Sweet Vixen

by Susan Napier

  'How convenient,' he said pleasantly. His pen paused and he looked at her for the first time since she had entered the room. The hazel eyes had a strange, opaque quality, quite empty of expression.

  Ignoring her sinking heart Sarah rushed untidily into her story, about Roy and the trip, and the hot water cylinder, and his habit of falling asleep in the bath. Shorn of background and atmosphere it sounded painfully thin, even to Sarah. The more she became aware of it the more tangled her explanation became. He listened with an impassive, unblinking, lack of interest for a few minutes before cutting in as she faltered for a third time:

  'What are you so uptight about? Forget it, Sarah, it doesn't matter.' He smiled, a thin unpleasant smile that went no further than a faint movement of the lips. 'Post­mortems bore me.'

  He bent his head again, adding, a few seconds later when he became aware that she was still standing there, stunned:

  'Teresa's waiting for you in the studio. Let's get this over and done with, shall we?'

  Nobody, but nobody, ignored Max when he spoke in that clipped, impatient fashion, not even Sarah at her bravest, and at that moment her bravery was at its lowest ebb. His studied indifference had a devastating effect on her self-confidence. Did he really care so little? Or was it all a front? With Max it was difficult to tell.

  Sarah stretched out a hand to touch the dress which hung alongside the mirror. Perhaps he wouldn't be so indifferent when he saw her in that. He had been mildly complimentary at the fitting and mild approval from Max was equivalent of rave reviews from anyone else. Perhaps he needed something to jolt him into remembrance of what they had shared, of the husky words of promise he had murmured to her last night. This dress could do it, if anything could. It was beautiful.

  The long, pure silk dress was the same toffee-apple-red colour as her lips, the broad straps supporting a low, square-cut bodice, the narrow waist stitched in a V-shape at the front, giving the dress a slightly medieval look, with the skirt falling in soft folds to the floor. Over the bodice fitted a high-necked, long-sleeved silk chiffon camisole, embroidered with dark red sequins, fluttering to a scarfed hem at waist-level.

  'Sorry to be so long,' Teresa bounced through the door carrying a pair of strappy red high-heeled shoes which she stood neatly under the hanging dress. ‘I must learn to organise myself more . . . Now, where was I? A dab of freshener to set you, I think. Are they ready yet, do you know?'

  'Mike's still setting up.' Sarah closed her eyes as the other girl dabbed on some cold, fragrant lotion with a cotton wool ball. Then with a flick of her wrist she whipped off Sarah's cloak of towels, eyeing the two wisps of lace which were all she wore underneath.

  'I know you complain about skinniness being the fashion, but I wouldn't mind a few of your curves. It's almost a pity to put on the dress. If you walked around like that you wouldn't have to worry about make-up. No one would look at you above the neck!'

  'This is supposed to be an Autumn Collection,' Sarah grinned, used to Teresa's frankness by now.

  'That's better. You looked a bit down in the mouth—' she broke off as the door swung open behind them. Sarah's whole body tensed as she saw the reflection of their visitor.

  'You could have knocked,' Teresa said, in her mildly bossy tone.

  'Sarah's not shy. Are you, Sarah?' Her heartbeat accelerated as she briefly met sardonic eyes in the mirror. Was he going to say something in front of Teresa? She looked hastily around for her towels, but they had already been stuffed into the laundry bag in the far corner of the room and not for anything was Sarah going to stand up and expose herself to that subjective appraisal.

  'That's not the point,' said Teresa, unaware of the undercurrents. 'It can be most off-putting to have people barging in on you unexpectedly.'

  Fortunately, Max wasn't required to make a reply for at that moment Julie poked her head around the half-open door.

  'Excuse me, Max. I know you're not set up yet, can I borrow Teresa for a few minutes? I need some advice and I might not get the chance to ask her later on.'

  'Ten minutes,' said Max, not taking his eyes off Sarah.

  'Thanks.' She disappeared and Teresa took off her thin protective wrap and hung it on the hook on the back of the door.

  'Don't do anything I wouldn't do,' she said cheekily, as she scampered out after Julie.

  The skin prickled all the way down Sarah's bare spine but she controlled the impulse to squirm. He had taken off the light jacket he had worn in the office, she noted as her eyes avoided his, to reveal a cool white shirt, tailored in some rough linen weave, tucked into oatmeal trousers with a snakeskin belt. He had rolled up his sleeves for work in the hot studio and undone two shirt buttons, and the black mist of body hair on his forearms and rising from his chest brought back memories that made Sarah swal­low nervously. She cleared her throat. By now she should be used to the way that Max used silence as an intimidat­ing weapon.

  'Would you mind passing me that wrap behind you?'

  'A bit late to worry about covering yourself up, isn't it?' he said laconically.

  'It's quite cool in here,' Sarah said with incredible casualness.

  'Odd. Such a small room. And no air-conditioning.'

  There wasn't either, Sarah suddenly noticed, and flushed furiously, glaring at him. He was using that sarcastic, supercilious voice she so detested. The more so because she suspected it was assumed. He wasn't looking in the least bored.

  'And I don't like being stared at,' she said rashly.

  'You surprise me.' Icicles dripped from every syllable.

  'I thought that was what interested you . . my un­expectedness,' she mocked softly and for a moment the bored mask slipped and hazel eyes blazed yellowly at her, to be veiled immediately. But Sarah felt a surge of triumph. She had penetrated that blank façade, now she must cut off his retreat. Get his anger out in the open where she could fight it. She twisted round in the chair to look at him properly. He was a long way up. 'Do you think that I'm an exhibitionist simply because I have my picture painted?' She caught the thought which hardened his face. 'All right, it was in the nude but Roy is a fine artist, a serious and dedicated man. I wouldn't have posed otherwise.'

  His eyes had flickered at the mention of Roy. 'Oh, I agree he's good. It's a superb piece of work. So good that one can forgive it its sheer dishonesty.'

  'Dishonesty!' She felt a prick of anger on Roy's behalf. 'That's unfair. Roy has great integrity, he's the most decent and honest man I know!'

  'Then I pity him!' Sarah shrank from the full force of his contempt, shocked by its intensity, beginning to appreci­ate the magnitude of the task she had set herself. He turned and she thought, with a mixture of fear and relief that he was going to walk out. But, ominously, he merely closed the door, then leaned his long length against it while his narrowed eyes crawled slowly over her half­naked body. 'Does he still see you as the innocent temp­tress? I doubt it, after last night. No one's that gullible.'

  'Will you pass me the wrap, please?' Sarah asked, waveringly.

  'You're not showing me anything I haven't already seen.' Carelessly he unhooked the wrap and tossed it across, watching cynically as she put it on and stood up to tighten the belt, facing him proudly. 'Less, thanks to your . . . shall we say, enthusiasm? And your. . . friend’s artistic skill. Next time, though, he should paint you as you are. A temptress indeed, but with all the innocence of a whore!'

  'I thought post-mortems bored you,' Sarah said, stun­ned by his crudity but still grimly holding on to her composure.

  'I thought that would hit home,' he told her, betraying pleasure. 'Incredible, isn't it, that any man could resist your injured innocent act?'

  'I hope you enjoyed your petty revenge,' Sarah threw at him fiercely. 'So much for your much-vaunted sense of justice! You won't listen to the facts because you don't want to hear anything that will challenge your infallible assumptions!'

  'The operative word being facts, not your brand of pretty fiction,' he said with bit
ter clarity. 'There's nothing wrong with a whore, as long as she's an honest whore.'

  'You have a twisted sense of morality,' Sarah choked in wrathful indignation. 'No wonder you confuse fact and fiction. You were taking me to bed last night, not to church, and it's only your pride and vanity that got hurt. You're not going to save face by indulging in cheap name-calling—'

  Max elbowed himself off the door with a suddenness that had Sarah clutching the chair between them.

  'Cheap?' he snarled. 'Why not? You were mine for the price of a meal!'

  'And you were mine for nothing,' Sarah flung back. 'What does that make you?'

  His nostrils thinned. 'At least I offer exclusivity.'

  Sarah laughed; a shrill, brittle sound. 'Of what? Club membership? Mistresses and ex-mistresses of Max Wilde? I thought that was open to the public.'

  'Jealous?' he thrust, harshly mocking, and something inside Sarah writhed briefly and died.

  'Of you? Don't be ridiculous!' she spat, tempted to throw the chair full in his sneering face. 'I was^ just pointing out that you're the last one to preach morals to me. Maybe you're too corrupt to be able to understand that a man and woman can have a platonic relationship like Roy and I. Well, I don't give a damn what you think anymore. Roy and I have known each other for seven years. He was a good friend of Simon's, and of mine—'

  'I'll bet he was,' Max inserted silkily. 'And with whom was he the more intimate—your husband ... or you?'

  'You . . . vile . . . hypocritical swine,' Sarah gasped out, flushed and trembling so hard she had to grip the back of the chair. Leaning into it frantically, eyes glittering bril­liantly, she was unaware of how excited and exciting she looked in the grip of raging temper. 'How dare you make such foul, such rotten accusations. You know nothing. You're a bigot and a coward—you're afraid to listen, to admit any weakness or wrong, because that would mean you'd have to come down off your self-created Olympus and let the rest of us see how fallible, how human you are! You're not a god, Max—I don't think you know what you are!'

  The narrow face darkened and Max made an indistinct sound in his throat, hands curling slowly into fists at his sides, balls of bone and muscle. He took a step towards her, as if he couldn't help himself and Sarah recoiled,' letting the chair fall with a sharp clatter. He wouldn't resort to physical violence would he?

  'It won't work, Sarah, not this time,' he told her through his teeth. 'I know you now for what you are: a treacherous, amoral little slut!' His mouth twisted in contempt, his voice filled with loathing. 'You're clever, I'll give you that—a woman has to be to fool me. But I never make the same mistake twice.' He took on a cruel mimic­ry: '/ don't remember ever feeling like this. You must have a singularly short memory!'

  Each word was a drop of acid etching itself into her fiery brain. Sarah tugged the thin wrap tighter, as if it could protect her from the merciless onslaught. The whole situation had exploded in her face and she was too hurt now to retract anything, or even want to. Perhaps she had provoked him, but only because she refused to be ground into the dirt as a result of his intransigence.

  As she hugged herself, drawing the slippery material taut over her breasts, she saw the smouldering eyes drop by the merest flicker of a lash and fix themselves again on her face with a strained intensity. And suddenly it hit her why he was so bitterly contemptuous and how she could exact bitter payment for all his insults.

  She rubbed her crossed hands up and down her arms, feigning weariness, watching Max's reaction through lowered lashes, noting the way his eyes unwillingly fol­lowed the slow, massaging movements. Yes. She let one hand drop and moved the other casually up to slide inside the neckline of the wrap. A muscle jumped in the lean jaw as she shifted the material slightly so that he had a brief glimpse of golden bare skin to her waist, the more enticing because it was now supposedly concealed.

  'What's the matter, Max?' she asked huskily. 'Does my body bother you?' His eyes jerked back to her face, shocked, and she gave him a slow smile. 'Not bored, Max. Never bored. My body fascinates you, doesn't it . . . my body, my hair. Did you dream about it last night? What you missed, what you wanted . . .'

  Dark blood ran up under the taut skin of his face and Sarah felt a hot, hard thump of victory in her chest. 'Poor Max,' she simpered. 'I turned you on and you don't know how to turn yourself off. . .'

  He cracked wide open then, in a way that appalled her even as it sent adrenalin racing through her veins. The hard, arrogant lines of his face blurred with rage, the eyes insensate and she panicked immediately, realising that in driving him over the edge she too had lost what little control she had.

  He came towards her, off the balls of his feet, and she held up a feeble hand to ward him off.

  'No, Max—I didn't mean—'

  'Oh yes, you did, you—' he struck her hand away, backing her up to one smooth, blank white wall. 'Haven't you got the guts to finish what you started?'

  'No—' she whispered, terrified at the demon she had released; at her own swirling, reckless excitement.

  'Are you a masochist as well as a nymphomaniac? On the lookout for new sensations. By God, I'll give you one!'

  He reached for her, and reacting instinctively Sarah clawed at him with elegant blood-red nails, but he shack­led her wrists with steely fingers, holding her at bay. 'Hit me, Sarah, and I'll hit you back. The only reason I didn't last time was because I thought you were a lady. But the lady's a tramp.' A thin razor-sharp smile sliced into her. 'You're the hypocrite, not me. I never pretended to be inexperienced, and at least I'm capable of being faithful to one woman at a time. My lovers don't have to worry about queues in the bathroom.'

  'I didn't know he was there,' she moaned, stupidly, hardly aware of what she was saying. He was just talking to feed the inferno inside him, building up to an explosive climax. His face, so close to hers, looked gaunt, scraped to the bone.

  'No? Maybe threesomes turn you on. Was I supposed to ask him to join us?'

  'You're disgusting.' She turned her burning cheek aside, but he was relentless, remorseless.

  'He looked fairly shattered, though. Did he kick you out after I left? But no doubt you've kept other options open . . . was I going to be one of them?'

  'Bastard,' she gritted, closing her eyes against the withering scorn, feeling the hot salty pressure against her lids.

  'A whore and a bastard. Perhaps we're made for each other. Shall we find out?'

  Slowly, inexorably, he pulled her wrists up and out until her arms were spread-eagled along the wall. She fought him every inch of the way, silently, with all her strength, but her futile struggles seemed to compound his enjoyment.

  'You're getting excited, darling,' he drawled savagely into her hectic face. 'Does it excite you to be handled roughly? Is that all part of the game?'

  He moved on to her, anchoring the centre of her body to the wall with his hips, his every deliberate action exuding sexual menace that was frightening and repelling. Yet dark, furious, threatening, he was still attractive and Sarah moved frantically, trying to twist away, horribly aware of something inside her that was responding to the physical stimulus. He laughed and laid the full length of his body against hers, rock-hard muscle from shoulder to knee and she was shaken by a compulsive, betraying shiver.

  'No, please . . . not like this,' she cried weakly and the answer came, raw and insolent:

  'Hell, isn't it, Sarah, when you want something you know you shouldn't? Beg if you must, but try and make it a little more convincing!'

  He lowered his mouth to hers, taking his time, indicat­ing he would use all his considerable skill to get what he wanted—complete submission. When she kept her mouth obstinately closed he moved sharply, crushing her against the wall until the pain in her shoulder-blades made her give a muffled sob. Immediately the enemy invaded the vulnerable territory, thrusting a coaxing, questing tongue into the deep moistness, tasting victory. Whichever way she moved her head he followed easily and soon she stopped, feeling hot and he
lpless and giddy, accepting him. He began to grind his hips against hers in a slow, sensual rhythm that mimicked the act of possession, rousing a sweet, familiar ache that made a mockery of Sarah's protest. But acquiescence wasn't enough for him and he kept up the forcible arousal until stark, awful reality faded and Sarah was swept back into a world of pure sensation, of touch and taste and feel. An involuntary groan broke from her lips as the blood began to throb at her pulse points, sing along her veins.

  The sound was absorbed into his mouth as he loosened his hold on her wrists, keeping her pinned with his body while he untied the belt at her waist.

  She freed her mouth long enough to plead:

  'No, Max—someone might come . . .'

  'Let them.'

  He kissed her again, and again, overcoming her brief resistance, roughly stripping the wrap from her shoulders, baring her body to his touch. His mouth was warm on her neck and she felt his practised hands run knowingly over her tingling skin, her body lifting and tautening to meet them. Desire raced along sensitive nerve endings and she moaned softly as his fingers stroked down the silken curve of her breast, slipping inside her flimsy bra to find and caress the burgeoning nipple.

  Her trembling increased. She was made for this, this blissful pleasure; and he to reveal it to her. It felt good. It felt right.

  She whispered his name, hands coming up to settle on the soft dark hair at his nape, cupping the shape of his head.

  It seemed to trigger a nerve and suddenly she felt him shudder and tense, swearing thickly against her throat, a vicious sound of self-disgust that tore the lovely fabric of her dream. He thrust himself violently away from her and she swayed, mind blunted by sensation, skin incandescent with heat, damp palms pressing back against the cool of the wall behind her.

  With an effort Sarah lifted heavy lids, bewildered at the swiftness of his withdrawal. Max had his back to her, bending stiffly to pick up the fallen chair and straighten it meticulously. His shirt was clinging damply to his skin and she saw the muscles beneath clench briefly before he turned around.