blusher brought color to those cheekbones, and lipstick made her mouth look even softer. Smudged eyeliner and smoky shadow turned her dark eyes into pools of mystery. After putting up her honey-blond hair, leaving a few tendrils curling loosely at her temples, she slipped pearl-drop earrings in her ears and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The old-fashioned hairstyle suited her, revealing the clean lines of her cheek and jaw, the slenderness of her throat, but she looked disturbingly solemn, as if secrets were hiding behind her eyes.
She was ready when the doorbell rang at exactly eight o’clock and had been ready long enough to become nervous; the peal of the doorbell made her jump. Quickly, before her nerve failed her, she opened the door. “Hello. Come in, please. Would you like a drink before we go?” Her voice was calm and polite, the voice of a hostess doing her duty without any real enthusiasm. Instinctively Claire moved a little away from him; she’d forgotten how tall he was, and she felt dwarfed.
His pleasant expression didn’t waver as he held his hand out to her, palm up. “Thank you, but we haven’t time. On such short notice, I had to take reservations that were somewhat earlier than I’d planned. Shall we go?” His outstretched hand was steady and unthreatening, but the gesture was a command. Claire had the distinct impression that he had noticed her withdrawal and was demanding her return. He wanted her to step within reach of his hand, his touch, perhaps even place her hand in his in a gesture of both trust and obedience.
She couldn’t do it. The small confrontation took only a moment, and she ended it when she stepped away to get her bag and the waist-length silk jacket that went with her oyster-colored silk chemise. It wasn’t until she turned around and found herself staring at his chest that she realized he hadn’t let the moment end. She froze.
He plucked the jacket from her hands and held it up for her to slip her arms into the sleeves. “Allow me,” he said in his cool, precise voice, so devoid of any real emotion that Claire wondered if her reaction had been an overreaction, that his out-held hand had been a mannerly gesture rather than a subtle command. Perhaps if she had gone out more, she wouldn’t be so wary and skittish now; Martine had probably been right in urging her to become more socially active.
She let him help her with the jacket, and he smoothed the small collar, his touch brief and light. “You look lovely, Claire, like a Victorian cameo.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, disarmed by the gentle, graceful compliment. Suddenly she realized that he had sensed her agitation and was trying to put her at her ease, using his almost courtly manners to reassure her, and the odd thing was that it worked. He was controlled, unemotional, and she liked that. People who acted on the urges of their emotions and glands were unreliable.
His hand was on the small of her back, resting there with a slight warm pressure, but now it didn’t disturb her. She relaxed and found that she was looking forward to the evening, after all.
His choice of car further reassured her. She would have been suspicious of a flamboyant sports car, but the sedate, solidly conservative black Mercedes-Benz wasn’t the car of someone who was attracted to flash and glitter. He was dressed as conservatively as a banker, too, she noticed, glancing at his gray pinstriped suit. It was wonderfully cut, and his lean, elegant frame gave the suit a look of dash and fashion that it wouldn’t have possessed on any other man, but it still wasn’t the peacock attire of a playboy.
Everything he did put her more at ease. He carried on a light, casual conversation that put no pressure on her; he didn’t use innuendos or sly double meanings or ask any personal questions. The restaurant he’d chosen was quiet, giving the impression of privacy but not intimacy. Nothing he did was in any way meant to impress her; he was simply dining out with a woman, with no strings attached, and that was immensely reassuring.
“What sort of work do you do?” he asked casually, dipping an enormous Gulf shrimp into cocktail sauce before biting into it with frank enjoyment. Claire watched his white even teeth sink into the pink shrimp, her pulse speeding up in spite of herself. He was just so impossibly handsome that it was difficult to refrain from simply staring at him.
“Secretarial.”
“For a large company?”
“No. Bronson Alloys is small, but growing rapidly, and we have outstanding prospects. It’s a publicly held company, but I work for the major stockholder and founder, Sam Bronson.”
“Do you enjoy your work? Being a secretary seems to have lost all its attraction for a lot of people; the push is to be an executive, with a secretary of your own.”
“Someone has to be the secretary,” Claire said, smiling. “I don’t have either the talents or the ambition to be an executive. What company are you with? Will you be in Houston permanently?”
“Not permanently, but I could be here for several months. I’m investigating certain properties for investment.”
“Real estate?” Claire asked. “Are you a speculator?”
“Nothing so dashing. Basically what I do is make feasibility studies.”
“How did you come to be transplanted from England to Texas?”
He gave a negligent shrug. “Business opportunities are more plentiful over here.” Max studied her smooth, delicate face, wondering how she would look if any real warmth ever lit her dark eyes. She was more relaxed now than she had been, but there was still that lack of response from her that both irritated and intrigued him. So long as he kept the subject impersonal and made no move that could be interpreted as that of an interested male, she was relaxed, but she withdrew like a turtle into its shell at the least hint of masculine aggressiveness or sexuality. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to be attracted to her or even flirt with her. The less masculine he was, the better she liked it, and the realization angered him. What he wouldn’t give to force her out of that frozen nunnery she’d locked herself into, to make her acknowledge him as a man, to make her feel some sort of passion!
Claire looked away, a little rattled by the cold, unreadable expression in his eyes. For a moment his face had lost its expression of suave pleasantness and taken on the hard, determined lines of a Viking warrior. Perhaps that was the ancestry that had given him his golden hair and sea-colored eyes, rather than an Anglo-Saxon heritage.
What had she said to bring that expression to his face? It had been only a polite question; she’d been so careful not to step over the bounds she’d set for herself, saying nothing that could be construed as reflecting a personal interest in him.
“Last night,” he said abruptly. “That was deliberate viciousness, wasn’t it? Why?”
Claire’s head jerked around, the only sign she gave that she was disturbed by the change of subject. Her dark eyes went blank. “Yes, it was deliberate, but nothing came of her efforts. It isn’t important.”
“I don’t agree.” His crisp accent bit off the words. “You were upset, though you carried it off well. Why was that little scene staged?”
She stared at him, that blank look still in her eyes, as if a wall had been erected in her mind. After a moment he realized that she wasn’t going to answer him, and a powerful surge of anger shook him, made him want to grind his teeth in frustration. Why was she so damned aloof? At this rate he’d never get close enough to her to get any of the answers he needed! He wanted this damned thing over with; with business out of the way, he could concentrate on Claire and his irritating attraction to her. He had no doubt that if he were able to devote himself fully to her, he would be able to get behind those barriers to the woman. He had never yet failed to get a woman he wanted; there
