Sweet Vixen Read online

  'I'm not trying to prove anything!' Max was furious now. 'I don't have to. When I fail in my job, then you can worry. But don't accuse me of doing it too well.'

  'But you're not doing it well, that's the point. Not as well as you used to. If you're not happy in your work how can you expect others to be happy working with you, or for you?'

  'Thank you for the honesty—it's the company that's worrying you, not my personal welfare, so you can drop the aged parent act, it cuts no ice with me.'

  Unabashed, his father abandoned the cane and stood tall. 'Up until now the two have been virtually indivisible, perhaps that's the problem. I built my empire out of blood, sweat and tears as well as talent, and I want you to inherit it. But more than that, I want you to want it as much as I did. I've never doubted your ambition or your determination to take over from me but if that changes, I want to be the first to know. I've seen too many good men crushed by the sheer weight of responsibility at the top to want to see it happen to any son of mine.'

  'Is that what you think? That I'm cracking up? That I can't handle the responsibility any more?' Max de­manded tautly. It was the nearest his father had ever come to conceding that Max was more than the extension of his own ambitions, but there was too wide a gulf between them now to bridge with words. Ever since he had left university Max had been aware that beneath the casual affection and respect they had for each other ran uneasy currents—a competitiveness that inhibited any real close­ness between them and tempered trust with wariness.

  'You tell me. Can you honestly say that there is nothing troubling you?' Sir Richard paused expectantly but Max merely compressed his lips. 'All right... I didn't expect that you would tell me. Perhaps you haven't even worked it out for yourself yet. Maybe you need time to think.'

  'Not about the chairmanship.'

  'Fine. Then there's something you can do for me before you take it on.'

  'I knew there would be strings.'

  'I've already discussed this with the other board mem­bers—individually, of course—and the consensus is that I resign at the March board meeting and you are voted in to my place. Naturally I'll still retain a seat on the board, but you will be Group Chairman. There'll be shufflings on some of the subsidiary boards as well, but when you come back we can discuss that further!'

  'Come back!' Max rapped out. 'Come back from where?'

  'New Zealand.' Sir Richard avoided his son's incredu­lous stare. 'You know that the publishing company has taken over this fashion magazine—Rags & Riches—there. I've been through the paperwork. It's a good little maga­zine, that's the general opinion, but it could do with a shot in the arm—hook it into our syndication network, inject a little more cash, that sort of thing. I see our first official issue is the April one; it will be going into preparation about now as a matter of fact, and will come out the week that we introduce the new collection in Australasia. Great possibilities there. I suggest you're the man to explore those possibilities. I want you to go down there, look at the situation, deal with it as you see fit. You've worked in this area before—you spent some time on Elan in Paris, as I recall, and enjoyed it, so you can't say it isn't in your line—'

  'It isn't. Not now. Five years ago maybe!' Max ex­ploded, unable to listen any longer. 'If you think you're going to exile me to the back of beyond until I shape up to some nebulous ideal—'

  His father over-rode him with ringing tones. 'You can take your time. A month I think. You and Tom Forest.'

  'So I get a nursemaid now! You're the one who needs the nursemaid, you must be going senile. I can't leave London now. I've got a thousand and one things on my plate. I'm not going to walk away from delicate negoti­ations now, it could kill a dozen deals.'

  'We did without you while you were in hospital,' his father pointed out drily. 'You're not indispensable, Max, not yet anyway. As to your workload, that proves my point. I want the pressure off you for a while and I can't think of a better way of doing it, short of a complete holiday, and to get you to do that I'd have to commit you. You'll have one task and one task alone down there and I'll instruct head office to that effect. No long-distance conference calls. As for Tom, he damn well deserves time off. He's kept up with your pace in spite of the fact that he's more my* generation than yours. I won't have you risking his health without good reason. If the thought offends your work ethic I suggest you get him to investi­gate the possibility of other interests Down Under.'

  Max had the grace to feel uncomfortable. Tom had worked closely with him ever since Max had first joined Wilde's and had remained his right-hand man through all the learning years. Originally Sir Richard's man, he was now indisputably Max's; a source of sound advice and trusted wisdom, and taken too much for granted.

  'If you don't want Tom, it'll have to be one of the whizz kids,' his father added cunningly and Max shook his head absently.

  'Tom.' His head jerked up and he glared at Sir Richard when he realised the admission. His father was looking his usual sprightly self. 'What happened to creeping old age? Changed your mind about retiring?'

  'My word is my bond.'

  'And if I don't go I suppose you'll refuse to step down. I could force you to, regardless.'

  'You could,' his father agreed complacently. 'But you won't. It would take time, you'd alienate a lot of good people and it would damage Wilde's reputation . . . not to mention me. But the choice is yours.'

  'It's no choice, it's blackmail,' Max snapped and Sir Richard fell back on the age-old parental maxim:

  'It's for your own good.'

  Looking at it from a distance Max realised that if he had pursued his argument with his usual ruthless determina­tion he would have prevailed in the end. In spite of his father's position and reputation Max«wielded a great deal of power in his own right, not only in the votes of the many boards he was on but also in personal loyalty. He had never fully flexed his muscles because he had never needed to, and when it came to the point he had held back. And here he was, wondering whether he was going to regret it.

  'You did inform Mrs. Somerville it was Tuesday not Thursday, didn't you?' he asked Tom who had stood up to stretch his legs.

  'The telex should have arrived first thing yesterday. I'll go and call their office, they may have got the times mixed.'

  Max glanced at the flat silver watch on his wrist. 'It would be quicker just to find a taxi.'

  'I'll phone first. Give them the benefit of the doubt.' Ever the diplomat. Max watched as he disappeared in the direction of a row of telephone booths.

  Easing the tension out of his neck and shoulders he began an idle survey of the comings and goings around him, noting the summer fashions. A woman coming through the automatic sliding door at the main entrance-way jolted him out of his torpor.

  My God, if that's our typical New Zealand reader I can see our work cut out for us, he thought sardonically.

  She hesitated and looked around. Max couldn't take his eyes off her, spellbound by a kind of detached horror. She looked about thirty years old but it was difficult to tell in that awful dress. The dated style did nothing for her and the muddy colour was further flattened by the deep tan of her skin. Her hair, scraped back into a severe pleat, emphasised the undistinguished features. Poverty, carelessness, or sheer lack of taste, decided Max critically.

  He watched her walk briskly over to the British Airways desk. Surprisingly, she moved well. His experienced eye detected that beneath that apology for a dress was a good body, tall and well-proportioned, though a trifle volup­tuous for Max's taste.

  He was still staring, lazily amusing himself by imagin­ing what she would look like in some of his father's designs, when she turned impatiently from the desk atten­dant who was shaking his head. Their eyes met. Full face, the triangular line of her jaw and high cheekbones gave her a pointed, vulpine look and he smiled at the compari­son.

  He was rewarded with a cool disdainful look that held a hint of contempt. The kind of look that it was usually his prerogative to
deliver. Caught on the raw he deliberately dropped his eyes in insolent appraisal of her body and when he raised them again he was gratified to see her reddening as she turned away. Her bag swung on her shoulder as she turned and he caught sight of the maga­zine tucked there.

  Surely she couldn't be Julie Somerville? No fashion editor would be so unfashionable! However, it would be as well to check. He sighed.

  Leaving his single case beside Tom's two bulging ones he picked up his briefcase and strolled over. He was half amused, half irritated to see her stiffen as she became aware of his presence and a slightly malicious impulse prompted him to make his first words ambiguous.

  CHAPTER TWO

  'Are you waiting for someone?'

  The voice was rich and brown, flavoured with harsh­ness, like bitter chocolate. It made the back of Sarah's neck prickle oddly and, disliking the sensation, she turned defensively.

  It was him of course. The man with the insulting stare.

  She had noticed him even before she entered the ter­minal, framed by the glass rectangle of the door. He was isolated from the rest of seething humanity as much by his expression as by the fact that he was sitting alone. No happy traveller there, but a world-weary cynic. The thin, dark face wore a look of intense boredom almost amount­ing to sullenness. His body was long and slim, disposing itself with an easy elegance, but the indolent attitude didn't entirely conceal the latent strength. He was dressed with a studied casualness—off-white linen shirt, open at the neck, and dark trousers. And he was attractive, sinfully so, in a dark, gypsyish kind of way.

  He had watched her walk across the arrival lounge. She knew because she could feel it, just as she had felt his approach now. It had been a critical gaze too, and, irrationally, she had resented it. She was used to being superficially judged and found wanting by male eyes, usually it didn't bother her. But he did. And when she had seen that smile, that narcissistic expectation that she would smile back, overwhelmed with gratitude that he had condescended to notice her, she was seized by the desire to prick that peacock pride. And she had. His reaction to her non-reaction had been typical. Handsome men often thought themselves irresistible.

  She lifted her chin and looked past him. 'Yes. If you'll excuse me.' She made her voice as clear and cold as her slate-coloured eyes.

  He moved at the same time she did, blocking her path, the smile tightening on his lips. At> close quarters he was even more attractive. Sarah felt the impact of his mascu­linity as an almost physical threat and instinctively she shrank from it. A gypsy, but an aristocratic one, the slight signs of dissipation giving him an additional, dangerous, edge. The blue-black of his hair was reflected in the blue shadow on his chin and upper lip and there were shadows too under his eyes; those curious eyes that were not dark as one would expect, but light hazel, disturbingly brilliant.

  'Do you mind? I said excuse me!'

  'And I asked you a question.'

  Sarah licked her lips. His persistence was vaguely menacing. 'I told you—'

  'Excuse?' A pretty blonde British Airways stewardess materialised beside them and thrust a folded piece of paper at the man. 'Sorry I missed you when you left. Here's my number. If I'm not there my flatmate knows my schedule.' She flashed a brief, insincere smile at Sarah and dashed away again.

  The man tucked away the piece of paper in his shirt pocket and raised a bland black eyebrow at Sarah.

  'Now, where were we?'

  'Nowhere!' snapped Sarah. She should have moved while she had the chance. Smug, egotistical devil! 'If you're so desperate for company why don't you catch another flight and collect a few more numbers!' The words sounded ridiculously priggish even to her own ears, but what with being late and not being able to spot her executives, and trying to cope with God's gift to women, she was rapidly losing what was left of her cool.

  'I was going to suggest a good one for you to call,' he said evenly. 'A psychiatrist. You have quite an aggression problem there.'

  'The one you go to no doubt,' responded Sarah sweetly. 'But doesn't he specialise? Egocentric males?'

  There was a taut little pause.

  'Are you always this rude to strangers?'

  It was a farcical situation, exchanging insults in public with a perfect stranger. Already appalled by her unchar­acteristic behaviour, Sarah searched for some way to defuse the conversation. Why hadn't she just ignored him, or frozen him off?

  'Ah, there you are! You must be Sarah Carter. I've just been on the telephone to your editor.'

  Sarah gratefully took the outstretched hand, smiling tentatively at her rescuer. Broad shoulders and a rather kindly middle-aged face.

  'Mr. Wilde?' she asked, questioningly.

  His handshake was firm and dry and the polite smile widened appreciatively.

  'I'm flattered, but no. I'm Tom Forest. Hasn't Max introduced himself yet?' He propelled her gently towards the other man. 'This is Max Wilde.'

  In place of Sarah's brain sat a large chunk of marsh-mallow, pink and mushy and incapable of coherent thought. Luckily none of her body's other systems appeared to be working either-—she didn't flush or stam­mer or burst into tears of humiliation. She just stood there and stared blankly at him.

  'Pleased to meet you, Sarah Carter; at last.' The very lack of expression in the low, harsh voice was a mockery in itself. He extended a hand, like a challenge, and Sarah took it, avoiding his eyes by looking down at her hand almost engulfed by his. His knuckles whitened and she winced at the fierceness of his grip and looked up involun­tarily to catch the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

  He had known. All along he had known—or at least suspected—who she was. He had let her make a complete fool of herself and now he was enjoying her discomfiture. She fought in vain to stop the wave of heat from climbing into her face. She hadn't blushed in years and it was infuriating that this awful man should be able to make her do it twice within a few minutes.

  'I'm sorry if you've been kept waiting.' Embarrassment rushed her into speech. 'But yesterday was the city's Anniversary Day, a public holiday. We didn't know about your change of plan until about half an hour ago.' An acceptable compression of time in the circumstances, she felt.

  'It was rather short notice; and we haven't really been waiting long,' the older man replied, but with a quick glance at his companion that spoke volumes to' Sarah. That expression of boredom hadn't been feigned.

  'If . . . if you'll bring your bags and follow me—the car's right outside.'

  She followed them over to their luggage. The two men were both the same height, but Tom Forest's large frame gave him an amble whereas Max Wilde glided with an almost feline grace.

  The world outside was a vivid contrast to the controlled environment of the terminal. The warm humidity rolled into their faces with surprising suddenness and out in the direct sunlight colours everywhere seemed bright and hard.

  'I think I'll go and find a cigarette machine,' Tom Forest said. 'I didn't buy any duty-free, I'm trying to give up. But I think I was a bit optimistic to think I could do it all at once. Now I've smoked my last one I think I need the security of an emergency pack.' With a smile he inclined his head at Sarah and she watched with regret as he walked away.

  There was a long silence as Max Wilde moved forward and leant his forearms across the top of the car. He looked up into the arc of cloudless blue, narrowing his eyes against the glare. The heat from the metal soaked into his body soothing away some of the stiffness. The effects of the crash still lingered in his system even if, as his father had said, he didn't want to admit them. There were scars, not all of them physical, and considering the length the company went to play down the details of the accident, it was fortunate that there were no obvious disablements to explain away. Just this damned unsettling dissatisfaction with the world in general. Even the challenge of merger and takeover had lost its edge.

  The longer the silence stretched, the more nervous Sarah became. What was he thinking about, to give his face that brooding, imp
atient look?

  Damn the man! If she was going to be working with him for the next few weeks—working_/ör him—she had better make her peace now and get it over with.

  She cleared her throat. 'I'm sorry I spoke as I did just now, but I had no idea who you were . . .'

  His head swivelled and for a moment she had the idea he didn't know who she was. Then the hazel eyes nar­rowed.

  'Just a passing wolf on the prowl? Did you think I was moving in for the kill?'

  'Of course not,' she floundered. She had, though good­ness knew why. The man carried a positive masculine charge, he would never have to make the first move. Women, like that stewardess, would naturally gravitate towards his field of attraction. Most women, that is.

  He inspected her again, with the curiosity of a scientist studying an interesting, but odd, specimen.

  'You flatter yourself Or is there something I don't see? Does every man who looks at you follow through with a pass?'

  'That isn't what I—'

  'Do you treat all men as potential rapists? It must make for a very exciting life.'

  'Only the ones who look capable of it,' she rapped back, hating him for his deliberate taunts.

  To her annoyance he merely laughed. 'From you that's a compliment, I'm sure. Sorry to disappoint you but public ravishment is not my style. I'm trying to remember what I read about you in the personnel files, nothing that prepared me for the unique quality of your welcome.'

  If anything was calculated to haul Sarah up short, that was. What was she doing? Julie would kill her. And dance on her grave! How was she going to get out of this one?

  'I'm—' The word jammed in her throat and took some pushing to release. 'I'm sorry . . . I—I'm not really back in the swing of things yet. I've only just come back from holiday. Everything was very much up in the air when I left. The deal must have gone through very rapidly.' She was beginning to babble but at least she wasn't saying anything that could be construed as insubordinate.