A Question of Pride (6 page)

He had discarded his jacket and waistcoat during the day, his tie had followed soon after, and now he stood behind his desk with his white shirt-sleeves rolled back and his top button loosened, sifting through a sheaf of papers, while Clea sat in his chair, working on a set of papers scattered over his desk. It had turned dusk outside, and the lights in the office were on. Max had snapped the vertical blinds closed earlier in the afternoon, in order to block out a bright March sunshine. Now the room seemed cut off somehow; the building was almost empty, for everyone else had gone home long ago.

'Have you got the price list for the new keyboards there?' Clea threw the question over her shoulder without bothering to look up from what she was doing. 'I'll need to take some copies of it if you want the Buying Department to work from it while you're away.'

Like Max, Clea had removed her suit jacket; she had also tied her hair back at her nape with a piece of red waxed string to stop it clinging to her face while she worked.

Her enquiry drew Max's gaze to her, a reply ready on his lips, but his movements stilled when he caught the soft, ivory-smooth line from temple to jaw, left exposed by her tied hair. It was warm in the centrally heated office and her cheeks were delicately flushed. There was something distinctly vulnerable about her today, and the impression held him immobile while he absorbed the odd, twisting impact it had on his heart. Her eye lashes were long and black, curling luxuriously away from those wide-spaced purple eyes.

Her nose was small and straight, her mouth pouting slightly as she concentrated, a rich, naturally red mouth designed for delicious kissing. She stood up unexpectedly, stretching across the desk for something, and Max felt his breath catch as he took in the sensual, curving shape of her, from slender shoulders to rounded hips.

Max felt the aching pull of her attraction reach right down to his loins, and the overflow of paperwork was forgotten while he allowed himself to experience the heated pleasure of just looking at her. She was wearing a white lacy bra beneath the blouse, and he could see the scalloped line where the lace finished and creamy flesh began. She sat down again, unaware of the way he followed her every move, taking pleasure in the sheer luxury of being this close to her. Clea never failed to ignite his senses—whether meant or unintentional. She was an instinctive sensualist—rarely, if ever, aware of her power over the male sex, yet always managing to achieve that air of deep sexuality that heats a man's blood.

The papers he was holding dropped on to the desk beside her elbow and, with sudden need to touch her, he placed his hands on her shoulders, moulding the rounded bones in his palms, feeling her instant stiffening reaction, watching the way she stopped what she was doing and lifted her head to stare directly ahead. She felt wonderful to touch. He hadn't realised how much he had missed her until his sensitive fingertips made contact with her smooth throat. She quivered when he ran his hands down her arms, then bent to place his lips where his fingers had just caressed, his hands moved to trap her in the chair by gripping the desk edge either side of her.

'You smell and taste delicious,' he murmured against the pulse beating madly at her throat.

Clea closed her eyes, trying to fight the wave of desire he awoke in her with just the simplest of touches.

She wondered bitterly if Dianne the model smelled delicious, too.

What was the use? she thought on a long sigh. Max was touching her, here on prohibited territory, and she was no match against the rush of delight the realisation gave her. Her head tipped back to lean against his taut stomach, and Max moved his hands again, sliding them back along her arms until he found the open rever of her blouse, then slipping inside, to replace those lacy bra-cups with his warm and infinitely familiar hands.

His mouth was busy tasting her, the tip of his tongue licking at the warm flush of her cheek, running gently over her flickering lashes. His lips brushed a line down her nose until they found her mouth, nibbling and chewing with a hunger so real he shook with it, instigating an answering hunger within her that had her turning her head enough to join him in the slow, moist, passionate kiss. She lifted a hand to lay it against the side of his face.

'It's been a long time,' he whispered.

A long time. Did that mean he hadn't yet made it with the model? Clea thrust the thought away. She didn't want to think of Max with anyone else. She wanted to delude herself that he wanted only her.

On a wave of desperation she deepened the kiss, taking him by surprise by the violence with which she responded, and he shuddered as her tongue slipped into his mouth to stroke those sensitive spots she knew would drive him wild. Her blouse fell open for his urgent fingers, her breasts spilling out from the bra, now released, to expose her upper body to his heated gaze.

'Beautiful Clea,' he breathed shakily. 'What is it about you that bewitches me so?'

Clea turned, rotating in the office chair until she was facing him, their mouths never once breaking contact. Then she was on her feet and leaning against him, her arms going around his neck to pull him closer, as her body took fire in his arms with a need born of unfed love which made her fling all common sense to the wind.

Max trembled in recognition of what was happening. Sometimes—very rarely—Clea would respond like this, suddenly becoming a wild and hungry wanton, intent on a devastating seduction, and he felt that mood leap to life inside her now. The way she clung to him told him; she was kissing him almost tauntingly, her body moving against his in a manner meant to provoke him, until they were both breathless and gasping, eager to remove all the barriers preventing their heated flesh from touching.

His fingers were trembling as he released her from her skirt and helped it slither down her thighs, her blouse and bra already discarded.

'Undress me,' he commanded unsteadily, his hands sliding down to press her lower body fiercely against his own, eyes closing on a pained groan as red-hot needles of desire shot through him, making him press her even closer. 'Clea,' he cried, unable to let go of her so he could remove the unbearable barrier of his own clothes. 'Help me, Clea. I need...
need
you!'

Her arms clung to his neck, fingers buried in the dark silkiness of his hair. She leaned back a little in his embrace, and looked languidly at him. 'Lock the door,' she whispered, her breath sweet torment against his heated face.

He looked dazed with desire, his cheeks flushed, 'Yes, yes.' He put her from him shakily and went quickly to turn the key in the office door.

When he spun back to face her, Clea had moved away from the desk and stood by the deep alcove, beside one of the deep leather chesterfields. Her pose was provocative, almost illicit in its blatant invitation, and he felt the flush of desire run helter-skelter over his skin. Clothes felt too confining, as if they would constrict his breathing, and he began dragging them impatiently from his body, his hot gaze glued to her pale, voluptuously curved flesh. She was looking at him in the same hungry way, her kiss-swollen lips parted, lovely eyes dark with need.

Max's skin shone with a healthy tan, his chest broad and deep, liberally covered with dark, curling hair.

Hips, lean and taut, legs, long and muscular, his body rippled as he began walking slowly towards her, prolonging the sweet agony while those liquid eyes beckoned to him and her tongue-tip came out to lick a moist circle around her full mouth.

It stopped him momentarily, his breath leaving his lungs on an unsteady hiss. He was so aroused that he could feel every pulse-point inside him throbbing urgently, then begin hammering when she offered him a seductive smile and lifted her arms to remove the piece of string from her hair. The action lifted her breasts, setting the creamy flesh quivering, the dark brown centres with their long, hard tips seeming to reach out to him in invitation for his hungry kisses. Her hair tumbled free, and she shook the black mane so it fell in a glistening tumble of raven silk around her shoulders and arms, tendrils of the fine stuff caressing those wonderful breasts.

'You're a witch,' he accused hoarsely, moving swiftly now to reach her in two strides of his long legs. He took her shoulders and dragged her against him. Clea laughed up at him, head tilted back in open provocation, lips parted, waiting for the burn of his kiss. He glared down at her, face muscles rigid, a flush streaking his taut cheeks. 'A gypsy enchantress.'

Those sensual lips pouted, eyes taunting him, and she murmured something in Italian to him, her voice pitched low and huskily erotic.

'Clea,' he choked, 'have you any idea what that does to me?'

He had no idea what she was saying to him. That was part of the pleasure she gained from switching to her father's native tongue. Max couldn't speak or understand Italian, so he had no idea how she told him all those things she dared not say to him in English.

Clea wound her arms around his neck, leaning the lower part of her body against his and smiling at the pulsing tension she encountered. 'Love me, Max,' she invited softly, in English. 'Love me.'

It was too much for him, and he groaned, having to close his eyes for a moment while the shuddering reaction rippled pleasurably through him.

Then they were kissing urgently, and their movements were rough—aggressive, almost. He lifted her and carried her to the space between the two settees, lying her down on the soft piled carpet and coming down beside her.

He homed instantly on to her breasts, laughing in throaty triumph as she arched beneath him when his mouth sucked on one hard, throbbing tip. His hands trailed her silken body, their light touch sensitised to the exquisite shape and feel of her.

Their loving became a strange battle to see who could torment the other the most, Clea finding ways to please him that sometimes overwhelmed him into total stillness. She was different tonight, he noted within the vague recesses of his mind, almost desperate to taste and feel every inch of him. As though ...

'Oh—no!' He snatched her away from him, pulling her back along his body when her moist caresses threatened to pitch him over the edge. 'What are you trying to do to me?' he groaned, but didn't give her an opportunity to reply before he was pulling her beneath him.

She welcomed him on a soft cry, her silky limbs cocooning his thrusting body against hers, her eyes closed, hair in wild disarray around her passionate face. Max held her to him, his arms trapping her body against his, his face lost in her throat when, on a final groan, he gave himself up to the pleasure that was the woman beneath him. The end came in a disintegration of anything earthbound, and it was on wave after wave of hot liquid sensation that he felt himself being drained of what seemed, to his dazed mind, to be his life's essence.

It was a long while before Max found the energy to lift his heavy weight from her and move to lie at her side. What they had just shared had astounded him, moved him beyond imagination, and he opened his eyes to look at her in wonder. Clea's lids were lowered, her beautiful face revealed a similar wonder to his own. He reached up to gently remove some clinging strands of hair from her damp cheek, his expression unusually exposed. She opened her eyes, taking him by surprise and catching, before he could mask it, the look that had stripped him of all the shutters he usually wore.

'I'm coming home with you tonight,' he told her huskily.

Clea shook her head. 'No, not tonight.' She refused him quite gently. Or ever again, she added sadly to herself. I've just said goodbye to you, Max, in the most beautiful way I knew how. 'You have a lot of work to get through before you can leave here tonight.' She smiled, to take the sting out of her refusal, reaching up to tenderly comb her fingers through his tumbled hair. 'Think of your mother!' she teased lightly. 'And how she'll nag if you turn up looking haggard to death.'

He didn't join in the joke. His mouth tightened. 'I'm coming home with you,' he repeated, with a touch of defiance.

'No.' She sat up, arching her back to ease the ache lying on the hard floor had caused. Her head was thrown back, and the long flow of waving blue-black hair brushed the carpet. Max watched her, his mouth pulled into a thin line. Clea let out a contented sigh, then got to her feet, her movements all natural grace, no self-consciousness.

She turned slowly to face him, her head tilted to one side, and smiled a gentle, loving smile at him. He was frowning, puzzlement creasing his brow, aware with a certainty now that something had altered in their relationship. She even
looked
different, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly why.

'You've scattered your clothes again,' she rebuked in a teasing vein.

Max grimaced, but didn't smile. He was in no mood to be coaxed into good humour. Clea was on the run from him. It had hit him as she had turned and smiled at him like that. Clea was backing off from their relationship.

He came to his feet in one lithe movement and brushed tersely past her, ignoring her completely as he pulled on his clothes. After a few minutes spent watching him, she did the same, saying nothing. The silence was a new one, it was cluttered with the unspoken word, with angry questions and evasive replies.

Dressed again, Clea contemplated him for a moment. He was back at his desk, sifting through the mounds of paperwork, once more the cool businessman.

'If it's all right with you,' she said levelly, 'I'll leave now.'

His remote glance touched her only briefly. 'It seems I have no say in the matter,' he drawled, in such a cold voice it made her flinch inside. He lifted a long hand and waved it towards the door. 'Go—go, by all means, go.'

It was over. Clea lingered by the door, trembling slightly as she let her eyes greedily drink him in for the last time.

I'm having your baby.

'Changed your mind?' The sound of his voice, softened yet taunting, jerked her out of her sad absorption, and she blinked, smiling slightly, at herself, not at Max.

'No ... No, I haven't changed my mind,' she said quietly. 'Goodnight. Max.'