Wildcat Wife Read online

  WILDCAT WIFE

  Lindsay Armstrong

  Sultry, sensual and ruthless...

  SAFFRON SHAW, a successful designer in Queensland, was able to pick and choose her clients, and she thought nothing of turning down Fraser Ross's commission. Having never met him in person she didn't realize the urbane man she unwittingly abused at a subsequent party was Fraser himself!

  FRASER ROSS wasn't about to take no for an answer --especially when Saffron aroused all his buccaneer instincts! But Saffron knew that he was looking for a quietly serene wife, and her own wildcat ways made her a totally unsuitable candidate --didn't they? CHAPTER ONE

  'SAFFRON, here's another commission—what are we going to do?'. Delia Renfrew asked in wondering tones as she laid a letter in front of her boss. Saffron Shaw pushed a hand through her cloud of russet hair, pushed away some sketches she was working on and stuck her pen behind her ear. She'd started her own interior decorating business a few years ago and called if The Crocus Shop after her unusual name—saffron being an autumn crocus, as she'd been informed by her father. And years of hard work, innovative ideas and her sense of style were now being richly rewarded so that she could barely handle the work she had.

  'Who is it? Anyone we know?' she responded in an attractively husky voice that, although quite un-contrived, was as much her trademark as the crocus flowers that labelled her designs.

  'No. At least, I don't know a Fraser A. Ross, do you?'

  Saffron grinned and picked up the letter. 'Could he be anything but a Scot? You'd have to bet that the A stands for either Alistair, Archie, Andrew or Angus. And how pompous does it sound anyway?' She deepened her voice and puffed out her cheeks. 'Fraser A. Ross! I'm only surprised he hasn't added Esquire!'

  'He does want you to do his whole house, though,' Delia said through her laughter.

  'Mmm...mmm...' Saffron scanned the page. 'His holiday house. Mmm...on an island in the Whitsundays!'

  'It's lovely up there,' Delia remarked.

  'It's also a long way away, and islands are notoriously difficult spots to get to and from. No,' Saffron said with decision. 'You can write back to Mr Fraser A. Ross and tell him that I'm allergic to people who use their middle initials, that I've got the distinct feeling he's a pompous, probably elderly Scot with a penchant for tartan—and a penchant for doing things on the cheap—so the answer's no.'

  'In other words,' Delia said calmly, 'you'd like me to write a polite note to the effect that prior commitments force you to decline his most flattering commission with deep regret.'

  Saffron's lips quivered. 'Precisely. I don't know what I'd do without you, Delia!'

  Delia shrugged. 'It's almost true. We're virtually snowed under, but—sure you don't want to think it over at least?'

  Saffron regarded her assistant with affection. Delia was forty-five to Saffron's twenty-five, childless, with a failed marriage behind her, and she threw all the energy she might have given to a family into her work. Delia is not artistic but a genius at law and order, as Saffron thought of it: keeping the books, chasing up recalcitrant suppliers, defining priorities and so on. Delia is also, Saffron mused, a genius at calming my own more flamboyant, not to say totally mad moments, and I don't know what I'd do without her. All the same... I

  'No, Delia. I just don't think I can find the time to do a job that far away, considering the logistics of it, which are bound to be complicated. And, to be honest, I do have the feeling this job is not for me, don't ask me why.'

  She grimaced and picked up the letter again then flipped it with the back of her hand. 'He's got to be old—the language is so archaic and...and patronising!'

  Delia rescued the letter and read it again. '"Please be so good as to let us have your immediate response"...I guess so. All the same—'

  'I know,' Saffron interrupted. 'We both know some wonderful old people, but no. Fraser A. Ross and I are not for one another; trust me.'

  'All right. Uh—you haven't forgotten you're invited to Judge and Mrs Whitney Spence's dinner dance on Friday night, have you? It's almost in honour of you since you redecorated their house.'

  'Yes, I had—damn,' Saffron said gloomily. 'I haven't a thing to wear!'

  'Then go out and get yourself something,' Delia recommended unsympathetically. 'I'm sure it will be very haute couture.'

  Saffron brightened. 'Make a statement, you mean?'

  'Why not?' Delia replied. 'We both know how much you enjoy that.' Her eyes softened as her boss looked hurt. She added, 'You can also afford to now, through your own hard work, your talent, and, I have to say, a very good business head on your shoulders.'

  'I am unmanned!' Saffron murmured, and they both dissolved into laughter again.

  But after Delia had left her Saffron sat for a few moments with her chin in her hands and thought back over the last few years.

  She recalled how she'd started her business doing, of all things, marine upholstery. She'd not then had this shop at Sanctuary Cove—a lovely resort, shopping village and residential estate at the northern end of the Gold Coast. She had in fact operated out of a one-bedroomed flat in Southport with one eccentric industrial sewing machine, although she'd had, by way of training, two years at a college where she'd studied art, design, textile manufacture and interior decorating.

  She'd always loved to draw and had always been fascinated by colour co-ordination, houses, furniture, antiques and modern art. And because Sanctuary Cove was situated on the Coomera river and had a large marina this was where she'd come to look for business, and to coin a phrase, she thought with a faint smile, one thing had led to another. A few discreet suggestions to some of the yacht owners she'd worked for had resulted in her being commissioned not only to re-cover their upholstery but also to redecorate their entire interiors. And word had spread. Sanctuary Cove had been growing at an astonishing rate—house and condominium-wise—and before very long she had got her first commission to do an entire house.

  About two years later, she'd had enough work to give away the fiddly, difficult work of marine upholstery and to open The Crocus Shop right here in the village. Nor was she confined to Sanctuary Cove now; her talents were sought all over the Gold Coast and hinterland, and up to Brisbane. But she never regretted being based in the village. She loved its atmosphere, the shops, the art gallery, the restaurants and pavement cafes. Then there was the market and the movie theatre, the lovely view over the river of all the yachts and sleek motor cruisers, the eclectic mixture of yachties, tourists and all the people who lived at Sanctuary Cove.

  The gardens were always lush and beautiful. There were two golf courses, facilities such as the Recreation Club—which she belonged to—where you could play not only golf but tennis, work out in the gym if you were so inclined, or cool off in the swimming pool after a long, hot day. And there were often village events such as bands and concerts over the weekends, fashion parades, the boat show, the Christmas carols and so on. No, Saffron thought, Sanctuary Cove has been very, very good to me, and she pulled her sketch pad back in front of her.

  But it wasn't until Friday lunchtime, four days later, that Saffron remembered her decision to make a fashion statement that night, and she rushed out to do some shopping. The dress she took home with her was a dream. She also finished work early for once and took some time to pamper herself for the party. She took a long, dreamy bubble bath then washed her hair.

  While it dried, she relaxed in a comfortable chair and did her nails, painting their short, perfectly filed ovals in a fashionable French nude pink. When they were dry, she started to dress, putting on a frivolous lacy suspender belt and drawing on the sheerest of stockings. Matching silk and lace briefs completed her underwear, for her dress had a built-in bra. Then she reached for the dress and b
reathed with satisfaction because it was such a thing of beauty...

  'Who's the pocket Venus?'

  Diana Marr looked up and followed her brother's idle, oddly dispassionate gaze. 'Ah, that's...' But she paused suddenly then said stringently, 'Not for you.'

  'No?' He raised a wry eyebrow. 'Why on earth not?'

  Diana chewed her hp and watched Saffron, who glowed in the palest sea-green silk organza ballgown. It was strapless, clung to her bust and highlighted her tiny waist before falling in stiff, rich folds to just above the floor. With it she wore a delicate seven-strand bead necklace that fell to her waist, the beads matching both her dress and her eyes. Her long, curly russet hair was loose and natural. When she moved, it could be seen that she was wearing very high-heeled backless shoes with ballerina ribbons criss-crossed about her slender ankles.

  And Diana Marr, dressed more conservatively, and much more appropriately for what was a dinner dance and not a grand ball, had to concede with Saffron Shaw had stolen the show.

  'Diana?' her brother prompted mildly.

  'She's just not your type.'

  'You're an authority on that, dear sister mine?'

  'Yes,' Diana said crossly. 'She's a very cool, shrewd businesswoman; she's dedicated to her career, I'm sure. And you should be looking for a wife, not a—'

  'The other kind of woman?' her brother interposed with a grin. 'But I am.'

  Diana's eyes flew to his and disturbed only a deeply grave look in their dark depths. Which, having known him all her life, she mistrusted devoutly. 'No, look, I'm serious,' she said hotly. 'You're thirty-five—'

  'One-foot-in-the-grave material at least,' he murmured.

  'You know what I mean!' Diana clicked her tongue exasperatedly. 'You—'

  'I know exactly what you mean, beloved,' her infuriating brother soothed.

  'But, believe me, I'm serious too. A wife is very definitely what I need and indeed am looking for.'

  Diana opened her mouth, closed it, then said tartly, 'Why don't you advertise?'

  He grinned down at her. 'Now why did I think you'd approve?'

  'I do. I'm just not sure that's how it works. But if you are serious, I'd stay away from Saffron Shaw.'

  'Ah. So that's Saffron Shaw.'

  Something in his tone made Diana study her brother again with a slight frown. And it irked herseverely as she did so to know that his dark, satanic good looks were diabolically irresistible to women; she'd seen it so many times before. Not only that, she'd gone out of her way to draw to his attention several candidates who would have made fine wives for him, but nothing had ever come of itl

  'That's Saffron,' she agreed shortly. 'She's just redecorated this house.'

  'Very impressive.' He glanced around.

  'Yes. The Spences are besotted.'

  'But obviously not you, Diana,' he drawled. 'Why don't you spell out in words of one syllable why she should be stayed away from? Before you burst a gasket,' he added softly.

  "There are times when I hate you,' Diana stated.

  'Come on, Di,' he cajoled with a sudden charming smile. 'Is she, let's say, promiscuous? Already married? Divorced? What else could she have done to earn your disapproval?'

  Diana coloured faintly. 'Nothing that I know of,' she said stiffly, then relented a little to add candidly, 'And I probably would know. No, she's just extremely wrapped up in her work!'

  'She looks anything but at the moment,' her brother commented rather dryly as Saffron danced past in the arms of a man she was talking to vivaciously at the same time as they whirled and twirled to the music.

  'But that's just it, don't you see?' Diana said heatedly. 'It's advertising. She's managed to eclipse the lot of us and no one will leave here tonight without knowing who she is.'

  'So, yes, I do see,' her brother said after a moment, directing a wickedly knowing little look down at his sister in her matronly although very expensive beige dress.

  Diana Marr closed her eyes and said through her teeth, 'I'm not jealous—

  Oh, all right! We probably all are! Satisfied?'

  The first intimation that Diana Marr's brother had any interest in her came to Saffron in the form of having him tap her dancing partner on the shoulder, who then surrendered her to this tall, dark stranger.

  Not willingly, mind you, and, in the rueful process of changing over, he did say, 'Now you watch yourself, Saffron!' before he regretfully left her to her fate.

  Damn, Saffron thought as she was gathered into a pair of strong arms, I was enjoying myself! She looked coolly up into a pair of lazy dark eyes and said equally coolly, 'Who are you?'

  'A perfect stranger?' her new partner suggested, and for some reason there was a hint of irony in those eyes.

  Saffron narrowed her own eyes and considered. There was no doubt he was tall, dark and good-looking, and that his beautifully tailored charcoal suit with a discreet pinstripe highlighted rather than hid broad shoulders and a lean, strong, honed body. There was no doubt that he was on the receiving end of some admiring glances from women dancing past. No doubt that he was very much at ease in this milieu— a legal eagle? she wondered briefly. And no doubting at all that he was amused by her coolness.

  'Perfect?' she murmured. 'That's open to two interpretations, isn't it?'

  'A complete stranger, then,' he agreed. 'Is that a problem?'

  'Yes, it is,' she answered swiftly. 'I don't enjoy dancing with complete strangers.'

  He raised a dark eyebrow at her and swung her round in perfect time to the music. 'Something wrong with my dancing?'

  Saffron gritted her teeth. There was nothing wrong with his dancing at all. Few men she'd danced with had danced better, in fact, or handled her as lightly and expertly for that matter. 'No,' she said baldly.

  'Then it must be me,' he murmured, and laughed down at her in a way that curiously affected her heartbeat.

  What is this? she found herself wondering. How can a man in a matter of moments make you feel like this? Because, she answered herself, you're not a naive little girl, Saffron. And there's something in the way those dark eyes linger on you that's rather explicit. Which caused her to say tartly, 'It must be.'

  'Because we haven't been introduced?' he surmised. 'I can remedy that now—'

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'I see,' he murmured, not in the least perturbed, apparently. 'Very well; I'll consider myself rapped on the knuckles. By the way, your dress was an inspired choice.' He glanced downwards.

  Quite sure that he was going to comment on the strapless nature of her dress, Saffron clenched her teeth. But as their gazes clashed again he said simply,

  'It matches your eyes.'

  Surprise held her silent, and he went on, 'Tell me about yourself. I believe you're responsible for all this—magnificence.' He looked around wryly.

  'Magnificence?' she responded immediately and with a haughty toss of her head. 'You say that as if I've gone overboard.'

  'Oh, not for the Spences, I'm sure.'

  'Well, you're right,' she conceded after a taut pause during which honesty prevailed, and she couldn't resist a deep little chuckle. 'To tell you the truth, it's only due to my restraining influence that this is not a miniversion of the Palace of Versailles. Are you not a friend of the Spences?' she added, suddenly regretting any semblance of easy intimacy with this man.

  'I most certainly am. That doesn't blind me to their delusions of grandeur, however. It must have been quite a coup, getting this job.'

  'And it's just occurred to me that you know who I am,' Saffron countered.

  'Doesn't everyone? I'm assured that they do. Most of the women are green with envy, incidentally. Do you think that's entirely wise?'

  Saffron stopped dancing. 'Wise?'

  'From a business point of view. Jealous wives can be a problem, can't they?'

  he said mildly.

  Saffron's mouth fell open and he took the opportunity to lead her smoothly into the dance again. He also said, 'Just thought I'd point
it out. I believe your business is your life, sort of thing.' He glanced down at her enquiringly. 'Although I must say it seems an awful waste.'

  Her teeth clicked audibly as she shut her mouth. 'Well, you've got one thing right—my business is my life. And if you're offering to help me change that, Mr Complete Stranger, thanks, but no, thanks!'

  But again he laughed down at her, and again her heartbeat altered and she tripped suddenly, causing him to gather her closer and slow the pace at the same time.

  'All right?' he said, barely audibly.

  Saffron stared up into his dark eyes and, although she'd often regretted being only five feet two, it suddenly and crazily didn't matter a bit, it was even nice to be in the arms of a tall man. It made her feel delicate. And, she thought with a pang, it's not only his smile that makes my heart go bang—it's his height and those broad shoulders and the clever lines of his face... It's the clean, starchy smell of a crackling-crisp cotton shirt beneath his jacket, and beneath that just the scent of pure man, with no aftershave, only soap...

  What would he be like to go to bed with? she wondered. What would you feel if he slid your dress down, uncovering your breasts, and all you had on was—virtually nothing? Vulnerable? Afraid? Or proud and curious and deliciously sensuous?

  'Saffron?'

  She started but couldn't tear her eyes from his, nor l rid herself of the image of the two of them in some quiet, very private place undressing each other slowly. Indeed as they stared at each other they might have been a million miles from Judge and Mrs Whitney Spence's dinner dance. And the silk organza of her beautiful gown might have been gossamer gauze where his hands rested on it, and her body beneath it thrilled to the touch.

  'I thought so,' he said, almost gently.

  'Thought what?' Her voice sounded tiny and far away.

  'That there's more to you than business, Saffron. And if I can't have one why not the other?'

  'I don't know what you mean...' But all of a sudden sanity returned. Sanity that told her this was a complete stranger and, not only that, one who had laughed at her, insulted her... 'How dare you?' she whispered, and twitched herself out of his arms.