When steel-boned fingers took her chin to turn her face back to his, she resisted momentarily, then faced him rebelliously. His expression mirrored her own pain, though she was too absorbed to see it. In a gesture of disdain, she jerked her chin up enough to be freed of his grasp, and after a stunned moment, his hand fell limply to his side.
“I never thought I’d see such bitterness in you. Do you…resent me as much as that?” His jaw clenched convulsively as he awaited her answer.
“Resentment is one word. There are others which could fit,” she snapped.
His tone melted into sadness, forcing a new shaft of pain into Laura’s heart. “Do you know what fascinated me most when I first met you? That unique blend of strength and softness held together by a spirit I’d never seen before in a woman.” She held her breath, steeling herself against his gentle persuasion. “What’s happened to the spirit, Laura? This new one is negative, very different from the positive one I so admired. And the softness? Has it gone for good?”
His breath fanned her face, he had moved so close. As much as Laura fought its pull, his magnetism—the same one that had so captured her when she’d first met him—was a potent force, threatening to subject her to one final humiliation.
With the few lingering shards of resistance, she confronted him, outward calm her greatest challenge. “It’s no good, Max—that tone, those words. I’ve seen you in action now, in the courtroom and out, and I know how well you perform. You charmed the judge, the jury, and the witnesses right from under my nose. I won’t let you manipulate me again. It’s over, Max. Leave it.” They were the last words she wanted to say or hear, yet she could not bear his sugar-coating any longer, knowing as she did his true feelings toward her. Her knees had begun to tremble despite the conviction she felt. Worse, the tears that had momentarily receded now reappeared, filling her tormented blue eyes to the brink.
The anguish in his own eyes was clear, yet its cause was a mystery Laura had not the strength to probe. She felt weak, tired, distraught. Her brief show of resistance had thoroughly drained her. There was only pain left.
His voice was an agonized whisper. “I’m sorry, Laura, if I’ve done this to you.” She put her head down to blot out his form, though his words tore into her. “I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that. I’m sorry, baby.” That was her undoing, the endearment that represented everything she’d had, then lost.
Slowly, head still bowed tightly, tears began to fall. Silent sobs erupted to rack her trembling body. With a soft cry of misery, she covered her face with her hands. It was the same torment, loving him and hating him, wishing he’d go away and wishing he’d take her in his arms. How was she ever to survive this heart-rending tug-of-war?
The matter was taken out of her hands at that instant, as Max took her into his arms, cushioning her tear-soaked face against the skin-warmed softness of his shirt. One large hand covered the back of her head, holding her firmly against his chest, the other gently massaged her shoulders and back in a gesture of comfort. He was silent, letting the support of his body and the inherent soothing of his nearness do whatever superficial healing was possible.
She had no idea how long she cried, only grateful for the quiet comfort that Max offered. When her tears subsided, she clung to him for a moment longer, grasping at a closeness that would soon be but another memory never to be relived. It was with a final, spasmodic sniffle that she stepped back and accepted the clean, white handkerchief he offered, clinging to it, in turn, long after her eyes and cheeks had been dabbed dry.
Slowly, Max paced the floor to the door and back, his movement reflecting his own indecision. When finally he came to a standstill in front of her, he made no effort to touch her. “Let’s go get your coat. I’m taking you home.”
Reflex forced Laura back a step. “No!”
“Look, Laura—” he began, placing both hands on her shoulders.
“Don’t touch me!” she begged, squirming from his grasp as the horror of his implication hit her. Did he really think she was that weak that she’d tumble back into bed with him—after all he’d said that day in Boston? “Don’t touch me,” she repeated in a hysterical whisper, her hands frantically clasping the windowsill behind her.
Recognizing her potentially explosive state, he backed off, walking halfway across the room before turning to face her, hands thrust into his pockets. “I’m not going to touch you, Laura,” he sighed. “I merely want to see you safely home. You’re tired and upset. I know you don’t drive to work, and it’s pouring, in case you hadn’t noticed. I could call Chatfield to drive you, but frankly, I don’t trust him to see that you get something to eat, a hot bath, and a good night’s sleep.”
“Why should I trust you?” Tired and upset she might well be, but she hadn’t yet lost her ability to reason.
The brown-eyed gaze was long and hard, searching into her very depths with painful intensity. “Because, deep down inside, you know how I feel.” She did. She knew that he found her to be interesting and able…but that was all. She also knew, deep down inside, that he wouldn’t physically harm her. What frightened her was the extent of her own weakness. Could she hold out against him, there in the intimacy of her own apartment?
Closing her eyes in weariness, she shook her head sadly. “No, Max. I can get home alone. I want to be alone.”
“I understand, Laura. But I’d feel better—”
“I don’t care what you’d feel.” She hadn’t dreamed she had the strength to spark again, yet somehow Max had a knack of pushing her to extremes. Now there was a warning in her blue eyes. “I’m mainly concerned with what I feel right now, and I have every intention of walking home by myself, rain and all. I need the fresh air.” Fearful of losing her stamina before she could make good her vow, she made a hasty exit from the library.
Naturally adverse to elevators on the theory that every added bit of exercise would do her good, she ran down the two flights of stairs to her office, swung on her trenchcoat, retrieved her briefcase and umbrella, and made her escape. To her relief, there was no sign of Max.
The walk to her apartment was not long, and the unseasonally cool air was refreshing at first. But she had underestimated the strength and steadiness of the rain, and by the time she reached her own street, she was chilled to the bone and soaked despite her umbrella.
It was inevitable that this physical discomfort should affect her temper, unpredictable of late under even the best of conditions. With each passing step, she became more and more cross at none other than her heart’s obsession, the man whom she had just stalked so determinedly away from. What gall the man had, she had glowered under the privacy of her umbrella. He would have gladly driven her home and bedded her, for the mere physical satisfaction of the act. He himself had once suggested that his life was shallow, and she’d refused to believe it. No more!
And who was he, she demanded silently, stomping inadvertently into a huge puddle cloaked by the darkness, then swearing hoarsely as the muddy water reached her hem in haphazard spatters—who was he to accuse her of being hard and bitter? Hadn’t he been the cause of her transformation? Hadn’t he shown her how the true bastard operated?
The wind had begun to pick up as she covered the last of the distance. Lowering her head against it, she kept her eyes to the pavement. It was a momentary shock, therefore, when a pair of rain-dotted loafers entered her field of vision, rooted, no less, to the welcome mat outside her own front door. If it wasn’t the master of hypocrisy himself, she rued cynically!
“Let me have your keys, Laura.” The command was firm, overriding her annoyance at literally running into him on her doorstep. Teeth chattering, fingers stiff from the cold, she pointed to the large pocket of her coat. Comprehending the simple sign language, he reached in, withdrew the round brass key ring, and unlocked the door. Her stiffened hands never felt him take the umbrella she’d been clutching so fiercely. Without a word she allowed herself to be escorted up the stairs and into her living room
where, while she peeled off the drenched raincoat, Max saw to the lights and the heat.
“Crazy New England weather,” he muttered under his breath as he peeled off his own coat, took Laura’s from her dripping fingers, and draped both over the backs of chairs to dry.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded irritably, unconsciously kneading her hands to revive their circulation. She had already stepped out of her thoroughly soaked pumps, and now stood in stockinged feet looking the distance up at her nemesis. His expression was unfathomable, his features set, his eyes a depth of murky brown.
“I told you that I was going to see you safely home, and that is exactly what I’ve done.”
“Were you following me?”
“Round and about.”
“Damn it, I was cold and wet. Why didn’t you pick me up when you saw how hard it was raining? Is that how you see someone safely home? I could catch pneumonia, and there you were in your warm, dry Mercedes. That’s what I call true gallantry!” Her anger, ludicrous as it was in light of her blunt rejection of his offer earlier, was an extension of the strain she’d been under, in general, and the rigor of the walk home, in particular. Now she stormed toward her bedroom to remove her wet clothes—only to stop short after several steps and turn on him in renewed ire. “And now that you’ve seen me safely home”—she exaggerated the words as she stood with her hands on her hips—“you can just get your coat back on and leave.”
With maddening perseverance he slowly shook his dark head, small beads of moisture glistening on his hair. “I also told you that I was going to see that you have a hot bath, something to eat, and a good night’s sleep, in that order.”
Suddenly struck by a wave of fatigue, she breathed a long sigh. “I’m so tired, Max. Just go home and let me be.”
To her chagrin, he proceeded to remove his suit jacket and toss it on a chair by his coat before heading for the kitchen. “The bath!” he ordered over his shoulder, leaving her in a state of utter frustration. She really was exhausted. But, she reasoned, perhaps he would finally leave her to her private misery if she complied with his demands.
Taking care to lock the bathroom door, a precaution she’d never had to take before in her own apartment, she slid into a hot tub generously laced with fragrant bath oil. If relaxation was possible, she vowed, she’d make the most of this obligatory soak! What she hadn’t planned on was falling asleep, neck deep in water and suds, head cradled on the curved lip of the tub. It was only a heavy pounding on the bathroom door that saved her from water log, or worse.
“Laura! Have you fallen asleep?” he called in mocking accusation.
“Of course not,” she lied groggily.
“Then get out here while dinner is still hot!”
The brief moments of sleep—of complete and utter relaxation—had mellowed her mood. She still knew Max to be the enemy, but she was now a more compliant prisoner. Her mind was very nearly a blank as she dressed in her long—prim he had called it once—flannel nightgown and equally as concealing bathrobe. It was only as she opened the bathroom door that it occurred to her that there was little food in the house to begin with. What was it that smelled so good?
“It’s just as well you, ah, fell asleep. The delivery man was delayed in this rain. I ordered yours with pepperoni and onion. If that’s not right, you can have my sausage, pepper, onion, and double cheese.” He grinned in a rare gift of ear-to-ear whiteness. In astonishment, she looked past him to her pizza-laden table, as he went on. “At least you had some wine in the house. No food. Just drink. That’s terrific for the health, you know!” he scolded gently.
Salivating at the scent of the tempting fare, she silently walked to the table, and tucking one leg beneath her, sat down before the pepperoni and onion. “Are you sure you’ve got enough goo on yours?” she asked tartly, extending her wineglass toward the proffered bottle.
“I’m not sure. But I haven’t eaten as appetizing a meal in days. And from the looks of your refrigerator, neither have you.” Laura merely shrugged as she attacked her pizza, suddenly acutely hungry. He was right; she hadn’t eaten as delicious a meal in too long, though it was only fair to give some credit to the hot bath, which had so relaxed her, and the wine, which carried on that chore.
“How are your tennis kids doing?” he deftly sandwiched conversation and pizza.
“As saucy as ever.” She avoided his gaze as she focussed on her own meal. “They ask for you all the time.”
A slow smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “Oh? You must just love that!”
“Uh-huh! I tell them you broke a leg falling out of bed,” she dead-panned. “They think that’s hysterical.”
“I bet! Not too good for the image, though, is it?”
“I doubt there’s any need for worry. These kids never squeal to the media.” Her sarcasm brought a tightening to his jaw, though he let the barb pass. His thoughts were on to other things, and his subsequently sober expression reflected them.
“Laura, what do you want in life?” The abrupt change of subject brought her head up sharply. When she made no move to answer, he reworked his question. “If you could plan out the next five, ten years of your life, what would you most want to do?”
There was no further hesitation. “Get married. Have a family.” The thoughts were her own, yet Laura was as startled by them as Max.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Strangely, she wasn’t.
“What about your career, it means so much to you.” He was puzzled, his brown-eyed gaze scrutinizing her.
“It did.”
“Did?” Dark brows arched dubiously.
Laura’s eyes dropped to watch her slender fingers slowly trace the tines of a fork. “It’s still important, but, I guess, it has to be put in perspective.”
“And?” His velvet-soft voice coaxed her on.
With a spurt of defiance, she looked straight at him. “And I’d like to have a husband—and lots and lots of children.”
“Lots and lots?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t one or two do?”
“At one time, yes. All told, no.”
“Why not?”
How strange, she mused, that she should be learning so much about herself in this way. It was as though she were a split image, one watching and hearing, the other talking. With interest she awaited her next explanation. It flowed as spontaneously.
“I want a large family—many faces and much love. I’d like to have warmth and happiness. Perhaps there is security in numbers. I don’t want myself or any of my family to ever face the loneliness, the emptiness…” Appalled by what she was about to confess, she let her low whisper trail off, dropping her eyes to avoid his visual probe. She was voluminously clothed, yet naked before this man, very alone and utterly vulnerable.
The silence was deep. Neither of them moved, each immersed in thought. It was Max who finally spoke, his voice carrying a poignancy unusual for him.
“I had no idea you felt that way.”
Laura laughed sadly. “Neither did I. It’s strange; you spend years of your life working toward one goal and then, when you finally reach it, you find that it’s only a small part of something much bigger.” She’d been talking as much to herself as to him. Embarrassed, she lifted her head with a small shake, and threw the ball back at him. “What about you? Does law give you that sense of fulfillment? You’ve been a lawyer much longer than I have.”
Rocking his chair back onto its two rear legs, Max put his hands in his pockets and smiled. “Wait a minute now. I’m not quite over the hill.”
Unable to resist his smile, she answered it with a surprisingly soft one of her own. “You know what I mean. Are you pleased with your life? What do you hope to be doing in five or ten years?”
“That’s a very good question.” Was that humor dancing in his eyes?
“And the answer?”
“I’m working on it.” Definite humor there was, with an added twinkle f
or good measure.
Exasperated, Laura raised both hands. “Is that all you have to say? I’ve painted my life out before your eyes in vivid colors, and you can’t even begin to make a pencil sketch of yours?” She was oddly annoyed.
“Does it matter to you?”
“Yes. No. I mean, if nothing else, I’d like to know what makes such an illustrious personality tick!” Her irritation was instantly matched by hardened features and an angry retort.
“I’m no illustrious personality!” The front legs of his chair hit the floor with a bang, though Laura was beyond intimidation.
“Then what are you, Max? What do you want out of life?”
He glared at her. “I want many of the same things you do, Laura. I’m human!”
Emboldened by the knowledge that this man would be conclusively leaving her life within the next few hours, she stood up staunchly and put both hands before her on the table. “Are you? I’d never know it! You seem immune to the things that matter to most of us mortals, such as love and pain, joy and loneliness. You can switch things on and off at will—warmth, compassion, involvement.” She paused, straightening, and narrowed her blue gaze. “You know, I think you’re afraid. You’re afraid to commit yourself to anybody or anything on a truly personal level. I think that’s why you can pour so much energy into causes like…like the Wilkins Home—you can feel vicariously all of the sentiments we simple folk feel, then when the going gets too tough, you can withdraw behind the public image. Is that it, Max? Are you satisfied to live life through the pain and suffering and, yes, joy of others?”
“No, damn it!” The force of his seething reply took her off guard, though later she was to wonder whether she’d expected to escape retaliation for her outburst. Now she watched with rounded blue eyes as he stood, pulled himself up to his towering height, then began to move around the table toward her. “No, I have every intention of living life myself.” Instinctively, Laura recognized the smoldering glimmer in his eye, the suggestive undertone of his deep words. She moved back and began to shake her head.
Sensuous Burgundy Page 16
