A Question of Pride (16 page)

He sat very still beside her, watching her, those guarded blue eyes studying her reaction.

'Dinner,' he said quietly. 'Prepared by Mrs Walters for us to share in comfort.'

Of course, she thought, and turned an expressionless face to him. 'Because your invitation to my parents made you realise it may look odd if my first time here should happen to correspond with theirs?'

His wicked grin refused the offer of another row. 'Or maybe because I plan to have my evil way with your body,' he leered.

'What—this body?' Clea's own sense of humour asserted itself, showing in an affected amazement. 'No way!' She shook her head. 'No way could you convince me you wanted
this
body.'

They were still smiling and joking lightly as they left the lift on the top floor. But all traces of laughter died, as Clea came to an abrupt halt at the surprise that met her in what must be a private foyer to the three flat doors leading off from it.

Eyes wide, she stared at wails of bright white. Furniture of a Chinese dynasty—black lacquered and imposing— and splashes of yellow on modern abstract paintings in black frames, should have looked out of place, yet managed to blend with the purely aggressive surroundings. For a mere foyer, this one was quite something.

Max was playing the bland innocent to her reaction as he caught her arm and led her through one of the doors, but amusement twitched at his mouth.

'Ah—Mrs Walters.' A tall, thin woman with grizzled hair appeared in front of them. Max drew Clea towards her. 'You two will no doubt remember speaking to one another occasionally over the phone.

Miss Maddon, Mrs Walters,' he introduced formally.

'It's nice to meet you at last, Mrs Walters.' Clea found a smile, and sent it to the other woman, who gave a poor quality one in return. She was busy taking in Clea's obvious condition, sharp eyes running over her in frank disapproval.'

'Dinner is almost ready, Mr Latham,' his housekeeper informed Max, with enough coolness to make clear her feelings. Then she was gone, disappearing back through the door by which she'd appeared, leaving Clea ruefully considering herself to be rebuffed.

'She's an angel,' Max excused drily. 'I don't know what I would do without her and Mr Walters.' He reached out to open a door, moving lithely inside. 'He janitors the building for me,' he threw over his shoulder. 'The other wing to this floor is split into two smaller flats. One for the Walters and one my mother uses when she comes up to town. What would you like to drink?' He had moved to a drinks cabinet before turning to search her out. 'Something long and ... ' His voice trailed away, muffled by the mockery in his slow smile when he caught Clea's expression.

Good grief! was all she could think, as she hovered over the threshold of yet another shockingly extravagant room.

Bold blues and bright whites vied for dominance. Two huge bay windows lit the room with sunlight, draped in royal-blue velvet. The carpet was blue with splashes in red woven into the large symmetrical design. The red, she noted dazedly, had been used for a contrasting splash of colour in a similar way the yellow had been used in the foyer. White walls, white kid-leather settees, red and blue satin cushions scattered about. He had even had the audacity to bring green into the room in the shape of plants, huge resin-sheened, rubber-type plants that climbed up the walls in contained abundance.

'You—you've surprised me,' she mumbled when her gaze eventually clashed with his.

His smile was half a grimace. 'I don't see why,' he drawled, and let his gaze linger explicitly on her for a moment. 'I always did go for the exotic ... It suits you,' he observed hoodedly, 'this room.'

Clea let out a short laugh. 'You think me—exotic?'

Max shook his dark head in wry disbelief. 'You're certainly not sparing on your impact.' His eyes held hers for a fraction of a second, telling her something she couldn't interpret. 'Come in and sit down,' he commanded mockingly. 'You're standing there as if you expect the room to attack you!'

She did as he bade, mainly because she was too stunned to do anything else. She sank into one of the couches, accepting a tall glass from him as he sat down beside her, his eyes narrowed on the beautiful decor of his lounge.

'You don't like it,' he observed after a moment.'

Clea blinked like an owl. 'Oh—no, that isn't true. It—it's a lovely apartment ... '

'But?'

She let her eyes go on another brief foray of the room. 'It ... it isn't very easy on the senses, is it?' she posed tentatively. Then she shook off her confusion and smiled at him, relaxing back into the squashy leather. 'It has "you" stamped all over it. Bold, bright and restless ... how do you ever relax in such an atmosphere? Even you must find the occasional need to find relief from all the raw energy you run on. I can't see you finding it in here.'

Max looked about him, as if seeing his home through new eyes. 'It pleases me,' was his defence. 'I can't stand indecisiveness. Insipidity breeds insipidity. Feed your mind only blandness, and that is exactly what you'll get back in return.'

Curiouser and curiouser, Clea mused fancifully, this was yet another Max Latham she was seeing.

'I've never brought any of my—anyone else here,' he told her suddenly, studying his glass. 'Call it an idiosyncrasy of mine. I like to keep the mood here free from—unwanted influence.'

Was that a warning or just an explanation? 'Then why am I being made an exception to your rule?'

His head flicked around to catch the troubled look on her face. 'Because you
are
the exception,' he stated softly.

Clea held that steady gaze. 'Because of the baby?'

Max hesitated, then nodded gravely. 'If that reason helps you to accept me and my home, then, yes, because of the baby.'

'Dinner is ready, Mr Latham,' Mrs Walters interrupted them, bringing an inner sigh of relief to Clea, because the conversation had taken a distinct turn for the worse in her opinion. But Max looked annoyed.

'Right, Mrs Walters. Thank you.' He got up, turning to nod curtly at the housekeeper. 'You can leave as soon as you like now.'

A dismissal in anyone's books. The woman melted away without another word, leaving a much cooler atmosphere behind her.

'She doesn't like me,' Clea guessed wryly. 'She thinks I'm trying to foist someone else's child off on you.'

'Go and put her right, then,' Max suggested, helping her to her feet, as though it was just part of his normal routine to haul overweight females up from low-cushioned chairs.

Clea lifted a dark eyebrow at him. 'She wouldn't believe me if I did. Why don't
you
tell her?"

'And spoil her fun?' he teased, laughing and ducking as Clea aimed a blow at his chin.

The constantly shifting mood between them shifted once again, into a pleasant congeniality that seemed to expect Max's arm to rest across her shoulders as he guided her through to another room. Clea liked his arm there, she even found herself leaning into him, twisting her head back on to his shoulders so that she could smile up into his face.

'I hope you're not going to feed me boar's head stuffed with apples?' she joked when she saw the medieval decor of the dining-room.

Max let out a husky laugh. 'I don't think Mrs Walters's culinary skills will stretch that far!'

'More wine?' Max lifted the bottle from its bed of ice and waved it at her. Clea covered her glass with a hand, giggling at him.

'I think I've had enough,' she judged. 'See!' she went on to accuse him. 'I'm tiddly. It isn't done to get women in my condition drunk. Doesn't go with your image.' They were sitting quite close, using only a corner of the long, solid oak dining-table. They had shared the well cooked summer meal with a bottle of light white wine, but Clea was well aware that she had let him fill her glass more than he should have done. And abstinence over the last few months meant the wine had hit her system far quicker than it usually would do.

He raised mocking brows at her. 'What do you mean, "my image"?'

Clea picked up and sipped from the glass she had just covered up, purple eyes teasing him over the rim.

'You know! That macho sophistication you have that should have you running, rather than admitting to spending your free time with a pregnant woman.'

She was only teasing him, but Max didn't take it that way. His expression cooled, silver threads slashing into the smoky blue eyes. 'I've never denied you or our child to anyone!' he defended haughtily. 'It's
you
who denies
me
—surely?'

'That just isn't true!' She put down her glass to glare her protest at him.

'Then why haven't you done anything about my meeting your family?' he challenged coolly.

Clea shifted uncomfortably on her chair, lowering her gaze from his. 'I ... I w-was going to mention it to them, when I go to stay with them for the weekend,' she mumbled.

'You spend most of your weekends with them?' Max enquired.

Clea nodded, a fond smile curving her generous mouth, fingers idling once again on her wine glass. 'They like to spoil me a little, and it pleases them to think they're giving me a break from London.'

'From being on your own, you mean,' he amended grimly.

'Did you know my stepfather knows Joe?' she remembered suddenly.

Max revealed his surprise in a lift of an eyebrow. 'Have you seen Joe since you left me?'

An odd way of putting it. She sent him a searching glance, but Max was revealing very little. 'No.' She shook her head again, the glistening tresses of black hair whispering against her back, crackling with life.

'But I will be doing this weekend. Joe and his wife are coming to a party James and my mother are giving—on Saturday night. It will be nice to see him again', she sighed.

Max lifted a hand, almost absently reaching out to capture a lock of long black hair, and twisting it around his finger, his expression thoughtful. 'Let me take you to the party.'

Clea looked carefully at his implacable face that, as usual, told her nothing, though those blue eyes glittered with a strange intentness. 'I thought you said you preferred to meet my parents here, "on home ground", as you called it. Surely a large gathering isn't quite the place to make and gain accurate impressions?'

'Ashamed of me, Clea?' he taunted.

Her scalp was tingling, sending out warnings to the rest of her senses to beware, and she couldn't think straight for the slow burn of excitement beginning to run through her veins. She blamed the wine, and Max, because he was playing so delicately with her hair.

'Suspicious, more like,' she answered him honestly. 'I'm confused as to your motives.'

Max looked directly at her, capturing her gaze, and the warning tingles swept down her body.

'I thought I made my motives entirely clear yesterday,' he drawled, so quietly that Clea sensed a change in his mood, too. 'Marriage is my ultimate goal. If to achieve that I have to pass a barrage of tests from various sources, then, so be it.' He dropped her hair, and Clea choked back the groan of protest that leapt to her lips. Weak, Clea! She rebuked herself. This man is your worst weakness! 'Meeting and gaining the acceptance and respect of your parents is an important test,' he continued.

'You keep talking of marriage, as though it had become an essential solution to your continued existence!' she snapped, aware that her irritation had roots in an entirely different source than Max's constant reference to marriage.

His smile was full of whimsy, and entirely new to Clea. She found herself hooked on it instantly. It hinted at so much and gave nothing away.

'Can I escort you to the party?' he pushed with gentle insistence.

'No!' she refused, getting up quickly from the table. This whole situation was getting out of hand! Her body was telling her one thing, while her mind said another. Max was hinting at things she didn't dare consider, while that mocking tilt to his mouth denied them. She'd had too much wine, too much good company—and it was time to call a halt to the proceedings before she did something stupid and made a complete fool of herself! 'I'll speak to them about meeting you while I'm there this weekend. But I don't think it will be a good idea to launch you on to them with no warning ... '

'There
are
such things as telephones,' he pointed out wearily as he, too, came to his feet, making a mockery of her weak excuse. 'And it is only Wednesday tomorrow...' Point made, he looked at her averted face for a moment, and the silence became tense. Then he sighed, and moved to stand beside her. 'Come on, I'll take you home. You look—tired.'

Clea moved beside him with the miserable feeling that she had, disappointed him in some way. Of course, it would be easy enough to call her mother and warn her that Max would be coming with her.

Just as it would be easy to concede this one request to him without putting up her usual stubborn protests.

What is happening to you? she wondered tiredly. Can't you even meet him half-way? He's gone out of his way to prove to you that he cares—has cared all along! Didn't you acknowledge that yourself—didn't you actually stand there and admit to yourself that you had been behaving like a bitch towards him?

'I'm sorry,' she mumbled.

'What for?' he enquired coolly, holding open the dining-room door for her.

She shrugged dully, unsure still—or unwilling—how to say what she was thinking. He looked big, all of a sudden, imperious with his dark face closed to her, that lean body sending out a warmth her own remembered with bitter yearning. Here stood the man she loved. Was it his fault that he couldn't return her feelings? She went to pass wearily by him, then stopped, turning to him, her hand going out to lightly touch his arm, her eyes dark with an unhappiness that cut into him.

'I'm sorry.' She tried again, swallowing on the lump of weak emotion forming in her throat, determined this time to admit her own pig-headedness and invite him to the party. 'I'm sorry if I ... '

Max swore thickly, cutting her small speech short as his hands came up to grip her shoulders. 'For God's sake,' he grated roughly, 'don't go humble on me, Clea! I don't think I could stand it on top of everything else!' He stared down at her, eyes glinting strangely, then he sighed heavily and said, with diminishing patience, 'I don't want your contrition! I don't want your meek resignation to my presence in your life! I want more—much more!'