Almost Forever by Linda Howard

yes. Being cramped is one of the things I hate most about hotels. Does that make me horribly spoiled?”
    She looked at him. The bright sun was caught in the golden cap of his hair, framing his head in a gilt halo. He was relaxed, smiling, his vivid eyes sparkling, but still there was something about him, perhaps a natural sense of arrogance bred into him by the same aristocratic ancestors who had given him that hard, lean, graceful body and sun-god face. She had no doubt that he was spoiled; probably from the day of his birth, women had been dashing about to satisfy his smallest whim. What truly surprised her was that he had the ability to laugh at himself, as if he accepted his looks and the attention they brought him but didn’t take them too seriously.
    He reached out and took her hand. “What are you thinking? You’re looking at me, but you’ve drifted away.”
    â€œThat you are incredibly spoiled but rather nice in spite of it.”
    He threw back his head on a shout of laughter. “Aren’t you worried that such lavish compliments will go to my head?”
    â€œNo,” she said serenely. A warm sense of happiness was filling her again, making the bright spring day take on an incandescent glow. She let her hand lie in his, content with the touch.
    â€œDirect me to the next apartment on the list while I still have a healthy ego.”
    The third apartment was being sublet by an artist who was taking a sabbatical on a Greek island. The decor was understated and sophisticated, from the black slate tiles in the entry to the light-colored walls and the tracks of indirect lighting overhead. The rooms were large; Claire’s entire apartment would have fit easily into the enormous living room. Max wandered into the bedroom to inspect the bed, and Claire knew that he was pleased. His tastes were sophisticated, but never avant-garde. The almost spare luxury of this apartment would appeal to him.
    â€œI’ll take it,” he said easily, interrupting the manager’s spiel. “Are the papers ready to sign now?”
    They were, but there was the matter of references. Max squeezed Claire’s shoulder, smiling warmly at her. “While I take care of this, will you look about the place and decide what extras I’ll need to buy, other than linens?”
    â€œOf course,” she agreed, wryly aware that now she was spoiling him, too. He had been polite and logical in his request, but the simple fact was that he’d expected her to agree to do that chore for him. If she hadn’t been there, he would have done it himself, but she was there, and therefore available to do his bidding. Max went with the manager down to the office, and Claire took inventory of the apartment, making note of what he would need.
    She was bemused by the luxury that he took for granted. Her background was in no way deprived. She was the product of an upper-middle-class upbringing, used to a certain amount of luxury herself. And she had been married for almost six years to a wealthy man and had lived in the center of the lap of luxury, yet she had transplanted herself without problem into a four-room apartment that could best be described as cozy. Having refused alimony, not wanting the link of financial dependence to tie her to Jeff, she had found a job andbegun living on a budget, and not once had she missed the money that had enabled her to buy anything that took her fancy. Max’s income was obviously far larger than hers, but still his attitude was an aristocratic expectation that his comfort be assured.
    Sometime later he found her standing in the middle of the bedroom, her shoes off, her stockinged feet sunk into the thick dove-gray carpet. Her eyes were open, but that dreamy far-away look was in them again, and he knew that she was unaware of his presence. She was motionless, the tiniest of smiles on her face as she drifted in her thoughts. He stopped, watching her, wondering what dreams