'Didn't I just. And way off beam, too.'
'Were you?' She wanted to think so, but wanting didn't make something so.
Roy seemed to understand what was in her mind. '/ think so. If he was as corrupt as all that he would have left with a wave and a philosophical shrug. Instead he looked like a man who had just received a massive kick in the guts—'
'As poetical as ever,' said Sarah to hide her relief. Roy could be trusted to read facial expressions, he had made his fame and fortune from them.
'Anyway, his interest in you obviously started way back. He spotted your potential and had the means and desire to exploit it. I'm not surprised that his desires took a more personal turn, they often do between model and artist—witness you and Simon, and me and—' he ticked a few names off his fingers and Sarah laughed. 'I won't say that seeing the painting mightn't have spiced the dish for him; it's not a clinical study after all, but the main ingredient is you. On brief analysis, I'd say he was too cultured to equate art with pornography and too virile to need the stimulation that pornography provides, hmmm?' Green eyes crinkled as Sarah began to fiddle intently with her hair, twisting it into a long tail, and he continued musingly, 'In fact, he would make a good subject. I'd like to resolve some of those complexities on canvas.'
'Perhaps you could do a nude,' Sarah needled.
'Sorry,' he gathered himself. 'Just thinking aloud. Though he certainly has the body for it.'
'Goodnight, Roy.' The sly dig shot Sarah to her feet.
'Okay, okay, I'm going, I can take a hint. Will you be all right?'
'I'm not about to commit suicide,' Sarah said in revenge. 'Not over a cold-blooded, worthless—'
'Don't repeat that, will you? It was quite an excusable error.'
'In quite a comedy of errors.' Sarah walked over to the balcony door and slid it open.
'Never mind, all's well that ends well,' Roy punned. 'If you need a written statement to convince your once and future lover of our platonic friendship, just ask.' Sarah pushed him out the door, but he poked his head back in to add:
'I hope you don't singe your wings with this one, love. He's a high-flyer.'
Sarah sighed as she shut the door after him. She was touched by his concern but he was worrying unnecessarily. She wasn't going to make the mistake of taking Max's attentions seriously. They were worlds apart. But who knew better than she that vows of permanency held no guarantees of permanent happiness? A temporary adult relationship, brief, satisfying, compromising no one, suited them both.
She turned off the light and padded across the floor to the bedroom, wincing as she trod on something hard. She felt around in the darkness and picked up the forgotten cufflinks. Here was a ready-made excuse to speak to Max tomorrow. There would be a few nasty minutes to brave but it would be worth it. He was worldly, sophisticated, had a well-developed sense of humour—he h
ad displayed some of it tonight. He would understand, once she explained. She fell into bed, warmed by the certainty and slept, deep and dreamless.
CHAPTER TEN
Swathed in protective towels, Sarah stared at her reflection in the large mirror rimmed with lights.
Teresa had surpassed herself this time. Her swan-song, she called it, for later this afternoon she was flying on to another assignment in Australia. Sarah's hair had been swept up into a soft, romantic knot secured by red enamel combs and trailing short, feathered wisps at the sides and nape of her neck. Her face had been subtly rounded out with blusher and highlighter and a dramatic blend of silver-grey, blue and violet on her eyelids and a provocative deep red gloss on her lips drew attention away from the pointed jawline to the central features.
It was a sophisticated, elaborate mask and the white walls in the background and white towels around her neck gave her head a floating, disembodied look.
Sarah shivered, not at the macabre thought but on recalling her brief encounter with Max that morning. She had arrived at work full of determination, relieved to find Max alone in the office, poring over a series of marketing surveys. It encouraged her to see that he looked so normal, -no clouds of thunder lowered upon his head.
'Can I see you?' she had asked, after greeting him, standing tentatively in front of his desk.
'You see me now.' He read on. Not so encouraging. Still, who would expect him to be effusive after the night's fiasco?
'I . . .' she fumbled in her bag. 'I want to return these . . .' she placed the cufflinks on the desk and stared hard at the dark crown of his head, willing it to lift.
'Thank you.' He wrote something in the margin on one of the sheets, and added a footnote.
'And ... I want to explain; about last night,' she said mesmerised by the pen flowing smoothly over the paper.
'I wasn't aware that the situation required clarification,' came the tinder-dry comment.
'But it does.' Look at me, damn you, she longed to say, as he had said to her. But of course she didn't. She kept her voice quiet and steady.
'I know it must have looked . . . well, odd. But—Roy is the friend I mentioned. We don't live together; he lives next door—'