Sweet Vixen

'Such arrogance,' Sarah sniped, knowing what he said was fact, not fiction ... he wasn't given to boasting. 'I suspect you mean most women, and that you're talking about loving, not liking.'

Her sarcasm rebounded as he grinned rakishly. 'I don't think love has much to do with it either.'

'That doesn't altogether surprise me.'

'Because I don't debase the currency? People use the word too freely and rarely mean it in the truest sense. If I said I was in love with every woman I went to bed with I'd be fickle, or a liar. If I don't say it, I'm a satyr. Either way I can be accused of something, but personally I prefer honesty. If ever I fall in love I'll be able to use the word in all its pristine purity.'

'You might never use it at all at that rate,' Sarah felt constrained to point out, though his words echoed an answer in her heart. She too believed that love was too precious a word to be bestowed willy-nilly on everything from ice-cream to the deepest of human emotions. At least a woman, if she got involved with Max Wilde, would always know where she stood'. There would be games, but no pretence, and freedom on both sides.

'Perhaps not,' Max drawled. 'But I'm having a hell of a time discovering what love isn't.'

As if to demonstrate, the rather lovely daughter of a wool yarn manufacturer gravitated over and so obviously hovered that Sarah was bound to introduce her. Hazel eyes glinted briefly into grey as Max switched on the charm. As she withdrew, Sarah suffered twin impulses —one was to push Max overboard, the other to give the lovely young thing a ducking! Instead she decided to take one herself and clear her head which was fizzing with notions of what love wasn't for that long-limbed devil. The Pacific Lady had reached its destination, a private island, owned by Julie's friends, just south of Cape Rodney. Sarah could hear the rattle of the anchor chain, and with any luck she would be able to experience the matchless feeling of stepping on a shore unmarked by footprints, human or animal.

She changed into her bikini in one of the guest cabins and tipped the skipper a wave as she quietly swung herself over the side and into the water. It was quite cold at first, but invigorating, and she struck out strongly for the beach several hundred metres away.

The small, deepwater crescent was the island's only bay, sheltered from the Gulf winds by rocky promontories at either end which formed a small natural harbour free of hazardous currents. The narrow band of white sand rose steeply to a ridge of boulders, beyond which was sandy tussock grass and the first close stands of trees. A pole house nestled in among the trees somewhere, a 'bach' the owners called it, a palatial spread was Sarah's term.

As soon as she made land, Sarah clambered over the rocky ridge to settle out of sight of the boat on the soft upward slope of grass. She lay on her back with a gusty sigh, her head in the shade of the contorted pohutukawas, letting the heat of the early afternoon roll over her. She felt her skin tighten as the sea-water evaporated, leaving tiny encrustations of salt caught in her silky-fine body hair. Wrapped in a cocoon of peace she drifted in and out of a light, refreshing doze. So warm and peaceful. . .

She awoke to a shiver of water drops and at first thought it had begun to rain, but when she opened her eyes she was dazzled. The shade of the trees had shortened and she was lying in the sun's full heat.

More droplets and she shaded her eyes and squinted at the wet figure which dropped on to the grass beside her. A brief dizziness which could have been the effects of the sun overtook her—her companion was Max.

He lay on his side and propped his head on one hand and Sarah let her own head drop back. She closed her eyes again, forcing herself to lie unmoving on her back for a few minutes more. In her imagination her already brief green bikini was shrinking further under his interested stare. At last she allowed herself to turn over casually and bury her hot face in her folded arms.

Long, long moments passed and when he laid a flat palm on her back she felt scorching shock.

'Don't.'

'You're sandy,' he said quietly, and began dusting her back. She lay rigid until his hand moved to the backs of her thighs.

'That's enough!'

His hand was removed immediately, but if anything she was even more conscious of his presence.

'You are quite the most nervous female I know. And lately you're even more tense. Did you expect me to apologise for kissing you?'

'No, of course not,' came the muffled reply. Perhaps if she buried her head in the sand . . .

'No. Not when you showed such unmistakable signs that you enjoyed it as much as I did.' And when she stayed silent. 'Didn't you?'

She shouldn't have come. She should have stayed with the crowd on board the boat. Safe. Why hadn't she? Because you wanted him to come after you, niggled her illogical brain. Because you knew he would. Not through any reasoned process, but by instinct.

'Didn't you?' He demanded with rough impatience. 'Damn you, Sarah, look at me!'

He was quite capable of forcing her to, if impatience turned to anger. Sarah rolled on to her side, putting plenty of grass between them; she couldn't meet his eyes though, and looked instead at the scarred chest.

'I meant my face, not my body,' he mocked and she flushed and stammered.

'I—I was just wondering about the scars.'

'I was in an accident,' his hand came up to stroke them lightly and the voice changed subtly, insinuatingly. 'I was in a great deal of pain for some considerable time.'

She looked at him suspiciously. The hazel eyes were wide and innocent. He was exaggerating in the hope of softening her up. The scars didn't look that bad.

'I suppose a champagne bottle exploded over you, or the lady got over-excited.'

He showed his teeth in appreciation. 'Vixen. Do you scratch when you get over-excited?'