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Fire With Fire
PENNY JORDAN
Penny Jordan needs no introduction as arguably the most recognisable name writing for Mills & Boon. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection, many of which for the first time in eBook format and all available right now.Emma had always played the role of dependable older sister, so it was not surprising that after smashing up Drake Harwood's brand-new Ferrari, Camilla, unable to pay, expected Emma to bail her out.But the shrewd and attractive entrepreneur saw a way of capitalizing on her predicament. He exacted a highly unusual, and very personal payment that cost Emma her career as a London TV newscater - to say nothing of her pride.Emma was prepared to fight fire with fire - never thinking that, for her, Drake Harwood was as lethal as dynamite!




Fire with Fire
Penny Jordan


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents
Cover (#u4ea24ff5-0afe-5bfd-9223-60d427084337)
Title Page (#ue11b3bcd-07bd-536d-904b-738d71a4d6ab)
CHAPTER ONE (#u97234c46-76c4-5530-a934-51ae26505d47)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc73a20ce-4b1d-5e03-8607-094baccb5b8a)
CHAPTER THREE (#ub2cf71b1-feb8-5e6e-a417-8742ee2dc8f2)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f9fef892-2a9a-550a-9d18-a11ab335a73a)
WHEN the central heating boiler had refused to reignite despite all her efforts Emma sat back on her heels and scowled ferociously at it. They really ought to have a new one, but her father’s income as vicar of a small country parish did not run to such self-indulgences.
Sighing, she pushed her hair back out of her eyes. Thick and curly, its dark chestnut colour was a striking foil for her creamy skin and widely spaced cool grey eyes, their coolness masking an intelligence and humour only perceived by the most discerning observer.
‘Emma. Oh thank God you’re here. You must help me, I’m in the most awful mess.’
It was far from being the first time Emma had heard those words on her younger sister’s lips, and she didn’t pay too much attention at first, her brain still trying to resolve the problem of the central heating boiler, but when Camilla burst into tears and gulped hysterically about ‘going to prison’ and ‘losing David’, she realised that whatever the ‘mess’ that she was in, it was something more serious than her usual small traumas.
Petite and blonde, Camilla had a way of attracting trouble that was completely at odds with her delicate appearance. The trouble was that her fairy prettiness had meant that her sister had been petted and spoiled almost from the moment of her birth, Emma reflected, brushing the dust off her hands and getting to her feet.
‘Come on Cammy,’ she began bracingly, ‘whatever it is it can’t be as bad as all that … David adores you …’
‘Don’t call me “Cammy”,’ came the tearful response. ‘You know David doesn’t like it … and it is bad Emma, just as bad as it could be …’
More tears flowed.
‘Well then you’d better tell me all about it.’ Calmly pulling out two chairs from the wooden kitchen table, Emma sat down in one and waited for Camilla to settle herself in the other. The trouble was that as their mother had died when Emma was ten and Camilla barely six, she had somehow taken over the role of mothering and protecting her younger sister and Camilla had grown used to expecting Emma to resolve all her life’s crises for her. What on earth could it be this time? Probably a quarrel with David’s mother over arrangements for the wedding, Emma thought wryly. Since she had become engaged to David Turner, the highly-strung Camilla had seemed to mature a little, but with the wedding approaching fast her tearful outbursts had become more and more common. A frown creased Emma’s forehead. There were times when she wondered if her younger sister actually wanted to marry David. They had known him for most of their lives and while she liked him, Emma couldn’t blind herself to the fact that he was very much under his mother’s thumb, and that if Camilla wanted a happy and smooth married life she would have to learn to get on better with her prospective mother-in-law than she did at the moment.
The main problem was that at heart Mrs Turner was an arrant snob. Her husband had been extremely wealthy and they had moved to the village when David was four and Emma the same age. Emma suspected that the only reason they had been admitted to David’s group of friends was because of their father’s family connections—his uncle had been a colonel in one of the better regiments and had married the daughter of a baronet.
It didn’t seem to matter to Mrs Turner that the vicar and his wife had very little contact with these minor relations; their existence was sufficient to make his children acceptable playmates for her son. But that had been twenty years ago. She was not as keen to welcome one of the vicar’s daughters as her daughter-in-law as she had been as ‘friends’ of her son. The Turners were comparatively wealthy. They owned the largest house in the district and Mrs Turner rather liked to play ‘Lady Bountiful’. The village fete was always held in the grounds of the Manor and Mrs Turner liked it to be known that she was heavily involved in several prestigious charities. Emma didn’t much like her, but Camilla was marrying her son, and the fact that David was dominated by his mother was something she was going to have to accept.
Mrs Turner never lost an opportunity of pointing out that David could have done much better for himself. In Camilla’s place Emma doubted that she could have stomached it, but Camilla claimed that she loved David and that he loved her, and that together they would be strong enough to withstand Mrs Turner’s acid barbs.
Privately Emma doubted it. Beautiful though Camilla was, like David she was inclined always to look for the easiest route through life. If David had not been an extremely wealthy young man Emma doubted if Camilla would have looked twice at him. Camilla had always deplored the poverty that went with their father’s vocation; as a teenager she had never ceased bemoaning the lack of material assets when compared to those of her friends; the problem was that because of her blonde prettiness she had been petted and spoiled—friends’ parents had included her on various holiday treats; their father had always been coaxed to find from somewhere the extra pennies needed for new clothes … Not that Emma begrudged her any of it—no, in character as well as looks they were completely dissimilar. From being a young teenager Emma had known what she wanted from life and it hadn’t been marriage to a man like David.
Now, she was poised on the brink of taking the all important step forward in her new career. After leaving college she had been lucky enough to get a job with their local radio station; from there she had progressed to regional television and now her current boss had advised her of a plum job coming up with one of the National networks, which he thought she stood a good chance of getting.
At present she was a co-presenter on an early news local programme, but she had been doing the job for several years and was ready for something else. Her goal was a top newsreading or anchorwoman job; perhaps if she was very, very lucky, even something on breakfast television, but she had a long way to go before reaching that objective she reminded herself.
However, the interview her boss had lined up for this new National job sounded extremely promising. She wouldn’t be the only one going after it, but Robert Evans considered that she had a more than fair chance.
‘You’ve got the looks,’ he had told her only this morning, ‘and the brains. And let’s not disillusion ourselves, you need both, unfair though that sounds.’
Emma hadn’t disputed it. It was an unfair fact of life that while male presenters were chosen on ability and personality alone, female ones needed to have an acceptably attractive face and figure. Although nowhere near as pretty as her younger sister, Emma knew she was reasonably attractive. Her bone structure was good, her figure elegantly slender. Her air of cool self-containment put a lot of men off, she knew, David in particular … she frowned a little remembering Mrs Turner’s latest broadside. She had called round the day after the local newspaper had carried a small article mentioning the fact that Emma was being considered for a top London job.
Being in television was all very well in its way, she had begun when Emma asked her in, ‘but it wasn’t really the sort of thing David wanted to be connected with. Reading the news was all very well … but it could lead to other things…’
Anyone would have thought she was proposing to pose nude for a Page 3 photograph, Emma thought sardonically. She knew that Mrs Turner was being ridiculous and so she suspected did the older woman, but David took his mother’s every word seriously and she had boiled with angry indignation at the suggestion that her job somehow made Camilla unfit to become David’s wife.
Camilla was twenty-two years old and should be able to cope with her own problems, she knew, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her so, saying instead, ‘Come on then, what’s it all about.’
‘Do you remember last month when I went to stay with Fiona?’
Emma nodded. Fiona Blake was one of Camilla’s old schoolfriends. At the moment she was flat-sharing in London with two other girls while she tried her hand at modelling. Fiona’s parents were wealthy enough for it not to matter whether Fiona made a success of her ‘career’ or not, and privately Emma did not think she would.
‘Well while I was there Fiona took me to this party. I didn’t want to go, but she insisted.’
Listening to the aggrieved note in her sister’s voice Emma sighed. Nothing that went wrong in her life was ever Camilla’s fault; she had always been victimised by someone else.
‘Fiona wanted to go because the party was being held by Drake Harwood …’
Drake Harwood? The name was familiar, as well it might be Emma thought, recollecting how the first time she had heard it it had conjured up visions of a tough, buccaneering individual. He was an up and coming entrepreneur who had recently bought out Scanda Enterprises and he was reputed to be extremely wealthy.
‘Fiona wanted to go because he’s taken over Macho magazine, and she thought she might be able to persuade him to use her as one of his models.’
‘Macho? Fiona wants to appear in that?’ Emma grimaced distastefully. ‘Honestly Camilla that girl has more hair than wit. What on earth would her parents say? It’s a girlie mag isn’t it?’
‘Fiona says it’s the only way for unknowns to break into modelling these days.’ Camilla defended her friend. ‘She says…’
‘Never mind what she says,’ Emma broke in, ‘Just tell me what’s got you in such a state. He didn’t ask you to pose for him did he?’ she guessed, darting a frowning look at her sister. Despite her plans to marry David Camilla had always had a yen for the glamour of a ‘Hollywood’ type existence. It was just as well she lacked the ambition to do anything other than daydream about it, Emma decided, hiding her relief at Camilla’s vigorous shake of her head. Camilla simply did not have the determination to succeed in such a dangerous world.
‘No … no … nothing like that.’ She bit her lip. ‘Promise you won’t be cross, and that you won’t breathe a word to David. He’ll never marry me if he finds out.’
‘Good heavens, what on earth have you done?’ She asked it light-heartedly not wanting Camilla to see her concern. Snippets of gossip she had heard and read about Drake Harwood were coming back to her. He had made it the hard way, grafting for every penny of the first few thousand pounds he made; working on a building site until he had enough to start up his own contracting firm. From then on he had gradually built up his empire until now at thirty-four he was considered one of the shrewdest and most dangerous businessmen around.
Macho magazine was just a small part of that empire, she recollected, something he had acquired when he took over Scanda Enterprises. She recollected reading somewhere that it had a pretty poor circulation and that he had been challenged by a rival magazine owner to beat their figures.
No doubt the whole thing was simply a publicity ploy she reflected cynically, certainly the supposed ‘rivalry’ had gained them both a good deal of newspaper space, but how much of an interest he intended to take in what was only a small part of his empire she didn’t really know. Certainly if he intended to use girls like Fiona as his models he wouldn’t do much to improve circulation.
‘So, you went to this party with Fiona,’ Emma pressed, ‘and…’
‘And I don’t remember anything else until the next morning,’ Camilla gulped tearfully, ‘when I woke up in a strange bedroom and …’
‘An even stranger man in bed beside you?’ Emma supplemented drily. ‘Mrs Turner’s going to love that.’
‘No … no I was in bed on my own … in a room of my own,’ Camilla protested. ‘I must have had too much to drink … either that or there was something in them, but Emma, I was so frightened … I just had to get out of that house … I kept thinking what if David could see me now, so …’
‘So …’ Emma prompted.
‘Well, I was still fully dressed, so I just got up and went downstairs. There was no one about, but there was a car outside—a red Ferrari, and the keys were in it … so I … I took it…’
‘You did what?’ Emma stared at her. ‘But Camilla you don’t drive. You’ve always hated it … you don’t have a licence …’
‘I know, but I was so terrified of being found there … I daren’t ring for a taxi … I had to leave … and I do know how to drive … but the car was so big …’
Closing her eyes Emma forced herself not to interrupt.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said at last. ‘You hit something?’
‘A stone bollard,’ Camilla admitted. ‘You see it was very early in the morning—there wasn’t any traffic, but I saw this milk cart coming and I panicked. I hit the kerb and then this bollard …’
‘And …?’
‘I just got out and ran. Eventually I found a taxi, and I went back to the flat … Fiona wasn’t there, but when she came in I told her what had happened, and she told Drake Harwood, and he’s threatening to sue me for stealing his car and smashing it up …’
Fresh tears started to fall. ‘It will be in all the papers and everyone will know I spent the night there. David will find out and he’ll never marry me … His mother wouldn’t let him.’
Emma suspected that she was right. She gnawed thoughtfully on her lower lip, silently condemning both her sister and Fiona as a pair of stupid fools.
‘Haven’t you been to see Drake Harwood, and tried to explain? I’m sure if you told him the full story …’
Camilla shuddered. ‘You haven’t met him. He’s dreadful … So uncouth. Fiona thinks he’s exciting … but I didn’t like him. I couldn’t go and see him Emma, I just couldn’t … but his solicitor has already written to me. He wants me to pay for the damage to his car, otherwise he’s going to sue … and I can’t afford it.’
‘So what do you want me to do about it,’ Emma asked, already mentally bowing to the inevitable.
Tears were transformed into a radiant smile as Camilla turned towards her. ‘Oh Emma, I was hoping you would help me. Couldn’t you go and see him … Explain …’
‘Explain what?’ Emma asked drily. ‘That you don’t want your mother-in-law to know that you spent the night in one of his beds and then stole his car. … And what about paying for the damage Camilla?’
‘He doesn’t need the money, he’s filthy rich,’ Camilla said sulkily, ‘he’s just doing this because I wouldn’t pay any attention to him …’
‘Ah … You mean he fancied you and you gave him the cold shoulder? Umm, I can see that in those circumstances he might not be prepared to let you off the hook so lightly.’
‘But you will try and do something … you will go and see him?’ Camilla pleaded. ‘There’s still a month to go to the wedding and this letter says if I don’t pay for the damage within seven days, legal action will be taken.’
The man could always simply be trying it on, Emma thought, but then given his reputation and his tough upbringing it might not be wise to assume so. ‘Camilla are you sure this marriage to David is what you really want,’ she asked slowly. ‘You know you ought to be able to tell him about this, to …’
‘To ask him for several thousand pounds, a month before we get married?’ Camilla asked bitterly. ‘Yes I could tell David, Emma, but he would tell his mother and I could just imagine her reaction. You know she doesn’t want him to marry me, and yes, I do want to marry him. Can’t you see, I’m not like you, I don’t want a career or to be independent. I just want to live quietly and comfortably…’
The accent probably being on the latter, Emma thought drily, but refrained from saying so. ‘Let me look at the letter,’ she requested.
She read it quickly, sifting through the legal verbiage to the nitty-gritty, and when she had done so, she could see why Camilla was in such a panic. Drake Harwood wanted and intended to have his pound of flesh. Well she would just have to try and find some means of persuading him otherwise.
‘You won’t tell him the truth will you?’ Camilla begged. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to tell one of his newspaper friends and then it will be all over the papers.’
‘I hardly think the fact of your crashing his car merits such coverage Camilla,’ Emma told her mildly. ‘You’re getting things a little out of perspective.’
‘You don’t know how furious he was about his car.’ She shuddered. ‘Fiona says he had only just bought it … You haven’t met him Emma. You don’t know what he’s like. He isn’t like us. He’s…’
‘The proverbial rough diamond?’ Emma asked, her mouth twisting. ‘Oh grow up Camilla and don’t be so silly, otherwise you’ll end up like Mrs T.—a dyed-in-the wool snob. I’ll go and see him for you, and I’ll do what I can to calm him down. How do you intend to pay him back though? Could you manage monthly instalments from the allowance David is giving you?’
‘I suppose so … I don’t suppose you could persuade him to forget the money completely … I mean,’ she wheedled, when Emma’s mouth compressed, ‘it isn’t as though he needs it.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t need it, but you do owe it to him Camilla,’ Emma told her bitingly, ‘and in your shoes I should be only too anxious to pay it back and get it off my mind …’
‘Oh you always were too “goody two shoes” to be true,’ Camilla snapped crossly. ‘David says you’re a real schoolmarm type and that that’s why you’ve opted for a career instead of marriage …’
‘Oh does he?’ Emma was thoroughly incensed, both by her sister’s stupidity and by her smug assumption that once Emma had done her dirty work for her she could forget all about her responsibility for the accident.
‘Well, let me tell you that I’d choose a career over marriage to David any day of the week … he’s about as exciting as … as cold rice pudding …’
She regretted the words when Camilla got up and ran out of the kitchen, telling herself that she should not have taken her irritation out on her sister. Camilla was so absurdly sensitive to criticism, so much so that she occasionally wondered if the younger girl didn’t use her ‘sensitivity’ as a weapon to get her own way. She glanced down at the solicitor’s letter again, and frowned. She might as well get the ordeal over as quickly as possible. She picked it up and went through to her father’s shabby study, quickly typing out a letter on his ancient machine, requesting an interview with Drake Harwood.
She had to go to London next week for her interview anyway, and with a bit of luck she might be able to combine the two appointments. She only hoped for Camilla’s sake she was able to come to some arrangement with him. He couldn’t be expected to forego the cost of the repairs altogether, and Camilla was selfish and blind to think he should, but if she could persuade him to accept payment by instalments … if she could perhaps explain the reasons behind Camilla’s rash behaviour. She sighed, remembering that her younger sister had bound her to silence. She would just have to play it by ear, she decided, sticking a stamp on the envelope and sealing it.
‘Now remember, don’t try any clever stuff, just be your natural self.’
Emma grimaced as she listened to her boss Robert Evans, giving her instructions concerning her forthcoming interview. ‘And remember we’ll all be rooting for you here. You’ve got more than a fair chance Emma… You’re goodlooking, poised, intelligent, and you’ve got a personality of your own that comes across on the screen.’
Emma knew that everything he said was true, but even so she felt tensely anxious. She wanted to succeed at this interview, as much for Robert’s sake as her own. He had been the one to give her first ‘on screen’ chance when she came to Television South. He had helped and encouraged her giving her the self-confidence to project herself well. He was forty-five and a burly, dark-haired man with a pleasant sense of humour and a keenly ambitious drive. Emma liked and admired him, and knew that if she had not been the person she was, or if her liking and respect had been less strong she could quite easily have been persuaded into an affair with him.
She admired him for his faithfulness to his wife—a quiet, serene woman she had met on several occasions. The temptations in a job like his must be never-ending and yet from somewhere he found the strength to resist them. Emma liked that in him. Her own strong moral code was due more to her own inner beliefs than being a vicar’s daughter—their father had never tried to impose his faith on either her or Camilla; perhaps because she had had to grow up without a mother and be responsible for Camilla, Emma had formed her own moral code, based on her observations of life around her.
Her own self-respect was all important—without it she believed it was impossible for any human being to function properly. After all one had to live with oneself and her keenly honed ability to be self-critical was far sharper than any outside criticism she might have to face. An affair with a married man would be both messy and ultimately painful, but apart from that she could never feel completely comfortable in a relationship with someone else’s husband, and then there was always the nagging doubt that having been unfaithful to her, how could he be expected to stay faithful to a mere mistress … No … such a role was not for her. She was acutely distrustful of sexual attraction; people so often mistook it for ‘love’ with disastrous results. She herself had never met a man she wanted so intensely that the need to make love with him over-rode everything else. Camilla thought her cold, even frigid, Emma knew differently but she respected her body sufficiently to listen to what it told her; and it told her it would never be happy with anything less than the best.
She had had menfriends; often dating people who worked for the television company, but always terminating the relationship when it threatened to get too intense. She had the reputation of an ambitious career woman, but it didn’t worry her. Her career was important to her because it was a way of proving to herself her own ability but if she ever met a man who could fire both her emotions and her body; someone to whom she could give love and respect and who felt the same way about her, she suspected that all the energy she poured into her career would then go into her relationship with him. Sometimes the inner knowledge of her own intensity worried her; everyone thought she was so cool and controlled, but she didn’t have chestnut hair for nothing. Her emotions were there all right, it was just that she had learned young the wisdom of leashing them under her own control.
She gave her boss a brilliant smile. ‘I think everything’s under control … right down to a new outfit for the big occasion.’
She had chosen her interview outfit with care. It was a beautifully cut fine wool suit in a sludgy nondescript olive that was a perfect foil for her hair and skin. The jacket was tailored and workmanlike, the skirt slim with a provocative slit at the front and back, just long enough to give a glimpse of her long legs—the suit combined both provocation and discretion, and it had amused her to buy it, knowing as she did that it was a contradiction of itself. If nothing else it should keep them guessing she thought drily, trying to concentrate on everything that Robert was telling her.
When she got home that night there was a letter from Drake Harwood’s solicitors waiting for her. Mr Harwood was agreeable to seeing her, it told her. An appointment had been made on the day and at the time she had requested and that was a relief.
When she told Camilla, her sister pouted sulkily and complained that Emma was trying to make her feel guilty. ‘I’m trying to forget all about that …’ she told her, shuddering, ‘and now you’re trying to make me remember.’
‘I should have thought that was all too easy,’ Emma said drily, ‘especially when it involved a bill of several thousand pounds. Have you tried to talk to David about it.’
‘I can’t. He’d understand, but his mother wouldn’t. Do you know what she said to me today…?’
Emma closed her ears while Camilla set off on a long diatribe against David’s mother. The newly married couple were to make their home at the Manor with her. They were going to have their own wing, and Camilla was already planning how she would re-decorate and re-furnish it. If Mrs T. allowed her to have anything other than very traditional Colefax and Fowler plus assorted antiques, she would be very surprised, Emma thought, but kept her thoughts to herself. Camilla thought that by marrying David she was gaining the freedom to spend his money and buy herself all the things she had never had, but what she was really doing was entering a prison … However, it was her own choice.
She had decided to spend the night before her interview in London—that would save arriving there with her clothes all creased from the train journey. She had booked herself a room at a fairly inexpensive hotel. Her father was busy writing his sermon when she went to tell him she was going. He looked up and smiled at her. The Reverend Richard Court had a vague, appealing smile. There had been several female parishioners eager to step into her mother’s shoes, but he had managed to evade them all. Her father rather liked his bachelordom, Emma suspected. He had several friends at Oxford, dons with whom he spent long weekends re-living the days of their youth. He was also an avid reader. Outwardly gentle and mild, he possessed a core of inner steel. Emma suspected she had inherited from him. No one would ever persuade her father to do something he didn’t wish to do. In many ways he was extremely selfish, but he was so gentle and mild, that very few people realised it. He was kind though and extremely adept at distancing himself from arguments and trouble. He could always see both sides of an argument—something else she had inherited from him Emma thought.
‘I should be back tomorrow evening.’ Her interview with the TV people was in the morning and she was seeing Drake Harwood after lunch.
‘Camilla seems very anxious. I suppose it’s all this fuss over the wedding.’
‘She’ll make a lovely bride…’
‘Yes. Her one redeeming feature in Mrs T’s eyes, no doubt,’ he agreed, surprising Emma as he so often did by seeing what one had not believed that he had seen. ‘It’s lucky for her that she’s so malleable. Marriage to a man like David would never do for you Emma.’
‘No,’ she agreed with a smile, ‘I’m more likely to turn into another Mrs T.’
‘I don’t think so. No one could ever accuse you of being narrow-minded. I hope you get the job.’
Emma knew that he meant it, which was generous of him, because if she did she would have to find somewhere to live in London, and by removing herself from the vicarage she would deprive him of a housekeeper/secretary/general dogsbody. Being her father though, no doubt he would find someone else to take her place, with the minimum of fuss and inconvenience to himself.
She drove herself down to the station. It was only tiny and Joe the stationmaster promised to keep an eye on her car for her. ‘Hope you get the job,’ he told her, as he sold her her ticket. Everyone in the village probably knew why she was going to London—or at least thought they did. None of them knew of her appointment with Drake Harwood. It was ridiculous but she almost felt more apprehensive about that than she did about her interview for her new job.
The train arrived ten minutes late but was relatively empty. It took just over an hour and a half to reach London. Emma was both bored and stiff when it did. She allowed herself the extravagance of a taxi to her hotel, although she noticed that the driver looked less than impressed by its address. It seemed strange to think that if she got this job her face would be so familiar that almost everyone would recognise her. She wasn’t sure yet how she would handle that sort of exposure. She liked her privacy and working for the local station had been able to preserve it. Robert had warned her against stressing too much how she felt about that. Perhaps it was something that one just grew accustomed to.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ac599af7-cc65-563d-b7e1-6fbd0149f59e)
CONGRATULATING herself on her good timing Emma sat down gracefully in the chair indicated by the hovering secretary. Exactly three minutes to spare before the time appointed for her interview.
Across the other side of the room she caught sight of her own reflection in a mirrored section of wall surrounding an almost tropical plant display. The cool, graceful woman staring back at her was almost a stranger. She had never quite grown accustomed to the image she had learned to project during her years in the media, Emma reflected, hiding a rueful smile. As a teenager she had been gangly and awkward, lacking Camilla’s blonde prettiness. It had been during her first job that an older colleague had suggested a grooming course at a local modelling school might be a good idea. At first she had been dismissive, but the advice had taken root and now she considered the money the course had cost her to be one of her best investments. She wasn’t pretty and never would be, but knowing that she had learned to make the best of herself gave her a calm confidence which was reflected in the way she held her body and moved. What she never saw when she looked at herself was the purity of her bone structure and the sensual lure of the contrast between the dark russet of her hair, and her pale Celtic skin.
One or two curious glances came her way from people passing through the foyer but Emma ignored them. She knew she wasn’t the only candidate for the job, but they must have decided to interview them all on separate days because she was the only person waiting.
Having been kept waiting for the obligatory ten minutes the discreet sound of a buzzer on the secretary’s desk heralded the commencement of her ordeal.
The room she was shown into was large and furnished in a modern high tech style. Three people were already in the room. All of them men. Robert had warned her against adopting a sexual approach to the interview. ‘I know you won’t anyway,’ he had added, ‘but just remember it’s brains they’re looking for as well as looks.’
Emma hadn’t needed the warning. She had scorned using her sex to get her own way all her life. In fact her father had once commented that she was almost too direct. ‘Men, on the whole, enjoy having their egos massaged, my dear,’ had been his mild comment, one afternoon when she had delivered a blisteringly disdainful look in the direction of one of his parishioners. She had tried to explain that she hadn’t liked the way the man had looked at her, or appreciated his heavy-handed compliments, but her father had simply shaken his head. ‘Emma I suspect you’re always going to take the hard route through life. Something in you demands that you meet situations head on. Try to learn that sometimes it’s useful to have the ability to side-step them.’ She had now mastered the art, but it had been a hard-won mastery, and she often had to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying what she thought. ‘Too direct’ other people had called her, while Camilla made no bones of her verdict. ‘You’re always so aggressive Emma,’ she had told her once, ‘and men don’t like it.’
The interview progressed smoothly; she was able to answer all the questions put to her and she was also given the chance to air some of her own views, which she did cautiously. It was difficult to appear natural, when she knew that every movement, every inflection of her voice and manner was being studied to assess how appealing or otherwise it would appear to a viewer. Because that was what it all came down to—viewers, audience ratings … popularity.
She had promised herself before she left that she would be herself and that was what she tried to do. She was rewarded when her three interviewers stood up, signalling the end of her ordeal, and the most senior of them smiled broadly at her.
‘I think you’ll do us very nicely Emma,’ he told her. ‘I take it there won’t be any problems with contracts or commitments to your present post?’
Her eyes widened fractionally. Was he offering her the job? What about the other applicants?
‘None at all,’ she managed to assure him crisply, ‘but surely you’ll want to …’
‘You were our final interviewee, Emma,’ another member of the trio interrupted. ‘John here always believes in saving the best for last. In this case, I think he was right. If you have the time I’d like to take you down to our legal department so that we can run through a contract with you. There’ll be a brief training period before you actually go on camera; we already know that you come across well. We’ll have to take some publicity shots of you. There’ll be a good deal of media interest of course. And a final word of warning … unfair though this sounds, the public expect our women newsreaders to be, for the lack of a better description, morally sound, I think you know what I mean?’
Emma did. As Robert had told her she had nothing to fear on that score. ‘You’re not involved with a married man and you don’t have any dubious lovers lurking in your past, so you should be okay there.’
She had remarked at the time on the unfairness of the double standard, but Robert had merely shaken his head and told her that that was the way things were.
‘You’ll come under a lot of pressure from the media, but anything you’re dubious about, refer to us.’
She spent a further hour going over her contract; the salary she was being offered was reasonable rather than generous, but it should be enough to enable her to live in London, and there was a good wardrobe allowance.
‘Initially at least, we’d like you to consult our wardrobe department about what you wear on screen.’
Nodding her head, Emma reflected wryly that even her taste had to be checked; nothing was going to be left to chance, but then the slot she was going to occupy on the new early evening programme was an important one, and it would be fighting for viewers against a long-established and very popular show on another channel.
‘Now we’ll leave you in peace,’ she was told when they left the legal office. ‘You’ll need time to mull over everything that’s happened. We won’t need you here for another fortnight. Can you be ready to start then?’
They were in a corridor now and Emma automatically stepped to one side as a door opened and a man stepped through it. Tall and broad, he exuded an air of power and vitality. He nodded to the man accompanying Emma and then switched his attention to her, studying her with almost brutally open sexual appreciation. Strong though her control was, it wasn’t strong enough to prevent the seep of angry colour into her skin. Her eyes fiercely grey in the frame of her face glared her resentment at him. The amused smile curling his mouth softened his features momentarily before his glance dropped to her breasts and lingered there quite blatantly.
Emma couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so angry. She could feel the tension of it curling her fingers into talons, her tension increasing as she was forced to swallow her resentment down and force a coolly indifferent expression into her eyes as they met the knowing mockery in his. She had never seen anyone with such darkly green eyes before, she thought, hypnotised by them. Weren’t green eyes a sign of a changeable, untrustworthy personality? The thought brought her a brief measure of satisfaction, quickly banished in the rage that almost choked her as he moved down the corridor and past her, deliberately allowing his body to brush against hers. There had been room for him to squeeze past without touching her, but he had not done so.
‘I’m sorry we can’t offer you lunch,’ her companion was saying, ‘but we have a busy schedule this afternoon discussing a new series we’re thinking of buying.’
‘That’s all right,’ Emma smiled automatically. ‘I have another appointment anyway.’
Outside the television building she debated whether or not to go and ring Robert, and then glancing at her watch decided not to. He would be involved in preparations for the evening news programme now, and besides her news would wait until she got home. She wanted to savour it, to relish the knowledge that she had succeeded, but for some reason she could not.
It must be because she was so tensed up about her interview with Drake Harwood, she decided, looking round for a taxi. Once that was behind her then she could relax and congratulate herself. As she found one and waited for it to stop she recalled the man in the corridor and her mouth compressed.
Who on earth was he? Someone quite important. She hadn’t missed the vaguely subservient response of her companion to his greeting. She frowned as she stepped into her taxi. Why waste time thinking about a man she was hardly likely to see again; he wasn’t the first man who had irritated her with his attitude to her sex and he wouldn’t be the last.
Not the first, but certainly the most blatant. Her skin tingled with renewed impotent rage as she recalled the mockery in his jade eyes. He had known exactly how furious she was and he had enjoyed her fury. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such an aggressively sexual male. Not her type at all, she thought disdainfully, giving the driver the address of the modest restaurant where she had decided to have lunch.
She was quite content to lunch alone. She had a lot to think about and a lot to plan. She would have to find somewhere to live; sharing at first perhaps, and then later, she could find her own place. She did some quick sums on the back of an old envelope. She would need new clothes, but hopefully not too many. She had quite a good wardrobe, preferring to buy classic rather than fashion clothes and suspected that these would be in keeping with the image she would be expected to project. Her full mouth compressed slightly as she remembered what she had been told. Why was it perfectly acceptable for a man to possess a murky past but not for a woman? Luckily there was nothing at all in her past or present that could be used by the press. Her thoughts flashed to the man in the corridor. Undoubtedly the same could not be said for him. Her mouth curved in a cynical smile. Stop thinking about him, she chided herself eating the seafood salad she had ordered.
She took her time over her lunch, forcing down the jittery nerves clamouring in her stomach. She was more tense over this coming interview than she had been over this morning’s. Damn Camilla, she thought exasperatedly, not for the first time. What on earth had possessed her to take the man’s car in the first place, never mind crashing it?
She grimaced faintly to herself. She could just imagine her younger sister’s reaction on wakening to find herself in a strange bed. Mrs T. held very strong views on what she considered to be the lack of morals among the younger generation. In time David would be very like his mother; humourless and rigorously strait-laced. Cynically she wondered if Camilla was telling her the entire truth. Her sister had had a positive phalanx of boyfriends before she became engaged to David. She enjoyed flirting with and teasing the male sex and was nowhere near as innocent as her blonde delicacy implied. She had admitted that Drake Harwood had shown an interest in her. On the other hand it could be perfectly feasible that she had simply had too much to drink and that he had dumped her in a spare bedroom to sleep it off. It all depended. Whatever the case he certainly didn’t appear to be inclined to treat Camilla with indulgence now. His solicitor’s letter had been starkly uncompromising. Finishing her coffee and settling her bill Emma stood up, and glanced at her watch. She had half an hour before her appointment with him … it was time to go.
The block of offices her taxi driver took her to was everything one would expect for a going-places entrepreneur. Brashly new, the impressive foyer was designed to intimidate and impress. The receptionist looked as though she had just stepped out of Vogue, and eyed Emma unresponsively as she walked towards her.
At the sound of Drake Harwood’s name she perked up a little. No doubt she was a far cry from the women normally asking to see him Emma reflected dourly. He had been mentioned in the gossip columns quite a lot recently, and she had read that he was currently escorting one of the ‘models’ featured in his newly acquired magazine. Although she had no deep-rooted objection to members of her sex making a living from capitalising on whatever they considered their most saleable assets to be, she viewed the men who made their living selling the female form both in the flesh and on celluloid with considerable distaste. It was true that Drake Harwood had merely gained control of his girlie magazine as part of a larger package, but he had been quick to accept the challenge thrown down by the rival magazine and to boast that he would soon boost its ailing circulation.
Emma didn’t doubt that most of the women who posed for such magazines did so with their eyes open—witness Fiona’s determined attempts to catch Drake Harwood’s attention—but for herself … Only last summer Camilla had commented on what she called her ‘prudishness’ when she had refused to go topless during their holiday in France. ‘Everyone does …’ had been her younger sister’s critical comment. Maybe, but Emma had never been one to follow the general herd. Her own body was something she rarely thought about. Camilla had laughed when she insisted on wearing a swimsuit, but her skin was fair and burned easily.
‘Mr Harwood will see you now. Go up in the far lift,’ the receptionist directed in bored accents. Reminding herself that she was twenty-six years old and had just been offered the sort of job which ought to boost anyone’s self-confidence, Emma stepped into the lift and pressed the single button, hoping that the fluttering in her stomach was as a result of the upward surge of the lift rather than her own nervousness.
A secretary as elegant as the girl in the foyer was waiting for her; blonde hair immaculately in place.
‘This way please.’ She knocked briefly on a door and then held it open.
The room Emma walked into was enormous, with a panoramic view over the rooftops of London. The decor was almost austere; the rosewood desk huge; the Beber carpet underfoot a masculine blend of russets and browns.
‘Miss Court …’ He took advantage of her momentary consternation to ask mockingly, ‘I take it you did get the job? I shall look forward to seeing you on screen when the new programme goes out.’
She had recognised him instantly of course, but it had taken her several seconds to assimilate the fact that the man in the corridor of the television building and Drake Harwood were one and the same. Remembering his open sexual inspection of her, she felt her face burning with a mixture of tension and anger. He had obviously known then who she was. Tension sharpened her instincts. How had he known about the job though? She recalled the muted deference in her companion’s manner towards him and anxiety feathered along her nerves. If he wanted her to comment on the coincidence; on the fact that he knew about her new job, he was going to be disappointed. Exciting Fiona had called him, according to Camilla, and she could understand why. If ever a man exuded sexuality it was this one, she thought clinically. His hair was thick and dark, almost unruly as it grew low into his nape. Even seated he gave the impression of height and breadth. His suit was expensively tailored, discreetly dark and Saville Row, and yet it left an unmistakable impression of solid muscle and bone; a legacy from his early days working on building sites, she decided. His skin was olive toned and tanned, the bones shaping his face arrogantly masculine. Even without those green eyes she would have been wary of him. He was a man whose every movement revealed a raw pleasure in his masculinity; a man who would never consider a woman to be his equal, Emma thought drily.
‘Like what you see?’ His words left her in no doubt that he was aware of her scrutiny. Emma fought down the urge to snap back that she disliked everything about him, and said instead, ‘It’s always interesting to come face to face with the people one reads about in the press.’
‘Really?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Surely you aren’t admitting that you succumb to hero-worship Miss Court. Somehow I can’t see you in that role.’
She wasn’t admitting anything of the sort and he knew it damn him. Angrily Emma suppressed an inclination to bite out that far from hero-worshipping, she was more likely to find herself criticising him, and reminded herself of the purpose of her appointment.
‘Quite a coincidence, our meeting twice in the one day.’
Emma had the distinct feel that he was toying with her in some way, playing a game which was giving him huge amusement and not a little masculine satisfaction.
‘They do happen.’ She was fighting to control her responses. Instinct told her she would need all her wits about her to match this man. ‘As you know from my letter, I wanted to discuss my sister with you. You may remember, she had a slight accident in your car.’
She had wanted to get him off the subject of her and on to the subject of Camilla and she had succeeded. His eyes sharpened, his eyebrows lifting tauntingly. ‘A slight accident? Is that how you describe theft and several thousand pounds worth of damage? Why hasn’t she come to see me herself?’
Not for the first time it crossed Emma’s mind that the whole thing might simply be a ploy to get to know Camilla better—on his own terms, with him calling the tune. He would demand that sort of relationship she guessed intuitively; he would derive satisfaction from knowing that he was the one in command. Well he might as well know from the start where he stood with Camilla.
‘She asked me to come because she doesn’t want her fiancé to know anything about what happened.’
If he was disappointed to learn that Camilla was engaged, he wasn’t showing it.
‘And what did happen?’ he asked softly. ‘I have wondered … The first I knew of anything was when the police rang me to say that my car had been involved in an accident. Quite a surprise, as you can imagine.’
‘Camilla attended one of your parties. It seems that she had rather too much to drink.’ She managed to say it quite calmly, but could not bring herself to look at him. ‘When she woke up in the morning and found herself in a strange bed, she panicked a little I’m afraid …’
‘She did? I wonder why,’ he mused sardonically. ‘I take it this strange bed contained no one other than herself?’
‘Not as far as I know.’ Let him make what he liked of that.
‘And this er … panic … motivated her into stealing my car.’
Stealing wasn’t the word Emma would have used, but she forced herself not to say so. ‘It was very early in the morning. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by calling a taxi … I’m afraid she was in too much of a panic to think things through properly.’
‘Unlike her sister, who I’m sure never does anything without doing so.’ The way he said it, it wasn’t a compliment. ‘I take it this panic was on account of her fiancé. She doesn’t want him to know she spent the night at my house is that it? Seems an odd relationship to have with a prospective husband. Why is she marrying him?’
‘Because she loves him.’
His eyebrows really did rise then. ‘My, my, does she so … But not obviously to the extent of being able to tell him the truth.’
‘There are complications.’ Emma knew she sounded brusque. ‘They need not concern you. Camilla wanted me to ask you if you would be prepared to take instalment payments to cover the repairs to your car. She can’t afford to repay you in a lump sum. She simply doesn’t have that sort of money.’
‘But her fiancé does, presumably, otherwise she wouldn’t be marrying him.’
The cynicism in his voice prompted Emma to snap, ‘Yes he does, but naturally she wouldn’t want to ask him to lend her such a sum before they are married, if that’s what you were going to suggest. The repayments will include an interest element, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘No, it does not worry me Miss Court, since I’m not prepared to accept them.’ He got up and came towards her, surprisingly deft in his movements for such a tall man. ‘However, if your sister genuinely can’t repay me in cash, I am prepared to take another form of payment …’
He was watching her closely, and Emma burst out rashly, ‘If you think Camilla will agree to have sex with you in return for you dropping the charges, you’re way, way off course …’
‘And so are you,’ he told her smoothly, ‘the payment I was thinking of wasn’t so much your sister’s body in my bed, as yours… in my magazine.’
For a moment Emma genuinely thought she might faint. She looked at him, grey eyes dazed and disbelieving, hot colour running up under her skin as she realised he was perfectly serious.
‘Me? But … but I’m not a model, I don’t …’ She shook her head trying to sort out her muddled thoughts.
‘Don’t what,’ he mocked her, ‘take your clothes off for financial gain? But of course you don’t Miss Court, that’s what will make the fact that you’re featuring in the magazine such a sales booster. I’ve been looking for something to up our ratings, and you could be just the thing.’
He was prowling round her now, studying her, stripping the clothes from her body with a careless masculine arrogance that made her long to smack him.
‘Yes, I can see the captions now. Cool newsreader Emma Court, as you’ve never seen her before … except perhaps in dreams. It should make an extremely good feature.’
‘You must be mad!’
He laughed mirthlessly, ‘How predictable of you, somehow I had expected better. No, I’m far from mad Emma Court.’
‘You knew who I was this morning, didn’t you?’ she demanded furiously, remembering the way he had looked at her then, probably already anticipating this very moment.
He was coolly amused. ‘My dear girl, I knew everything there was to know about you ten minutes after I’d read your letter.’
Emma thought furiously. ‘Did you arrange for me to get that job …? Did you?’
He smiled infuriatingly, ‘How quick you are Emma, I like that in a woman, it saves so much tedious time wasting. What does it matter? You’ve got it haven’t you?’
‘And now you plan to use me to …’
‘I’m offering you what you came here for,’ he told her curtly, ‘if the terms of payment are unacceptable to you, you can always refuse …’
‘And if I do, you’ll sue Camilla?’
He shrugged. ‘Do I look like a man who’d let someone rob me of several thousand pounds and do nothing about it? Half the secret of being successful Emma Court is comprised of luck—pure and simple. I consider myself to be more lucky than most. The very day your letter arrived, I was trying to think of ways to boost the magazine’s circulation, bringing it a little more upmarket. I don’t know if you are aware of it, but a rival of mine has challenged me to beat his circulation figures.’
‘Yes, I am aware of it.’ Her response was terse. ‘But I can’t see how nude photographs of me …’
‘Of you, Emma Court, no,’ he agreed, interrupting swiftly, ‘but of you Emma Court, the new anchorwoman of “Newsview“, yes. On screen you project a very cool, remote image, Emma. I know, I’ve made it my business to watch you. A lot of men find that very … challenging. The fact that we are able to show them a different Emma …’
‘No!’ The denial burst past her lips before she could stop it, her eyes wide and haunted as she faced him. ‘I’d never agree to anything like that,’ she told him fiercely.
‘No?’ He picked up his telephone receiver. ‘Very well then, I’ll instruct my solicitors to continue with the charges against your sister and to ensure that they get as much media coverage as possible …’
She knew he wasn’t bluffing. He had the power to do exactly what he was threatening. She could just imagine Mrs T’s face when she read what Camilla had done, and no doubt the press would have a field day making it sound even worse than it was. She was sorely tempted to go home and tell Camilla that she had been unsuccessful, but the thought of her sister’s hysterics; the knowledge that it could well mean the end of her engagement—because Mrs T. would put unholy pressure on David to break the engagement, she knew—overwhelmed her.
Forcing herself to think calmly and quickly, and to detach herself from what was happening she viewed her options, and could only come up with one solution. Damn Drake Harwood and damn Camilla. She would have to agree, she decided bitterly. She had no real choice. Let him take his photographs, but he’d never be able to use them in the way he’d planned.
Bitter anger tensed her muscles as she envisaged having to explain to Robert why she could not take the job … but he would understand. They wouldn’t want her on local television either … not once Drake Harwood had splashed her photograph all over his magazine. So what, she told herself hardily, she would be able to find another job in some other field where her public image wasn’t so important and at least she would have the satisfaction of defeating Drake Harwood. As he had said himself, photographs of her, as herself would have little appeal. As Emma Court she was no one and even though her mind and body screamed objections to what she would have to do she must ignore them.
‘Well?’
She faced him coolly, ‘I agree. but first I must have a document signed by you, clearing Camilla from any charges you might make against her.’
‘You shall have it. I do admire a woman of keen perception Emma Court. Somehow I thought you and I would be able to reach a mutually acceptable agreement.’
He was taunting her, Emma was sure of it, but she wasn’t going to respond.
‘How long will it take to get the document prepared and signed,’ she asked him coolly. She must know how much time she had. She daredn’t say that she wasn’t taking the job until she had that paper in her hand.
He was watching her face. ‘It will be given to you immediately after the photographic session.’
‘Do I have your word on that?’ Her eyes were hard, and she noted the dull flush colouring his cheek bones.
‘You have it,’ he told her crisply. ‘Now let’s get down to the arrangements shall we?’
He obviously didn’t believe in wasting any time Emma thought hollowly half an hour later as she left his office. Tomorrow she had to present herself at a studio whose address he had given her, and he had promised that she would also receive the documents releasing Camilla while she was there.
She went back to her hotel and booked in for another night. Then she telephoned home and told her father she had been delayed. ‘Camilla wants to speak to you,’ he told her.
Camilla sounded tense. ‘Did you see him?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, and he’s agreed to drop all the charges.’ There wasn’t much point in telling her sister the price she was having to pay for her freedom. There was nothing martyred or self-sacrificing in her decision; it was simply the only one she could make. She had grown so used to protecting Camilla that it was almost second nature.
She put off telephoning Robert, her interview with him was best left until she got home. Thank goodness she hadn’t actually signed a new contract. The television company would be more than pleased to let her go when they knew why she was leaving. Once her photograph had appeared in Drake Harwood’s obnoxious publication no serious television station would want to touch her with a bargepole. Bitterness welled up inside her, but she fought it down; at least she would have the satisfaction of defeating his main purpose and that, she sensed, was something very few people ever did. He had been quite cold and callous about his reasons for what he was doing; her thoughts and feelings meant nothing to him and neither did the fact that he was destroying her career. She had sensed beneath the mockery a fine contempt of the female sex, and she shuddered inwardly, trying not to think about the ordeal to come.
That evening after she had had her bath she forced herself to study her nude reflection in the bedroom mirror. Her body was slender and well formed, unmistakably feminine; the thought of exposing it to the eyes of some jaded photographer made her shudder with distaste. If only she could blot the whole thing out of her mind somehow … but that wasn’t possible.
Neither was sleep; she lay awake for what felt like hours, prey to her thoughts and too-active imagination. It was difficult to visualise anything more degrading than what she was going to have to do, and her pride rebelled fiercely against it, but there was no escape.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_f3827706-570a-5ab0-9b69-31c054a46a03)
MORNING came; she was heavy eyed and lethargic. The thought of breakfast held no appeal and having showered she dressed quickly in plain cream underwear. The moment her fingers touched the pale, silky fabric she started to shiver. Dear God, she could not go through with this; she could not subject herself to such sexual debasement. She ran to the bathroom and retched painfully, shuddering convulsively afterwards. If only she could simply walk out of this hotel and away from … from everything, she thought tiredly, but she couldn’t. She had spent too many years as Camilla’s older sister to do that. She could not desert the younger girl now.
A blessed numb calm seemed to engulf her the moment she walked outside; it was like being encased in a soft plastic bubble; safe from all harm; from all contact with her own feelings.
The taxi drive to the address Drake Harwood had given her was over all too soon. The studio was housed in an elegant Regency terrace; testament to how much money could be made from their business, Emma reflected bitterly as she paid off the taxi driver and rang the bell.
It took several minutes for the door to open. A girl of about her own age stood there, dressed in tatty jeans and a bulky sweater. ‘Hi, come on in,’ she directed. ‘Drake warned me to expect you.’ She gave Emma a wide grin. ‘Feeling nervous? Drake said you might be. This way.’
Following her down a narrow corridor, Emma gritted her teeth against the biting retort she was longing to make. Her relief at discovering that the photographer was another woman had quickly been displaced by fury that Drake Harwood should discuss her with her.
‘In here …’
‘Here …’ was an expensively equipped studio, dominated by the large bed on which several spotlights were focused. The bed itself was covered in a satin spread, the colour of rich cream.
‘Drake’s idea. I’m Pat Devlin,’ the other girl introduced herself. ‘I don’t normally accept commissions of this type, but Drake made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, as the saying goes. That was his idea,’ she added gesturing towards the bed and grimacing faintly. ‘He said the spread would be a perfect foil for your hair. Fancy a cup of coffee?’
Nodding numbly, Emma tried to come to grips with reality. It seemed impossible to believe this was actually happening but it was … and there was no escape.
‘Oh and Drake left something for you, said I was to give it to you after we’d finished. It’s over there.’
Emma looked at the thick envelope. So he had kept his promise to her. Somehow she had never doubted that he would. ‘Hey are you feeling okay?’ There was genuine anxiety in the question.
Emma nodded her head. ‘First time nerves,’ she grimaced.
‘And second thoughts. Why not have third ones and forget the whole thing. It’s none of my business of course, but if you’re really hating the thought of it as much as you look as though you are, it will show in the photographs, and no matter how much Drake is paying you, it can’t possibly compensate for what it’s costing you …’
‘I have to do it.’
Emma knew her voice was shaking. She couldn’t look at Pat, just in case she broke down and gave in to her suggestion not to go through with it. The papers were there and she could take them, but pride would not let her. She had to go through with it … but if Drake Harwood chose to print the finished product it would not be of Emma Court, TV newsreader, but simply Emma Court, out of work. He had demanded a price and she was prepared to pay it, but she wasn’t prepared to involve anyone else in that payment.
‘Okay, then let’s get it over with shall we?’
Pat Devlin might not be used to doing the sort of work Drake had engaged her for, but she was a professional to her finger-tips Emma realised in the two hours that followed. Small, and wiry with a shock of thick black hair, she possessed an energy that left Emma limp.
‘Take your hair down,’ she had instructed, helping Emma to uncoil her chignon, after she had taken some initial shots of Emma as she had arrived at the studio.
‘Look,’ she asked in a kind voice when she had asked her to undress, ‘are you sure …’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay then.’
If it wasn’t as bad as she had dreaded it was bad enough. Drake’s magazine was apparently more up-market than many of its competitors and for that reason she had been instructed to make sure all the shots were in good taste, Pat told Emma with a grimace. ‘Personally if I had my way the things would be banned, but a girl has to make a living. He was right about your hair,’ she added when she had positioned Emma on the satin spread. ‘I think you’d better close your eyes,’ she added, ‘they give away too much. You’re supposed to look as though you’re enjoying this, not on the rack. Try to think of something pleasant…’
All she could think of was that at some future date, Drake Harwood would be looking at her like this. The thought made her so tense that Pat had to stop work. What was one man among thousands, Emma jeered at herself, glad of the mug of coffee Pat brought her.
‘Nearly over,’ she encouraged her. ‘God I remember the first nude shots I ever did … I was nearly sick with nerves … but after a while you get used to it …’
Emma shuddered again, thankful when at last her ordeal was over and she could discard the cream satin underwear Pat had asked her to wear. The satin was soft and of excellent quality, the underwear perfectly respectable, sexy, but in an understated way; the sort of thing she herself might even have worn, for a lover perhaps … but now the mere thought of it against her body revolted her. All she wanted to do was to immerse herself in a tub of hot water and scrub her skin until she felt clean again.
Unfortunately, it would not be as easy to erase the morning from her mind.
‘Okay, here’s your envelope, don’t forget it,’ Pat instructed handing it to her when Emma emerged from behind the changing screen.
‘I’ll just pack up my things and then I’ll be on my way too. You know you meet all types in this game, but you … you’re someone I just can’t pigeonhole. You went through agony there, and yet you kept on … why?’
When Emma shook her head, Pat shrugged. ‘Well I guess it’s your own affair. I’d better get back to my flat and get these developed before Drake starts screaming for them. It’s the first time I’ve done this sort of work for him. Industrial stuffs more his line. Still it makes a change from working for Vogue, and photographing building sites.’
‘Well come on, I want to hear ail about it.’
The first thing Emma had done when she got home was to ring Robert. Now they were sitting in the bar of a quiet local pub, nursing their drinks.
‘I can’t take the job.’ She hadn’t meant to say it so baldly, but somehow the words were out and Robert was staring at her as though she had lost her mind.
‘Emma have you gone mad. Of course you can take it… They offered it to you, I know that, and it’s the chance of a life-time, just what you’ve always wanted.’
‘Just what I did always want,’ Emma corrected unsteadily, ‘I’ve … I’ve changed my mind …’
Robert glared at her as though he was seeing her for the first time. ‘I see, and is one allowed to ask why? Don’t tell me,’ he continued furiously, ‘it has to be a man. God Emma, I thought you were different, I thought you had more sense, but it seems I was wrong. I thought you wanted a career, not…’
‘Love?’ she supplemented drily. ‘All women want that, Robert …’
Although Robert had leapt to the wrong conclusion, it was easier to let him go on believing it than to try and find some alternative explanation for her decision. Inside she felt sick and shaky, one part of her longing to pour out to him her pain and misery, and another warning her against doing so; against crossing the careful barrier she had always maintained between them.
Emma wasn’t blind; she was aware that Robert was attracted to her, it would be easy to push that attraction into something more because she needed someone to confide in and comfort her, but if she did they would both end up regretting it. Robert loved his wife, and she wanted no part of a man who was committed to someone else.
‘Well I hope to God he knows what you’re giving up,’ Robert said harshly, draining his glass. ‘What do you intend to do now? Stay on with us?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No that’s not possible I’m afraid …’
‘Lover-boy wants a little stay at home wife, is that it?’ Robert practically snarled the words. ‘Very well Emma, if that’s what you want …’
‘I’ll give you my notice tomorrow.’ She had to bend her head to hide from him the tears starting up in her eyes.
‘If that’s what you want. …’
It isn’t what I want, her heart cried out rebelliously, but it’s what I have to do … I don’t have any alternative. If she kept quiet and signed her new contract, they would have to abide by it; they would not be able to get rid of her, as they would want to do, once the magazine came out, and she had too much pride to subject herself or them to that.
Robert drove her home in a stiff silence. She had holidays owing to her which meant that she need not work her notice period. When she told her father and Camilla, neither seemed overly concerned.
‘Oh good, you’ll be able to help with the wedding arrangements,’ was Camilla’s selfish remark, while her father commented that it would be nice to have her at home.
‘I still can’t believe that tomorrow David and I will be married,’ Camilla said for the umpteenth time. They were in her bedroom, Emma doing her packing for the Caribbean honeymoon David was taking her on. ‘Thank God you were able to persuade that beast Drake Harwood to drop charges.’

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