Sweet Vixen

'Away?' A rush of cowardly relief washed over her.

'New York, I understand. For several days. When / was chairman I made a point of being in London for at .least one week in four; Max makes no such concession ... I must discuss it with him when he returns.' A pause as he rearranged his thoughts. 'Yes, meet me at six; and wear something formal, the red velvet I think. You may come with me this evening. It is only a small celebration for a minor member of European royalty, but it will be an experience for you—a chance for you to practise the despised etiquette, hmmm?'

Riding up in the small private lift, Sarah watched the lights flick on and off—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Her stomach tightened with every floor. Ridiculous to feel scared of an empty apartment, or even of an occupied one. Max was the real reason she was here after all, in spite of all that cleverly contrived mumbo-jumbo about the job being the thing. She hadn't even come close to seeing him, let alone exchanging unpleasantries since she had arrived, but the hopeful fantasies continued to tantalise her. Therein lay the root of her fear—wasn't it better to travel in hope . . .

The lift doors rolled back and she was facing a single, heavy black-padded door across a width of white carpet.

She stepped up and took a deep breath and pushed the laquered button beside the door. She waited in the thick silence, feeling like a spy. This was Max's home, his lair, and she was here without his knowledge. She felt as guilty as if she was contemplating stealing something.

The door opened with quiet suddenness to reveal a short, middle-aged man in a dark suit. He regarded Sarah with a brief expression of consternation before habitual deference reasserted itself.

'Mrs. Carter?' he asked, as if he really wasn't sure, but Sarah had distinctly heard the security guard down below ring the penthouse to check that she was expected.

'Yes. Sir Richard's assistant,' she added unnecessarily, disturbed by the odd vibrations she was receiving.

'Please come in,' he invited, with now impassive polite­ness. 'My name is Brandon. I'm Mr. Wilde's butler.' He took her damp coat as she juggled her handbag and the large envelope of papers. 'If you will come this way.'

Sarah followed the upright figure over the white cera­mic tiles of the entry hall, past masses of sub-tropical greenery and into the deep luxurious pile of an electric-blue carpet which covered the floor of the split-level lounge.

On the upper level was a large formal dining area. Steps led down to the lounge proper, acres of it, bounded on one side by floor-to-ceiling windows which looked out over a roof garden with a kidney-shaped pool, calm waters reflecting the dull grey sky.

At first glance Sarah was dazzled by the magnificence of it all. White and a myriad of blues from eggshell to turquoise, rough-textured fabrics contrasted with smooth velvets, glass and steel, ceramics and laminated woods. All the lights were recessed, including the ceiling spots which were directed on to paintings and prints lining the walls. Sculptures from small to life-size were scattered around the room. It was beautiful, but sterile. There were no personal touches, no warmth, no soul.

She turned and caught the butler's black button eyes on her face and wondered whether her ambivalent opinion showed. Certainly the unspoken question did.

'Wilde Interiors were given a free hand, madam.'

'Oh.' She walked slowly down the steps. If she had Max's money she wouldn't leave the decoration of her home to someone else, she'd have the fun of doing it herself. If she had Max she wouldn't care if she lived in a hovel! She pulled herself up sharply. 'Where are the gilded cherubs?' she enquired facetiously, not' expecting to be understood.

'Madam has been to Rawlings?'

Sarah looked at the close-cropped head suspiciously. Madam has. Th

e butler at Rawlings used the third person too, but never with the hint of dryness she detected in this bland-faced man. And he was actually condescending to engage her in conversation . . . not etiquette at all, and she should know!

'I'm living there at present,' she explained, and with a faint smile. 'I don't think baroque is quite my style.' At least this had an open, uncluttered look, whereas Sir Richard's taste for flourishes had been indulged to the full at Rawlings, with almost claustrophobic results, Sarah thought.

'Indeed, madam.' The black eyes gleamed. 'My tastes are also rather more modern. Would you like a drink while you are waiting for Sir Richard?'

Sarah glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. Sir Richard's timekeeping was at best erratic, prone as he wais to distraction, he might arrive in five minutes, or not for another hour.

'That would be nice. A brandy and ginger ale, please.'

She put her bag and envelope down and sat on one of the long white couches that formed an open-ended square by the windows, sinking into the well-padded .velvet cushions as Brandon opened a white louvred door in the wall to reveal an extensive array of bottles and glasses. After handing her the amber glass tinkling with ice, he pressed a button concealed in the wall and the raw silk curtains, one shade lighter than the carpet, whispered across the windows. At the same time the ceiling lights dimmed and a collection of small glass spheres heaped on various tables throughout the room began to glow softly.

'How beautiful!' slipped from her involuntarily. 'But I don't see any cords, how do they work?'

'They are operated by microwave. It was Mr. Wilde's personal recommendation.'

Here was a chance to ask the question she had been dying to ask, and with as much casualness as she could muster said, 'When is Mr. Wilde due back?'

'Due back?' The neutral repetition stopped Sarah's heart in mid-beat.

'Sir Richard told me he was in New York, for several days,' she said quickly, staring at him with wide, dark eyes.

Brandon cleared his throat. 'Ah yes, New York,' he agreed, to Sarah's unutterable relief. His face moved stiffly and she realised that he was actually attempting a smile—butlers would spin in their graves! 'Mr. Wilde flies Concorde. It renders the distance so negligible one scarce­ly considers the United States to be "abroad". I dare say it would take you longer to come down from Berkshire in the rush-hour.'

And with that pleasantry he withdrew, with the request that she call him if she required anything further.