Even when he was being pleasant to her, it was in a backhanded sort of way.
'You're a natural,' he told her on the second morning of the 'after' shots as she stood in the small, white-painted dressing room while Teresa made a few last-minute passes with powder and hairspray. 'You don't even have to do anything. Your face isn't expressive, but it has that touch of aloofness that photographers kill for.'
Sarah looked into the mirror. The jumpsuit was silver and white with quilted, slightly pointed shoulders, a wide silver cinch belt and narrow legs. Silver threads and beads had been woven into dozens of long, thin plaits which had taken Teresa and a local hairdresser hours to do but which looked spectacular. Too spectacular for Sarah. 'I look like something from outer space.'
'Extrovert is the word I think you're looking for,' Max replied, watching her turn to see her back view. 'Agreed, it's totally different from the other clothes we've chosen but a touch of fantasy will give the sequence a lift. It may not be what you would choose yourself to wear but it symbolises the Images message: the way you dress can alter the way that other people perceive you, and the way that you perceive yourself.'
How do you perceive me now? Sarah wanted to ask, but prudently held her tongue. It was enough that the mirror gave her an odd sense of displacement, showing her a fantastic, wayward creature who didn't appear to give a damn about conventions. Who had never heard the word 'safe'. A dangerous perception.
'I think I like the grey best of all,' she said firmly. The dove-coloured three-piece suit in fine wool was her idea of high fashion—pencil-slim skirt, tapered trousers and pert stream-lined jacket with narrow revers.
'It suits you, I'll admit,' came the amused reply. 'A very soothing, understated elegance ... until one receives the shock of the sexy, passionate pink blouse. Then it's difficult to see anything else.' He sauntered out, leaving her wondering whether she detected wider implications in the remark.
She was instructed to leave the plaits in overnight, and a most uncomfortable night it was, too. The next day Teresa unbraided them with startling results. Sarah's hair fluffed out like a woolly pelt, floating over her shoulders in a mantle of tiny waves to complement the Pre-Raphaelite look of a thin, flowing white-tiered gown with a bodice embroidered with a glowing William Morris design.
As she stood among the masses of perfumed flowers that were to provide the backdrop for the dress, Max had come close to arrange a drift of hair so that it would not conceal the beautiful embroidery across her breasts. He took some time to do it to his satisfaction and then briefly touched the tiny corkscrew tendrils at her temples.
'Ah, yes. Perfect,' he murmured, regarding his work. Then he looked into her eyes and the abstraction on his face slipped—he smiled very faintly, making an intimate secret of it. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered, and came up again. A kiss by proxy. A delicious tingle shot through Sarah's body and for a moment it was as though she could feel those hard arms around her, the black head coming down to block out her vision, the warm spicy breath of him in her nostrils. It made her feel weak, lethargic, passive.
'Just relax this time. Don't try and project anything, in fact keep your mind completely blank. Let whoever looks at this picture project their own thoughts into you.' His eyes went to her mouth again. 'Open your mouth.'
'W . . . what?'
'Not that much,' he told her impatiently and
she realised he was completely businesslike again. He lifted an imperious hand to her jaw and applied a controlled pressure. 'Slightly. That's right. Teresa! Could we have the gloss off her cheeks, please?'
Shakily, Sarah wished she could keep up with his rapid changes of mood. Probably he'd forgotten those enticing words he had muttered against her lips that day. She hadn't, and his using the same phrase had almost panicked her. She had thought he was going to kiss her again, right then and there. She had wanted him to. She really had to pull herself together!
Fortunately for her nerves, Friday was a free day. Max and Tom flew down to Wellington to attend a national fashion award luncheon and the shots of the last outfit, a red evening dress, were scheduled for the following Monday. The fact that the day seemed rather flat Sarah put down to the anticlimax of nearly having finished her part in the feature. Rattling around in the office she even found herself looking forward to the harbour cruise that Julie had organised for Saturday. Nothing to do with the fact that Max would be among the twenty or so guests!
As it was she didn't see him for the first forty minutes of the cruise, he was too busy charming all Julie's valuable business contacts. Sarah, meanwhile, had a pleasant, undemanding conversation with Tom at the stern rail of the blue-and-white motor yacht.
'It's a beautiful location for a city,' he told her as they watched the busy marina recede, framed in the background by the grey arch of the harbour bridge. 'So unspoilt compared with many I've seen.'
As they creamed around the southern end of Rangitoto Island past the armada of small craft, crewed it seemed by clowns in brightly coloured life-jackets and sunhats, their faces smeared with the ubiquitous white zinc protective cream, Sarah listened to Tom talk about some of the exotic places he had visited.
'Have you ever considered working abroad?'
Sarah swung around at the interjection. Max had obviously overheard her conversation with Tom about faraway places. He was dressed in a red-and-black striped T-shirt and white trousers, with mirrored sunglasses masking his eyes. He casually moved up beside them and repeated his question about working overseas.
'Does the prospect appeal?' he pressed.
'No.' Up until now she had been too securely wrapped up in her comfortable life.
'It should. You have a good head for the publishing business, sound managerial skills. The opportunities in a country like New Zealand must be very limited; you might consider the challenges and opportunities that exist elsewhere.'
'But. . .' She raised her eyebrows at him and he looked amused. 'But what?'
'You don't usually pay me a compliment unless it has a sting in its tail.'
'I'm not paying you a compliment. I'm voicing a simple truth ... of which you are already aware. If I was paying you a compliment I would tell you how delicious you look in that green thing.'
She glared at him, recognising the teasing inflexion. It probably stood out like a sore thumb that the stretch towelling playsuit was new. Stung into action at last by seeing the-inescapable contrasts from the early proofs of the photo shots, Sarah had splurged out, buying more clothes in a week than she had in the past two years.
T think I prefer the one about managerial skills,' she said severely, trying to ignore the fact that he had moved closer, and the long muscled forearm braced against the rail was nearly touching hers. She shifted her weight on to her other foot so that she could lean away slightly. It seemed important that he shouldn't touch her.
'Why? Because the other's too personal? We've worked quite well together this past week, I thought you might have changed your mind about not liking me. Most people like me, why not you?'