'Don't be in such a hurry to reject an idea you know nothing about,' he said patiently, reasonably ... infuriatingly. 'I admit I expected some opposition from you, but I was sure that at least you would approach it with an open mind. Let me tell you something about Images. Then you can make your decision, and I'll abide by it.' He ignored thé way she was perching on the edge of her chair, ready to leave, and rolled straight over her half-articulated protest.
'Recent market research has shown that there's a growing, untapped market here for designer fashion in the middle price range. Women want three things: a name designer, a dress that's ready-to-wear but not anonymous, and thirdly and most importantly, one that's not going to break the bank. Images satisfies all those criteria.
He continued, outlining the motivation behind the collection with concise rapidity, sketching the progress of Images from idea to reality. He made it sound dramatic, appealing and assured of success. Like himself, whispered a tiny voice in Sarah's brain.
If it had been anyone other than Max Wilde describing the idea Sarah would have applauded. But she instinctively hesitated to like anything he did.
'A "before and after" feature would strike at the heart of the market. Clothes are a confidence-builder and the aim is to show the average woman just how confidently she can wear a Wilde design. You look good, you feel good ... it will show.'
'So why not find an average woman to model for you?' Sarah inserted.
'I have. You. You may not really be average, but you look it,' he said cryptically. 'To work, this thing has to be honest as well as dramatic, and with you it couldn't be anything but. We'll do a few paragraphs about you, have a couple of shots of you in everyday wear and let Images do the rest.'
'You're very confident that it will work.'
His face took on a look of hauteur. 'I am. I wouldn't help promote a line if I didn't believe in it.'
'But why me?' That sounded weak, so she tagged on: 'Why not Jane, or Nora?'
He drew a long breath, and Sarah wondered whether that spurious patience was at last running out. Would he give up?
'They already make the best of themselves, you don't. Nor do thousands of other women, women who read Rags. They would, if they could; if somebody showed them how. You're also quite photogenic—I've seen some of Mike's shots of you when you've been assisting at sessions. In fact you look better in photographs than you do in the flesh, which is another bonus.'
'Lucky me!'
'Yes, you are lucky. You have exactly what Images is trying to sell—potential.'
He moved his arm casually, draping it over the back of his chair so that his hand swung down, touching the folds of his open shirt. The muscles of his chest tautened and relaxed as he did so and Sarah couldn't help being acutely aware again of his body, the separate components that made up the virile whole—nerve, muscle, sinew.
He was watching her now, a faint smile on his lips, as though he guessed the effect he had on her and Sarah felt her old antagonism flare up again. She forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying, to ignore the visual stimuli.
'Most women associate high fashion with beautiful models, thin as rakes and just as human. Something that's fine to look at but never seriously considered as wearable. But basically a model's stock-in-trade is self-confidence, and the high they get from consciousness of their own attractiveness. Beauty is in the mind, not the eye—of the wearer as well as the beholder.
'I'm still not interested,' she cut in on his persuasive flow. 'You'll just have to find somebody else.'
'Aren't you being rather selfish?' He picked up the drink that he hadn't touched since he came into the room and took a pull, as though he needed it. 'You'd be helping your readers, ergo your magazine, ergo your colleagues. Not to mention yourself. Most women would give their eye-teeth to own ten Wilde creations. You're getting them for nothing.'
'I'm not most women—'
'My God, you don't have to tell me that!'
'And I'm not getting them for nothing.'
'All but.' He finished the drink, fast, then leaned back and pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, pulling the stretch fabric tight against powerful thighs.
'What is it you're afraid of, Sarah . . . besides yourself? You're not being asked to sacrifice anything. A little publicity won't turn you into public property—it'll be the clothes that are famous, not you. No one will even remember your name. And what is so embarrassingly dreadful about being made to look attractive?' Put like that the two main lines of her defence looked painfully thin.
‘I just don't want to do it,' she said sullenly, unable to say why she really didn't want to do it. It wasn't her own importance she was in danger of exaggerating, it was his! She couldn't shrug off the fatalistic feeling that this man got whatever he wanted, regardless of what obstacles were thrown in his path.
'You mean you don't want to do it. . . for me,' he said, with uncanny perception, and his voice hardened. 'Let's take that as read, shall we? Personal considerations aside —your professional good sense should tell you it's a damned good idea. If you like the collection, and you've said you do, you can't claim you have any ethical objections.'
Sarah moistened her dry lips with her tongue, feeling herself weaken. He was right, she should put aside her dislike for him personally and consider it purely on merit.
Her hesitation finally exasperated him. 'For God's sake, what do you want me to do? Grovel?' All that sweet reasonableness was tossed out of the window when it seemed he wasn't going to get his own way after all. Grovel? She should live to see the day! 'I can't believe that even you are that self-centred, that humourless. Can't you even do it for a bit of fun? If you forgot about your own hangups for a moment we might get somewhere. It's not as if I'm asking you to strip off for a nude centrefold!'
The absurdity of her intransigent stand suddenly struck her and Sarah laughed the first genuine laugh she had ever given in his presence. She laughed again when she saw the jerk of his head, the surprised expression that briefly crossed his face. What would he say if he knew she had stripped off? Not for a centrefold but for the artistic equivalent. That would be one in the eye for a man who thought he knew all about her just because he'd read her file!
On the heels of the comparison came another. In a way both he and Roy were offering the same thing—a chance for her to step outside herself and see how others saw her. Except Roy's assessment was based on the firm foundations of friendship, whereas the brooding man opposite, who was less of a stranger than she might wish, was dealing with superficialities. Certainly he wanted to use her for his own purposes, for his own profit, but if she accepted would she not be using" him, too? A satisfying thought. And why shouldn't she? Why cut off her nose to spite her face? Deep down she really did want to wear clothes like those in the folio, spread her wings a little, explore beyond those limitations she had set herself. It was time. And to hell with Max Wilde and his opinion of her.