by Susan Napier
She closed her eyes, sighing as his mouth moved over her delicate ear, moving her own mouth against the warm muskiness of his neck, loving the feel of domination it gave her to lie on top of him, to feel his body tremble beneath hers.
His hands moved through the warm softness of her hair and he used it to pull her sideways and roll with her so that now he was lying half on top of her, his thighs heavy on hers, hands moving over her as he kissed her face, her throat and the upper curve of her breasts above the dress. She twisted, pressing herself feverishly closer to him, hair spilling in a cascading wave over the side of the couch to the floor.
She felt the warmth of his hand on her leg, sliding up the heavy velvet of her dress, stroking her thigh with soft, circular movements and felt his slurred murmur against her throat.
'How I've waited for his . . . moan for me, sweet vixen, like you did before . . .'
His hand moved up under her dress, sliding across her satiny stomach as he brushed his mouth back and forth across her skin just above the deep curve of her bodice. The fabric suddenly felt tight and constrictive, heavily encasing her, inhibiting her enjoyment. The blood rushed dizzily to her head as it drooped over the side of the couch. A physical sensation that was close to swooning, a voluptuous sighing, straining sensation took hold of her. She was gasping for air in his arms, dying of sweetness and love . . .
Next moment she was being shaken out of her daze, the caressing hands had become a vice about her waist. 'What did you just say?'
'Hmmm?' She didn't care, she tried to pull his head back down but he wouldn't let her. He dragged her so that they were both sitting up.
'What did you say?'
'I don't know ... I don't remember,' she said, frightened. She didn't want to think, or talk, she wanted to make love. She no longer cared how little he thought of her, she wanted one beautiful, intimate memory to take away with her. To sustain her against the bitter truth she had faced tonight.
'Something about loving me.'
'No.' Not even in the incandescent heat of the moment could she have betrayed herself so utterly. 'No, I said —make love to me.'
'You lying bitch, you said you loved me!' He shook her brutally hard and she choked back a sob. Was he angry because he thought she had said it as a form of blackmail to try and worm her way back into his good books?
'You must have misheard me—'
The hell I did!' He put a hand on the side of her face and forced it back as she would have looked away from him. 'I love you", you said—and you meant it. That's why you took that job with my father, because you wanted to get close to me: because you were desperate enough to settle for whatever you could get—isn't it? Isn't it?' His eyes burned yellowly into hers and she knew by his look, his grip, that he was intent on forcing an answer. God, how he must hate her, to do this to her!
'Perhaps I did say it,' she said wildly, giving him the lesser victory, 'but you already know how responsive I am to you physically. You can make me say anything, do anything, when I'm in your arms—'
'And have done so . . . but not tonight. I wasn't asking anything of you tonight. I wasn't taking advantage of your sexual thrace,' he gave a peculiar, excited laugh. 'What you said you said of your own free will. And you'll say it again.'
'No!' With an anguished cry she tore herself out of his hands and fled, plunging through the nearest door, down a short hallway into the dimness beyond. A dead end; she turned at bay.
'You're always trying to get away from me, darling,' came the silky drawl from the dark silhouette in the doorway. 'Haven't you learned yet how hopeless it is?' He couldn't know how true that was. 'This time you've made a truly Freudian slip.'
The room leaped into life as he touched a switch by his side and Sarah realised with dismay that she was in a bedroom—his bedroom. It had to be. All white and black and silver, the tubular chrome curves of the bedstead rising flatly from the wide, wide, black fur-covered bed.
Sarah could feel herself beginning to shake, beginning to weaken. What did pride matter? He was right, she would settle for whatever she could get. . .
'Max . . . your father . . .' she panted, a last fatalistic attempt to put him off the scent.
'My father, my sweet little innocent, won't be coming to the party.'
'What?' Distractedly she stared at him.
'Didn't I say you were dumb?' He didn't move from the doorway, just looking, savouring her nervous fear. 'He set you up, and me. We may as well go along with it. Did you know it was my birthday today?'
Sarah stared at the madman. Did he want her to sing 'Happy Birthday'?
'He likes his presents to be unique, extravagant. . . and superbly wrapped. . .'
She didn't need his eyes wandering over her to tell her what he meant.
'You're mad,' she breathed.
'Insane,' he agreed. 'You told me that before. And my father told me, when I spoke to him on the telephone this morning that when I got back from New York, he had a present for me that he would deliver tonight.' His eyelids drooped. 'And that it was something I wanted. . . very. . . much.'
'He wouldn't.' Sarah whispered, feeling used, confused.
'He did. It's the kind of devious game he likes to play.' Max smiled, too kindly. 'I imagine you're feeling now like I felt when I found out you worked for him. You'll get used to it, and him.'
'But how, why should he?' Sarah's fear had receded on impact of this new bombshell, as she slowly fathomed the implications.
'No doubt he was concerned about my mental health. My convalescence in New Zealand didn't seem to have had the effect he was hoping for—so he obviously did some detective work. And if Tom knew you were here, I can guess where he got his best information from.'
Oh, God—Tom! What sort of information had he provided Sir Richard with? His suspicion that she loved Max? No wonder Sir Richard had been so smug when she accepted his job, and all the time he had been planning this—coolly working it all to a precise timetable. And all because . . . her eyes stopped looking inward and re-focused on the man who had moved into the room without her realising it and now stood an arm's-length away, watching the expressions chase across her face. Watching her reach the unbelievable conclusion.
'Why should he think you wanted me?' she asked, hardly daring to voice the question out loud.
'Perhaps he came here snooping.' His steady gaze went past her. 'And saw that.'
Numb as her brain was, she knew what she would see before she turned. Knew, feared, hoped. And there it was. On the wall, by the bed, displayed by the soft lighting. The picture, Roy's picture—that alluring, inviting Sarah —safe in some rich American's private collection, so she'd thought. She closed her eyes, and opened them. It was still there, telling her something, and she was terrified of misunderstanding the message.
She turned back, skin milk-white, eyes huge and dark.
'Why?'
'You know why.'
But she didn't. She couldn't make the step, the leap from fantasy to fantastic reality. 'Tell me.'
He moved to touch her and stopped, warned by her expression. 'Did you mean it when you said you loved me?'
She knew what he wanted. He wanted her to make it easy for him. But he had hurt her too much. Let him risk rejection, know the pain of uncertainty.
'Tell me.'
He began stiffly, guardedly. 'I knew it was going to be sold in America so I had my dealer put up a standing bid for any new works of Merrill's that came on the market. I got it two weeks ago.' His voice became rough, and he wouldn't look at her, staring instead at his fingers playing lightly over the chrome of the bed end. 'I didn't have you, so I had to have the next best thing, no matter what it cost me. And it cost me quite a lot.' The smile was a mere twitch. 'I flew it out first-class Concorde on a seat all of its own, with an escort.'
'You wanted it that much?'
He looked at her, dark lashes flickering, sweat breaking out on his forehead as though this was a labour of physical strength. 'I wanted
you that much. It didn't start out that way. In the beginning I just wanted to go to bed with you, to draw out the fire that I sensed inside you, for my own pleasure. Yet the more I got to know you the more I wanted to know. You tried to be so dull. . . but with me you were sharp and fierce and passionate, and you had an inner strength and intelligence that I liked. And then, and then—' he broke off and swallowed, and his voice became thick with effort as he forced himself to continue.
'That night at your place the whole world crashed in on me. I felt humiliated, betrayed, as if I had some moral claim on you when in fact I had none. I felt angry, jealous, things I've never felt before about a woman. I didn't know what was happening to me and I hated feeling so ... so helpless before you.'
The bewilderment was there on his face and in his voice, as he had felt it then. He was carrying on an internal struggle, grimly intent on stripping away a lifetime's defences—on holding up each imperfection to the light for her inspection.
'The next day, when you told me about your relationship with Merrill I wanted to believe you so badly that it scared me. I wouldn't let myself listen. For the first time I was in an emotional situation I couldn't control. It was important that you be a cheat and a liar and a promiscuous tart, because that gave me the perfect excuse to reject you, to regain control. But it didn't work like that. I still wanted you, and I hated myself for it so I—I—God' He closed his eyes briefly, clinging tightly to the cold chrome and sucking in a painful breath. When I think what I did, what I said ... I thought you must know and be laughing at me for my weakness.'
He jerked his head sideways, but not before Sarah had seen the strange glitter in his eyes and was awed. Tears ... for her . . . and bitter self-condemnation. Suddenly she didn't want to hear any more of this forced confession. She didn't want to hurt as she had been hurt, she wanted to protect him, to enfold him in her love, never to demand but to give and give without counting cost.
She reached out and put her arms around him tightly, resisting his attempt to detach her. She laid her head against the slightly damp skin of his chest, feeling the soft body-hair tickling her cheek, hearing the erratic beat of his heart.
'No more,' she begged softly. 'You don't have to explain anything to me, Max ... I understand.'
He pulled her head up, cupping her face with gentle hands. 'I hurt you. I owe you this. I can only hope you will forgive me. I came raging back here like a wounded tiger; no wonder my father and Tom decided that drastic measures were called for. I realised, you see, as soon as I left, that I had bungled my chance of real happiness. That like a blind fool I had run away from the very thing I'd been seeking all my life, and given up hope of ever finding.'
He groaned and Sarah was amazed that he couldn't see what was in her face. She knew now what he meant about Roy not mattering, the past only mattered in the sense that it had brought them here, together, in the present.
Couldn't he see that she no longer wanted, or needed to receive his complete submission?
'I love you,' she said softly. Then with force and passion: 'I love you and I'll say it, in your arms and out, for as long as you want me to. I'm yours for as long as you want me.'
He looked white, shaken, so that she smiled and said:
'You knew.' And he smiled too, rather crookedly.
'Wishing made it so.' His voice took on a tone of wonder that caressed Sarah with warmth. 'I never thought I'd fall in love. Take a wife, have children eventually, yes—if only to placate my father. But love? It's a strange country, I don't know it, I don't know the language—'
Sarah laid a small, soft hand over his mouth, feeling joyous, generous—
'I'll teach you. But as long as you feel it you don't have to say it.'
She felt his warm breath against her palm.
'Oh, but I want to. I want to be very explicit.' The smile faded and his voice took on a deep, new strength. 'I love you, Sarah. You're the only woman I've ever said that to. First love, last love, my love.' He kissed her to punctuate the phrases, and the kisses grew slower, longer, as they swayed together, locked in each other's arms, affirming the vow.
'No more objections to being set up?' Sarah enquired huskily at length, as Max nuzzled the long, lovely curve of her throat.
He lifted his head and grinned. It took light years off the charcoal-suited chairman. 'You know why I was so furious? I had my own plans and I saw them go up in smoke before my eyes. Come and see.'
He led her over to the bedside table and sat her, very properly, on the edge of the bed while he drew out a small, rectangular case. He placed it in her hands and sat beside her to watch her open it.
Sarah found the hidden catch and gasped at the sight of an exquisitely wrought brooch, a golden fox with flashing, ruby eyes and lolling tongue, surrounding by an intertwining of chased gold vines. There were two tiny earrings to match, each a copy of the fox's head.
'For me?' she breathed and Max smiled tenderly at her disbelief.
'I have airline tickets too. I intended to come out and prostrate myself. To woo you properly,' he said softly with wry self-mockery. 'I had them specially made to my own design. I made myself wait until they were finished, hoping that the breathing space would give you time to stop hating me for the things I did to you.'
'They're beautiful.' Sarah touched the delicate jewellery with a shaking hand. 'Nobody's ever given me anything so beautiful.'
'And unique, like you,' Max said, immensely satisfied by her words. 'And this, too . . .'
No box this time. A ring—aflame with rubies, afire with diamonds.
'Put it on. No, this hand,' taking it from her nerveless fingers. 'To celebrate what I hope will be the shortest engagement in history.'
'Engagement?' Sarah thought she was going to faint, the jewellery forgotten. 'You want to marry me?'
'Of course I want to marry you,' he said violently. 'What do you think I've been saying? That I love you and want you to be my mistress.' Her face gave her away. 'You must have a very low opinion of me! I suppose I can't blame you for that.'
'No.' Sarah laid her hand on his arm, felt the rigidity of his muscles and hastened to reassure him. 'I only meant that I never thought ... I mean . . .' she floundered, knowing it would hurt him if she told the truth, that she hadn't thought his love sufficiently strong for him to give up his celebrated freedom for it.
'God, is it marriage that's the problem?' he said suddenly, a raw note of uncertainty in his voice. 'Has your experience with Simon put you off?' The emotional struggle showed on his face as he said, slowly, 'I don't want a so-called "open marriage", but if you'd feel trapped with anything more conventional-—' he broke off, wounded by her laughter at this most serious of moments. 'What are you laughing about?'
'You. So abject.' Sarah could hardly speak for giggles, he was so far wrong. 'I'm enjoying it while I can, once we're married I suppose you'll be your usual arrogant self again.'
His eyes gleamed with a return of masculine confidence. 'You can't refuse me now, darling, my father would never forgive you.'
Sarah sobered. 'But he didn't know you wanted to marry me. Will he . . . approve, do you think?'
It was Max's turn to laugh. He slid an arm around her velvet waist and hugged her against his hard body. 'Approve. Darling, you've been signed, sealed and delivered by his own fair hands. You've domesticated the tiger, of course he approves.'
'Hmm, I always was good with wild animals,' Sarah murmured, tremors beginning to build up in her body as the strong, sensitive hands began to wander.
'Don't distract me,' came the order. 'I'm unwrapping my birthday present.'
Before she realised what had happened Sarah was flat on her back on the bed, being ruthlessly kissed. With practised economy of movement Max neatly extracted her from her dress, so obviously eager that her mischievous streak was awakened. Secure in his love, she pushed him' away, wide-eyed when he slid his hands over her lacy red bra.
'No, Max, not until we're married, it woul
dn't be right.'
He looked stunned. 'You want to wait? It'll be at least three days before—' he choked to a stop as Sarah's eyes began to dance.
'Vixen,' he growled, threateningly. 'For that bit of heresy I shall make love to you until you beg for mercy.'
'Try and make me,' she teased provocatively, enticing him with her lace-clad body, and trying half-heartedly to escape as he lunged for her.
They wrestled playfully until it was no longer play, until desire caught up with them, overtook them, and the rhythms of love established themselves in soft, sighing sounds.
Sarah gave herself with delight, with love and uninhibited joy and was rewarded with unimaginable pleasure when he finally took her, with infinite skill and a kind of gentle savagery that carried her with him to the far peaks, breathing as one the thin, rarified air of ecstasy, sharing a passion that was pure and white and blindingly fierce.
And afterwards when he held her trembling body against his, and licked the sweet salt tears from her cheeks, she knew at last the peace of utter contentment. That this love she had found was not a trap, but a door to a new, exciting and enriching life.
