In truth, he hadn't. He was quite prepared to meet a woman on her own intellectual level, whatever it was, and certainly showed no signs of treating them as second-class citizens. And, Sarah realised with a flash of wisdom, he was confident enough of his own masculinity not to have to reinforce it by acting the macho male.
Together they decided on champagne to accompany the first course of smoked roe pâté and vichyssoise soup and with the main course of chateaubriand a distingui
shed French red. Both agreed that dessert would be superfluous.
As the conversation flowed easily back and forth, Sarah relaxed enough to enjoy herself. She was seeing yet another facet of this most complex of men, a fascinating one. Max was cultured, witty without effort, mining a rich vein of humour which abhored posturing and pretentiousness. They discussed books and music, people and current events, exploring mutual ground and areas of irreconcilable difference alike, sometimes earnestly, sometimes humorously. Yet Sarah was ever aware of the undercurrents to the conversation and whenever she seemed in danger of forgetting the fact that they were man and woman, Max would re-introduce that note of seductive intimacy to which she was increasingly vulnerable.
'I'm glad Teresa gave you a fringe,' he said suddenly, in the middle of a discussion about New Zealand wines. 'It means you can't hide your hair away any more, even when you scrape it back as you have done tonight. Is that piece of not-so-subtle body language directed at me?'
'I always wear it up,' Sarah said, put off her stride.
'Not always, surely,' he murmured.
'I sometimes wear it loose at home.'
'In bed?'
'Yes, I mean, no,' stammered Sarah. It was amazing how evocative a couple of words in those chocolate-flavoured tones could be. It raised all sorts of images between them. 'I usually plait it at night, otherwise it gets very tangled.'
'I imagine it would, but it would be a pleasure to untangle,' he said softly over the narrow rim of his champagne glass. 'Does confining it so strictly during the day enhance the nightly private pleasure of letting it loose?'
Sarah's mouth went dry. 'You make it sound almost wicked,' she said faintly.
'It is wicked, a wicked waste.' He finished his creamy, chilled leek and potato soup and rested his chin on linked fingers, as he often did when thinking. Sarah concentrated on her pâté, her face a serene mask while her heart skipped erratically, waiting . . . waiting ...
Yet again he indulged in a verbal retreat, leaving her poised on the edge of frustration. When was he going to put into words what was in both their minds, so that she could get her little rehearsed refusal over and done with? This time he was talking about Sir Richard, describing his working habits with a mixture of respect and unfilial sarcasm.
'He sounds rather formidable,' Sarah commented. 'I should be in a constant state of terror if I had to work for him.'
He looked amused. 'People call me formidable, but you're not scared of me . . . quite the reverse.'
'Perhaps they mean formidable? said Sarah, giving the word its French pronunciation.
'Is that a compliment?' he pounced.
'From me? Never!' Sarah hid her smile in her second glass of champagne. The heady brew was so fine and light and dry that it almost crackled in her mouth. She felt she could drink it all night and not be affected.
'Never say never, Sarah, that's tempting fate. I'll get a good word from you yet.'
'I think you have a surfeit of those already.'
'Not from you. But I can wait.'
'Somehow I get the impression that you're not very good at that.'
'I'm learning,' he said, with wry self-mockery. 'You like getting your own way almost as much as I do. You'd have made a good schoolmarm ... or mother. Were you and your husband planning children?'
Sarah shook her head abruptly.
'Don't you want to have children?' He sounded vaguely shocked.
'Your chauvinism is showing,' she told him with a trace of the schoolmarm. 'But yes, I do; some time.'
'Then it was your husband who didn't.'
Recognising the relentless look on his face Sarah gave in gracefully. It no longer had the power to hurt her, anyway. 'Simon was the child in our marriage,' she said candidly. 'Or rather, his talent was.'
'My God, it seems to me that you got precious little out of that marriage,' he said, with what she thought was unnecessary harshness.