Practised Deceiver. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
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.