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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?’
