inches. “Come in,” she said, increasing the distance between them by another step.
Nothing had changed.
Whatever effect he had on her imagination, Max Strachan up close and personal sent it off the graph. He walked past her into the apartment and her heart lurched, starting a fast, syncopated beat as she watched his wide shoulders fill up the archway that separated the foyer from the main living area.
The soft brilliance of table lamps and wall sconces blinded Max after the muted lighting in the corridor. Here, cream and pale gold melded on squishy cushioned sofas, carpets and curtains. What wood there was in the room had been limed to fade unobtrusively against walls the color of thick, rich cream straight from the milking shed. In contrast, his and Maggie’s reflections drifted over a night-dark sea and sky. And behind the sheen of glass, the scene shifted and changed as car headlights traveled the Harbour Bridge and merged with the carpet of small, unwinking stars on the North Shore.
It made his own small apartment seem dead. Like comparing poor-boy minimalist with rich-man lush. For the first time that night Max questioned the urge that had chased him all the way down Hobson Street and around Viaduct Quay.
“Well, Maggie. No one can say you haven’t got style.”
“My father had style, or rather his designer did, but it’s not mine. On a sunny day it’s like living in a white-out. I hardly use this place. In fact, this is the first time I’ve stayed here since my father…”
“Crashed his plane?”
“Yes, round about then.” For a split second he thought her face would crumple, but she ducked her head, hiding her expression, before he could be sure. When she did return his gaze her shoulders had squared and a fraction of a smile shaped her full lips. “Would you care for a drink?”
Max nodded, marveling at her self-control. She’d got it down pat, compared to her behavior the day Frank Kovacs’s plane had taken a nosedive into the sea.
“Good, I could use one myself, but I hate to drink alone.”
So his visit wasn’t to be limited to a few minutes, after all. Max took that as a sign of encouragement.
Maggie padded around him on bare feet. Swathed all in green, with her hair straight back and her face natural and free of makeup, she might be mistaken by some for a woodland sprite. Not by him. He liked the play of light on the silky robe, changing its color from light into dark over the curve of her lush little butt, as it swayed to a rhythm all its own.
Maggie didn’t have a stitch on under that thing. Max tugged at his tie, loosening it some more. He needed something to kill the heat spreading from his loins. He needed Maggie, or at a pinch, air.
Opening one door of a long, hand-carved sideboard on the far wall, Maggie hunkered down to look into the wine rack. The robe pooled on the carpet and bloused around her middle. “What do you prefer, red or white wine?”
“Whichever you pick’s fine by me. You’re the expert,” Max replied, following her, drawn by a need to be closer. He leaned one elbow on top of the sideboard as she pulled one bottle after another from the rack and examined the labels. Her clean, fresh scent wafting up to him was more intoxicating than anything she could find in the wine rack. Now if only they could bottle Maggie Kovacs…
Someone ought to shut him away for staring down the gaping neckline of her robe. He wouldn’t mind for a minute as long as they locked Maggie up with him. She had the most perfect breasts he had seen in all his life. Mounds of smooth olive satin—not too big, not too small—hand-size and tipped with sweet, tight, treacle-brown nipples that had him craving for a taste. Man! If he caught anyone else trying this—
What had gotten into him? Possessiveness? Get a hold of yourself, Max!
“This is an excellent one, a six-year-old shiraz. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Looks good to me,” he said, fastening his jacket as he straightened, to prevent Maggie from getting an eyeful of the bulge distorting his zipper. As she got to her knees, Max held out his hand, and she drifted up to him until he couldn’t tell who needed steadying, her or him. Her night-dark gaze held his till her eyelids fluttered and severed visual contact, though her hand still seared his palm.
“There are glasses in the other cupboard. Can you get two out while I open this?” Did her voice sound as shaky as it felt? Having Max this close made her limbs feel like Jell-O. There was just so much of him, and all of it male. If she licked her lips she would probably taste testosterone.
Maggie lifted the gold wine steward’s knife and wondered that it didn’t melt in the heat of her hand. Her stomach clenched and her hips bucked slightly. If only she could rid herself of the picture she’d created in the shower, of Max’s hands on her breasts. It seemed her brain and her hormones were at odds. So far she felt brainless and out for the count, with three rounds to go. No wonder she’d asked him to stay for a drink, when all she’d meant to do was have a little conversation and show him the door.
She gripped the bottle like a lifeline. With the knife open, she ran the razor-sharp edge around the cap. Two clicks in quick succession told her Max had placed the wineglasses near her elbow. She flicked the seal up, catching it between her thumb and the knife, and began to peel it back, revealing the cork. The buzzing in her ears started about two seconds before the stars came out in front of her eyes, and the bottle tilted, sliding on its edge across the tray. Somewhere on the edge of her peripheral vision lay a sight she wanted to deny.
“Whoa, there!” Max’s arms came around her, catching the bottle with one hand and relieving her limp fingers of the knife with the other.
In the midst of all the heat radiating from Max’s body, Maggie shivered. He’d returned the bottle and knife to the sideboard, and he supported her with his strong, tightly muscled arms, pulling her shoulders back against his hard chest.
“You okay?” he asked gruffly, bending his mouth to her ear as he gathered her closer. “You went white as a sheet. I thought you were going to pass out.”
Tiny balloons burst in her brain, letting all her common sense escape and float away. Oh, she thought. She could get used to this, someone who’d be there when she needed him. Maggie let herself lean back into his strength. Gave temptation its head for a second and luxuriated in the male scents, the solid bulk of his chest that could almost make her believe she could rely on him. If just for a second.
The pressure of his steely hardness against her hip felt like a rod to her back the same moment the thought No wonder Jo is keen on this guy, crossed her mind.
Jo! Her best friend!
What was she doing?
Moving in on her best friend’s man!
Maggie clutched the edge of the sideboard with both hands.
An old Mae West joke raised its feeble head, but Maggie was absolutely certain he wasn’t packing a gun. Which only went to show how jittery she was, a case of jangling nerves with a bit of mild hysteria thrown in for good measure. “I guess I stood up too quick, but I’m all right now,” she said to excuse her behavior. Forgiving herself for being carried away by the nearness of Jo’s man would take a bit longer. No matter how much Maggie was tempted, only hurt could result from ignoring the signals her friend had been putting out at the pub.
As for Max’s part in the incident,
