HIS By Design -Coveting Claire (8 page)

"Oh yes, they get along famously.
 Course, he's the same with our other boys' children.
 But I must admit I think Marcie's his favorite, being the
only girl." He puffed on his pipe and then continued.  "He's
fond of the children; pity he doesn't have any of his own.
 Susanna couldn't," he added by way of explanation and then
coughed, wondering if maybe he shouldn't have mentioned Susanna,
vaguely remembering Andrea saying something about Julian being in
love with Claire.  Or was it Claire?  Perhaps it was some
other girl.  He hoped so.

Julian kept Marcie beside him throughout the
time they spent at the cafe, sitting her on his knee and playing
numerous games Claire half-remembered from her own childhood.
 He seemed to enjoy Marcie's company better than anyone else’s
at the table.  He wiped her hands and face with a napkin and
when the waiter informed them they didn't usually make the Shirley
Temple Marcie requested, he slipped him a large tip and the drink
was duly supplied.

Observing Marcie, she told herself it was
hardly surprising, she really was a very enchanting child.  It
was just that she'd never thought...Julian and children?  With
a rueful smile, she realized this was yet another time in less than
twenty-four hours that she’d seen him in a startlingly different
light.  She thought there was always something quite touching
about a man with little children, especially a little girl.
 The fact that the man was Julian for some unfathomable reason
seemed to make it doubly touching.

She looked across at him and their eyes met,
the expression in his revealing that he’d guessed her thoughts and
that they caused him both amusement and pleasure.  The look
was broken as Andrea commanded their attention.

"Julian, I know you had no intention of
accepting my invitation for Sunday's get-together, but now that
Claire's back I really must insist you bring her. "Turning to
Claire, she smiled in her best den-mother fashion and said.
 "You really must get into the thick of things at once,
Claire."

Then removing Marcie from Julian, in a manner
greatly admired by all, whereby at no point did the little girl
come in contact with her elegant person, she swept off with Stephen
following in her wake in a slightly bemused fashion.  Julian
and Claire took one look at each other and burst out laughing.

"She never changes, does she?"

"Nope.  I hope she never does."
 Julian admitted.

"Really?  I have to admit I find her a
bit irritating at times."

Julian smiled.  "I know what you mean.
 She used to make me feel like some waif Susanna adopted and
then later became her responsibility."

Claire couldn't help laughing at the
ridiculous comparison.  "I trust she doesn't make you feel
that way anymore."

"No.  It took me a while, but eventually
I realized she treated everyone that way and then it didn't bother
me."  He paused and then added thoughtfully.  "She may
delight in appearing thoughtless, but she actually has a great deal
of common sense."

Claire didn't comment, inwardly disagreeing
with him.  However in the not too distant future, Claire would
find that she was wrong, and would be glad of the fact.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering
around the various boutiques and later they drove up the Pacific
Coast Highway and ate dinner at one of the restaurants overlooking
the ocean.  That night, as Claire tumbled into bed, it
occurred to her that she'd not thought of Richard even once since
breakfast.

The next morning, Claire didn't go for a
swim, dressing completely before joining Julian for coffee at the
breakfast bar.  Unsettled by the comment he made yesterday
about the house and the seriousness of his intentions suggested by
it, Claire decided that a truce until she was surer of her own
feelings was a good idea. She'd abandoned her seduction tactics
completely.  That was probably why she backed off a little
when he reached up from his stool beside her and took the strands
of her hair between his fingers.

"You have beautiful hair.  It's like
gold in the sun and silver in the moonlight."

She was touched by the poetry in his words
and told him softly.  "Imagine all these years and I didn’t
know you were a romantic."

His eyes deepened as he smiled at her.
 "In that case you'd be surprised to hear why I was upset when
I saw you’d cut your hair."

Intrigued, she asked him why. Leaning closer
he whispered in her ear the fantasies he’d harbored.  Her eyes
sparkled at the information, and she teased him.  "Not just a
romantic, an incurable romantic."

He accepted her teasing good-naturedly and
then asked her.  "What about you Claire, no romance in that
sophisticated, mature soul of yours?"

Claire considered.  "Well, I was a very
romantic teenager.  I used to dream of love at first sight.
 All teenagers do until they grow up and discover it's a
myth."  Her tone was light, but it held a trace of
disillusionment.

"It's not a myth, just rare."

Claire understood his meaning and said with a
trace of envy.  "It must be nice to have had the perfect
romance."

"Complete with tragic ending."  

And all envy left her, although his voice was
devoid of cynicism or bitterness.

There was silence until Julian took her hand
in his.  "Love at first sight isn't the only way to fall in
love.  Sometimes it grows slowly, but it can still be
romantic."

He brought her hand to his lips before
letting it drop and then moved around the breakfast bar into the
kitchen.  Claire joined him and they prepared breakfast
together, their movements familiar and comfortable.  Once
prepared, they carried the meal to the nook and ate companionably.
 Discussing various topics and passing pleasantries the meal
seemed no different from the hundreds of meals they’d shared in
previous years.

Yet it was. Intensely different.

Claire was subtly aware of the aura of
difference throughout the meal.  Now she looked out through
the window to where Julian stood on the deck where she'd shooed him
insisting on cleaning up alone.  He was turned partly towards
the ocean, so she'd a three-quarter view of him.  He raised
his coffee mug. As he bent his head to drink, the sea breeze caught
at the front of his hair gently playing with his fringe.

 A wave of tenderness washed over her.
Smiling, she carried the dishes to the dishwasher, looking back at
him as she loaded it.  Suddenly she felt new again. All the
feelings of the past weeks slipped from her. The soul-searching.
The indecision.  She felt the same way she felt when she
stepped off that plane in New York three years ago. As if she stood
on the brink of discovery. 

*****

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Boston. S
aturday
29
^th
June. Craig Gold Legacy Memorial
Ball

“Oh, girlfriend, that beautiful man wants
you, bad.”

As usual, Terri has no brain to mouth filter.
I throw her a warning glare and continue polishing the glass in my
hand as we stand behind the bar. I feel weird because we're wearing
cocktail dresses like the other women, only we're caught between
the guests and the help. We're volunteering as sorority pledges at
the charity event in order to flesh out our law school scholarship
applications.

“Making the dean’s list isn’t enough, these
days,” our advisers tell us. “The awarders want to know you care.”
So here we are. Caring.

And me being wanted.

I want to tell Terri that she's wrong. That
the dangerous, urbane, gorgeous, sexy man one hundred feet across
the enormous ballroom does not want me. That he's actually oozing
magnetism and pheromones at some other poor prey. But I know I
can’t because she's privy to the fact that he's told me that he
does.

He was very matter of fact about it. He just
stood across from me, an acceptable distance between us, and told
me in a confident, hungry demand. Like he was asking for the
specialty dish of the house. I imagine that's a fair comparison. I
appeal to his appetite and he needs to satisfy the craving. I'm
still desperately trying to convince myself that I'm immune and
will not be the latest item on Leo Gold’s menu.

“Only because he can’t have me.”

“Oh, sweetie, he can have you. He knows it,
you know it, I know it - hell, this whole fucking room knows
it.”

“Shut. Up. You are an utterly useless friend.
You're supposed to be supporting my resistance.”

“Well you know me, I’m never one for lost
causes.”

I become silent. I radiate disapproval and
hurt feelings, hoping to make her feel guilty. I realize it's
working when she starts polishing glasses along with me and speaks
in a sulky voice.

“Ok. So why is it we're resisting him? Oh
yeah, he’s gorgeous, rich, intelligent and hot with bad boy charm.
What’s to resist?”

“He’s young enough to be my s...” I offer a
plausible excuse.

“Oh no, don’t you dare finish that. No way
were you capable of breeding at eleven. You know age doesn’t matter
these days and he doesn’t know you’re older than he is. But even if
he did, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t care.”

“I guess.” I grumble, part of me resenting
the lack of secrecy having a best friend you share almost
everything with creates. Almost everything, because I can’t tell
her the real reason I must hold this beautiful man at arm’s length.
That is classified.

Terri knows my real identity and age. FBI
approved, she's briefed on the protocols of having an undercover
cop as a best friend. I'm briefed on how much I can tell her. It's
never all the details of my true assignment. She treats each of my
new cases as her own personal romp. In this latest adventure, she
thinks I'm undercover investigating the recent rash of sorority
hazing. She has no idea that my real target is Leo Gold.

My ability to consistently pull men over ten
years younger, is proving useful with that assignment. At thirty,
Leo Gold has entered a later decade than any of the men I‘ve hooked
up with over the past five years. He also has this uncanny ability
to make me feel as if I'm the much younger one. Not to mention that
his seductive combination of dominant sexuality and sensual
tenderness is making it harder and harder for me to resist him.

I swallow, watching while he excuses himself
from the group he's with and moves across the room towards me. I
look down, but it’s no use. I'm achingly aware of him throughout
the whole interminable time it takes him to slowly make his way
over to stand in front of the bar. I ignore him for several minutes
and he says nothing. Finally, I look up into his classically
sculpted features, unable not to. God, I hate that I'm unable not
to.

He smiles, slowly, wickedly satisfied that
his patience works and he's able to make me raise my head without a
word. I try not to notice how luscious he looks. He's so close that
his 6’ 2” height and proportionate breadth block out my view of the
room and the deep charcoal suit against the silk grey of his dress
shirt echoes the dark, smoky hue of his eyes. The silk gold of his
loosened, slightly askew tie highlights his thick, dark gold hair
and enhances the effect of the myriad gold flecks in his dark
pupils. Those spooky, highly unusual eyes fascinate me and in some
of my dreams he's a were lion and he simply carries me off to his
lair.

I shake myself. Resist. Resist. I chide.

He moves to the side of the bar and holds out
his hand in invitation. I look away and shake my head not trusting
myself to speak, not sure my mouth is in tune with my brain. When I
fail to take his hand, I sense his exasperation. He growls my name
under his breath. A sound that has the humiliating effect of making
me instantly wet.

The growl deepens. “Dance with me,
Raisa.”

When I defy him, he takes my hand and places
his other hand on my hip to firmly command my obedience. I don’t
resist. I can’t risk a scene and he knows it.

He leads me ahead of him to the dance floor.
The heat of his hand in mine and on my hip makes me tremble. I'm
glad that his strong body is firm behind me, supporting me,
stopping me from stumbling. I panic because in seconds, he'll hold
me close in his arms. With every new encounter, each new time he
holds me, the temperature between us increases and I'm terrified
that this time I just might combust.

He senses my panic and gathers me softly
against him. It's a slow, jazzy piece, the kind where you just sway
in each other’s arms. His hand is at my nape, firm against me, a
pulsing heat filtering through from his touch to my moist skin,
despite the thickness of my hair. Even in five-inch heels, I only
reach the top of his chest and he cradles me against him, soothing
me with his fingertips moving in slow, sensual circles over my
back. It's okay I tell myself. I can handle this. Until he places a
soft kiss on the top of my head.