by Susan Napier
And with that pleasantry he withdrew, with the request that she call him if she required anything further.
Sarah admonished herself for panicking, it was becoming too much of a habit. She must be cool and composed at all times—how often had Sir Richard drummed that into her? It used to be second nature until Max gatecrashed her life and reduced her to a mass of sensitive nerve-endings. Now she needed it more than ever, now her hopeful travelling was drawing to a close. Damn, her hands were shaking.
Sarah finished her brandy and thought about another, to help calm her nerves. Why not? Max owed her something. A couple pf brandies was a bargain price for a broken heart. She got up and found the intercom switch that Brandon had indicated and rang. Brandon delivered without comment and she drank. Better. She was only shaking inside now. Why did she have this awful feeling . . .? Perhaps the apartment was haunted, guarded by Max's unquiet spirit.
She got up and wandered, inspecting herself in the distorted surface of an aluminium sculpture. Lovely dress; pity that the colour held such unfortunate memories. Even though her image was made lopsided by the curving surface of the sculpture, she could see that the deeply-slashed neckline and long, figure-smoothing line of the red velvet suited her. What an angel Sir Richard was! He had designed her hair too—a long braid encircled the back of her head with the rest of her hair cascading in waves from its centre. Regally sexy, he had decreed.
'Regally sexy,' she repeated out loud, feeling less intimidated by the elegant luxury around her. These were the kind of surroundings in which Sir Richard was training her to feel at home. So feel at home she would. She took off her shoes. She put her feet up on the couch, a warm, vibrant splash of colour in the cool room. She didn't even move when she heard the apartment door open and, simultaneously, the phone ring. There was a faint murmur of a voice as Brandon answered the telephone, and the sound of footsteps across the ceramic tiles. Sarah smiled serenely, alcohol warming her veins, waiting for Sir Richard to appear.
CHAPTER TWELVE
'What in the hell are you doing here?'
Sarah blinked at the hostile, brandy-induced apparition at the top of the carpeted stairs.
'Sarah!' The voice was harsh and demandingly savage. Ina charcoal-grey suit and tie and white shirt, Max looked formal and remote, every inch a Chairman of the Board. His face was sharper than she remembered, more angles and less flesh; paler too, and the grey strands threading the black sideboards seemed more numerous. But he was still Max, still the man who held her bruised heart in the hollow of his uncaring hand.
Paralysed by the shock of his sudden appearance Sarah could only stare and wait as he set down his briefcase arid came slowly, frowningly down the steps and across the room towards her.
'Sarah?' The husky question came as Max narrowed his eyes and half raised a hand from his side as if to touch her, as if he doubted the evidence of his senses.
'Max . . .?' was all her poor vocal chords could manage but it was enough. His hand dropped and he took an audible breath.
'You seem as surprised as I am,' he said, after a moment. 'Yet why should you be? You must have come here to see me.'
He undid the buttons of his jacket, not taking his eyes of the sudden flush on Sarah's face. He shrugged it off and sat down on the couch opposite, stretching out his long legs, hands splayed tautly over his muscled thighs. He looked her over and the ghost of a smile touched the hard mouth.
'You look very much at home.'
The faint sarcasm thawed Sarah's frozen limbs. She hurriedly swung her legs off the couch, sitting up to search for her red shoes with her feet.
'Did I say I objected?'
'I . . .' Sarah stopped, confused by the hint of humour. He had been unmistakably angry when he had walked in and seen her there. Why was he now looking as though. . . as though ... 'I thought you were in New York.'
'I was; until this morning. Now I'm here. And you're here too. And you still haven't told me why.' He was mocking her, but gently, and it completely shattered her composure—it was so unexpected ... so impossible. That he should smile, like that, at her, after all that had passed between them.
'I—I've brought some papers,' she said vaguely, eyes going hungrily over the lounging body, storing up the memory of his nearness.
'You came all this way just to bring me some papers? How kind of you, Sarah. But couldn't you have posted them?"'
He didn't even ask to see them, didn't even really seem interested, he just stared at her with that disturbing smile. 'They're not for you.' 'Not for me?'
'Your—Sir Richard asked me to—'
'My father!' It was as though she had slapped him, the smile vanished in an instant, his face hardening with suspicion as he stood up. Sarah stood up too and was dismayed to find that without her shoes she only came up to his shoulder. 'What has my father to do with it?'-Suddenly something else registered with him. 'And where did you get that dress, it's from the Wilde Spring Collection? What's going on?'
'You don't know?' breathed Sarah, one hand coming up to cover her horrified mouth. 'I thought you knew. I spoke to Tom on the phone last week. He knew. I thought you knew, too.' She had been unsure what to think, whether to be relieved that Max had made no effort to jeopardise her new job or depressed that he obviously didn't give a damn. But if he hadn't known . . .
'Knew what?' articulated Max dangerously, and Sarah shivered wordlessly. 'So help me, Sarah, if you don't stop stalling and tell me, I swear I'll—' He had actually slipped rigid hands around her slender neck when they were interrupted.
'Excuse me, sir.' Brandon showed no surprise at finding his master on the verge of strangling a female visitor. Perhaps he was used to such strange scenes, thought Sarah a trifle hysterically, before she realised she was being addressed.
'That was Sir Richard on the telephone, Mrs. Carter. He apologises for the delay. He has been held up at the Salon, but he still wants you to wait. He had a message for you, too, sir,' he addressed the ominously quiet Max. 'He asked me to convey his best wishes. He said you would understand.'
'What?' The uncomfortable grip on Sarah's throat dropped away as hazel eyes glared at the bland-faced butler. Seconds ticked away before Max said softly, through his teeth, 'Get out.'
'Will you be wanting—?'
'Get out!' Max bawled and with remarkable calm Brandon bowed to Sarah and withdrew, managing to exude dignity through every retreating pore.
'Now . ...' Eyes that held a brilliant glitter were turned back on Sarah. She drew on the remains of her Dutch courage.
'I work for him.'
'Work for whom?' said Max blankly. Obviously never in his worst dreams had it occurred to him . . .
'Sir Richard,' she whispered. 'I'm his personal assistant.'
He looked incredulous, furious. 'When? How?' he shot at her.
He offered me the job when he came out to New Zealand,' said Sarah, endeavouring to conquer a sudden queasiness. 'I've been working for him virtually ever since.'
'You're living here?'
"A—at Rawlings.'
A red flush covered Max's cheekbones and he gave her a look of baffled anger. 'My father doesn't need another personal assistant, and you damned well know it!'
Sarah's chin lifted proudly. 'He says he does.'
'I'll bet he does, and I bet you weren't hard to convince.' Max drew his lips back from his teeth, but it was more a snarl then a smile. 'You must have been glad you lost your chance with me. My father is much richer and not likely to be as demanding as a younger man.'
It was clear what he meant and the insult rendered Sarah icily sober. 'You're insane—can you hear yourself?' she said in a cold little voice. 'If you have no respect for me, you should at least have some for your father. He—'
'Oh, for God's sake shut up!' Max ground out rudely and went over to the bar. ‘I don't need your lectures.' He didn't come back with his drink but prowled about beyond the square of the couches. Sarah found her shoes and put them on, feeli
ng shattered. This was it. The end of the journey. And nothing had changed. She watched his restless pacing helplessly. He moved fluidly, like the big cats at the zoo, back and forth, a resentful captive. Eventually he stopped and glared at her sullenly.
'And you can stop looking at me like that, damn you. You know I didn't mean it.' He thrust an impatient hand through thick black hair. He sounded for all the world like a sulky boy who knows he has done wrong but doesn't want to admit it. In spite of the sheer awfulness of the situation Sarah felt a dull flicker of amusement.
''I'm glad I amuse you!' The growl wiped the smile off her face and she snapped back:
'Well, it's laughable. He's old enough to be my grandfather and most of the time he treats me like a recalcitrant child. We're only going out tonight because he's finally decided he can trust me not to eat peas off my knife.' For an instant she thought Max was going to smile but he was still simmering.
'All right, I get the message. I've already apologised. Should I go down on my knees?'
A glorious surge of righteous indignation freed Sarah from the last bonds of nervousness. To hell with the surly brute! Had she actually imagined that she loved the moody devil?
'Only if it'll improve your temper! You were right about you and your father being alike in some ways. You both sulk if you don't get things exactly your own way. I should be used to it by now.'
Max hunched his shoulders' and stared at her with thinly veiled dislike. Some of the drink slopped out of his glass as he moved. He swore softly and rubbed at the mark with a careless shoe then refilled his glass before coming over to sprawl opposite her again, asking with a restrained belligerence:
'Why do you work for him then? I seem to recall you once shuddered at the very idea.'
'I didn't say I don't like working for him. Actually he's been very kind.' Since Max made no move to reply, unpleasantly or otherwise, Sarah plugged on, making polite conversation to a stranger. When she mentioned, in passing, that this was her first expedition on her own Max roused himself to interruption.
'That doesn't sound like you. I thought you didn't like to be caged, in any sense.'
Sarah shrugged. She was not about to confess to the slightest tinge of frustration. 'Sir Richard said my rough edges needed polishing. And they did. I feel much more confident now, quite equal to anything he might throw at me.'
'Knowing my father, that could be termed literally. I take it then, that he requested you work for him and not vice versa.'
'I couldn't believe it at first.' She explained briefly about Kevin Matlock's illness and the circumstances surrounding Sir Richard's surprising offer, warily eyeing the now expressionless face opposite. Max seemed to have calmed down but his stillness could conceal anything.
'So here you are—polished and perfumed to perfection,' he murmured at last. 'Tell me, why did you think I was still in New York?'
'Your father said you were,' Sarah replied, thankful that they were at last communicating normally. 'And Brandon—' Black eyebrows flew up as Sarah endeavoured to remember just what his butler had said. 'Well, he didn't actually say you were still there, but he. . .'
'Implied it. How well I know Brandon's implications,' drily and then, almost under his breath. 'Damn him for his interference! My father can resist everything but the temptation to organise the world to his own dramatic satisfaction.'
'He really does need an assistant,' Sarah insisted loyally. 'He told me himself that his health—'
A short amused laugh greeted this bit of naivety and Max gulped half his drink without enjoyment before saying, savagely: 'I don't like being manipulated.'
'You do it all the time,' Sarah pointed out, beginning to think that all this moody, broody behaviour had nothing to do with her at all. His anger seemed more directed at his father than at her, and she was just the convenient whipping boy. 'Anyway, now that you're chairman I don't see how your father can manipulate you.'
'Don't you? My God, you're a dumb little cow sometimes.'
Sarah stiffened at the casually uttered insult.
'Intelligent enough to be damned good at my job.'
'Intelligent, but dumb,' agreed Max infuriatingly.
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'That's what I mean.' Her irritation seemed to have restored his good humour. 'If I thought you did, you'd have been on the doorstep by now. And you didn't land the job, the job landed you . .. well and truly.' He laid his head back against the cushions and studied her through thick, dark lashes. 'You look thinner.'
'So do you,' countered Sarah nervously. He had always been unpredictable, but never this much—blowing hot and cold with one breath. 'You look tired, too.' The blue shadows were back around his eyes, the bones of his temples more pronounced, giving him a lean and hungry look.
'I am.' The admission surprised her. The Max she knew would have denied it. 'Have you been homesick?'
'I haven't had time. In any case, there wasn't a lot to feel homesick for.' Only you, only you.
'What about lover-boy?'
'If you mean Roy Merrill,' said Sarah, in a carefully neutral voice, 'he was very pleased for me. And he was never my lover.'
They measured glances for a few seconds, and Max was the first to look away. 'Well, it doesn't matter now.' The flat voice hammered a shaft of steel through her heart.
'No.'
Suddenly the effort of sitting there, trying to appear unmoved, was too much. She got up and walked restlessly, as the man had done before her, revealing her agitation more with each passing minute. She wished she had never come. She wished she was sophisticated enough to smile and mean it. She wished the polish was diamond-hard and not just skin deep. She forced herself to display an interest in the various works of art, though in reality she saw nothing, too acutely aware of the dark man watching her every move. She had never known such silence, like the end of the world, and the longer it grew the more impossible it was to break. She almost jumped out of her skin when, on consulting her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes a velvety voice floated in from the edges of eternity.
'You may as well relax, Sarah, you're in for a very long wait.'
'What?' She gave him a hunted glance.
'We may as well make ourselves comfortable . . . find a pleasant way to pass the time. Come over here.'
Sarah's skin prickled as she registered that certain lilt. 'What for?'
He smiled lazily and her eyes widened. Surely he wouldn't have the gall to . . . 'Come here and see.' He would.
'No,' she said, violently, staying where she was, a safe distance of several metres. Even so she took a hasty step back as Max rose slowly to his feet, yawning and stretching until the long body shuddered, every muscle seeming to settle back into complete relaxation. He no longer looked tired, but somehow refreshed, his smile widening as if her increasing nervousness amused him, pleased him.
'You always were nervy around me,' he observed. 'Some things don't change, do they, Sarah?'
Sarah licked her lips and his eyes dropped to her mouth. 'Like that. You always do it when you're scared; and I always find it erotic' He paused and the blood thundered in Sarah's ears. She was convinced that either she was drunk, or he was, or they both were. 'Are you scared of me now, Sarah?'
'Should I be?' She meant it to be discouraging but it came out a squeak.
'Yes. Oh, yes.'. He came towards her on catlike tread and she backed away.
'Max, stop it!'
'Stop what?' he asked innocently, still coming.
'This stupid game, whatever it is.'
'No game, Sarah,' he said, grinning wolfishly as she backed up against a large white stone sculpture, hemmed in by the back of the couch on one side and a table topped with the glowing globes on the other. I've had enough of games. This time it's for real.'
Sarah's nerves were as taut as wire as she watched him stop an arm's-length away, resting a lean hip against the back of the couch, casually unbuttoning and removing his wais
tcoat, and undoing several of his shirt buttons. Butterflies began a frantic dance in Sarah's stomach. She craved his touch, his soft words, but not like this. He thought she was an easy lay, a body with which to relieve the frustrations of a tiring day.
'Your father will be here any minute,' she said desperately, but Max was ignoring her flutterings, his mouth twitching as he looked at her.
'How clever of you to wear red, it's so . . . evocative. I remember the last time you wore a red dress. All I could think of was what was underneath it—the honey-flavoured skin, those little shreds of lace . . . kissing you up against that wall, arousing you until all you could do was moan for me. Remember?' His voice had dropped to a husky murmur, his eyes almost clouded as he watched the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Sarah almost moaned then. She remembered. Every inch of her body tingled with the memory.
'I see you do,' he said dreamily and she, struggling weakly in the silken web of sensuality, only gave him token resistance when he pounced, pulling her towards him until their bodies bumped together.
'That's better. Little fool, stop fighting me. This is what you're here for.'
With one arm around her he thrust his other hand into her hair and tilted her head back kissing her roughly. It was as though he had never stopped.
Still holding her he let himself fall over the low back of the couch, carrying her with him so that she lay on his chest, hair falling in a silky curtain around their faces. His mouth moved against hers hot and hungry, parting her lips with an eager tongue. It happened so suddenly, that much-desired, long dreamed-of embrace, that Sarah was instantly excited—pride, scruples melting like sugar in the mouth. He was rough, but it was a roughness born of passion, not anger, and Sarah welcomed it, welcomed also the change of that first devouring assault to a mutual exploration.