Sweet Vixen

by Susan Napier

  'I believe Max has ambitions in that direction.' He smiled, with a brief gleam of maliciousness. 'Though you are quite welcome to fight it out, post-mortem. You might even beat him. Tom told me that you were quite capable of standing up for yourself

  'But how can you know that I will—' Sarah began, returning to her best defence.

  'Know? What is this obsession with knowing?' Sir Richard demanded, white-maned head tilting impatient­ly. 'I do not know that the designs of my hand will sell, but

  I have confidence in my talent. I have confidence in you.' 'But—'

  'Please,' he begged, setting down his crystal cham­pagne glass with a frown. 'Do not begin all your sentences with the word 'but', it begins to grate.'

  'I'm sorry, b—I mean, you must know many women capable of filling the position.'

  'Capable, yes, but acceptable? There is a difference. I receive many requests it is true, but usually those who seek my employ have an ulterior motive. They wish to get into modelling, or design, or my bed.' He paused, on that startling note, giving Sarah a moment to realise that he was still, though elderly, an attractive man. 'Such motives inevitably lead to conflicts and I do not need the distrac­tion. I do not want temperament—I have more than enough of that myself It was a relief to discover he had a sense of humour, that was the first time she had heard him being remotely humorous about himself. 'I want calmness and common sense, and intelligence, of course. Most important, I must have a woman who is not going to burst into tears every time I shout.'

  'And you think I wouldn't?'

  Hazel eyes narrowed. 'You have courage, and you are no sycophant.' He pursed his lips. 'Were you afraid of my

  Sarah swallowed. 'Sometimes.'

  'Hmm. He has a devil of a temper when roused.'

  'That's what he said about you.'

  He acknowledged it. 'But mine blows over as quickly as it occurs. Max is less flexible. He tries to be logical and life is not logical. I am logical only by accident.'

  'Do . . .? Would . . .?' the burning question was difficult to phrase, but it had to be asked, even though she intended to turn down Sir Richard's offer. 'Does your son have much to do with the Salon?'

  'Nothing at all.' Sir Richard clasped his hands over the ruffled white front of his shirt and smiled with self-satisfaction. 'I do not permit it. In fact we meet but rarely, and never socially. Max always was a solitary, secretive boy—' He pulled himself up. 'But we digress. I can see you wish to do some thinking—no!' when she would have protested, 'I insist. You may have until tomorrow to consider your answer. Now, pass me my cane and I will see you to the door.'

  Sarah handed over the thin, ivory cane which rested against the trolley, noticing as she did so that Sir Richard seemed to be having some difficulty in rising. Walking across the room with him she could see that the cane wasn't the purely fashionable accessory she had first thought it to be.

  'Are you all right, Sir Richard?' she couldn't help asking.

  Sir Richard sighed and reached out a hand for hers. Looking down at it she saw he was wearing two rings she had not seen before, gold with some dark stones. They were so heavy that they made the thin white fingers look quite frail.

  'Age, I'm afraid, Sarah. I'm no longer a young man. I cannot expect to enjoy the constant good health of my youth. Yet my work drives me on. I cannot afford to show weakness, it is not good press.' He closed his eyes briefly and Sarah was struck by the pallor of his skin. Sir Richard seemed to be so vital, yet even his energy could not be limitless. She remembered the times in the past few days when he had faltered until, conscious of being watched, he had drawn himself up and gone on. Such an active, mentally agile man must fear the encroachments of age, the strictures that it was gradually placing upon him. She felt the stirrings of compassion.

  He opened his eyes and smiled, a faintly wistful smile. 'Think well on it, Sarah, and think not only of yourself, but of me too. I need you.'

  Stranded in an emotional wilderness, Sarah was temp­ted. In the past month she had come to the disquieting realisation that she no longer filled her old, comfortable niche at Rags & Riches. She had out-grown it and hungered for something more demanding to fill the gaps that had opened in her life. She knew that if it had not been for Max she would have accepted Sir Richard's offer without a single question. But Max was inescapable. What would he say if she turned up under his nose, working for his father? He would think she was chasing him, grovelling for his attention, might even guess the truth. He would have nothing but contempt for her. But so what? He could not despise her any more than he did already and she could not let thoughts of Max rule her life forever, no matter how much she loved him.

  How naïve she had been to think that once Max's disturbing physical presence left her shores the tide of her emotions would begin to recede. It was quite the reverse, rolling in like a great wave, gathering strength and momentum, washing away all her feeble attempts to rationalise her love into something less dramatic, less shatteringly painful.

  What she had felt like after Simon's death paled by comparison. She had never ached like this . . . the phan­tom ache of a lost limb; unable to eat properly or sleep, consumed by the effort of keeping his haunting image at bay, so that she might at least appear normal. She dreaded the dark, lonely nights, lying awake for hours with her thoughts, but she dreaded even more closing her eyes and falling into that void where her subconscious released all the raw agony and despair that she wouldn't allow herself the luxury of feeling during the day.

  Anything would be better than the limbo she was in now, she thought that night as she tossed and turned in the large bed. Even the daily prospect of running into Max, and enduring the kind of cold, empty courtesy he had accorded her during his last week in New Zealand. The scene in the dressing room had obviously been a catharsis for him, so perhaps she was flattering herself to think he would care what she did. Given the relationship between Max and his father, his new responsibilities as Chairman, and the fact that London was a city of millions, the chances of their meeting were really rather slight.

  Sarah groaned, burying her face in her pillow, torn by conflicting feelings—wanting to see him again, but afraid of what it would do to her. Max had taught her a harsh lesson about herself. It was true that there was a deep-seated sensuality in her nature, but it was inextricably tied to an equally deep-seated desire for love and commitment. In the final analysis her intellectual need for independ­ence had proved secondary to the feminine desire to seek a mate—yet for Sarah that mate must be one she could respect for being as strong, or stronger than she was.

  Simon had tried to dominate her in his fashion, but because he had been basically weak he had not succeeded, and his failure had driven him to intolerable extremes. Max, if he wanted to, could do it effortlessly. He was the kind of man she had thought, in the pseudo-sophistication of her teens, that Simon was. Max had bullied her back into life, into love, and she should be grateful to him for that alone, regardless of the painful consequences. In a few short weeks he had shown her emotional heights and depths she had not been aware existed.

  Towards dawn she came to a decision. Love might change—grow or die—but regret was forever. If she didn't take this chance now she would regret it all her life. It was an opportunity to escape the humdrum, to make something of herself, and at the same time perhaps, just perhaps, she might be able to go some way towards healing the breach between Max and herself—regain his respect if not his friendship. Maybe. Perhaps; the stuff dreams are made of.

  Sarah stared out the car window at pedestrians quickened by the prospect of another cool April shower, umbrellas unfurling, eyes beginning to turn streetwards, in cynical anticipation of the magical disappearance of every taxi at the first spit of rain. I'm glad I've got mine, she thought, three weeks in London having taught her that a certain amount of selfishness was a necessity if one was to survive in the big city.

  Selfishness was also necessary to survive the rigours of her employment. Sarah had
found that if she didn't strive to have her needs and opinions acknowledged they were often completely overlooked according to the unwritten law that Sir Richard knew best. Frequently though, he did—as witness the ease with which he detached her from her old life, just as he said he would. In no time at all Sarah found her resignation accepted, notice waived, passage booked with all the red tape in tatters behind her. She was duly farewelled with envious enthusiasm . . . and a whis­per in her ear from Julie that if she should ever come across the makings of a good exclusive . . .

  When it came to the crunch Sarah had left her job, her home, her country with surprisingly few regrets. Only Roy was a wrench and he was his usual disgustingly cheerful self as she wept over him at the airport.

  'Hell, don't ruin my only good T-shirt,' he told her. 'Now go on, cut the apron strings. Be good. Be happy. And if you can't be both at the same time, forget the good!'

  'Here you are then, miss.' Sarah realised with a start that the taxi had stopped. She looked out at the multi­storey building shooting up into the darkening sky from a slick, rain-swept pavement.

  'Oh, thank you.' She fumbled for change and opened the door, drawing her cream woollen coat tightly around her for the dash to the double-glass doors.

  Crossing to the reception desk she glanced around the warm, brightly-lit foyer with interest. This was the first time she had been to Wilde House. Since he had relin­quished his chairmanship, Sir Richard no longer had offices here and he actively discouraged his staff making contacts with the wider organisation, in the interests of security. Sarah was more inclined to believe the reasons more personal—Sir Richard, having narrowed down his activities, was jealously guarding the autonomy of his private kingdom. It was true that gossip flowed in torrents through the Wilde Salon, but respect for their monarch's talent and an even healthier respect for his pyrotechnic displays of temper engendered an almost fanatical loyalty amongst Sir Richard's staff—not a whisper escaped their lips outside the Salon walls.

  Living-in at Rawlings, Sir Richard's Berkshire home, was one of the conditions of Sarah's employment and she couldn't help but enjoy her sudden ascent into luxury. Work and leisure time tended to become intermingled but at first Sarah was too busy finding her feet and coping with the realisation that her new employer enjoyed better health and a worse temper than he had led her to believe, to find the insularity restrictive. Now, however, she was eager to try her wings.

  For three weeks she had done little more than shuttle between Rawlings, where a design team worked under Sir Richard's personal direction, and the Salon in Oxford Street, where the main business was carried out. In either place she was directed to researching records—'learning the ropes'. There would be no trips or social engagements until she was adequately prepared, she was sternly in­formed, and when she dared to question the value of heavy tomes on the origins of the fashion industry, or eti­quette ...

  'There is a purpose in everything I do.' Sir Richard was at his most pompous. 'You are no longer a classless New Zealander, you are part of my entourage and as such I cannot have you embarrassing me with exhibitions of ignorance or ill-breeding. You still have much to learn. . . besides, your new wardrobe has not arrived yet. Those clothes you're wearing—they are not mine.' The ultimate condemnation.

  Fortunately her custom-made clothes had now arrived, and at last she had been let off the leash. That morning she has been resigned to yet another day 'swotting' in the office at Rawlings while Sir Richard and Kevin Matlock attended an exclusive showing for a very famous client. A phone call after lunch had provided the diversion.

  'Sarah, I need you.'

  At last. 'Yes, Sir Richard,' she replied meekly.

  'Kevin very carelessly omitted to bring some papers that I must study before my evening engagement. You will find them on his desk, in a yellow envelope. Can you bring them to me?'

  'Of course. Are you at the Salon?'

  'No, I'm at the Duchess' residence in Mayfair, but I don't wish to be interrupted here. I shall be going to the penthouse to change at six, you had best meet me there.'

  'The penthouse?' Sarah faltered, clutching the receiver with suddenly slippery fingers.

  'Max's place, at Wilde House,' came the impatient reply. 'I often use it when he is away—'

  'Away?' A rush of cowardly relief washed over her.

  'New York, I understand. For several days. When / was chairman I made a point of being in London for at .least one week in four; Max makes no such concession ... I must discuss it with him when he returns.' A pause as he rearranged his thoughts. 'Yes, meet me at six; and wear something formal, the red velvet I think. You may come with me this evening. It is only a small celebration for a minor member of European royalty, but it will be an experience for you—a chance for you to practise the despised etiquette, hmmm?'

  Riding up in the small private lift, Sarah watched the lights flick on and off—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Her stomach tightened with every floor. Ridiculous to feel scared of an empty apartment, or even of an occupied one. Max was the real reason she was here after all, in spite of all that cleverly contrived mumbo-jumbo about the job being the thing. She hadn't even come close to seeing him, let alone exchanging unpleasantries since she had arrived, but the hopeful fantasies continued to tantalise her. Therein lay the root of her fear—wasn't it better to travel in hope . . .

  The lift doors rolled back and she was facing a single, heavy black-padded door across a width of white carpet.

  She stepped up and took a deep breath and pushed the laquered button beside the door. She waited in the thick silence, feeling like a spy. This was Max's home, his lair, and she was here without his knowledge. She felt as guilty as if she was contemplating stealing something.

  The door opened with quiet suddenness to reveal a short, middle-aged man in a dark suit. He regarded Sarah with a brief expression of consternation before habitual deference reasserted itself.

  'Mrs. Carter?' he asked, as if he really wasn't sure, but Sarah had distinctly heard the security guard down below ring the penthouse to check that she was expected.

  'Yes. Sir Richard's assistant,' she added unnecessarily, disturbed by the odd vibrations she was receiving.

  'Please come in,' he invited, with now impassive polite­ness. 'My name is Brandon. I'm Mr. Wilde's butler.' He took her damp coat as she juggled her handbag and the large envelope of papers. 'If you will come this way.'

  Sarah followed the upright figure over the white cera­mic tiles of the entry hall, past masses of sub-tropical greenery and into the deep luxurious pile of an electric-blue carpet which covered the floor of the split-level lounge.

  On the upper level was a large formal dining area. Steps led down to the lounge proper, acres of it, bounded on one side by floor-to-ceiling windows which looked out over a roof garden with a kidney-shaped pool, calm waters reflecting the dull grey sky.

  At first glance Sarah was dazzled by the magnificence of it all. White and a myriad of blues from eggshell to turquoise, rough-textured fabrics contrasted with smooth velvets, glass and steel, ceramics and laminated woods. All the lights were recessed, including the ceiling spots which were directed on to paintings and prints lining the walls. Sculptures from small to life-size were scattered around the room. It was beautiful, but sterile. There were no personal touches, no warmth, no soul.

  She turned and caught the butler's black button eyes on her face and wondered whether her ambivalent opinion showed. Certainly the unspoken question did.

  'Wilde Interiors were given a free hand, madam.'

  'Oh.' She walked slowly down the steps. If she had Max's money she wouldn't leave the decoration of her home to someone else, she'd have the fun of doing it herself. If she had Max she wouldn't care if she lived in a hovel! She pulled herself up sharply. 'Where are the gilded cherubs?' she enquired facetiously, not' expecting to be understood.

  'Madam has been to Rawlings?'

  Sarah looked at the close-cropped head suspiciously. Madam has. Th
e butler at Rawlings used the third person too, but never with the hint of dryness she detected in this bland-faced man. And he was actually condescending to engage her in conversation . . . not etiquette at all, and she should know!

  'I'm living there at present,' she explained, and with a faint smile. 'I don't think baroque is quite my style.' At least this had an open, uncluttered look, whereas Sir Richard's taste for flourishes had been indulged to the full at Rawlings, with almost claustrophobic results, Sarah thought.

  'Indeed, madam.' The black eyes gleamed. 'My tastes are also rather more modern. Would you like a drink while you are waiting for Sir Richard?'

  Sarah glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. Sir Richard's timekeeping was at best erratic, prone as he wais to distraction, he might arrive in five minutes, or not for another hour.

  'That would be nice. A brandy and ginger ale, please.'

  She put her bag and envelope down and sat on one of the long white couches that formed an open-ended square by the windows, sinking into the well-padded .velvet cushions as Brandon opened a white louvred door in the wall to reveal an extensive array of bottles and glasses. After handing her the amber glass tinkling with ice, he pressed a button concealed in the wall and the raw silk curtains, one shade lighter than the carpet, whispered across the windows. At the same time the ceiling lights dimmed and a collection of small glass spheres heaped on various tables throughout the room began to glow softly.

  'How beautiful!' slipped from her involuntarily. 'But I don't see any cords, how do they work?'

  'They are operated by microwave. It was Mr. Wilde's personal recommendation.'

  Here was a chance to ask the question she had been dying to ask, and with as much casualness as she could muster said, 'When is Mr. Wilde due back?'

  'Due back?' The neutral repetition stopped Sarah's heart in mid-beat.

  'Sir Richard told me he was in New York, for several days,' she said quickly, staring at him with wide, dark eyes.

  Brandon cleared his throat. 'Ah yes, New York,' he agreed, to Sarah's unutterable relief. His face moved stiffly and she realised that he was actually attempting a smile—butlers would spin in their graves! 'Mr. Wilde flies Concorde. It renders the distance so negligible one scarce­ly considers the United States to be "abroad". I dare say it would take you longer to come down from Berkshire in the rush-hour.'