Almost Forever by Linda Howard Page B

shampooed and was just beginning to blow-dry her hair when the telephone rang.
    â€œAll right, spill your guts,” Martine drawled when Claire answered the phone. “I want to hear all about that gorgeous man.”
    When Claire thought about it, she realized that it was nothing less than a minor miracle that Martine had curbed her curiosity for as long as she did, instead of calling Claire at work.
    Claire paused, and a tiny frown pulled at her brow. What did she know about Max? That he had three sisters and a brother, was from England, and dealt in real estate. Her family already knew that much, from the adroit answers he’d given them the day before. She knew that he had expensive tastes, dressed elegantly and had impeccable manners. Other than that his life was a blank. She remembered asking him questions, but oddly enough, she couldn’t remember his answers. She didn’t even know how old he was.
    â€œHe’s just a friend,” she finally answered, because she didn’t know what else to say.
    â€œAnd the Mona Lisa is just a painting.”
    â€œIn essence, yes. There’s nothing between us except friendship.” He’d never even kissed her, except for those sexlesspecks on the cheek and forehead, and it wasn’t that he didn’t know how to go about it. He simply wasn’t interested.
    â€œUmmm, if you say so,” Martine said, her skepticism evident. “Are you seeing him again?”
    Claire sighed. “Yes, I’m seeing him again.”
    â€œAha!”
    â€œDon’t ‘aha’ me. We’re friends , without the capital F that Hollywood uses so meaningfully. You saw him, so I’m sure you won’t have any trouble imagining how he’s chased. He’s tired of it, that’s all, and he feels comfortable with me because I don’t chase him. I’m not after a hot romance.”
    On the other end of the line, Martine raised her expressive eyebrows. She readily believed that Claire wasn’t after a hot romance, but she didn’t for one minute believe that Max Benedict was seeing her sister merely because he was “comfortable” with her. Oh, he was probably used to being chased, all right, and every hunting instinct man possessed would have been aroused when Claire looked right through him as if he were sexless. Martine knew quite a lot about men, and one look had told her that Max was pure male, more predatory than most, smarter than most and possessed of a sexuality that burned so vividly she wondered how Claire, who was so unusually sensitive to other people, could fail to see it. But perhaps Claire was too innocent to recognize that energy for what it was. Even though she’d been married to Jeff Halsey, there had always been a certain distance to her, a dreaminess that separated her from other people.
    â€œIf you’re certain…”
    â€œI’m certain, believe me.”
    She finally got off the phone with Martine and glanced anxiously at the clock. It was almost six. She hurriedly finished drying her hair, but she didn’t have time to do anything with it except leave it loose. He’d said to dress casually, so shepulled on beige linen pants and topped them with a loose blue sweater with a deep neckline and a shawl collar. Was that too casual? Max was always so well dressed, and he had the English sense of formality. Another look at the clock told her that she didn’t have time to dither over her clothes; she still had to do her makeup.
    Just as she pulled a brush through her hair one last time, the doorbell rang. It was six-thirty exactly. She picked up her bag and hurried to open the door.
    â€œAh, you’re ready, as usual,” he said, and fingered the collar of her sweater. “You’ll need a jacket. The rain has turned chilly.”
    Tiny raindrops glittered on his tweed jacket and in his golden hair as he leaned against the doorframe, waiting for Claire to get a jacket.