A Question of Pride (20 page)

When, in a third interruption of the book she was reading, Mrs Walters came into the room to put away freshly laundered clothing into the huge mirrored ebony wood wardrobes that lined one wall of the bedroom, her face stiff and discouraging, Clea lost her temper.

'Has Mr Latham informed you, Mrs Walters, that I shall be a permanent fixture here from now on?'

He hadn't. The other woman's severely stiffening form told Clea that. Damn you, Max! she raged silently. He could easily have dealt with this.

'Then I suggest you go away and think about it,' Clea went on in a tone those who knew her well would step back from. Clea, in cutting mood, was daunting. 'And, while you're considering whether you want to continue working here under
my
instruction, I suggest you also consider the fact that, come October, there will be a baby to add to your—workload.' Clea declined the opportunity to throw the woman's rude attitude back in her face; she could see quite well that Mrs Walters was clear on what was really being said. 'Of course, we will understand if you decide the changes to come here will be too much for you.'

She eyed the housekeeper speculatively, curious as to why she had been treated to a cold shoulder since she'd come here. Surely the woman wasn't so old-fashioned?

Mrs Walters turned, as if to leave the room, then paused and turned back to face Clea. 'Mr Latham has never brought one of his—women here before,' she informed Clea coldly. 'He's naturally kind to those in trouble, and easily put upon because of it.' And there, thought Clea, is the crux of the matter. 'This baby I'm carrying is his,' she put in gently. The disapproval didn't diminish. 'I know, he told me.' Thank you, Max. At least he had tried. 'But he hasn't married you, has he?'

Clea took up the challenge. 'Because I refused to marry him,' she informed the cold-faced woman. 'And that,' she went on curtly, 'is all the explanation you're getting, Mrs Walters. So think over what I've said, will you?' And with that, Clea returned to her book, the dismissal as good as any Max could dish out, but then, she had been taught by the master himself.

Next time Mrs Walters entered the bedroom, there was a distinct change in attitude. What had caused it, Clea could only guess at, but she accepted its fragile terms with no comment, and simply softened her own manner to suit.

Friday brought yet another surprise. Clea was just considering getting up and taking a nice long shower.

Max was at work, Mrs Walters out shopping, the apartment was very quiet, and she was bored—when she heard the front door open and close, listened frowningly to the tread of a stranger's feet coming down the hallway, opening doors and closing them again, as though the intruder was checking each room for occupants. Then her bedroom door swung open and Clea blinked, the fear that had begun clamouring inside her as those feet grew closer, dying, to be replaced with a different emotion. One of defensive surprise.

'You must be Clea,' said a well modulated, if brisk voice.

Good grief! thought Clea. The cavalry has arrived!

Tall and statuesque, her intruder stood like a sergeant major, one capable hand grasping the doorknob, the other clamped tightly to her side, black patent handbag hanging from a clenched fist that looked like it could pack quite a punch if necessary.

If it hadn't been for those clear blue eyes and sleek arched brows on features hewn from rock, Clea would have been yelling for help by now. The new arrival moved, marching over to stand by the bed, magnificent silvered hair swirled into a sleek topknot on that elegant head, suit of navy twill sadly bare of any military gold trim. Those piercing eyes fixed themselves on Clea's bemused face.

'You shouldn't be surprised,' remarked Mrs Latham. 'My son had to acquire his arrogance from somewhere. It's all in the genes.'

Clea couldn't help it, she laughed, and the blue eyes twinkled, a broad smile softening that craggy face.

The handbag was discarded carelessly, and Max's mother pulled up a chair and sat down without invitation.

'So, you think my son's not fit husband material.'

Good grief.

'I don't blame you,' continued that quick, no-nonsense voice. 'He's an out and out rake! Utterly disreputable. I tried disowning him once, but he wouldn't listen to me. You know how that feels, don't you?' Those shrewd eyes read Clea's mind as if it were an open book. 'Has a terrible will of his own, my son,' she stated bluntly. 'Likes everything to run in straight lines—no undulations ...' Her hand flapped out to draw huge waves in between them. 'That's why he so good with computers. They suit his character.

You do, too.'

'Oh, but ...' Clea went to protest, but was shut off by a firm shake of a silvered head.

'That other side to his nature, you do,' affirmed Max's mother, as though she knew Clea inside out. 'That dark, wild side he likes to keep hidden. Why won't you marry him. It
is
his child, is it not?'

Clea nodded her head in reply to the last question, swallowed—in evasion of the first, and blinked in an effort to pull herself together before Max's mother trampled all over her!

'We—we weren't expecting you.' She managed to gather together a whole sentence.

'Max was,' informed his mother. 'That's why he's conspicuous in his absence. Max and I strike sparks off one another. He doesn't like to admit that I have more common sense than he does; he doesn't like me bullying him because he thinks I have an unfair advantage over him, being a frail old lady now ...'

Frail!Hah! thought Clea. There is nothing even vaguely frail about this woman.

'Which is why that woman who looks after him isn't around, either,' Clea was informed candidly. 'I scare her to death ... Do I scare you?' An eyebrow rose questioningly, giving Clea need to smother a giggle.

'No,' she answered with only the slightest quiver to her smiling lips. 'You're just like Max—all bark, no bite.'

'Good.' Mrs Latham seemed satisfied with Clea's reply, because she settled herself more comfortably on the chair, and the bold manner fell away to be replaced with a surprisingly homely one. 'Now, tell me all about it. Begin at the beginning and don't stop until you reach the other end. Then I'll make my own conclusions and let you know who I think is being the bigger fool.'

'And which of us received the wooden spoon?' Max enquired with faked bated breath.

They were curled up in bed after a bewildering evening of his mother's wayward company. Clea, who had been allowed to get up for dinner, had sat listening to the Latham by-play in growing amazement, as Mrs Latham chipped chunks off Max's patience with a sharp and lethal appraisal of his faults, while he just sat there and took it! It came as a revelation to Clea to compare the way he took his mother's censure with the way he had treated her during the last months when she had aimed her bitter darts at his grim head. He wasn't known for his forbearance. Yet with her now and, as she now knew, his mother, he was prepared to put up with any amount of provocation before showing a healthy retaliation.

By the time his mother retired to her own flat, they were both sighing with relief. 'Now you know why she has her own flat to go to,' Max said wryly as they made ready for bed. 'She can run rings around me, and I don't consider myself easy play.'

'Why is that, do you think?' Clea quietly enquired, pausing as she braided her hair, feeling the breathlessness of nervous anticipation hold her. His reply was that important to her.

He shrugged, unaware of her stillness. 'Because I love her, I suppose,' he murmured ruefully. 'To cut her down—as I know I could do—would hurt her, and I would never want to do that. It's easier to let her think she has me under her thumb.' He turned to flash a wide grin at Clea. 'She knows she can only go so far, though, before I put the brakes on her.'

Like me, thought Clea on a tremor of staggering discovery. Like me!

'Oh, I was judged the bigger fool,' Clea admitted as they cuddled together in the darkness. 'She said that if I'd had just an ounce of sense I would have married you like a shot, then ruthlessly bled you of every penny I could get before divorcing you again.'

'So much for mother love,' Max murmured, but absently. He had become engrossed in tasting her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth and biting sensuously on the sensitive flesh. 'I call that a plotting of my destruction ... Clea ...' he groaned. 'Do you think ...?'

His voice became husky, a rasping incitement to her racing pulses, and she found she had no defence against it. Turning in his arms, she reached up to kiss the shallow cleft in his chin, lush black lashes sliding upwards to reveal eyes dark purple with desire.

'You're the man with all the answers,' she whispered. 'Do
you
think ...?'

Clea awoke the next morning with a feeling of wellbeing that reached right down to her toes. She was up and dressed before Max had even come up for air, her soft, slightly husky voice meandering its way into his dreams as she moved about the apartment, humming to herself.

'You sound happy.' He caught up with her in one of the guest bedrooms, where she was eyeing the stark decor with the look of one preparing an attack.

She turned to smile at him, her hair flowing free and glistening down her back, her dress a pretty lemon-print strappy smock that left her shoulders and throat bare.

'I am,' she told him. 'Very.'

Their eyes held for a long moment, exchanging messages their minds wouldn't allow them to voice. Then Clea turned back to her study of the room, cutting the connection. 'I think this room would make a nice nursery,' she mused.

'Ah,' he said. 'Now I understand that calculating look. You're going to take my mother's advice, and begin spending my money.'

Her answering grin was pure mischief. 'When in doubt, consult the expert!'

He looked the boy again, with his hair all ruffled and eyes heavy with recent sleep. He was leaning negligently against the open doorway, hands shoved into deep robe pockets. So different from how he had looked last night, lost to passion: all man then, hard, sure, sensual man. Her heart twisted painfully because she was aware of how vulnerable she was allowing herself to become, how easy it was to convince herself that he cared for her more deeply than he would admit. A dangerous path to tread, but one she could no longer deny herself.

In just a few short days he had made himself indispensable to her. She blamed it on her condition, and could only hope that, once the baby was born, and her emotions had returned to normal, she would then find the strength to walk away with dignity.

'Come here,' he demanded softly, lifting an inviting hand towards her. 'I need my morning fix.'

The kiss was warm and long and tender, his arms a haven, into which she willingly walked.

AMY'S party was more a barbecue, professionally taken care of by hired caterers who had set up in a corner of the garden near the house. The garden had been hung with pretty, coloured lanterns. Tables and chairs were dotted about the wide patio, with white linen tablecloths and brightly coloured napkins.

The whole effect was one of a lovely English summer party. Music played softly through the rooms in the house, piped throughout by some central hi-fi system. A four-piece band played dance music in the drawing-room, the big french windows were thrown wide to welcome the evening air.

Clea moved from group to group, with Max's arm possessive about her slender shoulders, her blood-red silk caftan a perfect foil to her dark beauty. Her hair tumbled in glittering waves, wild and free as Max liked it, drawn away from her face with a large red comb studded with flashing rhinestones.

She introduced Max, they chatted lightly, and all curiosity was left unquenched, because no one would be ill mannered enough to ask outright if Clea's obvious condition was due directly to the man beside her, and neither Clea nor Max were giving out that kind of information.

Some knew Max already, others had only heard of him through their business interests in the City. Most were instantly impressed with his easy sophistication, and his male attraction did not go unnoticed by the female members of the party. But then, neither did the beauty Clea radiated as she rested easily in the arc of her man's arm.

'You should have brought your mother,' Amy scolded when she heard Max's mother was in town. 'What must she think of us—leaving her on her own in London while we make merry?'

Max shook his dark head. 'She couldn't make it,' he said. 'She has a tendency to plan out every available minute of her London excursions with a military precision.' Clea giggled, and Max turned laughing eyes on her to share the private joke—she had told him what her first fanciful impression of his mother had been. Max had been highly amused. 'Tonight she's booked out to a group of old friends, from the days when she lived in town. She sends her apologies and her regards, and asked me to invite you all down to Devon once the baby producing is over.'

Amy flushed with pleasure. 'Oh, how kind of her!'

They wandered the spacious rooms, their relaxed journey taking them outside and in, and Clea noted with a deep inner pride that Max was by far the most attractive man present tonight, semi-formally dressed in black silk trousers that hugged the long length of his powerful legs, and an oyster-pink shirt left casually open at the throat.

Two exclusive people, whose mutual contentment with life filled the air space around them. His gentle attentiveness to Clea was a statement of possession in itself, and her contentment within it a pleasure to witness.

They found Joe and his wife, Cassie, and spent a long time talking, Clea fielding Joe's frankly enquiring gaze with a blandness that refused to appease his curiosity. Max simply made his own elusive statement by keeping his body close to Clea's, his arm curved around her shoulders.

Tonight they were a couple in all senses of the word, and Clea felt happy, too at peace to question its tenuous links.

All she knew was that she needed this—him. She had surrendered to her own yearnings, and Max seemed to be glad that she had. If guilt drove him, or that overactive sense of responsibility, then she wasn't going to question it just now.