by Susan Napier
Sarah slipped on the underwear she had packed in the shoulder-bag and pulled the black-and-white sundress over her head. It was a simple uncrushable cotton sheath, elasticised at the waist with a slit to mid-thigh on one side. Simple but flattering the proportions of her body, which most of her other clothes failed to do. Today, for the first time in a long while she had felt the urge to wear something pretty. Now she wished she hadn't. He would think she was dressing to impress him.
She wrung out her suit over the little grate in the corner of the cubicle and tucked it into a plastic bag. Then, looping a couple of errant strands of wet hair into the dampness of her pleat, she re-emerged, thankful to have her sandals on again as protection from the blistering heat of the quarry tiles.
Over at the bar where she had left her drink Max was mixing something in a short glass. He was wearing white trousers and a slim-fitting body shirt, unbuttoned. He had been quick. No doubt he gets a lot of practice at rapid dressing, Sarah thought bitchily under cover of a smile.
He smiled too. 'I think this is the first time I've seen you out of swamp colours. What happened, did the military appropriate your wardrobe for camouflage manoeuvres? Open sandals too. My God, it's positively obscene!'
'It's my day off,' she replied, taking a firm grip on the smile.
'And mine. However there is a little matter of business we must discuss. Julie said we can use the privacy of her study.' He turned towards the open french doors, pausing with an exaggerated sigh when he realised Sarah had not moved.
'Are you waiting to be proved wrong again?'
'Pardon?' Where was Julie? Why did she get the feeling she had been manipulated yet again into an unwelcome situation?
'This is the second time you've suspected me of having designs on your virtue, isn't it? Never mind, maybe it will be third time lucky!'
CHAPTER SIX
Sarah sank into the depths of a plush leather chair and eyed Max Wilde across a large coffee table strewn with books and magazines as he did the same. He smiled, the charming smile he so rarely directed at Sarah . . . she wasn't usually worth charming.
'Well?' she asked, with wary politeness. 'What business do we have to discuss?' She was almost certain she was about to be chewed out for something.
Silently, he reached for a large black folder lying on top of the magazines, swivelling it around so that it faced Sarah.
'Open it, it won't bite,' he said, amused, as she looked at it suspiciously. ‘I’d like to know what you think. Take your time.' And he settled back in his chair as she slowly did as she was bid.
It was a design folio, crammed with a collection of beautiful, bold, dashing sketches. Sarah didn't need to check the sharp, angular signature to recognise the unique style of Sir Richard Wilde.
The contents of the folder were so fascinating that for once she was able to ignore the disturbing man opposite. What a fantastic collection of clothes—feminine and elegant, practical too! As she leafed through, a pattern emerged, a co-ordination of cut, cloth and contrast which was obviously intended to extend the versatility of each basic outfit. There were suits, trousers, skirts, jackets and soft blouses to mix and match; dresses classical and timeless, dresses dramatic and different—casual yet classy, designed for living, breathing women, not just models and mannequins.
The evening clothes were rather more exotic. There was
a breath of the East in the high collars, cross-over fronts and formalised lines; the teaming of short, jutting, button-less jackets in brilliant racing-silk colours with gowns of softer hues. There were also sleek lounging suits and a more glamorous kind of mix-and-match with cobweb-fine shawls and scarves and camisole tops.
With each page were a selection of fabric samples which Sarah fingered appreciatively. They were lightweight wools and wool-blends, silks and soft, easy-fitting knits. The colours were striking and unusual combinations of muted colours with pure, clear primaries. It was not difficult to imagine the myriad ways one could combine the individual elements of the wardrobe to produce variations on a theme.
'You obviously approve,' the dark chocolate voice melted into her thoughts.
'Who wouldn't?'
'You. Considering that you seem to be totally uninterested in your own clothes. Yet you must have some fashion sense to be able to do your job properly.' He retrieved the folder and put it into a leather briefcase which he then locked and placed back on the floor by his chair. 'I thought that anything that didn't feature sackcloth and ashes mightn't appeal to your introverted taste.'
Sarah was too curious to rise to the bait. 'Is this the Pacific Collection that there have been rumours about?'
'There's no Pacific Collection as such,' she was told. 'That's just a convenient smokescreen. What we are releasing here, and in Australia and the West Coast of the States, is a new label—Images. Not only a new label, a totally new market for Wilde Fashions—not couture, not mass-market, but somewhere in between.' 'What has this got to do with me?' 'Everything. I want you to model a selection of Images clothes for a feature in Rags & Riches'
'I beg your pardon?' She must have misheard. That or he was joking in spite of his bland expression.
'Wilde's has offered Julie an exclusive on the Collection for the April issue—it'll come out the week we hold the preview. Rags is going to do an eight-page feature in a 'before and after' format, aiming it specifically at the type of woman for whom Images is designed. Consider yourself lucky to be the chosen one.'
Lucky? Sarah stared blankly at the figure lounging in his chair. To exhibit herself in such a farce?
'It's a preposterous idea,' she said coldly. 'I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.'
'On the contrary,' he said calmly. 'It has many merits, not least as a good PR exercise, both for Wilde Fashions and for your magazine. And there's a more personal reason for you to give your co-operation. When the photographic session is over the clothes you model will be yours.'
Sarah opened her mouth but no sound came out. Did he seriously think that made any difference? She was familiar with the type of feature he had in mind, where a bevy of beauty experts turned an ordinary unprepossessing woman into a poised and glossy advertisement for the benefit of clothes and make-up. Done well, with style and imagination, it could be tremendously effective. Done on somebody else!
'I can think of better reasons not to,' she told him flatly. 'It's still a ridiculous idea—' She broke off and stared at his smug expression. 'It was yours, wasn't it? I should have known. No!'
'Of course it was mine. No one else would dare suggest you do something you didn't want to,' he replied drily. 'But you're perfect. I've never seen a more genuine example of "before" in my life. This feature will at least have realism on its side.'
'It's got nothing else!' snapped Sarah. 'You've made it very clear that you don't approve of the way I look. Isn't this a rather extreme and expensive method of pointing it out?'
'Cheap at the price,' he mocked. 'Since the clothes will be altered to your fitting and since Wilde's isn't in the business of selling second-hand goods, you're being offered them in lieu of payment. Although when I discussed this with Julie on Friday afternoon she did say you'd be delighted to do it for love.'
Oh did she? No wonder she had left it to him to break the news. Traitoress! That his comments were logical did nothing to soothe Sarah's ruffled spirits. Why didn't he lose his cool for once? He was too damned sure of himself . . . and of her eventual capitulation! But she didn't want to be reasonable. She was a woman and women were allowed to be perverse, weren't they?
'I'm not delighted and I won't do it,' she said sharply, but it had no effect. He continued to look quite unmoved. Sarah searched for something that would emphasise her distaste for the whole idea. 'And if you think I'm being coy, you're wrong! Should I feel grateful that you've condescended to play the great benefactor? Does it give you some kind of kick to think of yourself as fairy godmother to poor little Cinderella employees?'
'Don't take it so personally. I was merely pointing out the beneficial side-effects accruing from a business proposition. If you think that I have anything other than a professional interest in the matter then you grossly exaggerate your own importance. And if the idea of owning a Richard Wilde wardrobe is so unthinkable, by all means refuse it. Doubtless we can come to some other arrangement.'
Feeling like a child who has just thrown a tantrum in public—foolish and chastened—it was a moment before Sarah registered the implication of that last, throwaway line. He was still assuming her agreement a foregone conclusion.
'The question of accepting the dresses is irrelevant, since I have no intention of modelling them,' she said, at her stubbornest. 'Find someone else.'
'Don't be in such a hurry to reject an idea you know nothing about,' he said patiently, reasonably ... infuriatingly. 'I admit I expected some opposition from you, but I was sure that at least you would approach it with an open mind. Let me tell you something about Images. Then you can make your decision, and I'll abide by it.' He ignored thé way she was perching on the edge of her chair, ready to leave, and rolled straight over her half-articulated protest.
'Recent market research has shown that there's a growing, untapped market here for designer fashion in the middle price range. Women want three things: a name designer, a dress that's ready-to-wear but not anonymous, and thirdly and most importantly, one that's not going to break the bank. Images satisfies all those criteria.
He continued, outlining the motivation behind the collection with concise rapidity, sketching the progress of Images from idea to reality. He made it sound dramatic, appealing and assured of success. Like himself, whispered a tiny voice in Sarah's brain.
If it had been anyone other than Max Wilde describing the idea Sarah would have applauded. But she instinctively hesitated to like anything he did.
'A "before and after" feature would strike at the heart of the market. Clothes are a confidence-builder and the aim is to show the average woman just how confidently she can wear a Wilde design. You look good, you feel good ... it will show.'
'So why not find an average woman to model for you?' Sarah inserted.
'I have. You. You may not really be average, but you look it,' he said cryptically. 'To work, this thing has to be honest as well as dramatic, and with you it couldn't be anything but. We'll do a few paragraphs about you, have a couple of shots of you in everyday wear and let Images do the rest.'
'You're very confident that it will work.'
His face took on a look of hauteur. 'I am. I wouldn't help promote a line if I didn't believe in it.'
'But why me?' That sounded weak, so she tagged on: 'Why not Jane, or Nora?'
He drew a long breath, and Sarah wondered whether that spurious patience was at last running out. Would he give up?
'They already make the best of themselves, you don't. Nor do thousands of other women, women who read Rags. They would, if they could; if somebody showed them how. You're also quite photogenic—I've seen some of Mike's shots of you when you've been assisting at sessions. In fact you look better in photographs than you do in the flesh, which is another bonus.'
'Lucky me!'
'Yes, you are lucky. You have exactly what Images is trying to sell—potential.'
He moved his arm casually, draping it over the back of his chair so that his hand swung down, touching the folds of his open shirt. The muscles of his chest tautened and relaxed as he did so and Sarah couldn't help being acutely aware again of his body, the separate components that made up the virile whole—nerve, muscle, sinew.
He was watching her now, a faint smile on his lips, as though he guessed the effect he had on her and Sarah felt her old antagonism flare up again. She forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying, to ignore the visual stimuli.
'Most women associate high fashion with beautiful models, thin as rakes and just as human. Something that's fine to look at but never seriously considered as wearable. But basically a model's stock-in-trade is self-confidence, and the high they get from consciousness of their own attractiveness. Beauty is in the mind, not the eye—of the wearer as well as the beholder.
'I'm still not interested,' she cut in on his persuasive flow. 'You'll just have to find somebody else.'
'Aren't you being rather selfish?' He picked up the drink that he hadn't touched since he came into the room and took a pull, as though he needed it. 'You'd be helping your readers, ergo your magazine, ergo your colleagues. Not to mention yourself. Most women would give their eye-teeth to own ten Wilde creations. You're getting them for nothing.'
'I'm not most women—'
'My God, you don't have to tell me that!'
'And I'm not getting them for nothing.'
'All but.' He finished the drink, fast, then leaned back and pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, pulling the stretch fabric tight against powerful thighs.
'What is it you're afraid of, Sarah . . . besides yourself? You're not being asked to sacrifice anything. A little publicity won't turn you into public property—it'll be the clothes that are famous, not you. No one will even remember your name. And what is so embarrassingly dreadful about being made to look attractive?' Put like that the two main lines of her defence looked painfully thin.
‘I just don't want to do it,' she said sullenly, unable to say why she really didn't want to do it. It wasn't her own importance she was in danger of exaggerating, it was his! She couldn't shrug off the fatalistic feeling that this man got whatever he wanted, regardless of what obstacles were thrown in his path.
'You mean you don't want to do it. . . for me,' he said, with uncanny perception, and his voice hardened. 'Let's take that as read, shall we? Personal considerations aside —your professional good sense should tell you it's a damned good idea. If you like the collection, and you've said you do, you can't claim you have any ethical objections.'
Sarah moistened her dry lips with her tongue, feeling herself weaken. He was right, she should put aside her dislike for him personally and consider it purely on merit.
Her hesitation finally exasperated him. 'For God's sake, what do you want me to do? Grovel?' All that sweet reasonableness was tossed out of the window when it seemed he wasn't going to get his own way after all. Grovel? She should live to see the day! 'I can't believe that even you are that self-centred, that humourless. Can't you even do it for a bit of fun? If you forgot about your own hangups for a moment we might get somewhere. It's not as if I'm asking you to strip off for a nude centrefold!'
The absurdity of her intransigent stand suddenly struck her and Sarah laughed the first genuine laugh she had ever given in his presence. She laughed again when she saw the jerk of his head, the surprised expression that briefly crossed his face. What would he say if he knew she had stripped off? Not for a centrefold but for the artistic equivalent. That would be one in the eye for a man who thought he knew all about her just because he'd read her file!
On the heels of the comparison came another. In a way both he and Roy were offering the same thing—a chance for her to step outside herself and see how others saw her. Except Roy's assessment was based on the firm foundations of friendship, whereas the brooding man opposite, who was less of a stranger than she might wish, was dealing with superficialities. Certainly he wanted to use her for his own purposes, for his own profit, but if she accepted would she not be using" him, too? A satisfying thought. And why shouldn't she? Why cut off her nose to spite her face? Deep down she really did want to wear clothes like those in the folio, spread her wings a little, explore beyond those limitations she had set herself. It was time. And to hell with Max Wilde and his opinion of her.
'What's so funny, all of a sudden?'
'Nothing,' she s
aid, not quite removing the grin from her face, seeing and understanding his wariness. He didn't trust her any more than she trusted him. 'You're right, of course. When do we do it?'
'Do what?' he asked, very still.
'The feature. I agree. Isn't that what you wanted?'
He recovered himself. 'What made you change your mind?'
She shrugged, aiming for maximum annoyance. 'But I still think you would be wiser to get someone else.'
'No. You're the one who gave me the idea. You're a little on the voluptuous side for photographic modelling, but that's to our advantage in this case.' He looked her over again, but this time it was completely dispassionately and Sarah felt none of her former embarrassment. 'You've got good skin tone, and eyes and teeth ... we may have to do something with your hair—'
'Not cut it,' she said quickly, touching the dark mass protectively. There were limits to what her newly restored sense of humour would take.
He shrugged. 'That's up to Teresa Grey, our beauty consultant. She and a fitter will be arriving on Wednesday with the dresses. The complete collection won't be sent out until just before it's to be shown.'
'Wednesday! So soon?'
'I rang the salon on Friday and gave them your measurements, plus the selection which Julie and I had chosen . . . they're probably being made up right now. Time is of the essence, I want to see the page proofs before I leave or it will mean sending them to me in London for approval—and frankly I'd prefer that not to happen. A leak at this stage of any of the designs could prove extremely costly.'
Only his first few words were important, the rest she recognised as a red herring.
