Sarah admonished herself for panicking, it was becoming too much of a habit. She must be cool and composed at all times—how often had Sir Richard drummed that into her? It used to be second nature until Max gatecrashed her life and reduced her to a mass of sensitive nerve-endings. Now she needed it more than ever, now her hopeful travelling was drawing to a close. Damn, her hands were shaking.
Sarah finished her brandy and thought about another, to help calm her nerves. Why not? Max owed her something. A couple pf brandies was a bargain price for a broken heart. She got up and found the intercom switch that Brandon had indicated and rang. Brandon delivered without comment and she drank. Better. She was only shaking inside now. Why did she have this awful feeling . . .? Perhaps the apartment was haunted, guarded by Max's unquiet spirit.
She got up and wandered, inspecting herself in the distorted surface of an aluminium sculpture. Lovely dress; pity that the colour held such unfortunate memories. Even though her image was made lopsided by the curving surface of the sculpture, she could see that the deeply-slashed neckline and long, figure-smoothing line of the red velvet suited her. What an angel Sir Richard was! He had designed her hair too—a long braid encircled the back of her head with the rest of her hair cascading in waves from its centre. Regally sexy, he had decreed.
'Regally sexy,' she repeated out loud, feeling less intimidated by the elegant luxury around her. These were the kind of surroundings in which Sir Richard was training her to feel at home. So feel at home she would. She took off her shoes. She put her feet up on the couch, a warm, vibrant splash of colour in the cool room. She didn't even move when she heard the apartment door open and, simultaneously, the phone ring. There was a faint murmur of a voice as Brandon answered the telephone, and the sound of footsteps across the ceramic tiles. Sarah smiled serenely, alcohol warming her veins, waiting for Sir Richard to appear.
CHAPTER TWELVE
'What in the hell are you doing here?'
Sarah blinked at the hostile, brandy-induced apparition at the top of the carpeted stairs.
'Sarah!' The voice was harsh and demandingly savage. Ina charcoal-grey suit and tie and white shirt, Max looked formal and remote, every inch a Chairman of the Board. His face was sharper than she remembered, more angles and less flesh; paler too, and the grey strands threading the black sideboards seemed more numerous. But he was still Max, still the man who held her bruised heart in the hollow of his uncaring hand.
Paralysed by the shock of his sudden appearance Sarah could only stare and wait as he set down his briefcase arid came slowly, frowningly down the steps and across the room towards her.
'Sarah?' The husky question came as Max narrowed his eyes and half raised a hand from his side as if to touch her, as if he doubted the evidence of his senses.
'Max . . .?' was all her poor vocal chords could manage but it was enough. His hand dropped and he took an audible breath.
'You seem as surprised as I am,' he said, after a moment. 'Yet why should you be? You must have come here to see me.'
He undid the buttons of his jacket, not taking his eyes of the sudden flush on Sarah's face. He shrugged it off and sat down on the couch opposite, stretching out his long legs, hands splayed tautly over his muscled thighs. He looked her over and the ghost of a smile touched the hard mouth.
'You look very much at home.'
The faint sarcasm thawed Sarah's frozen limbs. She hurriedly swung her legs off the couch, sitting up to search for her red shoes with her feet.
'Did I say I objected?'
'I . . .' Sarah stopped, confused by the hint of humour. He had been unmistakably angry when he had walked in and seen her there. Why was he now looking as though. . . as though ... 'I thought you were in New York.'
'I was; until this morning. Now I'm here. And you're here too. And you still haven't told me why.' He was mocking her, but gently, and it completely shattered her composure—it was so unexpected ... so impossible. That he should smile, like that, at her, after all that had passed between them.
'I—I've brought some papers,' she said vaguely, eyes going hungrily over the lounging body, storing up the memory of his nearness.
'You came all this way just to bring me some papers? How kind of you, Sarah. But couldn't you have posted them?"'
He didn't even ask to see them, didn't even really seem interested, he just stared at her with that disturbing smile. 'They're not for you.' 'Not for me?'
'Your—Sir Richard asked me to—'
'My father!' It was as though she had slapped him, the smile vanished in an instant, his face hardening with suspicion as he stood up. Sarah stood up too and was dismayed to find that without her shoes she only came up to his shoulder. 'What has my father to do with it?'-Suddenly something else registered with him. 'And where did you get that dress, it's from the Wilde Spring Collection? What's going on?'
'You don't know?' breathed Sarah, one hand coming up to cover her horrified mouth. 'I thought you knew. I spoke to Tom on the phone last week. He knew. I thought you knew, too.' She had been unsure what to think, whether to be relieved that Max had made no effort to jeopardise her new job or depressed that he obviously didn't give a damn. But if he hadn't known . . .
'Knew what?' articulated Max dangerously, and Sarah shivered wordlessly. 'So help me, Sarah, if you don't stop stalling and tell me, I swear I'll—' He had actually slipped rigid hands around her slender neck when they were interrupted.
'Excuse me, sir.' Brandon showed no surprise at finding his master on the verge of strangling a female visitor. Perhaps he was used to such strange scenes, thought Sarah a trifle hysterically, before she realised she was being addressed.
'That was Sir Richard on the telephone, Mrs. Carter. He apologises for the delay. He has been held up at the Salon, but he still wants you to wait. He had a message for you, too, sir,' he addressed the ominously quiet Max. 'He asked me to convey his best wishes. He said you would understand.'
'What?' The uncomfortable grip on Sarah's throat dropped away as hazel eyes glared at the bland-faced butler. Seconds ticked away before Max said softly, through his teeth, 'Get out.'
'Will you be wanting—?'
'Get out!' Max bawled and with remarkable calm Brandon bowed to Sarah and withdrew, managing to exude dignity through every retreating pore.