Wildcat Wife

by Lindsay Armstrong

  'A holiday home stuck away on an island?' she said derisively and unwisely.

  'One that a lot of people will get to see,' he replied. 'One that some of the finest materials have been used to build, designed by one of our most exciting architects, and one that some of the finest interior decorating magazines are panting to get on their pages.'

  She paused and swung to face him. 'You wouldn't want to be splashed on the pages of a magazine—not Fraser A. Ross who apparently goes out of his way to guard his privacy!' she said scornfully.

  'If you could see your way to decorating it, I could see my way to it being in at least one such publication.'

  Saffron leant against the wall and stared at Fraser Ross narrowly. Why was he doing this? she wondered. Had she jolted his ego that badly? It didn't make sense. The man was a millionaire, and good-looking enough anyway not to have to resort to blackmail because she'd dented his ego. There must be women flocking after him, she mused. But could he and would he carry out his threat if she refused?

  Something in the way he accepted her scrutiny with polite yet supreme indifference told her he could. Yet it wasn't the thought of all the hardship she'd endured to get this far that prompted her decision—it was quite simply a sudden and overwhelming desire to meet and beat this man at his own game.

  She straightened abruptly and strode over to her chair. 'OK. On one condition.'

  It was his turn to study her narrowly, and comment dryly, 'I wonder what brought that little gleam to your eyes, Saffron?'

  She grimaced and shrugged. 'Dollar signs twirling around like a fruit machine?' she suggested.

  He was silent for a moment, then he went on, 'I think I can guess your condition—no more propositioning, that kind of thing?' His dark eyes mocked her.

  'Not at all—that is to say, you guessed wrong,' she replied. '"That kind of thing" won't be a problem because you just won't have the opportunity. No, I'll take the job provided I can do it now, and do it fast.'

  'A rushed, botched decorating job was not what I had in mind,' he murmured.

  'Beggars—surely a misleading term in this instance—can't be choosers, Mr Ross,' she said briskly. 'I start a major project in three weeks. In the interim, with Delia's judicious rearranging—' she looked irritably at the door '—I can fit you in before it. There's no chance after that for at least three months—I am exceedingly busy.'

  'I see.'

  She clicked her teeth exasperatedly. 'Don't say that as if you don't believe a word I'm saying. I tell you I have a posh new guest house coming up with twenty-five bedrooms that all have to be different!'

  'I'm impressed.'

  'I should hope so.' She subsided somewhat then added, 'But you shouldn't worry; I'm at my best when presented with a challenge.' A little glint of pure malice lit her green eyes. 'And to do a job in three weeks would certainly be one. Let's say the ideas seem to flow under pressure.'

  'Is that so?'

  'Yes. Take it or leave it,' she said simply, and pulled a calculator towards her. 'I'm also expensive.'

  'I didn't doubt that.'

  She glanced upwards swiftly because the tone of his voice suggested a double entendre, but he met her gaze innocently. All the same, her nostrils pinched slightly and her mouth set in a fine.

  But before she could speak he said, 'I'm only surprised you haven't got around to asking for carte blanche.'

  'What kind of a fool do you take me for, Mr Ross?' She tilted her chin at him imperiously.

  He smiled slightly. 'I don't know; you tell me.'

  'Would you be prepared to sign a contract to that effect?'

  'No.'

  'Then I have no intention of fighting you through the courts for years because you could claim I haven't interpreted your wishes. No. I work differently. At each stage you give me your approval or otherwise.'

  'Very wise,' he agreed. 'It'll also give us the opportunity to get to know each other better, won't it?' He raised a wry eyebrow at her.

  'That wasn't my intention,' she stated icily.

  'Perhaps not,' he agreed again.

  'You really are—' Saffron broke off as he stood up.

  'Yes, Miss Shaw?'

  'Annoying,' she said. 'And if you think towering over me is going to intimidate me in the slightest, you had best—'

  'As a matter of fact, intimidation wasn't what I had in mind, Saffron,' he drawled. 'I was merely wondering what you would do if I kissed you. Continue to spit at me like an outraged kitten? Or melt in my arms again and contemplate other...intimate little pleasures we could indulge in?'

  The colour that poured into her cheeks told its own tale. 'I didn't—'

  'Oh, yes, you did,' he contradicted her softly, and touched a careless finger to her hot cheek. Then he bent down to retrieve his briefcase which he opened and withdrew a packet from.

  'L-look,' she stammered, and stopped.

  'Going to chicken out?' he suggested lazily.

  Saffron breathed deeply. 'No.''

  'Good.' He tapped the packet. 'These are the plans and some photos. Spend the afternoon with them then come and have dinner with me. We can work out a plan of action.'

  'I would sooner have dinner with a—snake,' she said.

  'Would you?' He grinned. 'Sorry but I don't think I can arrange it. If you're expressing a concern for your safety, though, my father will be present, and interested to meet you. The address is on the packet. Say seven-thirty? See you this evening, Saffron.' He strolled to the door then turned back to her.

  'By the way, this will be an informal dinner. You won't need to dress up—or should I say down?' He left with a mocking little smile.

  Delia was unfortunate enough to come in a moment later.

  'This is all your fault!' Saffron said stormily.

  'You've agreed to do it? Very wise,' Delia replied placidly. Saffron swore beneath her breath. 'It's not wise at all; the man is—'

  'The man is something else?' Delia suggested with a little twinkle.

  'Impossible.' Saffron ripped open the packet, more as a way to relieve her feelings than because she was interested in the contents, and a river of glossy photos fell out.

  'He's...he's,' she continued, not deigning to look at the photos, 'actually blackmailed me into doing it, Delia! He threatened to...to blacken my name amongst all his wealthy friends. He's got the Spences feeling that I behaved badly last night—I behaved badly! And his sister, who is going through the mill with her husband, will be happy to help him.'

  Delia grimaced. 'Sounds as if he's carrying a few loaded pistols. What exactly did you do last night?'

  Saffron opened her mouth then closed it. In her description of the events to Delia, she'd glossed over the precise nature of what had occurred between herself and Fraser A. Ross beyond stating merely that he'd propositioned her. 'Why do you automatically imagine I did something?' she asked abruptly and indignantly.

  'Because I know you well enough to know that you don't, as a rule, take things lying down, Saffron,' Delia said honestly. 'And it seems a bit extreme for a man to go to these lengths, especially a man with all the resources of Fraser Ross.' She waited with a lifted eyebrow.

  'I...' Saffron shrugged '...dented his ego.'

  'Quite badly?'

  'So it would seem.'

  'So it would.' Delia hid a smile. 'Never mind; just think of the kudos that might come your way with this job.'

  'That's exactly what he said.' Saffron stared affrontedly at the crocuses on the wall. Then she looked at Delia with more spirit. 'You do realise how much work I've let us in for? I said I would have to do it in the next three weeks.'

  'Good thinking,' Delia murmured. 'Once you start on the new guest house—'

  'Well, I'll tell you what, Delia,' Saffron interrupted. 'You can come to dinner with him tonight, too. I'll need your level head and all the rest of it.'

  'But—have I been invited? Have you been invited?' For a moment Delia looked thrown off course.

  'Of course I've bee
n invited! You don't think I'd invite myself to dinner with the b—man? As a matter of fact I wasn't invited,' she amended, causing Delia to look more confused. 'I was commanded. But I shouldn't imagine Fraser A. Ross couldn't scrape up an extra plate.'

  'But...but where?'

  'Haven't the faintest; he said the address was on the packet.' She turned the packet over and looked up triumphantly. 'Would you believe it, Delia, dear? He lives right here at Sanctuary Cove!'

  'All the same, I don't... Saffron?'

  But Saffron didn't answer as she finally took note of the photos and started to flip through them.

  'Saffron?' Delia said again after a few minutes, during which she watched her boss's eye take on an entirely different expression.

  'Java,' Saffron replied, and added earnestly, 'Didn't that shop at Marina Mirage just get in a new consignment of Javanese furniture? It'd be perfect. Look at this, Delia,' she said excitedly.

  But Delia looked at Saffron instead. Affectionately and with some relief.

  'Whatever you say, Saffron. Shall I pick you up tonight?'

  It was six-thirty when Saffron got home.

  She not only worked at Sanctuary Cove but lived there in a two-bedroomed, two-storeyed golf-course condominium. Not that she played golf but it was ideally situated in that she could walk to work, and the views overlooking the sweeping green fairways were lovely. Normally, coming home to it was a pleasure.

  She'd decorated most of it simply and with a Mediterranean flavour. Polished

  stone

  floors

  with

  rugs

  rather

  than

  fitted

  carpet.

  Mushroom-coloured walls and dusky blue panelled doors, louvred shutters or natural canvas blinds. There was unfussy furniture with the emphasis on lovely woods, and a divinely comfortable couch in the lounge with lots of cushions and covered in a rich buttermilk cotton damask.

  Her bedroom was different. It was all off-white— walls, curtains and carpet—but the double bed was covered in a spread that was a riot of spring flowers— violets, crocuses, jonquils, lilies of the valley. There was a lovely old rocker and a delicate, dark wood antique dressing table with a square mirror and, on its polished surface, silver framed photos and a bowl of fragrant pot-pourri.

  But Saffron didn't pause to enjoy the soothing visual aspects of her bedroom; she walked straight through to her walk-in wardrobe that led to the en suite bathroom, muttering to herself along the lines of, ' In formal! OK, Mr Fraser Ross!'

  She scanned the hanging clothes, but the first thing her eyes fell on was the gown she'd worn last night to the Spences' dinner dance and she regarded it warily for a moment. Had it been a mistake? Something she'd done had to have been a mistake to cause her this kind of contretemps. But just the sight of the dress, she found, was enough to call to mind being in his arms... She wandered away from the wardrobe and stood before her bedroom window with her arms folded and a frown in her eyes. Had it been the mutual discovery of a wakening and spontaneous interest in each other? Well, he did manage to awaken something in you, Saffron, you have to admit, she told herself. Something you'd hoped was, if not dead, certainly dormant. Since Simon.

  She turned away with a sigh then thought, Anyway, you're entitled to be extremely wary of a strange man doing anything to you. What does it point to? A very practised operator, probably, that's all I mean, why would I believe Fraser A. Ross took one look at me and was smitten? You're right, she told herself, and advanced to the walk-in wardrobe again. Ten minutes later she was attired informally and Delia arrived, who said cautiously, 'Saffron—are you mad?''

  'No. Why?'

  'What are you wearing, then?'

  'What does it look like?'

  'A boiler suit?'

  Saffron giggled. 'It's a flying suit actually. Very roomy and comfortable.'

  She twirled around in the baggy khaki one-piece outfit with its multitude of pockets, its long sleeves and legs, all of which had had to be folded up because they were too long. 'He said to come informal; he actually said not to dress down.'

  'What did he mean by that?' Delia enquired after a moment.

  'It was a cheap and nasty shot at my dress if you really want to know—the one I wore last night. The one we agreed, you and I, was just right for making a statement at the Spences'

  'Ah.'

  'As you say,' Saffron agreed. 'So I decided to wear this tonight. You have to admit there's barely an inch of me visible and—'

  'All right. Where did you get it?'

  'It was my brother's,' Saffron said mischievously. 'I often wear it, incidentally. It's comfortable and—' she patted the pockets '—I can put all my pens et cetera where I can't lose them.'

  'Saffron,' Delia glanced down at her smart black trousers and white linen blouse piped with black. She also touched her neat, straight brown hair which was tied back smoothly. 'Saffron, you must know very well that this address, the one on the packet,' she said dryly, 'is probably the very best there is here, and I feel bad enough about tagging along uninvited, but this—'

  'I do,' Saffron said ingenuously, 'know what a prestigious address it is!

  Always wondered who lived there as a matter of fact.'

  'And you're still going to wear your old sand-shoes with that—that flying suit, and your hair fish-plaited as it's been all day?'

  'Oh, yes, I am,' Saffron said. 'I told you it was informal. Shall we go?'

  Delia muttered beneath her breath but Saffron laughed. 'I take full responsibility, Delia!'

  It was a clear night as they drove the short distance from Saffron's golf-course condominium. There was a moon picking up the glitter of droplets on the fairways from the silent jets of the underground sprinkler system. The Hyatt Hotel was alive with lights, and the restaurants in the village were doing a brisk trade. The waters of the Coomera river lay smooth and glassy beneath the moon and reflected lights from the har-bourside villas. It was not a harbourside villa they drove to, however, but a riverside mansion with a high white wall on the road and impressive wrought-iron gates.

  'Are you quite sure we should be doing this?' Delia said as she pulled up and wound down her window to speak into the intercom.

  'Quite sure, Delia.'

  'Miss Shaw and—er—Mrs Renfrew, sir.'

  The dignified personage who had admitted them was unable to keep a slight note of disapproval out of her voice, and it seemed to echo down the huge room, with its stunningly simple decor and an entire wall of glass that overlooked the river. Most of the light came from outside, from round white glass lamps on the terrace, although there were a couple of lamps lit inside. Fraser Ross was standing beside one pouring a drink, and he turned round with a slightly surprised look on his face.

  Delia found herself wishing fervently that she could sink through the floor. But Saffron surged forward in her impossible suit and said graciously, 'I knew you wouldn't mind if I brought Delia with me, Mr Ross. She's going to be very much involved in your project so I thought she might as well be in on the ground floor, so to speak.'

  A deep chuckle came from further into the room and they all turned to see a silver-haired man.

  He also said, 'Of course we don't mind. Do come and join me, Mrs Renfrew. I'm Bernard Ross. I have the feeling you got bulldozed into coming here tonight. Would I be mistaken?'

  'My father, Mrs Renfrew,' Fraser murmured, and added, 'Please don't feel embarrassed; I quite understand.' And he led Delia over to the settee Bernard Ross occupied.

  Saffron followed and said candidly to Fraser B. Ross, 'You're right, Mr Ross, sir. I did twist her arm a little. But then your son twisted my arm a great deal harder, which is why I'm here. How do you do, by the way? I'm Saffron Shaw.'

  'Saffron,' Delia said beneath her breath.

  'I'm delighted to meet you, Saffron Shaw,' Bernard Ross said. 'So he twisted your arm, eh? Thought something must have happened because I seem to remember being told quite disti
nctly that you were too busy for his house.'

  'Yes. I was. Until he threatened to put me out of business. Didn't you?' she said cheerfully to Fraser A. as, without asking, he put a drink into her hand.

  'Saffron,' Delia murmured again, and accepted a sherry with a ruefully apologetic little look.

  'Don't worry, Mrs Renfrew,' Fraser the son said easily. 'What is going on could most aptly be described as "the games people play".'

  'I hesitate to contradict you,' Saffron said blandly, 'but I never play games.'

  'Put it this way, then—Saffron and I had a rather confrontational experience last night. She claims there was a misunderstanding involved. To which end I gather she has chosen to appear virtually in purdah tonight. Little to know,'

  he said with his head tilted thoughtfully as he studied Saffron, 'that purdah has its own appeal.'

  There was a tense little silence, then another voice said, 'Darling, I thought you were looking for a wife!' And Diana Marr strolled into the light. She continued, 'Why, Saffron, you look like a boy tonight. What a metamorphosis.'

  Saffron, in the act of seating herself, got up and drew herself to her full height. 'Why, Diana, how nice to see you again,' she said. 'And may I say you have set my mind at rest? On several scores. I quite thought your brother had designs on me and that's why he's blackmailed me into doing his house. But if he's wife- hunting, well, I don't need to worry, do I?'

  There was utter silence. Then Fraser Ross said courteously, 'Dad, why don't you show Mrs Renfrew the water garden?' He leant forward and touched a switch on the wall and a panel of glass slid sideways, admitting the night air.

  'Why not?' Bernard murmured, glancing at Delia, who rose.

  Fraser turned to his sister and said equally courteously, 'Diana, would you tell Cook we need another place set for dinner? And please tell him we'll be ready in half an hour.'

  'Half an hour! Why so long?' Diana objected.

  'Saffron and I have some business to attend to first,' he replied mildly although there was a distinct quality of an iron fist in a velvet glove to it, Saffron thought, and raised her eyebrows.