Sarah's jaw nearly dropped at his incredible affrontery. New Zealanders were generally a tolerant race with a 'live and let live' philosophy that usually enabled them to accept people as they were. It wasn't often that people remarked on Sarah's personal appearance, other than those who knew her well enough to essay a gentle joke or, like Julie, adopt a maternal exasperation.
'I'm sorry if the way I dress doesn't meet with your high standards, Mr. Wilde,' she said stiffly. 'But it really isn't any of your business.'
'I think it is. You work for me, remember? Or you will in a couple of months; and you're a rather poor advertisement for a fashion magazine.'
'I'm not advertising anything. We employ other people to do that. It isn't a condition of my employment that I make the Best Dressed lists. My clothes are perfectly respectable.'
'Oh, they are,' he agreed pleasantly. 'Respectable" is the kiss of death as far as fashion is concerned. You don't deny, I notice, only defend.'
'I dress as I please,' said Sarah desperately. She could feel her grip on the conversation slipping.
'Then you're too easy to please. I'm not. But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. I can see your editor looking anxiously over this way. Smile, or she'll think you're saying something she'll regret later.'
Sarah resisted the urge to look furtively over her shoulder. He had a nasty habit of springing verbal surprises, the kind that left you hanging over a cliff wondering where the solid ground had gone.
'Julie knows me better than that.'
'And knowing you, wouldn't expect you to smile, mmm?'
Sarah stared at him for a moment, then out of sheer perversity switched on a brilliant smile, the kind that she had seen Julie use on less-than-intelligent men. Except Julie also fluttered her eyelashes slightly and Sarah couldn't quite bring herself to do that. Besides, her soft, natural ones wouldn't be quite as impressive as Julie's artificial abundance.
'Why, Mr. Wilde, whatever gave you that idea?' she said coyly. If he wanted her to pander to his ego, she would comply, with a vengeance!
Being more than intelligent he immediately got the point. But his reaction wasn't what Sarah expected. She had half hoped, half feared he would be annoyed, but he wasn't. He showed a very genuine amusement, appreciative of the way she had very neatly turned the tables.
'Touché,' he acknowledged. 'I fear my pique was showing. I won't ask you to smile again. I'll leave it to your discretion. You're right of course, a response must be spontaneous to be honest. I believe that a person's instinctive reaction to a given situation is a far truer indication of their nature than a modified response, which is a social imposition.'
Like this morning, for instance, Sarah thought. Is that what he was saying? And just now — that urge to annoy him by simpering like a feather-brained idiot? If so, Sarah didn't agree; social conventions were important, they protected, restrained, aided inter-personal relationships. Following your instincts was dangerous and often wrong. Wasn't her attraction to Simon instinctive? And also her initial reaction to his possessiveness—to be flattered, to baby him out of it instead of standing up for herself?
Deep, dark thoughts and she resented Max Wilde for
making her think them. A tactical withdrawal was called for. She should have kept her mouth shut from the first. Been nice. Modified her responses. He would have been none the wiser.
Sarah looked at the dark countenance now in profile. He certainly was a handsome man. No, she corrected herself, not handsome—beautiful, yet in no way feminine. There was a fine-boned, thoughtful arch to the brow and the hard, high cheekbones and hawkish sweep of the nose gave him a touch of nobility. Those strange eyes were fringed with thick, dark lashes and the tanned skin was smooth and finely grained.
His hair was straight, trimmed just above his collar, jet-black but for the gleam of grey in the short sideboards. The etchings of strain around the features were deepened by tiredness; the cynicism she guessed was habitual. A man of culture, a man of passion . . . The mouth and eyes held sensual promise, a promise that from all accounts had been often made and probably just as often fulfilled.
Seated, he still retained a grace of carriage and poise that reminded her of a dancer; an alert, controlled, potentially explosive strength masked by grace.
At precisely that point in her thoughts he turned his head, quite casually, and she was caught openly staring. Sarah's throat closed in the grip of an unidentifiable fear and every muscle in her body tensed. The room receded and his image came into ultra-sharp focus, claustrophobically close, and her heart thumped hot and heavy as the moment stretched into eternity.
Simultaneously, they both looked away and Sarah discovered that she had been holding her breath . . . waiting. For what? She released her breath slowly, carefully, wondering what he had seen in her face. Had that panicky feeling showed? She glanced surreptitiously at him out of the corner of her eye but the classic profile was unreadable. She was being overly-sensitive, allowing a vague apprehension to run away with her. Everything would be all right tomorrow. She would be back in a familiar environment, on her home ground, when she met him next. And he would have other things to concern him, to draw his attention; Sarah could sink gratefully into the background again. Let Julie answer his questions, deal with his unpredictability!
Sarah got up, clutching the wooden back of the chair. 'If you'll excuse me, Mr. Wilde, there are several people I should speak to. . .' He looked up again, eyes light and faintly mocking.
'Of course. I'm sure there'll be plenty of other opportunities for conversation.'
It sounded like a threat, and as he rose Sarah slipped away. She didn't know whether he was watching her, but the back of her neck was prickling like mad as she skirted the couples now discoing on the dance-floor. Once she was screened from him by the crowd she broke for the door.
'Leaving already, it's only nine?' It was Julie, eyeing Sarah's batik skirt with disfavour.
'I think I've done my share of flag flying.'
'Okay; at least you came. Did you tell everyone about tomorrow's meeting?'
Sarah nodded.
'Good. Good. Er. . . What did he say?'