Sweet Vixen

by Susan Napier

  'I just don't happen to think it matters any more,' she said with almost complete truth.

  'But it does if it affects your attitude to me, to men in general. What was he like?'

  'If he had lived he would have been a great painter,' she stated non-committally.

  'I meant as a man,' he said, adding to her ruffled profile. 'I'm not your enemy, Sarah.'

  No, nor friend neither.

  'He was very—' she hesitated, how to put it into words that said not too much, but not too little? 'He was very . . . possessive.' It was a relief to say it, to relinquish another stubbornly held piece of the past. Easy, too, once said.

  'Did you resent that?'

  'Not at first. I was very young when we married, but it became very wearing. And painful, for both of us,' she told the rocks, the sea, the sky . . . the world.

  'Jealousy is often indivisible from love, I believe,' came the remark, challenging in its very neutrality.

  'He wasn't just jealous,' she turned on him fiercely, 'he was obsessive. He expected me to live through him, for him—'

  'Aaah,' his sigh filled the silence as she broke off and he lay back, his hands under his head, with a ripple of glistening muscle across his chest. Sarah looked at his closed eyes, the slight smile on the sensual mouth.

  'Why do you say it in that tone of voice?' she asked.

  'Because it explains a lot,' he said without opening his eyes.

  'What?' Sarah demanded, goaded by his reticence, for once able to appreciate how irritating he had found her reserve in the past.

  'Why you're so scared of involvement. Why you're so wary of men. Why you back off at the slightest sign of interest.'

  'I didn't back off at Julie's party,' she said, feeling defensive without knowing why.

  'Only because you were curious,' he said lazily. 'Did you think I didn't know that? I'd hurt you and you wondered what it would be like to be kissed better.' One eye opened, catching her out in a flush. 'I hope I managed to satisfy your curiosity.'

  'Adequately,' retorted Sarah curtly and he grinned.

  'You must practise these put-downs in private.' He could read her like a book, it seemed. Both eyes now fixed brightly on her as she plucked a blade of grass and studied it.

  'How was he killed?'

  She was used to the abruptness by now, and had discovered that an abrupt reply was the best answer.

  'A plane crash.' There was an instant's stillness, then he sat up again.

  'I'm sorry.'

  'You didn't know him.'

  'No. But I know you.'

  For some reason his gentleness upset her.

  'Well, I wasn't sorry. At least not for us. For him. For me. But not for us.'

  If she had hoped to shock him she was disappointed. He just, very softly, lifted one hand to her chin and tilted it up towards him.

  'And now? What now? Are you still sorry for yourself? Still afraid?'

  She pulled her chin away, eyes sparkling greenly. 'No. And I don't need your particular brand of therapy, thank you.' 'And what brand is that?'

  'Sex!' she blurted out. It was a mistake, an admission of a kind, and physical awareness snaked out to encircle them both.

  'You should wait until you're asked,' he murmured mockingly, 'but would that be so awful? Sex has nothing to do with possession, not in the psychic sense—it's a sharing, giving and taking in equal measure. I have no intention of hurting you, Sarah.'

  'Then leave me alone.' That smooth, creamy, coaxing voice slid insidiously along her sensitive nerves.

  'Your lips say one thing, your eyes another,' he said, reaching out for her.

  'You arrogant, conceited—' she gasped as an arm fastened around her waist, curving her close to him on the soft cushion of grass. His other hand came up behind the damp coronet of her hair and his mouth neared hers, lips curving, parting. Fearful . . . wanting . . . she closed her eyes and waited for the soft touch of his mouth and when it didn't come she opened her eyes again to find him grin­ning at her.

  'See?'

  Her teeth snapped shut and she wrenched herself away and scrambled to her feet. So he thought she was going to succumb easily to that practised charm! She almost made it away from him, but he was too fast for her, grabbing her ankle as she stepped out, and the result was an ignomini­ous tumble down the slope almost to the foot of the rocks.

  She was still lying, breathless, in a little sandy hollow when he reached her, placing his hands on her bare waist, holding her down, laughing openly as she hit out wildly. It was all a great game to him, he didn't care whether he was hurting her or not.

  Her blows had no effect. He merely held her until at last she stopped and lay panting, glaring at him, hot and flustered by the sun and the struggle and the pressure of his hands against her ribcage. She was terribly conscious of their lack of clothing, only her two scraps of fabric and his thin blue swimming briefs between convention and nakedness. She moved restlessly, feeling the delicious languor of desire begin to weight her limbs.

  Suddenly, disappointingly, he let her go and sat back on his heels. Sarah, bewildered by a sense of loss, lay staring at the thin, serious face. No trace of his former mockery remained, only a kind of tender restraint that made Sarah's heart lurch oddly.

  'That was unfair of me,' he said, amazingly. 'I don't want to make you do anything that you will regret. All I want to do is kiss you ... or rather, for you to kiss me.'

  Sarah's eyes widened. Max humble? Max asking? She must be hallucinating! In her experience men didn't usually ask, they took first and asked later!

  'I. . .' What could she say? Yes, I want to kiss you but I don't want to want to? Remembering what had happened the last time she shivered, she had gone in over her head.

  Max met her uncertain gaze quite openly as she too got up on to her knees, wanting to brush the sand from herself but afraid to draw his attention to her betraying body, which still felt warm and tingly.

  'Look, no hands,' he said softly, and spread his arms, palm up, out from his sides.

  Was this another part of his game? Sarah, distrustful, was yet bewitched by that uncharacteristic supplication of his. Her eyes were drawn to that firm, flirtatious mouth, and she imagined renewing her acquaintance with its pleasures.

  'Promise?' she murmured absently.

  'Cross my heart,' was the grave reply.

  Her eyes fell from his mouth to his chest, where the dark hair curled damp, now matted with sand and a few thin Strands of grass. As she watched, the tenor of his breathing changed, became slower, the rise and fall of his chest acquiring a deep, hypnotic rhythm. There was a peculiar attraction in knowing that he was waiting on her, that he had placed the situation firmly in her hands. That she was in control.

  Tentatively, she touched him, she couldn't help it, resting a hand just above his heart, feeling the strong, rapid beat. It was like feeling the beat of her own heart.

  'Sarah?' the word was low, husky, almost strained, and she looked up. The expression on his face made her tremble inside.

  Very carefully she moved closer and kissed him, very quickly and lightly on the lips and drew back. No threat­ening reaction, he merely knelt there, waiting. Feeling bolder, she kissed him again. Again no reaction; it was like kissing a warm statue, and just as unsatisfactory.

  'What's the matter?' he asked of her frown.

  'You're not helping,' she told him, piqued.

  'You want me to?'

  She eyed him silently.

  'All you have to do is say "stop" and I'll stop,' he said and Sarah found the thought immensely liberating. In this she could trust him. He was not a boy, likely to lose his head, and he was too civilised to attempt a complete seduction here on the beach where they might be inter­rupted at any moment—she could hear the outboard motor spluttering to life across the calm bay. She felt safe, and she leaned forward again and put her mouth against his, a streak of pleasure shooting through her as he allowed her to coax his lips apart.

  She ed
ged closer so that the tips of her breasts brushed his chest and he began to move his tongue, slowly and erotically against the sensitive lining of her mouth. They kissed slow, sensual, heat-drugged kisses and Sarah yielded herself up to the entrancement of the moment; the fragrance of the crushed grasses, the salty tang of his lips, the soft warmth of the air all combining in a heady invitation that she had no will to resist. She would never have believed that there was such pleasure to be had from a mere kiss. Her hands stayed pressed against his chest, measuring the beat of his arousal, while his stayed obedi­ently at his sides and yet his mouth was so skilful at enticing her enjoyment that her whole body became suffused with sensation.

  'Max . . .' she sighed as the kiss was broken at last, her eyes stormy with passion, her head thrown back as she looked up at the hard-edged face above her.

  'Will you let me touch you?'

  Sarah nodded automatically, aching for the stroke of his hands upon her body, still trusting.

  He made a soft, murmuring sound and lowered his head to hers, moving his powerful body against her in a sensuous, sinuous movement, one hand slipping in be­tween them to cover her breast as her arms linked around his neck. At the sudden, more aggressive thrust of his tongue in her mouth, the fine tremor that shook his body, the iron-hard pressure of his thighs, Sarah dazedly took fright, alarm bells ringing frantically.

  'No, stop—' was muffled against his mouth yet he instantly pulled away, or rather pushed her away, hands gripping her shoulders tightly.

  'See?' he said thickly, with a crooked little smile. 'Gentle as a lamb. Putty in your hands.'

  'I think that's one metaphor too many,' Sarah mum­bled distractedly and his smile became more natural as he dropped his hands from her shoulders and flexed them by his side.

  'We'll see. Have dinner with me tomorrow night?' She wasn't that naïve. 'I'm tired—it's been a busy week.'

  'For us all. A very quiet dinner, at a very quiet res­taurant.'

  'At a very quiet hotel?' she asked drily. 'The thought never crossed my mind,' he told her, looking innocently hurt. 'Julie has recommended several fine restaurants and I would like to try one in congenial company.'

  'I'm sure Tom would love to go.'

  'I can dine with Tom any day of the year. I want to go with you. I want to talk to you, get to know you. Haven't I just demonstrated how trustworthy I am?'

  Only in the sense that he could exercise self-control when it suited him ... to serve a purpose. She didn't doubt that he was using the verb 'know' in the Biblical sense, he wasn't proposing to give her dinner just for the intellectual pleasure of good conversation.

  On the other hand, she admitted to herself, she wanted to accept the dinner invitation. Even at his most dislike-able, Max was stimulating company and her very mis­trust of his motives would protect her from the verbal seduction she was sure he would attempt. It would be a challenge, in a way, as no doubt he found her a challenge. There was no reason why she should not participate in the game, providing she obeyed her own rule: remember who he was, what he was. She would enjoy herself as an adult woman in the company of an attractive man, but she wouldn't enjoy herself too much. She had the rest of her life to explore relationships with men; no sense in rushing her fences simply because she had come to terms with the fact she was a woman, free to pursue her own life, her own desires, accountable to no one but herself,

  'It's Sunday, there mightn't be many places open.' She made a last, half-hearted salute to the boring demands of common sense.

  'We'll find one.' He held out a hand to help her up, which Sarah pointedly ignored.

  He was sounding smug again, which she thought was one of his least attractive habits. So when he headed up towards the track which led to the concealed holiday home, Sarah turned and made her way back down to the water's edge, intending to swim back to the yacht forth­with. A demonstration, she hoped, that one 'Yes' didn't concede submission. She hoped.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sarah took more care over her appearance on Sunday evening than she had for a long time. She needed to feel sleek and well-groomed, a nice thick coat of plaster over the cracks in her confidence. Was she ready for this?

  Deciding what to wear had put her in a quandary. She had not yet got around to buying evening wear and, anyway, she didn't want Max to think she was trying too hard to impress him. On the other hand she didn't think he would appreciate being seen with a woman who didn't wear her clothes well. In the end she had fossicked out her dateless 'basic black'. Simple, long and figure-hugging, it was in a silk-knit jersey, slightly gathered under the breasts, with delicate shoe-string straps.

  Trying to damp down her feelings as the hour ap­proached, Sarah wished, for the first time in her life, that she had a sister, or a close female friend, someone who could give her some sound advice on how to approach the evening. With care, of course.... but should she be off-hand, flippant, or should she try a serious appeal to Max's better nature—if he had one! Tell him that he was going too fast for her, that she was not prepared to indulge in anything more than a light flirtation? To her fevered brain even her reflection in the bedroom looked slightly sceptical. Just what are you prepared for, Sarah? she asked herself, and shrugged. What the hell, she would take things as they came, one at a time. For tonight she would have no past, no future, just a present. That would have been Roy's advice, if he had been here to give it.

  Sarah turned off the upstairs lights and made her way carefully down the spiral staircase. The last time she had seen Roy was the previous morning, when-he had bound­ed in as she was getting ready to leave for the marina, wanting a shower and staying on for a bacon and egg breakfast.

  'I'm taking off up north for a few days, tomorrow,' he had told her, wolfing his food. 'Do a bit of sketching, look up a few friends, so I shan't be monopolising the bath­room any longer. I have a guy coming in to fix the hot water cylinder on Tuesday evening, could you let him in for me?'

  Sarah nodded. Each possessed a key to the other's front door for just such back-scratching eventualities.

  '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.