Sweet Vixen

by Susan Napier

  There were compensations. The clothes were lovely, she looked lovely in them, and she didn't need Julie crowing over her to tell her that ... it was self-evident. And the experience itself was interesting, if exhausting.

  Teresa Grey had been an unexpected bonus. Not the glamorous, intimidating sophisticate that Sarah had dreaded, but a dizzy gamine-faced blonde prone to fits of the giggles, and given to ordering Max about with an easy familiarity that was enviable. She was also a whizz at her job and Sarah watched, fascinated, as the girl rang the changes of make-up and hairstyle, searching for precisely the right look for each Images ensemble—and finding it.

  She had been cheerfully disgusted at Sarah's lack of interest in herself.

  'You should be ashamed, letting yourself go at your age,' she had scolded on the first day, testing Sarah for colour and skin-type and pointing out all her weaknesses with professional frankness. 'I bet you've even been lazy about using cleansers and moisturisers. Now is the time to take care of your skin, before it's too late, especially if you spend a lot of time in the sun.

  'You've got fantastic hair!' Her hair had surprised them all. Not even the colleagues she had worked with for three years had known of her great abundance. 'And great bone structure and you're just letting it all go to waste. Watch me and you'll get the idea. . . it's all a matter of colour and contour and balance.'

  Max had been irritated that the project was taking a little longer than he had anticipated, conscious is no doubt of the limited time available to him, and being the most convenient whipping-boy at hand, Sarah often felt the sharp edge of his impatience. He seemed to take little account of the fact that she wasn't a professional model and expected her to anticipate his demands before he made them—then was angry when she didn't. It was very hot in the tiny studio with the lights on and Sarah found her own temper shortening appreciably, but she tried not to let it show. She was intelligent enough to appreciate that they were all working under pressure, the pressure of time and the more subtle one of making a success of what they did, though no one really seemed to believe that Max's idea could fail—not even Sarah.

  He was a perfectionist too, which made him all that much more demanding. Sarah spent endless hours hang­ing around, waiting for some infinitesimal lighting fault to be corrected, or listening to an incomprehensible discus­sion about angles, or lenses, or shutter speeds. Max revealed a technical and artistic knowledge of photogra­phy that Mike Stone, the magazine's talented photog­rapher, was forced to respect, even to the extent of letting the other man override his professional opinion on occa­sions.

  Sarah being an amateur among professionals, wasn't supposed to have opinions. She was just supposed to obey orders without question. And she was frustratedly aware that it amused Max to have her in a situation where she couldn't refuse or obstruct him without seeming childish and churlish; where she had to smile when he told her to, put up with being critically discussed over the top of her head as if she wasn't there, and touched . . . always he was touching her, twisting and turning her, arranging her limbs or the tilt of her head. Usually it was with a remote concentration that belied the odd physical sensations that Sarah experienced at his hands, but sometimes his fingers would linger a fraction too long, or his eyes would gleam with a knowing light as she tensed at his touch, a tacit reminder that he knew she wasn't as indifferent as she affected to be.

  It was annoying, after she had expended so much effort in reassuring herself about that kiss. How it didn't matter, how it made no difference. She was convinced that her explosive response to his lovemaking had been quite normal in the circumstances. She had recognised right from the start that he had sex appeal, but her intellectual acknowledgement hadn't prepared her for the potency of the physical reality. She was, after all, a relative innocent in terms of male-female relationships, whereas he was an expert. His sensual technique had been polished with practice ... it wasn't surprising that she should feel overwhelmed by it.

  She had been naively curious, but his motives for kissing her that second time had been more obscure. Pique? Reflexive masculinity? Anyway, what did it mat­ter? To ponder his reasons implied that she wanted to know, and she didn't. Far safer to dismiss it as a flash in the pan on both sides. Max was a graduate in the volatile science of body chemistry and it would be extremely unwise for a mere beginner like Sarah to start ex­perimenting with him. At least she knew that she still had normal female reactions, she needn't worry that she had let them wither away through lack of use. And apart from anything else she still didn't like the man, he was too cynical, too hard, too . . . unsettling!

  Even when he was being pleasant to her, it was in a backhanded sort of way.

  'You're a natural,' he told her on the second morning of the 'after' shots as she stood in the small, white-painted dressing room while Teresa made a few last-minute passes with powder and hairspray. 'You don't even have to do anything. Your face isn't expressive, but it has that touch of aloofness that photographers kill for.'

  Sarah looked into the mirror. The jumpsuit was silver and white with quilted, slightly pointed shoulders, a wide silver cinch belt and narrow legs. Silver threads and beads had been woven into dozens of long, thin plaits which had taken Teresa and a local hairdresser hours to do but which looked spectacular. Too spectacular for Sarah. 'I look like something from outer space.'

  'Extrovert is the word I think you're looking for,' Max replied, watching her turn to see her back view. 'Agreed, it's totally different from the other clothes we've chosen but a touch of fantasy will give the sequence a lift. It may not be what you would choose yourself to wear but it symbolises the Images message: the way you dress can alter the way that other people perceive you, and the way that you perceive yourself.'

  How do you perceive me now? Sarah wanted to ask, but prudently held her tongue. It was enough that the mirror gave her an odd sense of displacement, showing her a fantastic, wayward creature who didn't appear to give a damn about conventions. Who had never heard the word 'safe'. A dangerous perception.

  'I think I like the grey best of all,' she said firmly. The dove-coloured three-piece suit in fine wool was her idea of high fashion—pencil-slim skirt, tapered trousers and pert stream-lined jacket with narrow revers.

  'It suits you, I'll admit,' came the amused reply. 'A very soothing, understated elegance ... until one receives the shock of the sexy, passionate pink blouse. Then it's diffi­cult to see anything else.' He sauntered out, leaving her wondering whether she detected wider implications in the remark.

  She was instructed to leave the plaits in overnight, and a most uncomfortable night it was, too. The next day Teresa unbraided them with startling results. Sarah's hair fluffed out like a woolly pelt, floating over her shoulders in a mantle of tiny waves to complement the Pre-Raphaelite look of a thin, flowing white-tiered gown with a bodice embroidered with a glowing William Morris de­sign.

  As she stood among the masses of perfumed flowers that were to provide the backdrop for the dress, Max had come close to arrange a drift of hair so that it would not conceal the beautiful embroidery across her breasts. He took some time to do it to his satisfaction and then briefly touched the tiny corkscrew tendrils at her temples.

  'Ah, yes. Perfect,' he murmured, regarding his work. Then he looked into her eyes and the abstraction on his face slipped—he smiled very faintly, making an intimate secret of it. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered, and came up again. A kiss by proxy. A delicious tingle shot through Sarah's body and for a moment it was as though she could feel those hard arms around her, the black head coming down to block out her vision, the warm spicy breath of him in her nostrils. It made her feel weak, lethargic, passive.

  'Just relax this time. Don't try and project anything, in fact keep your mind completely blank. Let whoever looks at this picture project their own thoughts into you.' His eyes went to her mouth again. 'Open your mouth.'

  'W . . . what?'

  'Not that much,' he told her impatiently and
she real­ised he was completely businesslike again. He lifted an imperious hand to her jaw and applied a controlled pressure. 'Slightly. That's right. Teresa! Could we have the gloss off her cheeks, please?'

  Shakily, Sarah wished she could keep up with his rapid changes of mood. Probably he'd forgotten those enticing words he had muttered against her lips that day. She hadn't, and his using the same phrase had almost pan­icked her. She had thought he was going to kiss her again, right then and there. She had wanted him to. She really had to pull herself together!

  Fortunately for her nerves, Friday was a free day. Max and Tom flew down to Wellington to attend a national fashion award luncheon and the shots of the last outfit, a red evening dress, were scheduled for the following Mon­day. The fact that the day seemed rather flat Sarah put down to the anticlimax of nearly having finished her part in the feature. Rattling around in the office she even found herself looking forward to the harbour cruise that Julie had organised for Saturday. Nothing to do with the fact that Max would be among the twenty or so guests!

  As it was she didn't see him for the first forty minutes of the cruise, he was too busy charming all Julie's valuable business contacts. Sarah, meanwhile, had a pleasant, undemanding conversation with Tom at the stern rail of the blue-and-white motor yacht.

  'It's a beautiful location for a city,' he told her as they watched the busy marina recede, framed in the back­ground by the grey arch of the harbour bridge. 'So unspoilt compared with many I've seen.'

  As they creamed around the southern end of Rangitoto Island past the armada of small craft, crewed it seemed by clowns in brightly coloured life-jackets and sunhats, their faces smeared with the ubiquitous white zinc protective cream, Sarah listened to Tom talk about some of the exotic places he had visited.

  'Have you ever considered working abroad?'

  Sarah swung around at the interjection. Max had obviously overheard her conversation with Tom about faraway places. He was dressed in a red-and-black striped T-shirt and white trousers, with mirrored sunglasses masking his eyes. He casually moved up beside them and repeated his question about working overseas.

  'Does the prospect appeal?' he pressed.

  'No.' Up until now she had been too securely wrapped up in her comfortable life.

  'It should. You have a good head for the publishing business, sound managerial skills. The opportunities in a country like New Zealand must be very limited; you might consider the challenges and opportunities that exist else­where.'

  'But. . .' She raised her eyebrows at him and he looked amused. 'But what?'

  'You don't usually pay me a compliment unless it has a sting in its tail.'

  'I'm not paying you a compliment. I'm voicing a simple truth ... of which you are already aware. If I was paying you a compliment I would tell you how delicious you look in that green thing.'

  She glared at him, recognising the teasing inflexion. It probably stood out like a sore thumb that the stretch towelling playsuit was new. Stung into action at last by seeing the-inescapable contrasts from the early proofs of the photo shots, Sarah had splurged out, buying more clothes in a week than she had in the past two years.

  T think I prefer the one about managerial skills,' she said severely, trying to ignore the fact that he had moved closer, and the long muscled forearm braced against the rail was nearly touching hers. She shifted her weight on to her other foot so that she could lean away slightly. It seemed important that he shouldn't touch her.

  'Why? Because the other's too personal? We've worked quite well together this past week, I thought you might have changed your mind about not liking me. Most people like me, why not you?'

  '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?'

  Again things were moving too fast for her and she closed up. 'No. I slap faces,' she said distantly and half sat up to look over the rocks. No sign of anyone else taking to .the water and the rubber outboard dinghy still rocked emptily where it had been lowered beside the yacht.

  'Did he hurt you very much?'

  'Who?' She tensed. Max gentle was Max devious.

  'Your husband.'

  She caught her breath and speared him with dark accusing eyes. 'Why are you always asking questions?'

  'I'm interested. If I'm curious I ask questions. It's normal. So is answering them.'

  Quite. And she would have to get over her almost pathological reluctance to talk about Simon some time. But now? With Max? It could lead to all kinds of com­plications. However she knew from experience that eva­sions only whetted Max's appetite for information.