Free Fire in the Wind by Alexandra Sellers Page B

negotiated his way through the inlet and out into the open water of English Bay. When he shut off the engine, the silence of the ocean enveloped them, broken only by the luffing of the wine red jib and the calling of some distant gulls.
    "Good day for sailing," Jake said quietly as his lithe body moved to adjust ropes and cleats, and Vanessa stood still and gazed until the mainsail was at its full height and the jib was hauled close and beautiful against the wind.
    "Jake, it's wonderful," she breathed. "I'd forgotten how much I love to sail."
    The sun was glinting on the curls that the wind stirred up in his dark hair and he was smiling, his eyes narrowed against the light that sparked off the water. He looked perfectly at home. It was an almost physical pleasure to watch the Vancouver skyline shrink behind his still, lithe figure.
    "Do me a favour," Jake said briefly, glancing up at the sails and then to his compass. They were running straight out, away from the city toward the distant shapes of tree-covered islands dark against the clear blue sky.
    "What?" she asked, expecting to be asked to adjust a rope or to get him something from the cabin.
    "Take your hair down," he said. "I'd like to see it blowing in the wind."
    It sent a little thrill through her, as though he had made verbal love to her. With hands that weren't quite steady Vanessa pulled out the clips that held her hair and slid them into the back pocket of the jeans. Her hair tumbled down, clouding around her shoulders in the soft silent breeze that caressed her face and forehead. With hands that were suddenly self-conscious she shook it loose, not daring to look at Jake Conrad.
    "Did anyone ever tell you your hair is an absolutely unique colour?" he asked softly.
    Many people had, but Jace was the one who had loved it. "All those days of not being able to see a thing," he had said. "And the first thing I saw when my eyes finally opened enough to let the light in was sunlight on your hair. I thought I was hallucinating."
    "Jace told me about your hair," Jake said then, watching the memory steal over her face. "He said there's not a sight more beautiful in the world than your hair spread out on a pillow." He looked at her. "And I believe him," said Jake Conrad.
    * * *
    Colin's offering at the knitwear showing that afternoon was somehow lacking. Vanessa couldn't quite place what was wrong, but the collection was somehow uninspired. It was the first time she had been unimpressed by his work, and at first she didn't want to tell him so. Then she remembered Colin's own knack for dishing out the brutal truth and knew that he would not thank her for a comforting lie. They had been friends too long.
    "What happened to the Colin James flair?" she whispered to him as a model whom she recognized as Alison disappeared through the curtains wearing the last sweater suit in Colin's line and they got up to move out to the lounge.
    "The Philistine loves them, every one," Colin returned sotto voce, with every appearance of not giving a damn. "Just like television," he went on bitingly. "Pap for the mindless millions. Nobody has any taste any more."
    Since Vanessa enjoyed quite a number of shows on television, she wasn't in entire agreement with this stricture, but she was used to sweeping sarcasm from Colin and put it down to his irritation at having had his Philistine in control of the designs. This lot looked as though it had been designed by a computer.
    "Colin," she said when they had ordered coffee, "sometimes I hate your stuff and sometimes I love it. But I almost always know it's your design. J wouldn't have known today. What happened?"
    Colin drank some coffee and said bluntly, "What happened is that I am sick of the Philistine and I'm going to quit. On Monday, as a matter of fact."
    "Colin!" This was totally unexpected. "Where are you going? Who will you be working for?"
    "Myself, darling," said Colin. "I'm going to open up my own business. Want to join me? I am