Sweet Vixen

by Susan Napier

  'You gave them my measurements on Friday, before you'd even asked me? That was taking things for granted, wasn't it?'

  'It was a calculated risk, I'm used to taking those,' he said coolly. 'Naturally I was relying heavily on your practical good sense, though sometimes you show remark­ably little of it.'

  Now that he had what he wanted he was prepared to be flippant. Sarah glared at him as he unfolded his graceful length from the chair and strolled over to the small french doors which opened out into a tiny courtyard at the side of the house, lined with tubs of flowering plants and ornamental trees. It was intended to be a little haven of peace but Sarah thought the clutter too studied. Her own tangle of half-wild shrubbery was much more satis­factory.

  It really was unfair that the man had so much going for him, Sarah thought as Max braced himself with effortless elegance against the door jamb. It was distracting trying to carry on an argument in the face of such stunning good looks, and even more demoralising when you realised that he had the brains to match. A natural winner.

  'We can do the "before" shots on Tuesday, they shouldn't take very long,' he was saying without turning his head. 'Bring in a few clothes tomorrow and we'll choose what we want. Wednesday we'll do the fittings and let Teresa take a look at you. The actual shooting will probably take three or four days, full days.'

  'Well, don't expect me to shout for joy when you wave your magic wand,' she said.

  'Why? Don't you want to be the belle of the ball? Have the princes paying homage at your feet? Perhaps you're the type who prefers to do the kneeling, though I can't quite see you playing the role of passive submission with any great conviction.'

  She refused to acknowledge the sexual innuendo.

  'I certainly wouldn't go down on my knees before you,' she scorned. 'I'm a little choosier.'

  'More than a little, from what I can gather,' he said obliquely, then settled more comfortably against the door. 'Anyway, I can think of far more interesting places for a woman to be than at my feet. Pliancy bores me.'

  'What a shame, and you must meet so much of it,' Sarah said in a breathless little-girl voice, his conceited impudence raising her hackles as usual.

  He laughed. 'You forget when you smile so sweetly that you also show those needle-sharp teeth! Personally, I find the struggle between predator and prey far more stimulat­ing than a submission without a fight.'

  She walked into the trap with charming naivety.

  'The idea of man as the predator is rather dated isn't it? Women are no longer hobbled by male prejudices.' That wasn't quite true, as she had good reason to know. Several times she had been the victim of one particular male prejudice—the assumption that because she was a young widow she must be sexually frustrated, only too willing to fall into bed with a man, any man, at the mere suggestion of interest. Some of the men she had met hadn't even had the decency to wrap up their opinion in courtesy and had appeared surprised when she very firmly disabused them. She had long ago determined that peer pressure would not rule her life.

  'This is the liberated half of the century,' she went on hardily. 'But perhaps at your age one does tend to live in the past.'

  'I wasn't referring to man, little girl,' came the silky reply. 'Woman has always held the ultimate power. What chance do we poor males stand against the honeyed webs that are woven around us?'

  'None, if you're weak-minded.'

  Black brows arched. 'Do you think I'm weak-minded?'

  'Not at all, you're still free of the silken trap, aren't you?' she retorted, rattled that she had let herself be drawn into a discussion that had crossed the borders into the per­sonal.

  'You mean marriage? So you see it as a trap, too. Was that what your marriage was?'

  Her withdrawal was instant and obvious, like a snail shrinking from a probing finger.

  'Was it?'

  'I don't wish to discuss it.' Not when she was trying to put it all behind her. Not with him, he was far too skilful at recognising evasions.

  'Why not?'

  'Because it's none of your business.' Unfortunately her adamant refusal to satisfy his curiosity only succeeded in arousing it further. She should have been off-hand, joked about it. He was such a dominant man that a sign of weakness was like a red rag to a bull.

  'He was a painter, Julie said—-your husband. I would like to see some of his work.'

  'Why?' Sharply.

  'Because art is one of my interests, a special interest. Also it might help me peel away another of your layers.'

  'Why should you care?' she demanded. 'I thought I wasn't your type.'

  He crushed a head of jasmine in his fist and inhaled the fragrance; not a gesture that a lesser man would have made. Much as she hated to admit it Sarah knew his sensitivity was innate, not a pose. He was genuinely perceptive and alive to the subtle variations of human response. That made him so much more dangerous as an opponent—he could follow the complexity of the feminine mind.

  'My mind is always open.'

  'Always? Too busy to keep union hours; you must be a success.' Something drove her on in spite of herself.

  'When you get to my level, you don't have to belong to a union,' he said levelly, eyes watchful. 'And I balance my books, thank you.'

  'I bet you do, you're an expert at juggling figures.'

  There was an icy silence, during which he levered himself slowly upright. 'Be very careful, Sarah,' he warned softly. 'My patience isn't infinite; you are begin­ning to annoy me.' And then with steel unsheathed: 'Is that what all this personal antagonism is about? The fact that I enjoy the company of women and they enjoy mine?'

  'That has nothing to do with it!' Even as she said it she was aware that it was a lie.

  'But you do disapprove of me, that much is patently obvious. And since I don't think you can quarrel with my professional abilities, it can only be my personal conduct that doesn't meet with your impeccably high standards.'

  Sarah stiffened angrily at the sarcasm. 'Just because I don't fall over myself at your charm—'

  'Oh, so you admit that I have charm, we're making progress,' he sneered. 'Is it me you resent, or the sex in general? Or sex in general?'

  'Don't be so disgusting—'

  'So you think sex is disgusting,' he deftly twisted her words to his own purpose, looking at her with a cold, clinical interest. 'Is that what was wrong with your marriage?'

  Every time she retreated he was there, baying at her heels. Now she rounded on him, fiercely.

  'I told you it was none of your business. Is a woman not a woman simply because she doesn't appreciate your overblown attractions!'

  'Overblown?' His thin smile held a glitter of real annoyance. 'How Victorian of you, you're the one who's out of date. Coming from a woman, and I use the term advisedly, who is so afraid of her own femininity that she deliberately de-sexes herself, I must take that as a compli­ment.'

  The remark, with its grain of unarguable truth, flicked her on the raw and her eyes flashed green sparks of temper.

  'And I should be complimented by your interest? I suppose I'm impressed that you get as much pleasure from dressing women up as you do from undressing them!'

  The instant lift of his head was like that of a hound catching the scent of his quarry and Sarah swallowed nervously as the lean body went into fluid motion, circling slowly around in front of her, coming to a stop a few feet away.

  'You really go for the jugular, don't you?' he drawled with ominous restraint. Sarah knew she should apologise but pride imprisoned her tongue. He shouldn't have started asking personal questions.

  'Regretting your agreement already?' His mockery was the last straw, and Sarah took from him the one weapon with which she could strike back with impunity.

  'What agreement?' she said coldly and turned to pick up her bag from the chair.

  Although she had been half expecting something it was a shock to feel his hand lock around her wrist and pull her back to face him.

  'You're not going b
ack on your word,' he told her tightly.

  'I didn't give you my word.'

  'As near as dammit!' He jerked her so that she stum­bled, nearly crying out from the pain in her wrist. Those elegant-looking hands had the strength of the devil. He looked as if he wanted to hit her almost as much as she wanted to hit him. 'I'm warning you, Sarah, don't push me.'

  'Don't push you!' she exploded, her temper past flash­point. 'How can you push a juggernaut? Why don't you just go away and leave me alone!'

  'I can hardly do that now, I'm in too deep,' he said tautly, and then, considering her animated face and splendidly blazing eyes, uttered with studious insolence. 'Fascinating, you look quite vivacious for once. Want to go one further and take a swing at me?'

  She had never wanted anything as much in her life! Sarah lashed out in fury, catching him on the side of the forehead with her tightly clenched fist. His hold slackened enough for her to pull away and dart towards the door, her bag forgotten.

  Before she had got three steps he was there in front of her, grabbing her forearms, pinching the flesh between rigid fingers. There was a flush on the high cheekbones and for the first time she saw him fighting for control of his temper. They glared at each other until Sarah, her anger still undiminished, began to struggle.

  'Let me go, you're hurting me.'

  'Not half as much as I'd like to,' he ground out, tightening his grip until she whitened.

  'I didn't mean to hit you,' she gasped. 'You shouldn't have invited me to.'

  ‘I didn't know you were going to take me up on it. Not the shatterproof Mrs. Carter. Your self-control isn't what I thought it was.'

  'Nor is yours. You're hurting me.' He didn't loosen his grip and a yellow light smouldered in the hazel eyes, promising retribution.

  'Well, at least you got it out of your system. You've been dying to do that since we first met!' 'It was your fault.'

  'Oh no, don't unload your neuroses on me. If you weren't so emotionally stunted you wouldn't have been so bloody hostile in the first place.'

  'There's no need to swear,' she said automatically, her mind functioning on its lowest level. He had a fluent command of the language that rendered swearing obso­lete and made his use of it sound doubly vicious.

  'I don't suppose you ever do that, do you? You prefer foulness by implication. Very civilised of you.'

  'Civilised is the last thing I'd call you!'

  'Then you won't be surprised if I act the savage,' he snarled and shook her hard, until her head fell back and the predatory mouth swooped and fastened on her tremb­ling one in a grinding, relentless travesty of a kiss.

  The assault was bruising, insulting in its intensity; the pain in her arms and the soft inner surfaces of her mouth as they were crushed against her teeth excruciating. He meant to punish, to humiliate and subdue, and he suc­ceeded. Although she clamped her mouth shut against the angry invasion she was agonisingly aware of being com­pletely at his mercy. His strength was overpowering, never before had she been so conscious of her physical vulnerability as a woman and her mind sheered off in panic at the thought of what he could do if he chose to exercise the privilege of his strength.

  She would have tried to cry out but she didn't dare open her mouth. She wanted to beg him to stop but she couldn't find the breath. He was holding her tight, so tight she could feel his heart pounding against her crushed breasts like a trip-hammer. She was helpless, she couldn't breathe, she was suffocating, she could taste blood on her tongue, she could feel. . . oh, God, she could feel. . .

  As suddenly as he had swooped he lifted his head, the yellow light gone from his eyes to be replaced by one she couldn't identify. But she could identify the sudden un­coiling in the pit of her stomach, the smooth, heavy shift. Dazedly she shook her head in repudiation. How could she have felt anything but pain and fear?

  'That has the distinction of being a first for me,' he murmured huskily into her confused face. 'I've never kissed a woman in anger before, at least not in genuine anger.'

  Her treacherous imagination wondered briefly what dangerous, exciting love games this man might play when aroused. Perhaps he sensed the thought because his hands loosened their hold and the deep, dark pupils of his eyes seemed to expand into her mind.

  'I expected you to use some of that athletic ability of yours against me.' He let his fingers trail over the marks his grip had left on her arms and felt her tremble. 'But you didn't.'

  'I. . .' She hadn't even tried, she realised, just accepted his strength as superior without testing it . . . without wanting to. And where had her anger gone? She should be furious with him for mauling her. 'You didn't give me time ...' she began weakly as his hands slid up to her shoulders. He smiled, an enticing, sexy smile that warmed his face from within and he pulled her towards him again, slowly, gently.

  'You have time now. . .' came softly, fittingly.

  The change from aggressor to seducer was so swift and complete that Sarah was bewildered, and beguiled. She had wondered, hadn't she, what it would be like to be in a man's arms again?

  Curiosity warred with caution. He was no longer threatening, he was almost apologetically gentle and the gentleness lulled her into a false sense of security. A kiss was only a kiss, after all. Just one couldn't hurt.

  She forced herself to relax as he murmured her name coaxingly and at the first, light, restrained touch of his firm lips her relaxation became genuine. It was strange ... a pleasant, cool caress, demanding nothing, nothing but acquiescence and that was easy.-

  She leaned lightly against him and he let go of her shoulders to move his hands delicately over the fabric at her back. His skin against hers was smooth and warm, the fresh tang of chlorine mingling with his male body smell. He nuzzled the corner of her mouth and discovered the tender spot where her lip had split against her teeth, touching it with his tongue and gently sucking away the pearly drop of blood.

  'Open your mouth, darling,' he whispered seductively, 'Let me taste you properly.'

  Dreamily, without volition, her mouth opened beneath his, her hands sliding up to rest on the silken shoulders under the thin shirt. It was so warm, so enjoyable, so pleasurable that she let herself drift in the backwash of contentment and when the quality of their embrace began to change she was a prisoner of her own response before the danger even registered.

  The strong, slender hands touched her neck, moved up to her face, cupping it, positioning it so that he could explore her mouth more freely, deepen the warm, rapid kisses to slow, sensual ones. Her own hands slipped on the tense muscles of his chest, fingers tangling in the dark hair there, clenching as her body clenched with impossible yearnings. She could no longer think, only feel, her senses reawakened to passionate life. And as the ravishing fantasy continued it was no longer curiosity that drove her to arch against the virile hardness but something more compelling, more elemental, that strove for expres­sion.

  Without knowing it she murmured his name and as he felt her body strain against his he gave a small grunt of satisfaction, shifting his stance and allowing his hands greater licence. They roved over her body in a journey of discovery, burning through her thin dress, describing slow, erotic circles.

  His mouth roamed too, nibbling her tender ear lobes, gently biting the apple-smoothness of her shoulders left bare by her cutaway sleeves, burying itself in the sensitive arch of her throat. She shuddered as his hands slid into the small of her back, pressing hard, and she moaned into his open mouth, losing the final shreds of her reserve, feeling his tongue flickering against hers as though drinking in the sound. She had never known such darkness and heat and sweet, sweet, sensation.

  How long they remained like that, fused into a sensual world bounded by each other's arms, Sarah had no idea, for time was out of joint. It was a sharp, alien sound that divided them. A door slamming and nearby voices.

  He still held her by the arms, she would have fallen if he had not; but only for a moment. Then he blinked, and the wide, dark pupils narrowed
again like camera shutters and he stepped back, breathing with the same shallow intensity that he had after their race in the pool. The world steadied and righted itself and Sarah was appalled by the damage done. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. Herself especially. She could feel herself shaking like a stupid schoolgirl and stuttered into stupid schoolgirl speech.

  'I thought you didn't have any designs on my virtue.' Her voice was a thread of sound but he heard, and his mouth twisted.

  'It's not your virtue that tempts me,' he said softly, with wry self-mockery and Sarah felt a renewed surge of heat through her body. God, what was the matter with her? She wasn't a green girl. Had she kept herself under control for too long, ready to fall like a ripe plum into the hands of the first man who kissed her? She closed here eyes in embarrassment and backed away. Even a man whom she found personally objectionable? She looked around for her bag, desperately trying to avoid looking at Max. She couldn't bear to see amusement on his face.

  'What shall I tell Julie your reaction was?' he asked as her hand connected with the door handle. For one awful moment she thought he meant the kiss and spun around to regard him with apprehensive stone-grey eyes. 'To Images,' he added helpfully and she flushed.

  'I . . . tell her you charmed me into it!' It was a lovely exit line but unfortunately she fumbled it. The door handle seemed to stick and he had to come to her aid. He didn't laugh though, he was quite kind, which to her over-sensitised mind was worse.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  If Sarah had harboured any remaining illusions that modelling was an easy, glamorous profession, working on the Images feature would have completely eradicated them.

  After a deflatingly brief morning posing in her own clothes for the merciless eye of the camera, Sarah was hustled unceremoniously into a world of discomfort and tedium. She was made-up and made-over, pinned and poked, pushed and pulled, primped and posed. She was stared at, talked about, teased and tested, treated like an empty-headed puppet dancing obediently for anyone who pulled the strings. And of course it was Max Wilde pulling the strings.