Practised Deceiver
SUSANNE MCCARTHY
I don't believe in dicing with danger… But when top model Alysha Jones signed an exclusive contract with Lozier Cosmetics, her life became positively hazardous. Ross Elliot - the man whose casual seduction she'd nearly fallen for years before - was handling the new campaign! Alysha was determined to fight her old attraction for him.Ross was a womanizer - pure and simple - a practised deceiver, and any relationship he was offering could only be one of short-term satisfaction and high risk to Alysha's heart!
Practised Deceiver
Susanne McCarthy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u8718d68b-7c5f-5e10-992b-6f3447c18710)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf826f924-d1cc-54fd-888d-448586ea229f)
CHAPTER THREE (#uf189cbdd-2a71-51ee-b0fd-e628866db232)
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)
CHAPTER ONE
‘DON’T want it? Whaddya mean, you don’t want it?’ In moments of extreme stress, Barbara Lange’s well-modulated voice had a tendency to slip back into her native Brooklynese. ‘Listen, honey, everybody’s been after that contract. Don’t you realise what it means? Not only is it worth a fortune, it’s guaranteed to launch your career into orbit! I damn near busted a gut getting you on the short list—you’ve gotta want it!’
‘I’m...sorry, Bobbie.’ Alysha shifted the telephone into her left hand and held out her right for the stylist to paint her long fingernails with plum-coloured lacquer. ‘I had no idea you’d even thought of putting me up for it. Anyway,’ she added with a characteristic lack of conceit, ‘it probably doesn’t matter—I doubt if I’d get it.’
‘Are you kidding?’ her agent demanded trenchantly. ‘Honey, the minute you walked through my door I knew you were gonna be a star! What’s got into you? It’s not like you to be backward in snapping up a break like this. I’ll tell you, there must be a coupla hundred girls out there would give Ross Elliot their right arm to be the Lozier Girl—along with any other part of their anatomy he happened to take a fancy to!’ she added with a rich chuckle.
Alysha’s soft mouth twisted into a wry smile. She had no doubt whatsoever that there were plenty of girls who would be more than willing to offer Ross Elliot whatever he wanted—and not just in the hope of furthering their careers. And she had every reason to know that he wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to take advantage of their foolishness.
She had only met him once, and that had been five years ago, but that single encounter had been enough; he had succeeded in that one short afternoon in putting her off the whole idea of a modelling career. It was only personal circumstances that had driven her back—but she had been careful to avoid any further contact with him.
So far that hadn’t proved difficult. Though he was still known to the public as a top photographer, in the intervening years he had set up his own very successful advertising agency—and it wasn’t the sort that used struggling beginners. Maybe she should have known that as her career progressed she was bound to run into him again—but she wasn’t sure if she was quite ready for it yet.
‘I...do appreciate all you’ve done, Bobbie,’ she responded carefully. Barbara didn’t know she’d even met Ross before—no one did; it was a secret she had been too ashamed to tell. ‘But... Well, to be honest, it’s the thought of working with him that’s putting me off. He’s...got such a reputation...’
‘Do you mean personally, or professionally?’ Barbara queried, conceding a hint of sympathy.
‘Both!’
The older woman laughed. ‘Listen, honey, you can cope with him. Sure, he’s a bit of a slave-driver, but you’ve never had any problems with hard work—you’re one of the most reliable girls I’ve ever had on my books. And as for the rest—if you ask me, a lot of that’s just wishful thinking on the part of a lot of very silly girls. They should be so lucky!’
‘Alysha? We’re ready for you.’ The photographer’s assistant stuck his head into the trailer.
She acknowledged him with a nod. ‘I’m sorry, Bobbie, I have to go now...’
‘He’s doing us lunch on Wednesday,’ Barbara pleaded urgently. ‘He’s seen your portfolio and the video of that shampoo thing you did, and I guess he wants to give you the final once-over in person. Look, you probably won’t have to see too much of him anyway—he spends most of his time behind a desk these days, not behind a camera. Just come along and meet him, talk it over, huh? It’s just a go-see—I swear I won’t push you into anything you’re not happy with.’
Alysha sighed, and then laughed wryly; she couldn’t pretend that she was busy on Wednesday—Barbara would already have checked that with the girl who booked all her jobs. It would be a tremendous boost for the agency to get a prestigious contract like this for one of its girls. And she owed Barbara a great deal—she had taken her on as a complete beginner when, at twenty, she was already three or four years older than most girls starting out, giving her the chance of earning the sort of money she needed. Now was her chance to pay some of that back.
‘All right,’ she conceded, trying not to sound too reluctant. ‘Lunch, Wednesday.’
‘Good girl,’ Barbara chuckled. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘Alysha...?’
‘Coming. See you, Bobbie.’
She put down the phone, careful not to allow herself to frown—it would ruin the perfect maquillage that Sharon, the make-up artist on the shoot, had taken so long to apply. Rising gracefully to her feet, careful not to disturb the artless tumble of midnight-dark curls that fell halfway down her back, she stepped down from the trailer.
The rich plum-coloured swirl of her silk dress lovingly moulded the slender curves of her figure and glowed against the flawless honey-gold of her skin. She owed her almond-shaped eyes, flecked with amber, to her Malaysian grandmother, but the self-discipline that enabled her to maintain her poise and smile through endless tedious hours of being photographed she had developed herself.
Shooting in the middle of Trafalgar Square on a Monday afternoon, it was inevitable that they had drawn quite a crowd. Envious office-girls gazed wide-eyed at the panoply of lights and reflectors and cameras, and the handsome couple in evening clothes waltzing on the edge of one of Lutyens’ fountains, with the elegant stone facade of the National Gallery in the background. From the outside, it must seem like a glamorous dream.
It had seemed like that to her once, she mused wryly as she moved with practised grace, showing off the fabulous dress to best advantage. At seventeen, up in London without the knowledge either of her parents or of the headmistress of her exclusive Sussex boarding-school, she had been about as naïve as they came.
And Ross Elliot had had no scruples whatsoever about taking advantage of her; he was a rat of the first water...
* * *
The studio was in the heart of London’s trendy fashion and theatre district around Covent Garden. It took her a while to find it in the tangle of narrow, old-fashioned streets; she walked past the door twice before she spotted the discreet name-plate: Ross Elliot—Photographic Studio. Ross Elliot had no need to advertise his location ostentatiously.
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she rang the bell—and was startled when an abrupt voice close to her ear responded, ‘Yup?’
Blinking at the entry-phone in surprise, she managed an unsteady, ‘Er...hello. It’s...Alysha Fordham-Jones. I’ve an appointment with Mr Elliot.’
‘First floor,’ the voice instructed, and the door buzzed and clicked open.
Her heart pounding, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was in a small, narrow hallway, lit up with a row of industrial-design spotlights suspended from the high ceiling; the floor was of bare boards, sanded and gleaming, and the walls were starkly white, hung with several huge framed black-and-white prints of gleaming sports cars, shot close up and from low angles, striking and dramatic.
For a moment she hesitated, a little daunted by the realisation that she was actually here, in Ross Elliot’s studio, and about to meet him face to face. Suddenly it was all beginning to seem less of a good idea than it had when she had planned it so carefully, poring eagerly over every magazine article she could find about the glamorous lives of the super-models who jetted around the world from one catwalk to the next, posing for the world’s top photographers.
But if anyone could make her dreams come true, release her from the stultifying boredom of her nice, respectable, middle-class family and the terminal tedium of school into a world of excitement and adventure, it was Ross Elliot; he was the best, as famous as any of the models he photographed.
And after all, she had come all this way, taking quite a chance of getting caught playing hooky from school—she wasn’t going to chicken out now. Screwing up her courage, she climbed the spiral staircase that led up to the first floor.
She found herself in a spacious reception area, decorated in the same style as the downstairs hall; a large window, draped with a casual swag of bleached muslin, looked out over the lively piazza in front of Covent Garden itself, with its colourful street performers and Aladdin’s cave of exotic little shops and market stalls.
There was a desk in one corner and as she recognised the man standing beside it an odd little frisson of heat feathered down her spine; everything she had read about him had warned her that Ross Elliot was not a man to suffer fools gladly, and that impression was strongly reinforced as she gazed at him in an awe-struck daze.
He had to be something over six feet tall, and he was wearing a faded denim shirt that moulded an impressive breadth of shoulder. His dark hair was drawn back into a ponytail, and he wore a gold earring in one ear, but there was nothing effeminate about him—nothing at all. He was uncompromisingly male, still branded with the stamp of the tough streets of Glasgow where he had grown up. And he had a magnetic physical aura that made her mouth go suddenly dry.
He didn’t even bother to look up as she advanced tentatively into the room; he was bent over the desk, studying a sheet of contact-prints, scribbling over them with a red china-pen, and without lifting his head he called out, ‘Tina?’
A pint-sized dynamo in a scarlet T-shirt and leopard-print leggings darted in through a door behind the desk. ‘Oh, hi,’ she greeted Alysha with a smile as broad as her Australian twang. ‘You’re the two o’clock, right?’ She ran one purple varnished fingertip down the appointment book on the desk. ‘Alysha Fordham-Jones. I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have taken a note of which agency sent you along?’
‘I...wasn’t sent by an agency,’ Alysha confessed apologetically. ‘I made the appointment myself.’
‘Oh...’ The other girl hesitated, uncertain. ‘Ross?’
He straightened, not troubling to conceal his irritation at having to drag his attention away from what he had been doing, and Alysha found herself subjected to a coolly detached appraisal from a pair of deep-set eyes the colour of hardened steel. ‘I only work with girls sent by a reputable agency,’ he informed her dismissively.
She felt a rush of pink to her cheeks. ‘Oh...I’m sorry—I...didn’t know,’ she stammered, disconcerted both by his manner and by something else she couldn’t quite define; maybe it was because for at least the past year she had grown accustomed to invoking stunned admiration in most of the callow young men she was allowed to associate with, and to be confronted with six foot four of mature, hard-ground male who seemed completely indifferent to her charms had come as something of a shock.
‘Well, now you do,’ he responded, turning his attention back to his task.
It was that offhand arrogance that stung her into a countering disdain. ‘I can pay,’ she informed him in a tone of haughty condescension. She put her hand into her bag, and drew out her purse. ‘Cash.’
She had been saving up her allowance for weeks—if she was going to be a model she would have to give up sweets and crisps anyway—and not knowing how much the session would cost she had brought a hundred pounds with her, in crisp ten pound notes she had drawn out of the post office that morning.
Ross Elliot lifted his eyes slowly to look at the money, and then to her face—and the glint of icy anger she saw in them made her insides shiver. Somehow she had insulted him far more than she had intended... She was just about to apologise when he smiled, a smile that didn’t reach those glacial eyes.
‘So you want to be a model, Miss Fordham-Jones?’ he queried, the voice with its rough-edged Glaswegian accent quiet but unmistakably laced with menace. ‘All right.’ He held out his hand, and dumbly she put the money into it. He didn’t bother to count it, just dropped it into a drawer in the desk in front of him. ‘Show her the changing-room, Tina.’
The other girl glanced at him in frank bewilderment, but met only a blank response, so with a small shrug of her shoulders she turned to Alysha. ‘This way,’ she invited, opening the far door and ushering her through into a long, narrow passage. ‘Have you brought some different outfits with you?’
Alysha nodded. ‘Er...yes. A trouser-suit, and an evening dress, and a swimsuit. Is that all right?’
‘Fine. We’ll start with the trouser-suit. And I’ll give you a hand with your make-up and hair—usually the agency would fix up a team to work on the shoot, but...’
‘But I wasn’t sent by an agency,’ Alysha concluded with a wry smile. ‘I’m really sorry about that—I hope...I mean, I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble over it or anything.’
Tina laughed. ‘Oh, no—don’t worry about it,’ she assured her blithely. ‘Look, you don’t want to let Ross scare you, you know—he’s all right really, once you get to know him. His bark’s a lot worse than his bite.’
Alysha cautiously decided to reserve judgement on that one.
Tina opened a door at the end of the passage, and flicked a light switch. Alysha found herself in a small, brightly lit changing-room. There was a white-painted dressing-table, surmounted by a huge mirror with light bulbs all round it, and another long mirror on the wall. On a hatstand in the corner was an eclectic collection of hats and scarves and belts and bead necklaces, and on a shelf above the small hand-basin were rows of half-empty bottles of nail varnish, cans of hairspray, and every shade of lipstick the creative imagination of the cosmetic houses of Europe and America could dream up.
‘Here we are,’ Tina announced. ‘I’ll leave you to get changed, and then I’ll come back in ten minutes and we can start on your face. Oh, and I’ll bring the model-release for you to sign. Ross always insists on it—it’s just so he can use the pictures if he wants to.’
Alysha couldn’t imagine that he would, but she nodded. ‘Oh... Yes. Thank you very much.’
She put down her bag, and sank down on the stool in front of the dressing-table, gazing around her in a kind of awe. Just think of all the fabulous top models who must have sat here before her...! Would she be one of them one day—her services in demand from all the top designers for their catwalk shows, her face on the covers of her favourite glossy magazines?
At this moment, to be honest, she would really much rather have run away, jumped on the train back to school. But she wasn’t going to let Ross Elliot intimidate her. And after all, he had taken her hundred pounds—and she didn’t much fancy the idea of asking him to give it back.
But half an hour later all her reservations were forgotten. She had thought she was quite good at putting on make-up, but the effect Tina had achieved was stunning. With subtle skill she had highlighted her delicate cheekbones, emphasising the soft curve of her mouth and lending a strange, smokey mystery to her eyes. Then she had twisted her hair up into a simple, elegant style that made her look a good five years older.
‘There—you look great!’ Tina approved with satisfaction. ‘Don’t you think so?’
Alysha stared back at her own reflection in that enormous mirror, bemused by the transformation. ‘Y...yes,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘I’ll tell Ross you’re ready,’ Tina added, her eyes dancing. ‘He’ll be absolutely knocked out when he sees you!’
Alysha doubted that—he had studied too many really beautiful women through the eye of his camera to be even remotely impressed by her. But even so, that unfamiliar person she could see, gazing back at her with her own amber-flecked eyes, looked very much the part.
Her mouth felt a little dry as she walked through into the studio. Ross was already there, setting up the lighting around a simple set that consisted of a tall wooden three-legged stool in front of a backdrop of bleached cotton draped from a track hanging from the ceiling. He didn’t even glance up as she came in, just waved her into place with a casual gesture of his hand.
She wasn’t sure what to do, so she perched on the stool, one foot on the floor, her hands clenched in her lap.
Ross bent to look through his camera. ‘Try to look a little less as if you’re about to have a tooth extracted,’ he appealed, a sardonic inflection in his voice.
Behind him, Tina placed her hands on her hips, turning her shoulders slightly. With a grateful smile, Alysha mirrored her actions.
‘Better,’ Ross approved, oblivious of his assistant’s prompting. ‘Lift your chin. Slide that left leg forward a little more.’ He moved to adjust one of the lights a little. ‘Tina, if you’ve nothing better to do than stand there, go and turn the tape-deck on.’
Tina grinned wryly, and obeyed, filling the room with the sounds of Genesis, and then with a small wave to Alysha she slipped out of the room.
The next couple of hours were the hardest work Alysha had ever known—if she had dreamed of modelling as a glamorous career, she was quickly finding out that standing perfectly still for endless moments, or repeating the same small movement over and over until he was completely satisfied, made her ache with cramp until she longed to scream.
As the afternoon wore on, she became convinced that he had only agreed to do the session to teach her some kind of lesson. He was ruthless in his demands, barking instructions and impatiently critical when she was wooden or awkward. But though she was exhausted and close to tears, she refused to let him defeat her.
The sensational backless black evening dress she had splurged so much money on drew no comment from him whatsoever; Tina had changed her make-up, using a darker shade of lipstick and more shadow on her eyes, creating an image of sensual sophistication, but she might as well have been wearing a paper bag over her head.
It was getting late by the time they were ready to start on the swimsuit shots, and Ross had sent Tina out to pick up something from the dry-cleaners. She seemed to work like a galley-slave for him, without expecting even a word of thanks, Alysha reflected as she brushed out her hair to let it fall loose around her shoulders; she was probably in love with him.
She was a little nervous of posing in front of him wearing only the cerise-pink designer swimsuit she hadn’t dared let anyone else see; cut high on the thigh and low between her small, firm breasts, it clung like a second skin. But Ross Elliot betrayed not the slightest sign that he found her blossoming curves even remotely alluring; his indifference was humiliating—she wasn’t used to being treated in such an off-hand manner. Everyone else thought she was beautiful, they were always saying she ought to be a model—but apparently he didn’t agree. And he ought to know—he was the professional. Had all this been for nothing, after all?
They had been working for twenty minutes when he told her to take a break while he loaded his cameras with fresh film. With a sigh of relief, Alysha stepped down from the set, glad to be able to stretch her weary limbs a little. During breaks in the shooting she had wandered around the studio, gazing enviously at the pictures taped all over the walls; many of the models she recognised—beautiful women, the ones whose faces regularly graced the covers of Vogue and Harper’s. One day...?
There was a low table and some chairs at the back of the studio, for meetings, and on the table was a thick bound folder of mounted photographs. She flipped it casually open to look; the pictures were all of those same top models—and they had posed for him in various states of elegant undress, some of them even naked! Yet there was nothing at all pornographic about them; they were pure art—strong images of women confident in their own sexuality, photographed by a man who had a genuine liking and respect for them...
‘Do you like them?’
She stared as Ross spoke close behind her—in his battered old tennis-shoes he had made no sound across the studio floor. ‘Oh...yes,’ she stammered, her heart thudding so loudly she was afraid he would hear it. ‘They’re...fabulous.’
A strange glint was lurking in the depths of those mesmerising grey eyes. ‘How would you like to try some like that?’ he asked, nodding towards them.
Her cheeks flamed scarlet; the thought had already crossed her mind—maybe that would be the way to get some positive reaction out of him! But she had told herself at once not to be so stupid; she could never compete with the stunning creatures in those pictures. And besides, the thought of taking her clothes off in front of Ross Elliot...
‘Oh... No, I couldn’t,’ she protested breathlessly. ‘I...’
She felt the chill of his anger, tautly controlled. ‘Suit yourself,’ he responded with a dismissive shrug of his wide shoulders. ‘If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine by me—there’s no need to come on like some prudish little schoolgirl. Do I look like one of the dirty-mac brigade, for Pete’s sake?’
She swallowed hard, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...’
He seemed to relent a little, conceding a grim smile. ‘Look,’ he coaxed, his voice taking on a gentler note as he flipped over the pages of the folder. ‘Look at those women. You know who they are. Do you think they’d have let me take those pictures if they hadn’t trusted me? I don’t have any ulterior motive—if I want a woman, I don’t have to resort to underhand tricks, believe me. I want to take your picture because you’re beautiful—that’s all there is to it.’
She gazed up at him, caught in the spell of those strangely changeable silver-grey eyes. Did he really think she was beautiful? Suddenly she knew that that was the only thing in the world that mattered. His brusque treatment of her was forgotten—she wanted only to please him...
‘A...all right,’ she whispered shyly. ‘I’ll do it.’
He smiled slowly; not in triumphant gloating, but simply in straightforward acknowledgement of her agreement. ‘There’s a batik thing in the changing-room,’ he said. ‘Sling it around your hips, and then come back in here—we’ll start like that.’
She nodded, her mouth dry. Of course it would be all right, she told herself reassuringly; this was no seedy back-street operation—Ross Elliot was one of the most respected names in the business. And as he had so caustically pointed out, if he wanted someone to...sleep with, there would be plenty of willing candidates, she was quite sure of that. It would really be rather conceited of her to think he was plotting to... seduce her. But even so, the thought of standing there in front of him, half-naked...
The batik was a large square of cotton, printed in vivid shades of red, orange, yellow and green. She unfolded it and shook it out, and then, setting her jaw in determination, she slipped out of her swimsuit and wrapped the batik around her hips—there was quite enough fabric to wear it like a sarong, but her hands were shaking so much it was difficult to tie the knot.
‘Ready?’ he called, a touch of that now-familiar impatience returning to his voice—she actually found that quite reassuring.
‘Y...yes. Coming.’
Hugging her arms protectively across her naked breasts, she stepped out into the studio. The lights felt hot on her skin, and her knees were trembling so much that she had to perch on the wooden stool or she was afraid she would fall. Ross was adjusting a lens, and he glanced up, a flicker of irritation crossing that hard-boned, handsome face.
‘It’s not going to be any good like that,’ he pointed out drily. ‘Put your arms down.’
Hesitantly, she obeyed. Her breasts were small and firm, the tender nipples like dainty rosebuds; but now, as she drew in a ragged breath, they seemed to ache and swell beneath his gaze, erotically seductive, wantonly inviting. She saw a small, tense movement in his hard jaw, and realised with a shiver of nervous apprehension that he wasn’t quite so professionally detached as he had been pretending to be.
She could feel a hot blush rise to her cheeks; but she had agreed to do this, and he would think she was nothing but a silly little idiot if she refused to go through with it now. Her blood was racing so fast that she felt a little dizzy, so she put her hands behind her to grip the back of the stool, unconsciously arching her back to curve her body provocatively towards him.
‘That’s good—hold that.’ She heard the click and whirr of his camera. ‘Now, lift one hand and toss your hair back over your shoulder. Look into the camera—that’s it, but don’t smile.’
Her body moved to his commands, almost without the conscious involvement of her mind. It was as if his will had taken her over, and he could do whatever he liked with her. Her soft lips were slightly parted, her silken skin glowing and warm; soon he would ask her to take off the sarong and pose completely naked—and she would do it. In the intimacy of the empty studio, all her inhibitions were evaporating in a sweet, melting tide of feminine submissiveness...
‘Damn!’ He cursed sharply, and straightened from behind the camera. ‘The heat of the lights is making your nipples go soft—they’re no good like that in the pictures. We’ll have to do something about it.’
She gazed at him, wide-eyed and bewildered, as he walked over to a small refrigerator in the corner, and came back with an ice-cube in his hand.
‘Just a small trick of the trade,’ he explained, a lilt of teasing in his voice.
She gasped in shock as he ran the ice-cube over her breasts; the delicate peaks responded instantly, puckering into taut buds.
He laughed softly, mockingly. ‘So sweet and demure,’ he murmured. ‘I bet butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth—or even an ice-cube!’
Before she had realised what he was going to do, he had popped it between her parted lips—and the next thing she knew he had gathered her up in his arms, and his mouth had closed over hers, warm and persuasive, his tongue swirling sensuously around to hook the melting ice-cube into his own mouth and then slide it back into hers.
She didn’t even think of resisting him. She had never known anything like this—it was as if all her dreams had spun together into one magical moment of paradise. Her naked breasts were crushed against the hard wall of his chest, his rough denim shirt rasping deliciously over her sensitised nipples, and she felt as if she was going up in flames...
* * *
Quite what would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted Alysha had never cared to speculate; it had been fortunate that that sensation of going up in flames had been no illusion—one of the lights had tipped over against a paper screen, setting it smouldering.
By the time Ross had dealt with it, she had come to her senses and fled back to the changing-room, dressing at top speed and stuffing her things into her bag, escaping from the studio before he could come looking for her. She had changed her mind—she didn’t want to be a model after all.
She had never told anyone what had happened that afternoon. She had hurried back to school, fortunate that the excuse she had used to cover her absence hadn’t been detected, and had buried herself in her studies—to such good effect that she had achieved excellent grades in her A-levels, and been accepted by one of the top universities to study to be a veterinary surgeon.
And that would have been that; but, just as she was about to take her second year exams, the privileged life she had always known had come to an abrupt end. Her father had been implicated in a massive share fraud and, rather than face the humiliation of a public trial, he had committed suicide—leaving his family to cope unprepared with the chill frost of poverty.
With her mother still in a state of shock, Alysha had telephoned her father’s eldest brother for help—only to have it very forcibly brought home to her how deeply the family had disapproved of old Colonel Fordham-Jones’s scandalous second marriage, and their absolute refusal to have anything to do with the outcome of that unwelcome liaison. And she had known she could expect little more from her mother’s family—they were of the old school, stiff-upper-lip, stand-on-your-own-two feet persuasion. After having had one uncle put down the phone on her, she’d be damned if she’d go crawling to any other relatives. They’d manage without anyone else—somehow she’d find a way to cope.
And so at the age of nineteen, it had fallen on her slim shoulders to try to earn enough money to keep a roof over their heads and pay her younger brother’s school fees. Forced to give up on her own ambitions, she had left university, and traded on the only asset she had left—her looks.
This time she had known better—she had gone to a proper model agency. And she had been lucky—Barbara Lange had been impressed with the holiday snaps she had taken along, and had arranged test shots for her. And although even at the ripe old age of twenty she had been viewed as something of a late starter in the business she had made rapid progress, through the hard slog of catalogue work to the giddy heights of the catwalks and glossies she had once coveted so desperately.
And now with what seemed like an almost inevitable working of fate, her path was to cross Ross Elliot’s once again. Why had he put her name on the short list? Did he think that now she was older, and—he would assume—more experienced, she would be more amenable to his practised seduction routine? That she wouldn’t run away in a panic this time?
Well, if that was the case, he would soon find out his mistake, she mused grimly. Oh, she wouldn’t panic or run away—she had learned a number of much more effective ways of dealing with unwanted advances. He would be in for quite an unwelcome surprise.
CHAPTER TWO
THE taxi drew to a halt outside the smart restaurant, and Alysha climbed out. She was greeted by a chorus of wolf-whistles from a building site across the street, and a middle-aged man in a grey suit, staring back at her over his shoulder as he passed, bumped into a lamp-post. Suppressing a small smile of amusement, she stepped into the restaurant.
She had dressed with great care for this luncheon date, in a suit of ivory linen-silk, cut with a stunning simplicity of line that skimmed over her slender curves. Her trademark hair was caught well back from her face to highlight her delicate bone-structure, and rippled in a dark glossy mane down her back, and the tall heels of her tan shoes took her to a willowy six feet one.
They were the highest heels she could find—but she would still have to look up to meet Rose Elliot’s eyes, she reminded herself with a taut little frisson of apprehension. She had done her best to talk herself into readiness for this meeting, but her heart was still beating much too fast, making her feel a little light-headed.
The restaurant was busy, but she saw him right away; he was on the far side of the room, and as he glanced up those compelling steel-grey eyes locked on hers from the far side of the room, like a laser-gun locking on its target. He was watching her, waiting for her to come to him; and for one uncomfortable moment the memories of the last time they had met swirled in her brain, and she felt as if she were again wearing only that low-slung sarong, her breasts flushed and naked, her delicate pink nipples pertly inviting his insolent survey...
‘Good afternoon, Miss Jones. May I show you to your table?’
With an effort of will she pulled herself together, nodding a pleasant acknowledgement to the head waiter, and, holding herself gracefully erect, she followed him between the well-spaced tables, long practice enabling her to seem unaware of the lascivious or envious stares that pursued her.
Ross rose to his feet, holding out his hand to greet her with a polite formality that threw her slightly off balance; he seemed to be behaving as if they had never met before.
‘Miss Fordham-Jones—thank you for joining us.’
‘Good...afternoon, Mr Elliot,’ she managed to respond, placing her hand in his for the briefest moment and withdrawing it before there was any risk of him noticing the slight tremor of nervousness that she couldn’t quite control. Bobbie was already seated at the table, halfway through a white wine spritzer, and Alysha greeted her with a smile that concealed her relief at not finding herself alone with Ross. ‘Hello, Bobbie. I hope I’m not late?’
‘Of course not—we were early,’ Bobbie assured her warmly. ‘Have a seat.’
The head waiter was holding out a chair for her, and one of his minions was hovering with the menu; she accepted both with a brief word of thanks, making a swift selection of Charentais melon, followed by sea-bass in a lime and lemon sauce which sounded delicious.
On the far side of the table, Ross was engaged in conversation with Bobbie, which gave her an opportunity to study him covertly. He hadn’t changed much in five years, she mused: the earring had gone, and so had the ponytail—his hair was now neatly trimmed, just a few wayward strands falling over his forehead. But he still wore the same casual denims, making no concession to the elegance of the restaurant, and beneath them his body was as hard-muscled and powerful as ever.
And there was still the same arrogance in that rough-hewn face, with its angular cheekbones and uncompromising jaw, still the same hint of cruelty around that hard mouth. And he still possessed a potent physical magnetism that was very difficult to ignore.
But though he had the look of a street-fighter, there had to be a lot more to him than that, she reflected thoughtfully. The world of fashion photography was highly competitive, and it must have taken more than just a good eye for a picture, and a smooth line of chat with the models, for him to have clawed his way to the top of it.
And even that had only been a means to an end for him, it seemed. It had created something of a stir when he had set up his own advertising agency—it was quite an unusual move for a photographer, to take on the business side of the industry. But he had been very successful; with his reputation, all the top freelance talent in London had been queueing up to work for him, and Élan had quickly become one of the most prestigious hot-shops in town, putting together some of the most strikingly creative campaigns of the past few years.
Perhaps it wasn’t surprising, after all, that he should have forgotten their first meeting. She must have been one of dozens—hundreds—of naïve young hopefuls who had passed through his studio. And he probably tried the same underhand trick on all of them.
And yet... Was it just her imagination, or had she detected a faint trace of irony in his greeting? And why had he used the double-barrelled part of her surname so deliberately? She never used it professionally, preferring the simpler, snappier Alysha Jones. Did he remember...?
‘I’ve been telling Bobbie the details of the campaign,’ he informed her; he was lounging back in his seat, regarding Alysha across the table with that coolly disinterested appraisal she remembered so vividly from their first meeting. And, to her chagrin, she found that it still had the power to discomfit her.
‘It sounds terrific!’ Bobbie put in, her eyes alight with enthusiasm. ‘A real winner.’
‘The key concept is danger,’ he went on. She had almost forgotten that voice—slightly husky, as if his vocal cords had been sandpapered by the raw Clydeside air of his youth. ‘We’re going to be emphasising the danger to the skin from excessive exposure to the sun. The lab people at Loziers have come up with a new UBA/UBV sunblock which is being introduced across the whole product range.’
‘And the ingredients are all from natural sources, of course,’ Bobbie assured her. ‘There’s been no animal testing. Alysha feels very strongly about that,’ she added to Ross. ‘She’s frequently turned down even very well-paid jobs because she won’t wear fur or use cosmetics that involved cruelty to animals.’
Those steel-grey eyes glinted with unmistakable cynicism. ‘She’s lucky she can afford to stand by her principles,’ he remarked, a sardonic inflection in his voice.
Alysha returned him a frosty glare. Did he think it was no more than a fashionable stance, taken by someone who would barely notice the sacrifice? Well, she certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him; her money struggles were a secret she guarded behind a carefully constructed illusion spun of rich-girl gloss and expensive designer clothes—bought wholesale or second-hand.
Very few people knew of the scandal about her father—fortunately it had attracted little publicity outside the financial circles of the City. And that was exactly the way she wanted it; the shame of finding out what he had done had been extremely painful, and she still hadn’t really got over it.
‘Could we stick to discussing the campaign?’ she requested, her voice laced with icy dignity.
A faintly mocking smile flickered at the corners of that hard mouth, but he acceded smoothly to her request. ‘There’ll be massive coverage in the glossies, as well as television slots and personal appearances. The Lozier Girl embodies the image of Lozier—a hedonistic indulgence for the woman who can afford that little bit more. That’s why we insist on an exclusive contract; any other work you do has to be subject to my personal approval—we don’t want the Lozier Girl showing up in some shoddy mail-order catalogue. And of course we’ll be paying very handsomely for the privilege,’ he added on a note of dry sarcasm.
Instinctively she was on the defensive, watchful for any hint that he had seen through her façde. ‘Money isn’t my primary consideration,’ she informed him with lofty disdain. ‘I’m interested solely in furthering my career.’
A glint of amusement lit those steel-grey eyes. ‘I stand corrected.’
She acknowledged the apology with a slight inclination of her head. ‘You...said there would be personal appearances?’ she enquired a little stiffly.
He leaned back in his seat, taking a sip of the Perrier water he was drinking—he was reputed never to touch alcohol. ‘It’s going to be a global campaign, involving a great deal of travel. There’ll be promotional visits to major cities throughout Europe and North America, Japan, Australia—I hope you have plenty of stamina?’
Alysha mirrored his coolly sardonic manner, lifting one finely arched eyebrow a fraction of an inch. ‘I can cope,’ she returned levelly.
‘I’m glad to hear it. It would be a major inconvenience if you were to become ill.’
‘I’m never ill, Mr Elliot,’ she assured him, her eyes glittering. ‘I’ve never missed a single appointment, or even been late, as Barbara will confirm.’
‘You certainly have an excellent professional reputation,’ he accorded, a sardonic inflection in his voice. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t even have considered you.’
Why had he considered her? she wondered with a lingering sense of disquiet. She was under no illusions—there were dozens of other girls with similar attributes to herself, who could meet the exacting criteria he had laid down. But the gossip-machine, normally so efficient, hadn’t come up with a single other name that was in line for this contract.
Why her?
‘What’s the timetable for the campaign?’ she asked, her voice commendably even.
‘Phase one will be the television commercials, co-ordinated with saturation coverage in all the major fashion monthlies,’ he explained succinctly. ‘The main launch will be at the beginning of April, and we’ll be pushing heavily right through into August/ September. We’ll be shooting the video for the commercials simultaneously with the stills, mostly on location in Thailand.’
‘Starting when?’
‘December.’ He lifted one dark eyebrow in sardonic enquiry as a flicker of uncertainty passed across her face. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Only if it would mean being away over Christmas,’ she responded in carefully measured tones. ‘I usually spend it with my family.’ And she could just imagine her mother’s reaction if she were to announce that she would be away for the festive season!
He shrugged his wide shoulders in a gesture of almost contemptuous dismissal. ‘We have to fit in with the climate out there—December is the time when it’s most likely to be dry and comparatively cool,’ he returned brusquely. ‘Whether you’ll be home in time for Christmas depends on the shooting schedule and how well the work goes.’
‘I see.’ She wasn’t going to waste her breath arguing with him; she really wouldn’t put it past him to cancel Christmas—he was just the sort of task-driven, ambitious rat who would, and be damned to anyone else’s feelings.
‘Alysha’s diary can be clear by then,’ Bobbie assured him, crisply efficient. ‘There are a few things lined up, but we can reassign them easily enough—it won’t be a problem.’ She turned to Alysha, her eyes sparkling. ‘I do envy you going to Thailand—it has to be one of my all-time favourite places. I hope you’ll give her a chance to do a little sightseeing, Ross,’ she added, slanting him a teasing glance. ‘You really must see the Grand Temple in Bangkok—it’s just fascinating.’
Alysha forced herself to look Ross straight in the eye, unflinching. ‘Mr Elliot hasn’t confirmed yet whether or not he’s going to offer me the contract,’ she pointed out coolly.
Again she found herself subjected to that detached professional assessment, and she struggled to return him a level gaze. Though she had long grown out of the adolescent vanity that had been so affronted by his indifference at their first meeting, recognising that her looks were no more than a fortunate pattern of genetic inheritance that she could exploit to earn her living, she had found that even in the glamorous world of the fashion business, where beauty was the common currency, they gave her an edge, a measure of power, in most situations.
But to Ross Elliot, it seemed, she was no more than a piece of equipment, on a par with the props and the lighting and probably rather less important than the cameras. If he could have replaced her with a china doll, that would do his bidding and never get tired or need a break, he would happily do so.
‘Don’t cut the hair,’ he ordered.
Her eyes flashed in icy indignation; she had never had any intention of cutting her hair but for one brief moment she found herself toying with the idea, just to defy him. But that would be foolish, she reminded herself briskly—she was a professional, and she was being hired to do a job of work. Her personal feelings mustn’t be allowed to come into it.
‘Do I take it that that’s a yes?’ she enquired.
‘Do you want it?’
He was forcing her to spar with him, and she felt an odd little tug of visceral excitement in the pit of her stomach. She did want it. It was more than just the money—though heaven knew how much she needed that! But having been forced to sacrifice her own aspirations to the need to support her family, she had transferred all her ambition into her modelling career. She wanted to get to the top—and this was a big step in the right direction. And she’d be damned if she’d let Ross Elliot and his mocking grey eyes scare her off!
‘Yes, I want it,’ she returned, will-power alone keeping her voice steady.
‘Then I shall discuss the details with Bobbie.’
For a moment Alysha felt giddy, caught up in a wild vortex of conflicting emotions. Satisfaction, of course, at beating the field to such a lucrative and prestigious contract, and relief that it would absolve her of the ever-present worry about money for at least the foreseeable future; but panic, also, that it would mean seeing far more of this disturbing man than she liked.
Fortunately at that moment the waiter arrived with their starter, and she was able to divert her attention to the cool, delicious melon. She was fortunate that keeping her figure had never been a problem for her; she naturally preferred fresh fruit and vegetables to sweets and pastries, she swam almost every day, and practised the ballet exercises she had enjoyed since childhood, which kept her body strong and supple, able to hold an awkward pose for as long as necessary, or repeat a single movement over and over until the photographer caught the exact fall of limbs and hair that he wanted.
Bobbie glanced across the table at her plate, and sighed enviously. ‘Melon! I wish I’d thought of that—I’ve never been able to get out of the habit of eating rabbit-food.’ She forked her green salad around her plate in disgust. ‘You girls don’t know how lucky you are these days—you’re allowed to carry those few extra pounds. When I was in the business, you had to stay as thin as a stick-insect. I’m sure the look’s much more attractive now—don’t you agree, Ross?’
A flicker of dark amusement danced behind those changeable grey eyes. ‘Speaking as a photographer, lean looks good through the camera,’ he acknowledged. ‘But as a man...I prefer a little more to get hold of.’ That disturbingly sensuous mouth curved into a slow smile as he glanced across the table at Alysha. ‘Of course, the girl who has good bone-structure and nice, well-shaped breasts has a distinct advantage,’ he added, the husky timbre of his voice making her shiver. ‘Not too large—about the size of a ripe peach is just about right.’
Alysha swallowed thickly, struggling to control the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat. It took a considerable effort of will to stop herself glancing down to check that she really was properly dressed; the way he was looking at her stirred memories so vivid that it seemed as though the years had evaporated, and she was once again the naïve and vulnerable little fool, posing for him half-naked, her breasts aching and ripe beneath his assessing gaze...
The most sensible course of action, she warned herself astringently, would be to tell him she wasn’t interested in the contract, simply to get up right now and walk out; but that would only let him know how deeply she had been affected by what had happened—how deeply she was still affected.
Did he remember? Was this some kind of twisted power-game he was playing for his own amusement? Or did he just not think it worth mentioning? After all, it had meant nothing to him—no doubt he would expect it to mean no more to her.
Well, fine, she could play it like that; her whole career was based on her ability to create illusions—a few deft touches of make-up, a different hairstyle, a change of clothes, and she could be a winsome ingénue one moment, a cool sophisticate the next, a purring sex-kitten or mysteriously exotic, Latin or oriental or suntanned English gamine. That was her stock-in-trade.
‘Who else is going to be on the team?’ she asked, adopting a pointedly businesslike tone.
‘It isn’t all tied up yet,’ he responded, accepting her change of subject with just the faintest glint of knowing amusement in those cool eyes. ‘Alastair Grant will be the make-up man, and Gemma Caldwell the stylist.’
‘Gemma?’ Bobbie queried, slanting him a look of teasing amusement.
He nodded, seemingly unaware of any reason why employing one of his previous girlfriends should be any cause for surprise. ‘She’s one of the best in the business.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Bobbie conceded graciously. ‘And Alastair is an absolute genius, of course. And what about the photographer? Or will you be doing the pictures yourself?’
To Alysha’s intense relief he shook his head. ‘I’m talking to Harry Keaton.’
Bobbie lifted an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Harry? Is he off the sauce?’
‘He hasn’t had a drink in months,’ Ross assured her. ‘He’s done quite a bit of work for me recently, and he’s back to his old form.’
‘It’s very generous of you to give him the chance,’ Bobbie insisted, her eyes glowing.
Ross shrugged his wide shoulders in a gesture of casual dismissal. ‘He’s an old friend—he helped me a lot in my early days.’
Alysha was barely paying attention to the conversation; she had registered only that Ross wouldn’t be taking the pictures himself. But of course he wouldn’t—he was the head of a very busy advertising agency now. Even the Lozier contract would be only one of a number of interests. She would probably hardly even see him. What she was feeling could only be relief.
She sipped her wine, struggling to relax the tension in her taut-strung nerve-fibres. On the other side of the table, Ross and Bobbie were laughing together at some piece of wicked gossip that was going the rounds. Watching them covertly from beneath her lashes, Alysha remembered that the two of them had once been an ‘item’. It had been quite serious, too, at the time—or so the gossip claimed.
He seemed to have a talent for retaining the friendship of his exes, she mused thoughtfully—although the way Bobbie was flirting with him suggested that she had rather more than mere friendship on her mind! And he didn’t seem entirely indifferent, Alysha noted with a stab of something she didn’t care to examine too closely; there was a glint of appreciative amusement in his eyes as he responded to that sharp New York wit.
Of course, Barbara Lange was still strikingly beautiful; she had been one of the top models in the business in her day, and though she was now in her late thirties her figure was still as slender as a reed in her chic designer suit, her glossy ash-blonde hair cut in a fashionable bob. Twice divorced, she exuded an air of sophisticated independence: the kind of woman who had no need of a man to lean on. But apparently even she wasn’t immune to Ross Elliot’s high-octane brand of male sexuality.
Would the two of them get back together? And if they did, why should she care? It meant nothing to her—her own relationship with him would be strictly business; she had seen too many complications for other girls through getting involved with men on location shoots, and she preferred to keep her private life, such as it was, strictly separate. And even if she didn’t, the last man she would want to get involved with was Ross Elliot!
They had finished their meal, and the waiter had brought coffee, when Bobbie spotted an acquaintance on the other side of the restaurant, and excused herself to go table-hopping. Left alone with Ross, Alysha absently picked up a coffee spoon and began fiddling with it; it was very difficult to maintain her cool façde when he was sitting there across the table, those smokey grey eyes watching her...
‘Have you finished stirring your coffee?’ he queried, an inflection of mocking humour in his voice. ‘Only I feel I should point out that you haven’t put any sugar in it.’
She felt a rush of pink colour her cheeks, and put the spoon down quickly. Damn the man—somehow she just couldn’t seem to keep him from getting under her skin! Forcing herself to return him a level look, she enquired, ‘When will you be announcing that you’ve chosen the Lozier Girl?’
‘As soon as the contract is signed.’
Her eyes met his with a hint of challenge. ‘Who else was on the short list?’
A faint smile curved that intriguing mouth—how was it that it could appear both sensual and cruel at the same time? ‘I don’t think you really expect me to tell you that,’ he countered, fencing with her again. ‘It would hardly be...professional.’
‘I shall find out,’ she reminded him coolly. ‘The grapevine is usually pretty efficient.’
He laughed softly. ‘Really? Then I’m surprised you bothered to ask me.’
She regarded him with narrowed suspicion. ‘How many were on the short list?’
Those steel-grey eyes were glinting with amused appreciation of her perspicacity. ‘There wasn’t a short list,’ he acknowledged. ‘I don’t work like that. I had a list of prerequisites, and I used my contacts in the business to identify a girl who matched that list. This is a long-term commitment on both sides—to choose someone on the basis of a brief go-see would be like choosing a wife on the basis of a one-night stand.’
Alysha was suddenly conscious of the dryness of her mouth, and lifted her coffee-cup, taking a convulsive swallow that burned her tongue and made her choke. Ross quickly took her cup from her, setting it down as she struggled to regain her breath, all too acutely aware of her scarlet face and the eyes of everyone in the restaurant turned to their table.
‘I’m...sorry,’ she managed, her voice disastrously unsteady. ‘It was...hotter than I expected.’
‘Of course,’ he conceded, though the glint of sardonic humour in his eyes warned her that he knew exactly what it was that had disconcerted her.
She could only hope that his other business commitments would prevent him from becoming too closely involved in the Lozier campaign. Their one brief meeting had had a devastating effect on the course of her life; of course she should be much wiser now, five years on—but she had an uncomfortable feeling that maturity and wisdom would prove no defence against that treacherous charm if he chose to deploy it against her again.
* * *
‘Tennis? What on earth do you want to take up tennis for?’ Alysha queried, trying hard to keep the exasperation she was feeling out of her voice.
‘I’ve always enjoyed tennis,’ her mother responded peevishly. ‘Even though I haven’t had much chance to play since I was at school. Besides, it’s very good exercise.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Alysha acknowledged wryly. ‘But did you have to join such an expensive private club?’
‘You surely wouldn’t expect me to go to the council courts?’ Audrey Fordham-Jones protested in haughty indignation. ‘Anyway, if you want the best coaching you have to go to a good club—it’s not the sort of thing you can cut corners on.’
‘Yes, but, Mummie, twenty-five pounds for half an hour’s couching...? Who have you got?’
‘It gets me out of the house,’ Audrey countered, sliding into a familiar refrain. ‘It’s no fun for me, you know, sitting around with nothing to do and no one to talk to. It’s all right for you, down there in London, having a good time...’
‘Mummie, I have to be in London. If I wasn’t working, you wouldn’t be able to go to your tennis club at all.’
‘I hardly call that working,’ Audrey responded dismissively. ‘Just having your picture taken. If you ask me... Ah, there’s Oliver!’ she exclaimed, instantly alert to the sound of a car turning on to the drive. ‘Dear boy—he promised to try to come home for the weekend, and he always keeps his promises.’
Alysha smiled wryly to herself as her mother jumped to her feet and bustled out into the hall to welcome her younger brother. Oliver had always been the apple of Audrey’s eye—he could do no wrong. Considering how spoilt he had been as a child, it was really quite remarkable that he had grown up into such a very pleasant, good-natured young man.
He came into the hall, grinning as usual, his slightly wayward dark hair flopping about his ears, and accepted his mother’s hug with tolerant amusement. ‘Hi, Mums—hi, Sis. I’ve brought Nige home for the weekend—is that OK?’ He waved a vague hand in the general direction of a lanky, fair-haired young man who had followed him up the steps, and was now hovering bashfully behind him.
Mrs Fordham-Jones frowned at this casual introduction. ‘Oh, dear—I wish you’d warned me you were planning to bring a guest,’ she protested. ‘I would have asked Mrs Potter to get the spare room ready.’
‘Oh, there’s no need to fuss,’ Oliver declared dismissively. ‘Nige can sleep on the floor in my room—he’s brought a sleeping-bag along.’
‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient, Mrs Fordham-Jones?’ the lad put in diffidently. ‘I told Ollie we should have rung first.’
‘Not at all,’ Audrey insisted, stepping adroitly into her practised role of social hostess. ‘Do come in, Nigel. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m sure you must be freezing, driving all the way from London in that dreadful old car of Oliver’s. I can’t think why he insists on keeping it, instead of getting a new one, but then I suppose those old bangers are all the thing with you young people nowadays, aren’t they?’
Oliver exchanged a brief glance of sardonic humour with Alysha. They both knew why he kept the ancient Morris Minor he had bought for a song—because a student grant wouldn’t run to the money for a new one, and he was reluctant to accept any more handouts than he had to from his sister.
‘Alysha, do be a dear and put the kettle on,’ Mrs Fordham-Jones requested sweetly. ‘I’m afraid it’s my housekeeper’s day off today,’ she added to Nigel, leading the way through to the drawing-room, ‘so we’re having to muddle through by ourselves. But I think there’s still some of Cook’s cherry-cake, if you’d like to try it? I don’t care what people say, you really can’t beat home-made.’
The poor young man had stood transfixed by Alysha from the moment he had stepped through the door, and now he was blushing a deep shade of scarlet at the thought of this goddess being despatched to make him a cup of tea. She took pity on him, smiling with friendly warmth.
‘Good afternoon, Nigel,’ she greeted him. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down, and I’ll bring the tea through in a minute?’
‘Oh... Yes... Thank you...’ he choked out inarticulately. ‘I... Thank you.’
Alysha slipped off to the kitchen, where a moment later her brother joined her. ‘How’s it going, then?’ he enquired, giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. ‘Sorry we were late—the old jalopy started over-heating on the A40, and we had to keep stopping and letting her cool down. Has she been driving you batty?’ He nodded his head in the general direction of the sitting-room.
She laughed softly, shaking her head. ‘No more than usual. She can’t help it—it’s been very difficult for her these past few years.’
Ollie snorted in derision. ‘All that housekeeper and cook stuff—you’d think she’d realise she doesn’t fool anyone for a minute. Is that the “home-made” cake?’ he added teasingly as Alysha peeled off the shop-wrapper and put the cake on a plate.
‘Uh-huh. Does your friend take milk and sugar?’
‘Yup—two sugars.’ He chuckled richly to himself. ‘Poor old Nige—he’s been absolutely dying to meet you, you know—all the chaps are. You’ve been voted the official pin-up of first year med.’
‘How flattering!’ she observed drily. ‘How’s the course going? Are you enjoying it?’
‘It’s great!’ His eyes, the same amber-brown as her own, lit up. ‘Very hard work, but I expected that.’ The smile was replaced just as swiftly by a frown. ‘The only thing is, I feel bad about taking an allowance from you. Now I’ve left school, I should be helping you out, not making it more difficult for you.’
‘You’re not making it difficult,’ she insisted firmly, shifting him aside so that she could reach the drawer that held the cake-knife. ‘Besides, this is the reason I wanted you to stay on at school and take your A-levels. If you packed it in now, it would all have been wasted. Anyway, if it makes you feel better, you can look on it as a loan. When you’re a world-famous surgeon you can pay me back.’
‘That’s a promise,’ he asserted, snatching a crumb from the plate as she sliced the cake and getting his hand slapped away for his pains. ‘Shouldn’t that be on one of those doily things?’
‘Oh, yes—I forgot. Get one out for me, Ollie—I think she keeps them in the second drawer.’
‘What do you think of her latest kick?’ he enquired as he went to do as she had asked.
‘The tennis?’ She laughed. ‘Well, as she says, it’s good for her, and it gets her out of the house. I don’t like to let her sit around moping.’
‘Well, she could have found something a little cheaper to take up,’ he remarked caustically. ‘The membership fees alone for a swanky club like that must cost a fortune, let alone hiring the courts, and taking lessons. And she just expects you to fork out the cash to pay for it all. It’s not fair.’
Alysha smiled wryly. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Besides, money’s not going to be so tight any more. I’ve...just been offered a big contract by one of the top cosmetic houses. It should pay pretty well.’
‘Really? That’s great!’ Her brother beamed in genuine delight.
She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Oh, well... It’s no big deal,’ she murmured diffidently. ‘It’s only modelling, after all. Although there’s going to be a bit of television work in it, too.’
Ollie’s mouth pulled a grim line. ‘This isn’t really what you wanted out of life, is it, Sis?’ he queried with gentle sympathy. ‘Modelling, I mean. Look, when I’m finished med school, why don’t you go back and finish your veterinary degree? It wouldn’t be too late.’
She shook her head, laughing it off. ‘I’m afraid it would. My brain’s turned to mush through lack of use these past couple of years—I don’t think I’d ever be able to go back to the sort of studying I’d need to do to be a vet. Anyway, I’m not so sure I’d want to now. I think I’d like to try something different—maybe even get into television. This contract could be my big chance.’
‘Does the Mater know about it?’ he enquired with a quirky grin. ‘I wouldn’t tell her if I were you—if she thinks there’s going to be more money around, she’ll only go out and spend it.’
‘I mentioned it to her.’ Alysha smiled in sardonic humour. ‘I’m afraid she wasn’t nearly so impressed as she was by your first two weeks as a budding doctor.’
He snorted. ‘That’s only because she wants to be able to say “my son, the doctor”. The fact that it’s your job that’s making it possible tends to escape her. But it doesn’t escape me,’ he added, his voice low and sincere. ‘I really do appreciate it, Sis. I don’t think you really know how much.’
‘Oh, go on with you,’ she protested, chuckling. ‘Here, take the cake and go back in the drawing-room and rescue your poor friend. You’ve left him alone with her all this time—she’ll be driving him potty.’
‘Lord—poor Nige! I forgot him.’ He took up the plate, vanishing swiftly down the passage.
Alysha leaned back against the kitchen table with a sigh. The contract with Ross Elliot was signed; she had sold her soul to him for enough money to keep her family in security for the foreseeable future. Well, strictly speaking, not her soul but her body, she amended, her mouth a little dry. But she couldn’t help feeling it rather amounted to the same thing.
CHAPTER THREE
‘ALYSHA, this way.’
‘Over here, Alysha.’
‘Give us a big smile, Alysha.’
‘Miss Jones, do you use Lozier products yourself?’
‘Of course she does,’ Ross cut in before she could frame her own reply to the reporter’s question. ‘As a model whose career depends on her looks, what else would you expect her to use?’
Alysha kept smiling, though it was taking every ounce of professionalism she possessed. Perched up on a tiny dais with a giant-size mock-up of the Lozier perfume bottle, in front of the gathered media and senior executives of the Lozier company, she felt like a puppet—with Ross Elliot pulling the strings.
Oh, there was no denying that it was a sensational outfit—what little there was of it. Of floating silk chiffon, in a vivid shade of flamingo-pink shot through with gold thread, the top consisted of no more than a wrap of fabric tied halter-style around her neck and across her breasts and knotted behind her back, the two ends drifting to the floor; the palazzo pants were of the same sheer fabric, giving the impression almost of transparency, and they were slung daringly low around her slender hips, leaving most of the peach-smooth curve of her stomach bare—offering a very provocative glimpse of her dainty navel.
But it was in her contract that she had to wear whatever he dictated for her appearances as the Lozier Girl—as he hadn’t hesitated to remind her when she had protested. It said a great deal about the way he saw her, she reflected bitterly: a body, and a face, and twenty-four inches of glossy black hair, that existed solely for the purpose of selling the product. But it was too late now to change her mind about the deal—a substantial proportion of the advance had already been spent on reducing her mother’s credit-card accounts and paying her brother’s allowance for the term.
The Press conference he had arranged to announce the selection of the new Lozier Girl was being held in the elegant Mayfair offices of the Lozier Institute. It had created quite a stir of interest, even beyond the narrow confines of the advertising and fashion world—one previous Lozier Girl had gone on to become a big success in Hollywood, another had recently married a viscount. Everyone was eager to see who the replacement was to be.
‘Will you be doing the Paris collections this year, Alysha?’ one of the journalists wanted to know.
Ross nodded, again answering on her behalf. ‘Alysha has already been approached by several of the top designers. And of course, her exclusive contract with Lozier doesn’t prevent her appearing on the catwalk—or the cover of Vogue. Although we do have first call on her services,’ he added, slanting her a snake-like smile. ‘And we’ll be keeping her pretty busy.’
‘Do you have a regular boyfriend, Alysha? What does he think of your career?’
‘There’s no one special at the moment,’ she managed to get in before Ross could put words in her mouth.
‘Which Lozier preparation is your favourite, Miss Jones?’
Ross glanced towards her; apparently she was to be allowed to answer that one all by herself. Unfortunately he hadn’t bothered to check with her before asserting so confidently that she used the range she had been employed to promote—she privately thought it rather over-priced. But of course she couldn’t say that—a little prevarication was called for.
‘I think a good moisturiser is one of the most important beauty investments a woman can make,’ she asserted smilingly.
That bland comment seemed to satisfy them, and the remaining questions were all about the campaign itself, which Ross answered. Some of the photographers wanted more pictures, and she posed obligingly—at least it would be a change to be featured on the editorial pages instead of the fashion section.
At last Ross signalled an end to the proceedings. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. There are Press-packs available for you as you leave which I trust will supply you with any further information you may need.’
As the room began to empty, Alysha permitted herself a small sigh of relief, easing the muscles in her back. Ross slanted her a look of sardonic enquiry, offering her his hand to step down from the high dais.
‘Tired?’
‘Not at all,’ she responded coolly, withdrawing her hand from his.
A flicker of a smile curved that hard mouth. ‘Good—you have another hour’s work still. There are drinks being served in the boardroom for Lozier’s senior executives. The chairman tells me he’s looking forward very much to meeting you,’ he added, allowing his steel gaze to rove without haste over the slender curves of her body: a subtle reminder—if she had needed one—that she had been bought. ‘His latest divorce came through a few weeks ago, I believe, so if you play your cards right you could even get to be Lady Maynard the Fourth—or would it be the Fifth? I’m afraid I’ve lost count.’
Her eyes flashed him a frost-warning, but she chose to ignore his attempts to goad her. This was the first time she had seen him since she had agreed to sign the contract; the respite had been welcome, giving her a chance to sort out her feelings about him.
She couldn’t pretend that she didn’t have any feelings; that spark of physical attraction that arced between them was too real to be ignored. And she knew that he was aware of it too—though he had so far given no indication that he remembered their first meeting; she had wondered whether the sight of so much of her naked flesh would jog his memory, but apparently it hadn’t—or if it had, he still chose not to mention it.
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