Sweet Vixen

'I'm dropping you in for framing on the way,' he had added. 'Carerra has some sort of exhibition opening at the gallery tomorrow so it'll be a cast-iron excuse to barge in and see if there's a free feed.' He had grinned at her brief frown. 'Don't worry, I'll make sure he knows the rules.'

Finally, as she had dashed out the door, he had called out slyly: 'I see life is imitating art. You'll be beating them off with a stick in no time, darlin'.' A not-so-subtle reference to her smartened appearance she guessed, and he had no reason to think otherwise. She had only men­tioned Max to him on the vaguest of terms, in an attempt to prove to herself that, outside work, Max didn't matter. And she hadn't mentioned modelling for Images at all. She too had a sense of the dramatic. She would casually toss him a copy of the April issue when it came out and enjoy the expression on his face. Life imitating art, indeed! She grinned; of the two men who loomed largest in her life at this moment, each considered her transformation all their own work.

The doorbell. It sliced through her thoughts, setting her nerves ajitter and she brushed her trembling hands against her dress, making herself move slowly as she walked down the hall. Be cool, she told herself, keep your head ... it should be easy as long as he doesn't touch you. Her quick tongue could defend herself against words but her body, she had discovered, was less easy to control.

It was dusk, the summer air warm and heavy and slightly salty. He stood in the deep indigo shadows of the large puriri tree which grew up against the house, spread­ing its crooked branches and glossy, evergreen crinkled leaves out over the doorstep, and Sarah's first sensation on seeing him was a faint prickle of unease. The feeling gained strength when he moved and the light from the hallway fell on to the narrow, unsmiling face. A beautiful face with a hint of ruthlessness, made even more intimi­dating by the impeccable formality of the black jacket and stark white shirt, the jagged edges of the black tie. The light made his eyes glow like a cat's and sh

e had the absurd impression that he was crouched, cat-like, ready to spring.

For a moment they stared at each other and in spite of her determination to keep her head, Sarah felt a slow, disruptive charge of excitement, mingled with appre­hension, shock through her. Then he smiled and the il­lusion of menace was dispelled.

'Something else new?' he mocked softly at the dress.

'Years old,' she told him with obvious satisfaction.

A husky laugh swirled around her. 'Unrelieved black, very dramatic. Or is it supposed to indicate mourning?'

Only Max could ask such a question. 'Ask me that in a few hours time,' Sarah fenced and he laughed again and extended a flat hand, revealing a flash of silver at his cuff.

To avoid having to touch him Sarah turned and made a business of shutting the door and checking the lock, transferring her clutch-bag to the hand nearest him. When she faced him again his arm was back at his side and he merely stood back for her to precede him to the car, an ironic twist to his mouth.

He settled her in the passenger's seat, then slid behind the wheel and started the engine, backing out with swift economy of movement and accelerating smoothly away from the curb. He seemed preoccupied by more than just his driving and apart from a few remarks about the car, a hired BMW, and a request for directions, was silent on the drive. At least it was not a stiff, awkward silence, Sarah consoled herself.

She was not surprised when they drew up outside one of Auckland's most prestigious, and expensive, restaurants . . . only the best for Max, always. So what are you doing here, Sarah? Why did he give her this inferiority complex?

The two-storeyed wooden building had originally been a family home, on the grand old Edwardian style and the atmosphere of a gracious upper-class residence had been retained in the conversion. They were shown, by a de­ferential maitre d'hôtel, to a table outside on the veran­dah, screened from public view by a trellis of vines which grew from balustrade to eaves along its length. Enclosed lanterns at each table provided the soft lighting.

It wasn't until they were seated, waiting for the wine steward to return with pre-dinner drinks, that Max looked at her fully again, with an odd intensity.

'I don't think we said hello, did we?' She was the focus of a magnetically attractive smile. 'Hello, Sarah.'

'Hello. . .' She was annoyed at the breathlessness of her reply.

'Still stumbling over my name? Do you realise that the only time you use it easily is when you're in my arms.' He paused, musingly. 'I suppose I shouldn't object if you choose to make my name an endearment.'

She avoided his teasing eyes. This was another man again, a relaxed, almost whimsical one without that careful control that had seemed such an intrinsic part of his personality. Consequently, he looked younger, less jaded, more dangerously attractive than ever.

'Black suits you,' he continued, appraising her further. 'A pity there wasn't something black for Images' He leaned back slightly to allow the wine steward to place their drinks on the table. 'Although what we have is quite sufficient—more than sufficient. It's shaping so well that the feature may be syndicated to other Wilde publica­tions.'

Sarah wasn't sure she liked that idea and her doubt must have shown for he said, with mild exasperation:

'Don't tell me you haven't considered the possibility, it was always on the cards. You're not going to turn coy now, it won't wash, in view of—'

'In view of what?' she asked, when he stopped and took a pull at his Martini.

'The fact that you've enjoyed yourself on this assign­ment,' he continued smoothly after the tiniest of hesita­tions. 'Barring minor . . . er . . . differences of opinion, that is. What do you think of the proofs?'

Sarah shrugged. 'They're excellent.' But he didn't need her to tell him that.

He made a derisive sound. 'No self-congratulations? Don't you possess any vanity at all?'

'As much as anyone, I suppose.'

'No, you don't.' The hazel eyes gave her a curiously baffled look. 'You frequently walk past a mirror without even a glance . . . even when you're wearing my father's best efforts. You never touch your hair, or make any of the subconscious gestures a woman makes to check her appearance. I can't believe that you're so genuinely un­aware of the effect you're creating.

'What effect is that?'

'It's not necessarily a strength you know,' he said, ignoring her question. 'A small dose of vanity or envy would round off some of those edges that other people bark their shins upon.'