronson Alloys by my company has complicated our relationship, but that I transferred you to Dallas so we would still be together and could work out the problems."

He made it all sound so simple, as if he hadn't abandoned her as soon as he'd gotten the information he wanted! It was true that he hadn't been expecting the phone call that had forced him to return to Dallas, but it was also true that he hadn't made any attempt to contact her after that until the actual mechanics of the takeover had put him back in Houston. Now, in his typical high-handed fashion, he believed that all he had to do was move her to Dallas and the "complications" would be settled.

Her expression was so troubled, for once so easily read, with all her doubts and hurt there for him to see, that he had to fight the urge to pull her against him and shelter her in his arms. Max had never known failure with a woman he wanted; they came easily into his arms and his bed, and they had always been so easy to read. It was ironic that Claire, the one woman he couldn't easily understand, should be the woman he wanted more intensely than he'd ever dreamed he would want a woman. He couldn't tell what she was thinking; her defenses were too strong, her personality too complex. Yet every glimpse he had of the inner woman only made him hungrier to find out more about her, to get deeper into her mind. Looking at her now, with her clothes grimy from the day's labors, her hair straggling down from its topknot, her face free of makeup and her velvety dark eyes full of pain and uncertainty, Max felt something jolt in his chest.

He was in love with her.

The realization stunned him, though now that he recognized it for what it was, he knew that the feeling had been there for some time. He had labeled it as attraction, desire, even challenge, and it was all of those, and more. Of all the women in the world, he hadn't loved any of the soft, willing beauties who had shared his bed and would have done anything for him. Instead it was a difficult, aloof, yet extraordinarily vulnerable woman who made him feel as if he would explode with joy if she smiled at him. He wanted to protect her; he wanted to discover all the hidden depths of her character; he wanted to lose himself in the unexpected and shattering passion she had to offer.

Claire moved away from him, rubbing the back of her neck tiredly and not seeing the arrested expression on his face. "How did you explain your change of name?"

It took a minute before he could gather himself and make sense of what she had asked. "I told her the truth, that I had been looking for certain information and didn't want Bronson to know my true identity."

Claire thought Alma was so charmed by Max that she would be prepared to believe anything he said. "What did she say?"

An appreciative smile quirked Max's mouth as he remembered exactly what Alma had said. That lady did have a way with words, though he could hardly tell Claire that her mother had said, "If you hurt my daughter, Max Benedict, or Conroy, or whoever you are, I'll have your guts for garters!" Claire didn't seem to realize how fiercely protective her entire family was of her.

"She understood," was all he said, watching Claire as she retreated even more, continually expanding the distance between them. She was so wary!

"I'm sure she did," Claire sighed.

Impatiently Max closed the gap between them, his quick strides carrying him to her side. Claire looked up, startled by his sudden movement, then gave a soft cry as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up so her eyes were level with his. "Yes, your mother understood; it's a pity you don't!" he muttered, then put his mouth on hers.

There was a tiny, despairing cry deep inside her mind. How could she keep control of herself if he kept kissing her? Especially kisses like these, deep, hungry kisses, as if he couldn't get enough of her taste. His lips released hers and slid down to her throat, nipping at her skin as they went. He held her so tightly that his hands were hurting her, and she didn't care. Her eyes closed tightly, and tears welled beneath her lashes.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" she cried rawly. "Do you just chase anything that runs? Did it hurt your pride that I told you to leave me alone?"

He raised his head; his eyes were burning green fire. He was breathing harshly. "Is that what you think? That my ego is so enormous I can't stand for a woman to turn me down?"

"Yes, that's what I think! I'm a challenge to you, nothing more!"

"We burned each other up in bed, woman, and you think it was nothing more than gratifying my ego?" He put her on her feet, infuriated that she continually put the worst interpretation on his actions.

"You tell me! I don't know you at all! I thought you were a gentleman, but you're really a savage in a tuxedo, aren't you? Your instincts are to win, regardless of how ruthless you have to be to get what you want!"

"You know me pretty well, after all," he snapped. "I go after what I want, and I want you."

Claire shivered, alarmed by the hard expression on his face. Swearing under his breath, he took her in his arms again, holding her head against his chest, his fingers threading into her soft hair. "Don't be afraid of me, love," he whispered. "I won't hurt you. I want to take care of you."

As what? As a mistress? She shook her head blindly, the motion limited by the way he held her to his chest.

"You'll trust me again, I promise." He murmured the words against her hair, and his hands slid down to stroke her back. Claire found that her hands were clenched on his shirt and that she was clinging instead of trying to push him away. "I'll make you trust me, love. We'll get to know each other; we have the time. There will be no more masks between us."

He bent his head and kissed her again, and this time Claire's self-control wasn't strong enough to keep her from responding. Blindly she rose on tiptoe, straining against him, her mouth opening under the probing of his tongue. She kept making foolish mistakes where Max was concerned, and the latest one was the idea that she would be able to keep him at a distance. Shaking with love and pain that mingled into a tangled knot, she let the pleasure sweep through her, because there was nothing she could do to stop it. His hand was on the buttons of her shirt, and there was nothing she could do to stop that, either; she trembled, waiting in an agony of anticipation for his touch, her body craving his heat and strength. Then his fingers were on her, sliding inside her opened shirt to cup her naked, swelling flesh, and electricity shot from her hardened nipples straight to her loins.

"I know you're tired, but I'm not a noble, self-sacrificing gentleman," he said harshly, lifting his head to look at her. "If you don't stop me now, I won't be leaving tonight at all."

She couldn't deny it, even to herself. He was giving her one last chance to reconsider. For a moment she almost pulled his head back down to her; then common sense asserted itself, and she pushed at his arms until they fell away from her. Her fingers trembled, and she couldn't look at him as she fumbled with the buttons of her shirt until at last she was covered again.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it. She felt exposed and vulnerable, because only his self-control had given her the chance to reconsider; she had had none at all, and he knew it.

He had offered, but that didn't help the frustration raging through his body. He glared down at her. "Don't thank me for being a bloody stupid fool," he said, his tone savage with temper. "I have to get out of here before I change my mind. Be ready at six-thirty tomorrow night; I'm taking you out to dinner."

"No, I don't think—"

"That's right," he interrupted, catching her chin in his hand. "Don't think, and above all, don't argue with me right now. I want you so much that I'm hurting. I'll be here at six-thirty; if you want to go out, be dressed. If not, we'll stay here. The choice is yours."

She shut her mouth. His mood was dangerous, his eyes glittering. He kissed her again, hard, then stalked out of the house.

When he was gone the house echoed strangely. She locked the doors and checked all the windows to make certain they were secure, then showered and got ready for bed. The furnishings were all familiar, and the bed was the one she had slept in for five years, yet she lay awake staring into the darkness. It wasn't the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, but her thoughts that prevented her from sleeping. Why had he given her the chance to stop? He'd said that he wasn't noble or self-sacrificing, but then he had made a self-sacrificing offer. He could have taken her to bed, and they both knew it. He had wanted her; there hadn't been any secret in the way he had pushed against her, letting her feel his arousal. So why had he given her that last opportunity to stop?

Pain squeezed her chest. Who was the biggest fool? Him for giving her the chance to stop, or herself for taking it? He had hurt her, and he had made her so angry that she had wanted to throw things at him, but none of that had stopped her from loving him. She wanted to cling to her anger, to use it as both a weapon and a defense against him, but she could feel it ebbing away from her and leaving her vulnerable to the truth. She loved him. No matter what happened, even if he wanted her only for a brief affair, she loved him. With that acknowledgment she felt her last defenses crumble inside her.

Nothing was working out the way she had planned. She hadn't intended to go out with Max again; she had intended to do her job and ignore him, but he hadn't given her a choice about that. He was taking over again, and with her defenses down she was helpless to do anything about it; all her intentions had gone down the drain with her anger. She could no longer make any plans or form any intentions; all she could do was face the fact that she loved him, and take each day as it came.

Claire was so nervous that she kept dropping the pins she was using to put up her hair. It was her first day on a new job, and Max was taking her out to dinner. She needed to concentrate on the job, but she kept thinking of Max. He simply wouldn't leave her head.

A pin flew from her trembling fingers again, and she muttered an impatient "damn!" as she leaned down to retrieve it. She had to calm down, or the day would be a disaster.

Finally she got her hair securely pinned, and with a frantic glance at the clock she put on the jacket that matched her gray skirt, grabbed her purse and left the house at a run. She wasn't certain how long it would take her to drive to the Spencer-Nyle building in the early morning traffic, so she had cautiously allowed an extra fifteen minutes, then used most of that picking up hair pins. What an impression it would make to be late on her first day!

But she made it with five minutes to spare, and a smiling receptionist directed her to Theo Caulfield's office on the fifth floor. A tall, dark man with a face like granite paused in passing, his dark eyes on Claire. She felt his gaze and glanced at him then quickly looked away. He was vaguely familiar, but she was certain she'd never met him. There was an almost visible force about him, and the receptionist became obviously nervous when she realized that the man was listening.

"Are you Claire Westbrook?" he asked abruptly, moving to Claire's side.

How had he guessed, unless he was Theo Caulfied? She looked up at him, feeling dwarfed by his powerful build despite the three-inch heels she wore, and hoped that he wasn't her new boss. He couldn't be a comfortable man to work with. Because he made her nervous, too, she reacted by hiding behind her usual mask of composure.

"Yes, I am."

"I'm Rome Matthews. I'll show you to your office and introduce you to Caulfield. Good morning, Angie," he said to the receptionist as he led Claire away.

"Good morning, Mr. Matthews," the receptionist said faintly to his back.

His name was familiar, too. Claire darted another look up at that hard, almost brutally carved face and remembrance shot through her. His picture had been beside Max's in that article she'd read, when she had discovered Max's true identity. He was executive vice president and Anson Edwards's right-hand man, his chosen successor. How did he know her name, and why was he personally escorting her to her office?

Whatever his reason, he wasn't inclined to make explanations. He asked polite questions, whether she liked Dallas, had she gotten settled yet, but she could feel him watching her. His hand was on her elbow, and she was surprised by the gentleness of his touch.

"Here it is," he said, drawing her to a halt and reaching out to open a door. "You'll have your hands full, you know. Your predecessor had to be on her new job today, so you'll be training yourself."

Claire thought of running while she still could, but a man came out of the inner office on hearing their voices, and she was trapped. To her relief Theo Caulfield was an ordinary man, middle-aged and thin, without the intimidating force of Rome Matthews. He, too, seemed nervous at the other man's presence and visibly relaxed when the short introductions were performed and the executive vice president took himself off to his own office.

To her relief her duties were fairly routine, and she settled in quickly. Theo Caulfield was quiet and meticulous, but not fussy. She missed Sam, but he was far happier in his laboratory than he had ever been in an office; perhaps the takeover had been best for him, as well as for the company.

Max called her just before the day was over—the only time she had heard from him—to tell her to dress casually for dinner. Claire hurried home to her little house, afraid that he would take it as a signal that she wanted to stay in if she weren't ready when he arrived. How casual was casual? She opted to play it safe with a plain skirt and blouse and flat heels, and was waiting to open the door before he could knock.

"Where are we going?" she asked, eyeing his slacks and open-neck silk shirt.

"We're having dinner with some friends of mine," he said, drawing her to him for a quick kiss. "How did it go today? Any trouble settling in?"

"No, it wasn't difficult. It's mostly routine secretarial work."

Max asked her several questions about her day, distracting her. She was still unfamiliar with the city, so she wasn't concerned with where they were going until she noticed they were in a residential section. "Where are we?" she asked.

"We're almost there."

"Almost where!"

"At Rome's house. We're having dinner with him and his wife, Sarah."

"What?" Claire asked faintly. "Max, you can't just take me to someone's house when they haven't invited me!" And Rome Matthews's house, of all people! She wasn't comfortable with him; he was the most overpowering man she'd ever seen.

He looked amused. "They have invited you. Sarah told me that if I didn't have you with me tonight, not to come myself." There was an unmistakable note of affection in his voice. He turned into the driveway of a sprawling, Spanish-style house, and Claire tensed.

He put his hand on her back as they walked up the brick walk to the front door, and if it hadn't been for that pressure at her back, Claire would have turned around and left. He rang the bell, and in a moment Rome Matthews opened the door himself.

Claire stared, almost not recognizing the high-powered executive in the man who stood there, clad in tight-fitting jeans that molded his powerful hips and legs, and a red polo shirt. His face was infinitely more relaxed, and there was amusement in his dark eyes. Even more amazingly, he held a chubby toddler in one strong arm and a tiny elfin girl in the other. Somehow Claire hadn't imagined him as a family man, especially one with young children. Then her eyes were drawn to the two children, and she gasped. "They're beautiful," she whispered, automatically reaching out her hands. The children both had their father's black hair and eyes and olive complexion, with the gorgeous rosy cheeks that only young children have. Two pairs of wide inquisitive dark eyes stared at her; then the baby gave a chuckle and launched himself out of his father's arms, straight into hers, his fat hands outstretched.

"Thank you," Rome said, his amusement deepening, and Claire flushed. She cuddled the little boy to her, loving the feel of his sturdy, wriggling little body. He smelled of baby powder, and she wanted to bury her face in his fat little neck.

"Here you go sweetheart," Max said, holding out his hands to the little girl, and with a giggle she, too, abandoned her father. She hugged Max around the neck and kissed his cheek; Max settled her comfortably on his arm and carried her into the house, keeping his other hand at Claire's back.

"The little tank you're holding is Jed," Rome said, reaching out to tickle his son. "The flirt around Max's neck is Missy. She's three, and Jed is almost one."

Claire was gently rubbing the baby's back, and he had nestled down against her as if he'd known her all his life. He was incredibly heavy, but his weight felt good in her arms. "You darling," she crooned to him, kissing his soft black hair.

Max looked up from the game he was playing with Missy, and his eyes flickered as he watched Claire playing with the baby.

A low laugh reached them, and Claire turned as a slim, delicate woman with white-blond hair came into the room. "I'm Sarah Matthews," the woman said warmly, and Claire looked into the most serene face she'd ever seen. Sarah Matthews was lovely and fragile, and when her husband looked at her it was with an expression in his dark eyes that made Claire want to turn away, as if she had witnessed something terribly intimate.

"Sarah, this is Claire Westbrook," Max said, his hand warm on Claire's arm.

"You have beautiful children," Claire said sincerely, and Sarah beamed with pride.

"Thank you. They're quite a handful. Your arrival has given Rome a rest," Sarah replied, slanting a teasing look at her husband. "They're always wild when he first gets home, especially Jed."

At that moment Jed was lying adoringly against Claire, and Rome laughed at his son. "He can't resist a pretty woman; he's the biggest flirt ever born, except for Missy."

Missy was perfectly content in Max's arms, and Claire noticed the tenderness with which he handled her, and the calm capability. She had noticed his skill with children before, soon after they had met. It had been while he was playing with Martine's children at the cookout that she had fallen in love with him. It had been that simple, that easy and that irrevocable.

"Enjoy the peace," Sarah advised, breaking into Claire's thoughts, and Jed chose that moment to lift his head from Claire's shoulder and look down at the scattered toys on the floor. With a grunt he pushed himself out of her arms. Claire gave a gasping cry and grabbed for him, and Rome did the same, leaping to snag his son out of the air. Sighing, he placed the baby on the floor. His attention completely on his toys, Jed toddled over to the red plastic truck he'd selected.

"He has no respect for gravity, and no fear of heights," Rome said wryly. "He's also as strong as a mule; there's no holding him when he decides he wants down."

"He scared me to death," Claire gasped.

"He's been scaring me since he learned to crawl," Sarah said with a chuckle. "Then he started walking when he was eight months old, and it's been even worse since. All you can do is chase after him."

It was impossible to believe that such a delicate woman had given birth to such a sturdy little boy who showed every sign of inheriting his father's size. The children resembled Sarah very little, except for Missy's delicate stature, and something in the shape of her soft mouth.

It was such a relaxed household, filled with the high-pitched giggles of happy children, that Claire forgot to be intimidated by Rome. Here he was a husband and a father, not an executive. It was evident that Max was a close friend who visited often, because the children climbed over him as enthusiastically as they did over their father, and he not only tolerated it, he seemed to enjoy it.

The children were fed and put to bed; then the adults sat down to dinner. Claire couldn't think when she had enjoyed an evening more; she didn't even shrink when Rome teased her. "I had to check you out this morning," he said, his hard mouth quirked in amusement. "Sarah was dying of curiosity."

"I was not! Max had already told me all about you," Sarah told Claire. "It was his own male curiosity Rome wanted to satisfy."

Rome shrugged lazily, smiling as he looked at his wife. Claire wondered what Max had said about her, and why he would talk about her, anyway. She glanced at him and blushed when she found him watching her intently.

It was late when Max drove her home, and Claire was sleepily curled in the corner of the seat. "I really liked them," she murmured. "I can't believe he's the same man who terrified me so this morning!"

"Sarah tames him; she's so incredibly serene."

"They're very happy together, aren't they?"

Max's voice roughened a little. "Yes. They've gone through some rough times; if they hadn't loved each other so much, they wouldn't have made it. Rome was married before and had two children, but his wife and sons were killed in an automobile accident. He was terribly scarred by it."

"I can imagine," Claire said, pain grabbing at her. She had never even held her child; it had been gone almost before she had been able to do more than dream of its existence. What would it have been like to have had two children taken from her in such a tragic way? She thought of the way Jed had nestled against her, and tears burned her eyes. "I miscarried. Right before my divorce," she whispered. "And losing the baby nearly killed me. I wanted it so badly!"

Max's head jerked around, and he stared at her in the dim, flickering glow of the streetlights they passed. An almost violent jealousy filled him because she had been pregnant, and it hadn't been with his child. He wanted her to have his baby; he wanted his children to be her children. She was a natural mother, so loving with children that they instinctively clung to her.

When they reached her house, he went inside with her and quietly locked the door behind him. Claire watched him, her dark eyes becoming enormous as he came to her and caught her hands in his.

"Max?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

His face was both tender and wild, and his eyes glittered. He put her hands around his neck, then drew her close to lie full against him.

"I'm going to take you to bed, love," he said gently, and a hot tide of pleasure surged through her body at his words. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, the time for protests gone. She loved him, and now she realized exactly what that meant; she loved him too much to preserve any distance between them.

He carried her to her bed, and this time he was slow, gentle, taking his time to kiss her and caress her, arousing her to fever pitch while he kept tight control over his own body. Then he eased inside her, and Claire cried out as he filled her. Her nails dug into his back; her hips arched wildly toward him. Max's control broke, and he gave a hoarse cry as he grasped her hips and began driving into her. That same wild, ungovernable need exploded between them, just as it had the first time. They couldn't get enough of each other, couldn't get close enough; their joining was as elemental as a storm, and as violent.

In the silent aftermath Max held her close, his hand on her stomach. It had happened again, and he couldn't regret it. This woman was his; he could never let her go. She was tender and loving, sensitive and vulnerable and easily hurt. He would gladly spend the rest of his life protecting her from those hurts, if she would only stay with him.

Claire watched with wide, unfathomable eyes as he rose on his elbow and leaned over her. He was very male, and never more so than when he was nude, the power of his body exposed. She put her hand on the brown tangle of hair that covered his chest, stroking gently. What was he thinking? He was serious, almost stern, his sea-colored eyes narrowed to brilliant slits, and he was so beautiful that he took her breath away.

"I may have made you pregnant tonight," he said, his fingers sliding over her stomach. Claire inhaled slightly, her eyes widening. His hand slid down even farther to touch her intimately and explore her in a way that shot rockets along her nerves, making her arch and twist against his fingers. He leaned even closer, his mouth finding hers. "I want to make you pregnant," he groaned, the thought so erotic that his body was hardening again. "Claire, will you have my baby?"

Tears streaked silvery trails down her cheeks. "Yes," she whispered, reaching up to hold him with both hands as he rolled onto her. He thrust deeply into her, and they stared into each other's eyes as they made love, moving together and finding incredible magic. If she could have his child, she would never ask anything more of life. She moved under him. She felt; she loved; she experienced; and she cried.

He lay on her, still deep within her, and kissed away her tears. Incredible contentment filled him. "Claire," he said, holding her face still in his hands, "I don't think anything but marriage will do."