A Question of Pride (19 page)

'Yes,' said Max quietly. 'I know.'

Dr Fielding left, promising to call again in the morning. Max went back to the bedroom, to find Clea lying with her eyes open. 'How are you feeling?' he asked softly, coming to sit back on the bed beside her.

'Strange.' Her mouth twisted in self-mockery, face pale against the rich tan of the sheets. 'Did I frighten you?' she asked in a contrite whisper, noting his strained features. 'I'm sorry. I ...'

He shut her up by the simple process of covering her mouth with a gentle finger. 'Don't you dare apologise to me,' he commanded. 'Not when this is all my fault! If I hadn't lost control and made love to you, if I had only shown a little bit of ...'

Clea shook her head beneath the resting finger, and touched a kiss to the soft, warm pad, eyes dark with sympathy as they looked into his tormented ones.

'No one's fault but my own,' she stated softly. 'I've known for weeks that I should have been resting more. Our making love had nothing to do with it—unless you allow for a rather wicked desire to do it again!'

She was teasing him out of the doldrums. Clea could no more make love at this moment than she could raise her head off the pillow. She was weak, drained of every last bit of energy.

'Did Dr Fielding mention the baby?' she asked after a moment, her thready tone revealing how little she had wanted to ask that question, because she feared so much the answer.

Max put a light hand on her stomach, smiling reassuringly at her. 'The baby is fine. It's you we're worried about. You have to stay in bed and sleep. I have some mild sedatives to give you in a moment, when I've made you a warm drink. Then I've been ordered to stand guard over you and not let you even blink without permission!'

'I have to call my mother.' Her brow clouded, tiredness pulling at her eyelids, a natural worry for what her mother was going to do when she found out that she was ill taking what little colour she had from her face.

'I'll speak to your mother, Clea,' he assured her gently.

'And Brad ...'

His hand came to cup her cheek, caring, his eyes smoky, unable to hide his concern. 'I'll see to everything. You just rest, hmm?'

Clea nodded mutely. She hadn't the strength or the desire to argue. Let Max deal with Amy, let him deal with Brad and everything else. It was good just to offload all those petty problems on to his shoulders and leave hers feeling pleasantly light for a change.

Her eyelids grew heavy, her body curling on to its side, lips blindly searching out and kissing that comforting hand. 'Poor Max,' she murmured. 'His gypsy has turned out to be a whole lot of trouble for him ...'

'Not to me,' he denied softly. 'She has never been any trouble to me. You've done your utmost, Clea, to make it easy for me to walk away from you. The only thing you didn't take into account, was whether I
wanted
to walk away.'

'You wanted to before you knew about the baby,' she pointed out sleepily. 'A baby is no reason to hold on to a man who wishes to be let go—not in this day and age.'

They were talking softly, murmuring in the peacefulness of the room. Max looking grave. He had no adequate answer to give her, so he offered none. 'Get some sleep,' he said instead. 'I'll send in Mrs Walters with that drink and sedative.'

'Max ...?' He had reached the door when she called him back. He turned to face her. Her eyes were open again, their liquid purple plucking at his heart. 'Thank you.'

'Forwhat?' he enquired.

'For just being here, when I know you must have a thousand and one other things you should be doing.'

'Nothing is more important to me than you are— remember that,' he stated huskily. 'It means a lot to me that you believe it.'

Her eyes were already closing again, and he couldn't be absolutely sure that she'd heard him. He walked slowly towards the study, browfurrowing as his mind worked on his steadily mounting problems.

Max tapped restless fingers on the desktop as he waited for the telephone to answer. This, he knew, was not going to be easy. A deep, cool voice cracked down the line at him, and he sat up straight in his chair.

'James Laverne?' he enquired.

'Speaking,' came the cool reply.

'You may know my name—' Max began his grim task

'—Max Latham. I'm calling about Clea ...'

Cleaawoke to the wonderful feel of a soft breeze cooling her heated skin. The room was filled with sunlight filtering through the net curtains at the open window. It must be late, she thought, because it
felt
late. She let her gaze wander about her surroundings, taking longer than she should to recall where she was.

The sound of rustling paper brought her head swinging around to look over the other side of the room.

Max sat in a cushioned chair, slumped over some papers on his lap, frowing in concentration. All around him were sheaves of papers, stacked on any available surface within reach of him, covering the ebony wood dressing-table, the tallboy, the floor around his feet. He had changed out of his business suit into casual trousers and a short-sleeved shirt in pale blue, showing off his tanned and muscled arms.

He appeared to have been there for quite a while. Perhaps he hadn't gone into work at all today, perhaps he had wanted to stay here with her ...

She must have moved, because his head came up and around, blue eyes honing in on her face and lightening into a smile the moment he saw she was awake. She smiled shyly at him, and he stood up, dropping the rest of his papers to the floor before coming over to seat himself beside her on the bed.

'Hi,' he said softly, looking at her in a way that made her heart shift.

'Hi,' she returned, feeling distinctly at a disadvantage lying here, in his bed. 'Have I been asleep a long time?'

'Oh—' He glanced at his watch. 'About five hours, give or take a minute or two.' The smile came back, brief but warm. 'Thirsty?'

She nodded.

'I'll get Mrs Walters to make you something. What would you prefer, tea—coffee—something long and cool?'

'Cool, please,' she said, labouring to pull herself up against the pillows. Max was leaning over her in an instant, taking her by the shoulders and gently assisting her. It was only as she flopped weakly back against the pillows that she realised she was wearing one of her own nightdresses. She glanced at Max in surprise.

He grinned. 'Your mother's doing,' he informed her. Clea's eyes widened. 'She and your stepfather arrived barely an hour after I called them. Once she'd convinced herself that you were in good hands ...'

His mouth went awry when he said that, as though the moment of meeting Amy was a memorable one.

'... She bustled off to your flat to pack the essentials for you. You were still dead to the world when she got back, so she banished James and me to the lounge and commandeered Mrs Walters to help make you more comfortable. You slept through it all like a baby,' he teased while Clea looked aghast.

'How did she manage to get over Mrs Walters's aversion to me?' The housekeeper had brought Clea's drink that morning after the doctor had left, but her manner had not warmed at all.

'Charm.' He laughed. 'And a blind refusal to believe that anyone could disapprove of her beautiful daughter. How in heaven's name could you have a mother like that, Clea?' He sounded bemused. 'I nearly fainted when she walked in here!'

'Ask James to tell you the story of his first meeting with me,' she suggested by way of a reply. 'He still hasn't quite recovered from the shock. Where is my mother now?'

'Back in her own home by now,' Max told her. 'James and I convinced her that you would be fine with me here to look after you. And I promised that, all being well with you, and if the doctor says it's OK, I'll bring you to her party on Saturday.'

'You have all been busy, haven't you?' she remarked a trifle mulishly, feeling oddly nettled by his easy disarming of her mother. 'Give you five minutes and you'd charm Methusela himself into liking you!'

'Thank you for that vote of confidence in my powers of persuasion,' he replied blandly, refusing to take the bait, but getting up as though removing himself from a potentially dangerous substance. 'I'll go and see about that drink.'

The next time she woke, it was dark outside, and she desperately needed to use the bathroom. Her head swam sickeningly as she levered herself into a sitting position. There was no light on in the room, and it felt strange—alien to her groggy senses. She was hot and sticky, her hair clinging limply to her because she had slept so long on it left loose.

She wished she was back in her own flat. At least there she could move about without disturbing anyone. What time was it, anyway? It could be the middle of the night for all she knew. Her head still throbbed and her body felt heavy. When she attempted standing up, she found her legs refusing to support her.

'Damn!' she muttered, sitting back down again.

'What is it?' The sharp enquiry made her jump, and she glanced up to find Max standing in the open doorway, light flooding in from the hall, revealing the thin black robe that was all he seemed to be wearing.

'I need to use the bathroom,' she muttered petulantly. This is great! she thought. Having to stoop to requesting assistance just to go to the toilet!

Max came to stand in front of her, and Clea lifted her arms in mute and glum compliance. He bent, sliding an arm beneath her knees and another beneath her shoulders. Clea wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her easily against him. Her head flopped on to his shoulder, and he sighed, as though sensing her frustration, but refraining from saying a word as he carried her into the bathroom that adjoined the bedroom.

'Be OK?' he murmured as he lowered her on to a padded bath stool.

She nodded, feeling miserable. Her shoulders lifted and fell on a long and soulful sigh. Max watched it happen, and after a small hesitation came to squat beside her, pushing the damp tangle of hair away from her face, and cupping her chin to make her look at him.

'How about a nice refreshing bath?' he suggested.

Clea nodded dully. She felt like a small, sickly child. And Max reminded her of her father: he used to coddle her like this when she was ill. Her mother had nursed her, but her father had given the necessary cosseting she had always seemed to need at times like these.

Tears, big globular ones, slipped from her unhappy eyes and ran down her cheeks. 'I h-hate this,' she choked.

'I know,' Max soothed huskily. His lips came to gently kiss away the tears, his breath warm and comforting on her face. 'Why don't I start the bath running, then leave you your privacy while I make a nice cold drink? Then we'll bathe you like a baby and put you back to bed, hmm?'

His eyes twinkled at her, appealing with her to find her sense of humour. Clea searched for a smile, and found it not far away. 'Useless creature,' she mocked herself.

'Absolutely useless,' he agreed with a smile.

The bath was a delight. And, true to his word, Max bathed her while she lay there like some pampered princess, surrendering to his ministrations with no embarrassment. 'I could hire you out,' she mused, 'as a ladies' maid. I'd make a fortune!'

'Sorry,' he refused. 'I'm not for hire.'

He was kneeling by the sunken bath, having to bend double to cream the scented soap into her body.

'Shame,' she sighed, with a licking of her lips that was a deliberate provocation. 'You're rather good at this. It's rather erotic, having a man bathe you.'

'Don't put ideas into my head,' he warned on a wicked leer.

'You could join me, of course ... save you having to bend over like that. And the bath is easily big enough to take us both.'

Her glinting gaze challenged him, and Max went still, staring at her in something close to horror. 'Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?'

Her eyes opened in wide-eyed innocence. 'I'm only trying to make the job easier for you!' She defended herself guilelessly.

'You're trying to seduce me!' he accused. 'And I'm afraid I won't be seduced, not until you're well again.

Doctor's orders,' he told her smugly.

'Is that why you aren't sleeping in the same bed as me?'

'No,' he instantly denied. 'I just didn't want to disturb you. Hands up,' he commanded. 'We'll get you to your feet before I find a towel. I can control my baser instincts when I have to, you know,' he continued casually once they had her on her feet and dripping into the bath water while he went to fetch a huge fluffy towel. 'I can even sleep quite contentedly beside you without resorting to rape.' His brows twitched in wicked mockery. 'But it's too hot, and you would find it just too uncomfortable having someone beside you while you tried to rest.'

'Who said?' she challenged indignantly.

Max looked gravely down into her deep purple eyes, and saw the mute appeal lurking there. His hands stilled on the towel he was just wrapping around her, and something palpable settled between them. He dropped his gaze from hers and went back to rubbing her dry. But he didn't speak, and neither did Clea.

It had all been said in that look.

When she was settled back in bed, feeling fresh again and with her hair brushed and neatly braided, Max handed her a tall glass of freshly squeezed and chilled orange juice, then disappeared for the moment it took him to settle the apartment back down for the night. Then he was back, sliding into the bed beside her, removing the glass, and switching off the bedside light before gathering her to him.

That was it, nothing said, but he never again chose a lonely bed in preference to sharing hers.

Thursday brought with it yet more hot weather, and a definite improvement in Clea's health. Dr Fielding was quietly satisfied with her progress, and saw no reason why she couldn't attend her mother's party on Saturday, so long as she didn't spend the evening 'kicking up hell' as he drolly put it. 'And on condition that you stay where you are for the rest of today and tomorrow,' he added with a look that brooked no argument, while Clea scowled her agreement.

Max went into the office for a few hours, leaving Clea to the dubious care of a still cool Mrs Walters.