Sarah shied backwards, almost knocking over her chair in the process. His words were obscurely threatening but at least it was some consolation to know that he wasn't omnipotent. Her thoughts were still safely wrapped up inside her head.
He sauntered over to his own desk and sank into the scoop-backed chair, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle, acting as a pivot for the slight movement of the swivel. With his hands still in his pockets he looked a picture of indolence. Sarah, tense and wary, recognised the all-too-familiar signs. Eyes half closed, jaw muscles relaxed, mouth deceptively bland—he was about to indulge in some Sarah-baiting. Killing time until lunch.
'What I can't quite reconcile,' he said lazily, 'are those two images, the outraged spinster of Tuesday and the rational, liberated Mrs. Carter of this morning who has sufficient worldly wisdom to recognise the subtle power of the intellect. The appeal of the sensuous over the merely sensual. . . that was the gist of your argument about the Male of the Month, wasn't it?'
She hadn't thought of it in precisely those terms, but in essence that was exactly it. However, she had no intention of being drawn into agreement or anything else with him. He could tie her up in verbal knots, and who knew what she would end up admitting.
'I really must go . . .' she said, gathering up the papers she had been looking for, and her handbag, but he wasn't listening. He suddenly seemed to find th
e gleaming black tip of his shoe interesting.
'Two images,' he said softly, and his eyes narrowed even further, then closed altogether. In spite of his olive skin, the lids had an almost translucent quality and Sarah felt a strange disquiet on seeing the delicate blue tracery just under the bony ridge of the eye socket. She didn't want to think of him as flesh and bone and blood, a man. He was an adversary, someone—a person—she neither knew nor liked. She didn't ask herself why.
She was almost out the door when he spoke again, his voice no longer soft.
'One more thing, Sarah.'
'Yes?' She half turned to show she wasn't coming back into the room.
'My name is Max. Use it. You're the only one who doesn't. You don't call me anything, but you know very well who I am.'
'Very well—' but it still wouldn't come. She wasn't even aware of giving him a name in her thoughts. Ridiculous when she called Tom, older and more deserving of the respectful 'Mr.', by his first name.
He smiled unkindly. 'It'll come. Practise at home, in front of the mirror.' He looked at the dark green skirt and blouse she wore. 'If you have one, that is.'
Even a leisurely lunch with Tom, talking about the points of interest he should see during his visit, couldn't completely banish the sting ofthat last remark.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first few moments of consciousness, before she opened her eyes, were the most precious; her mind still adrift among the soft rags of dreams, her senses beginning to register the beckoning warmth of a new day. Summer Sunday mornings were sweet and ripe and made to be enjoyed with slow pleasure.
Tossing back the feather duvet Sarah pulled on a cotton robe. She would breakfast outside.
A few minutes later she carefully mounted the black wrought-iron staircase that spiralled from the dining area to the upper floor, a bowl of muesli and fruit in one hand, a cup of steaming black coffee in the other.
She slid open the ranchslider and settled down on the sun-warmed canvas chair on the balcony, resting her coffee cup on the low wooden divide which separated the stretch of decking next door from her own.
As she ate she surveyed her domain. The sun was well clear of the horizon but it was still quite early, the air fresh and unsullied by the racketings of the human race, except for the quiet purposefulness of the morning church-goers and the far-off meanderings of yachties out pursuing their salty pleasures in the aquamarine bowl of the harbour. A few clouds punctuated the sky but they were innocent flosses of cotton candy, weightless, seemingly unmoving, though the white sails below were plump with satisfying breezes.
'Waiting for me, my love?'
The muesli tilted dangerously as Sarah jumped, hearing echoes of another time, another place.
'Quite the contrary, Roy. Go away and leave me in peace.'
Roy Merrill's face, what could be seen of it under thick curling red hair and full matching beard, creased in a grin. He rested stocky, ginger-frosted forearms on the divide and took a sip from her cup, pulling a face at the bitterness.
If one trusted apparel to proclaim the man then Roy, bare-chested and in faded, paint-encrusted cut-off jeans, was easy-going, good-natured and somewhat disreputable. But he was also intelligent and talented; meticulous even—but only on canvas. To Sarah he was the brother she had never had, the one person who seemed to understand her feelings. He was certainly the only man she felt comfortable with, for he had never shown the slightest sign of being interested in her as a woman. That, she supposed, was the strength of their relationship, their complete physical indifference to each other, and their mutual respect. That was how they could live in such close proximity, wandering into each other's home at will, with an easy intimacy uncomplicated by tension.
Considering that he had been such a friend of Simon's, the accord between them was surprising, but it had always been so. Roy, American-born and educated, had been a guest tutor during Simon's first year at art school and had been one of the few people to get really close to the young man, nurturing his talent and using his own well-known name to further his protégé’s career. They had even moved into the adjoining town houses when Simon had inherited several thousand dollars and been able to match Roy's investment, an arrangement which had suited them professionally as well as privately.
From the first, Sarah had felt that Roy accepted her as a person in her own right, not just as his friend's wife, and after Simon died their affection for each other had not changed. Roy had been unstintingly kind and asked nothing in return, not even questions. She knew that he was concerned about her, especially since he had been the one to break the news about Simon that awful night, the one to whom she had sobbed out her fear and anger and grief. But he had conspicuously respected her silence since. Until a few months ago. Until now.
'I can't go away, honey,' he said. 'We had an appointment. Remember?'
She did. Too well.
'I haven't finished my coffee.'