Wildcat Wife

by Lindsay Armstrong

  It helped not one whit to hear his low laughter as she stalked away. The evening was spoilt, however, she discovered, although she mixed, was complimented and even feted for her redecoration of the Spence house. It was spoilt for several reasons—who was he, for one? But nothing gave her a clue and she was determined not to ask. Had he been serious about jealous wives? And, if so, what had prompted it? Had she gone overboard with her dress—was that it? She even found herself looking around at her own interior decorating once, and loathing it.

  All of which contrived to bother and upset her so much that she refused every other offer to dance and found herself steering clear of husbands even only in conversation. Whereas her complete stranger, from what she saw of him, didn't give her another thought or glance.

  Which was why Diana Marr came to find her sitting alone on a gold brocade settee, deep in thought. 'Saffron? Not dancing any more?'

  'Oh—hello, Diana. No.'

  'Mind if I join you, then?'

  'Not at all.' Saffron moved up politely. She didn't know Diana that well, other than that she moved in the very best circles and was reputed to belong to a very wealthy family. Her husband was a stockbroker.

  'You must be very proud,' Diana said now, bestowing a friendly smile upon Saffron.

  'Oh?'

  'To be so young and so successful,' Diana elaborated, and waved a hand.

  'Whitney and Sarah are absolutely delighted with their house.'

  'Thank you,' Saffron said, and grimaced at the gloomy note she caught in her voice.

  'Such a pity you couldn't take on my brother's decorating but I'm sure he understands—particularly after seeing how sought after you are now. I've heard at least six people beg you to do their houses tonight alone!'

  Saffron frowned. 'Your brother?'

  'Yes—and, talk of the devil, here he is!'

  Saffron looked up and went cold. 'He's your brother?'

  'For my sins, yes,' Diana said gaily. 'Didn't he introduce himself? I saw you dancing.'

  'I wasn't allowed to,' the man who was no longer a complete stranger said, and sat down opposite in an armchair. 'Was I, Saffron?'

  She swallowed and fiddled with her beads. 'I...uh... Well, so you're a Marr,'

  she said feebly and I idiotically. 'But I don't remember—'

  'Oh, he's not a Marr, darling.' Diana chuckled although she looked faintly surprised. 'Pure Ross, Fraser is.'

  For the second time that night Saffron's mouth fell I open, which Fraser Ross watched with a little gleam of pure amusement in his dark eyes. Then she said hoarsely, 'Fraser A. Ross?'

  He nodded politely.

  'But that's ridiculous; you can't be!' The words burst out before Saffron could help herself, and she was often to wonder if she would forget until her dying day saying something so stupid.

  'In what respect can't I be?' Fraser Ross enquired gravely.

  'Well...well...' she floundered '...I thought you ; must be older.'

  'Ah. Now why would you think that, I wonder?'

  Saffron breathed deeply. 'The tone of your letter, your initial.' Which sounded even worse, but again she couldn't retract the words.

  'Is that why you knocked me back?' He grinned satanically. 'Well, I can put that right—as you see I haven't got one foot in the grave.' For some reason he looked at his sister ironically. 'And I use the A because my father is also Fraser Ross. As for the tone of my letter, we have a very faithful family retainer who does my private secretarial work when I'm here. She's at least seventy, but none of us have the heart to turn her off.'

  'Of course, all of that is academic,' Diana Marr put in a little hastily.

  'Saffron is just too busy, aren't you, dear?'

  'Of course,' Fraser Ross murmured. 'Unless you'd care to reconsider, Saffron? For purely business reasons naturally.'

  But there was nothing businesslike in his swift dark glance that took in the smooth, bare skin of her neck and shoulders, her cleavage and slender waist, and even her slender ankles exposed in their criss-crossed ribbons by the way she sat.

  Oh, no, she thought. That searing little glance is designed to do one thing—remind me of how it felt to stand in the circle of his arms, literally breathing and drinking him in.

  She stood up, and with almost regal care settled her beads and smoothed the flow of her skirt. Then she clasped her hands loosely in front of her and said quite audibly, and with not the slightest tinge of regret, 7 choose my clients, Mr Ross, not the other way around. And I never choose clients who attempt to proposition me or badger me or generally make a nuisance of themselves. So once again thanks, but no, thanks!'

  She walked away with her head held high, her back straight and her eyes flashing green sparks.

  'I can't believe I did it--not that I regret it!' Saffron said to Delia the next morning.

  'Perish the thought,' Delia murmured.

  'It's just, well, when I walked away—that was when I realised how many people were in earshot, you see. I mean, they parted for me like the Red Sea! And they were all—agog.'

  'Embarrassing?' Delia suggested cautiously.

  Saffron looked haughty. 'Not at the time, no. In fact I was so annoyed I just kept on walking.' She shrugged. 'Right out of the party.'

  'So you didn't say goodbye or thank you or anything?'

  'No. Although I have sent flowers and an apology this morning.'

  'That'll probably take care of the Spences' wounded feelings.'

  'I hope so. Do you know, he even had the gall to intimate that I'd gone over the top with their house?'

  'You were a bit worried about that yourself,' Delia pointed out. 'Then you decided if that's what they wanted that's what they should have.'

  'I know. I wish I hadn't.' Saffron sighed deeply and looked around as if to reassure herself.

  The Crocus Shop consisted of a small showroom facing the pavement with two offices behind. The showroom this month—she changed the display every month—featured the mock corner of a morning room with a deliciously and plumply padded armchair that made you long to sink into it just looking at it. It was covered in wisteria-blue linen patterned with cream and yellow irises.

  And beside it was an antique desk with elegantly curved legs and lots of little drawers. A most fitting desk for the lady of the manor to conduct her house-hrtd business from. A stubby crystal vase of fresh irises in cream, yellow and violet was kept on the desk.

  Saffron could not actually see this display from her office but it comforted her to know it was there.

  Her office also reassured her. The walls were papered in thick, matt corn-gold, and her huge desk was also an antique. Lovely green-framed prints and paintings hung on three walls and on the fourth was a magnificent woven wall-hanging of crocuses on a soft green background that matched the carpet. She sat in a buttoned, forest-green velvet chair with wooden legs, as did Delia across the desk from her.

  'I've found out a bit more about him,' Delia said then, with a keen little look at her boss.

  'I don't want to hear it.'

  'All right. Look, this fabric for the Johnson house is no longer available so—'

  'Yes, I do,' Saffron said fatalistically. 'Then I can hate him wholeheartedly.'

  Delia laughed. 'They have a finger in most pies, the Ross family. A chain of retail stores, a freight haulage company, a fleet of prawn trawlers, a charter boat company, hotels—'

  'OK, I get the picture,' Saffron said gloomily. 'Well, Fraser B. Ross suffered some serious ill health a few years back and handed over the reins to his son—'

  'Fraser A.'

  'The same. Incidentally, the B stands for Bernard and the A stands for Andrew.'

  'How original,' Saffron said scathingly. 'Would it be too much to hope that he's squandered the family fortune, that he's the black sheep of the family and a notorious rake?'

  'Yes,' Delia said simply, then amended it. 'Well, I don't know about the rake bit. He's not married, although he's thirty-five, but if anything he's ext
ended the family fortune since he took over.'

  'How come we'd never heard of him?'

  Delia frowned. 'He guards his privacy very strictly. His sister, by the way, is his only sibling, and there are rumours that her marriage is not very happy.'

  Saffron considered. 'I think she was on her own last night, now you come to mention it. And, now I come to think of it, I've met Roger Marr, and got the impression he has a roving eye. I wonder if she typified the jealous wife Mr Fraser A. Ross just thought to mention? How do you know all this, by the way, Delia? If he guards his privacy so well?'

  'I just happen to have a friend who works for the morning paper. They generally know everyone who is anyone, and all the gossip too.'

  'I wish you'd told me this before last night.'

  'Didn't know you were liable to bump into him, did I?' Delia said calmly.

  'All the same, what made you want to know more about the man?'

  'I don't know.' Delia paused and frowned. 'For some reason I had a feeling about that job. But you have to admit you did too, even if for all the wrong reasons.'

  Saffron ground her teeth audibly. Then she grinned suddenly. 'Pompous, parsimonious, elderly, with a penchant for tartan—how wrong could you be? Oh well, you win some and you lose some. But there are some very right reasons why I could never work with

  'Not even if I tell you I don't like tartan?' a strange voice, but one that Saffron remembered all too well asked amusedly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT AMUSED him, as he stood at the doorway of what was the inner sanctum of The Crocus Shop, to see Saffron Shaw lift her head incredulously and regard him once again with her mouth open.

  'How do you do?' He extended his hand to Delia. 'I'm Fraser Ross. I apologise for the misleading impression my letter gave you both. That I must be pompous, parsimonious—not to mention elderly— and with a penchant for tartan,' he added gently.

  'You—you've been eavesdropping!' Saffron got out as Delia shook the hand held out to her with a tinge of colour entering her cheeks.

  'I just thought I'd make my presence known. I have been waiting outside for a couple of minutes.'

  'It's Saturday. We are closed to the public,' Saffron said arctically.

  'Then mightn't it be a good idea to put up a "closed" sign and lock the door?'

  he suggested.

  'I did lock the door,' Delia said, 'but—' She paused and glanced at Saffron.

  'All right. I came in after you and forgot to lock it again, I suppose,' Saffron said crossly. 'That doesn't mean to say—'

  'Why don't I make us some coffee?' Delia put in smoothly. She got up and, with a courtly gesture, offered Fraser Ross her chair across the desk from Saffron. 'Won't take a minute,' she added, and glided out.

  'How very kind of her,' he murmured, sitting down easily and disposing of a slim briefcase. Then, with that lazy glance she was coming to know, he looked across die desk.

  She looked younger this morning, he thought at the same time. Those luxurious curls were severely pulled back in upward wings and the rest of her rich russet locks were neatly plaited and bound at the bottom with a narrow ribbon. There were slight blue shadows beneath her eyes, but the autocratic little nose had lost none of its hauteur.

  She was simply dressed in a voluminous green cotton overshirt and, from what he could see beneath the desk, green leggings splashed with white daisies, and green sand-shoes splashed with paint.

  As Saffron realised the kind of scrutiny she was being subjected to, she heard herself say tartly and foolishly again, 'It is Saturday...' then bit her lip vexedly.

  'Of course,' he agreed. 'I haven't bothered to dress up either. Is that what you mean?'

  She looked at him dryly. His form of not dressing up was a bit different from her leggings and favourite old sand-shoes. His form of not dressing up consisted of navy trousers and a pumpkin-yellow T-shirt with a navy collar, all of it impeccably laundered and pressed, all of it shouting the finest quality. And all of it once again emphasising the lean, long, broad-shouldered elegance of his body. His thick dark hair was brushed and tidy and he looked freshly shaved.

  He also, she suddenly thought, had the kind of Celtic darkness that went well with his name: a slightly olive skin, an aura of—what? she wondered. The aura of a man not to be trifled with but a man who could set your soul singing? Because of those dark and often amused eyes, those beautiful hands.

  She suddenly realised he was looking at her with a wryly raised eyebrow.

  'What I really mean, Mr Ross,' she said coldly, 'is this: why are you here? I thought I made it perfectly plain—'

  'Do you mean perfectly or completely?'

  'Don't quibble,' she warned through her teeth.

  'But aren't you into semantics?' he drawled. 'Perfect strangers or complete strangers—that kind of thing?'

  'Then I'll rephrase. I am not going to decorate your holiday home!'

  'Because I propositioned you?' He smiled slightly. 'After all, there's nothing left to accuse me of now, not of your original quibbles anyway.' He raised a mocking eyebrow at her. 'Oh, by the way, I'm not mean, Saffron, in any respect.'

  'It's much simpler,' she said after a taut moment during which she reined in her temper with a visible effort. 'I'm very busy; I'm so busy I don't know which way to turn. As Delia—' she looked up gratefully as Delia came in with the coffee '—will be able to confirm. Won't you, Delia?' she said sternly, with a warning glint in her green eyes.

  'We certainly do have a lot on our plate at the moment,' Delia agreed as she distributed a cafetiere of aromatic coffee and two attractive green pottery mugs splashed with crocus flowers. She also put down cream, milk and sugar and a plate of iced bakery biscuits. She then straightened and added,

  'However, with a bit of judicious rearranging, we might just be able to fit it in. Enjoy the coffee.'

  'Perhaps I should pour,' Fraser Ross said a few moments later when Saffron was still regarding the empty doorway with disbelief. 'We wouldn't want it to go cold. Seeing as she went to so much trouble.'

  Saffron withdrew her gaze from the door but was further incensed on seeing his barely hidden laughter. 'Look here, I make the decisions!'

  'Well, it's funny you should say that,' he murmured, politely handing her the milk and sugar. 'I was led to believe you were a dedicated businesswoman— a very shrewd one too.'

  'You wouldn't be sitting here otherwise,' Saffron observed acidly. 'Which is exactly why I can pick and choose who I—'

  'Ah.' He sat back and stirred his coffee thoughtfully. 'I think that's something we ought to discuss.'

  'What do you mean? I don't understand.'

  'Just

  this.

  Not

  doing

  my

  house

  could

  affect

  your

  future

  business—prospects.'

  For some reason, Saffron put her hands around her mug to warm them although it was not a cold day. But there was a distinctly cold feeling running down her spine as well and it came from the way Fraser Ross was now looking at her. Still amusedly, yes, but there was something else in those dark eyes, something faintly ironic, something that made her think of a cat-and-mouse situation—with herself featuring as the mouse. Don't be ridiculous, Saffron, she advised herself, and sat up proudly. 'Oh? And just how could that happen, Mr Ross?'

  He waved a lean, strong hand with its sprinkle of black hairs on the back. 'A few words in a few ears, Saffron. That's all it would take.'

  She gasped. 'Do you mean to say—? You wouldn't! You couldn't!'

  'Influence people against you? I'm afraid I could,' he said regretfully. 'And I'm afraid my sister could do so even more successfully. She doesn't altogether like you, you see. She certainly doesn't like being eclipsed the way she was last night.'

  'I...' Saffron stared at him wide-eyed.

  'Unfortunately my sister is in a slightly ambivalent mood these days,' he
continued wryly. 'As you so rightly heard and perceived, her marriage is unhappy and her husband undoubtedly has a roving eye—'

  'I...you...I have never... What is this?' Saffron finished disjointedly.

  'I'm sure you haven't, otherwise your business would have already fallen off dramatically,' he said ruefully. 'But unfortunately choosing to assume a high profile, whilst certainly having its advertising potential, can also lay you open to all sorts of speculation.'

  'I don't believe this,' Saffron said flatly.

  'If I were you, I would.'

  'Then I'll tell you what I do believe,' she slowly and carefully. 'That you have a very large fragile ego, Mr Ross. Did I dent it when I accused you, rightfully, of trying to proposition me last night? Dear me, how sad,' she said gently.

  'What is actually sadder, Saffron,' he remarked equally and lethally as gently, 'is that you melted in my arms last night as we both discovered a wakening and spontaneous interest in each other—then you chose to deny it. Did you dent my ego? Sure.' He grinned reminiscently. 'But I'm told I'm not one to let a, let's say, a provocation like that go by unchallenged.'

  'It wasn't a provocation! I meant it!'

  'Whatever,' he murmured.

  'The...the Spences,' she spluttered. 'They would always stand up for me!'

  'Whitney and Sarah?' he mused. 'Do you know, they were just a little put out that such an old friend of the family should have been publicly insulted by someone who, after all, is only the interior decorator?'

  Saffron sat back and slammed her mug onto the desk so that coffee spilt over the top. 'Now listen to me,' she said fiercely, then changed tack at a sudden thought. 'Talk about insults! You were the one who mentioned their delusions of grandeur!'

  'When you're in the inner circle, you can get away with things like that,' he said lightly.

  Saffron slammed her chair back this time and got up to prowl the office like a caged tiger. 'The answer is still no,' she tossed over her shoulder. 'People can either take me or leave me. My future will rest on my ability.'

  'Things don't always work that way. Do you know what you remind me of? An enraged kitten,' he said softly. 'Look,' he added comfortably, 'not only could you mend the fences you slightly smashed last night if you did my house, but you could enhance your reputation considerably.'