Mistress Of Deception. Miranda Lee
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all.
Still, when the girl had discovered shortly after leaving boarding-school at eighteen that this was so, she’d apparently been most upset. She and Alan had had some kind of altercation in the library over the situation, resulting in Ebony running to her room, crying. Deirdre had been unable to comfort her, the girl saying over and over that she had to leave.
At the time Ebony had been doing a grooming and modelling course that Deirdre herself had given her as a Christmas present that year. When the lady running the modelling course had recommended Ebony to a modelling agency, saying she had the potential to reach the top in that profession, the stubborn child had immediately dropped her idea of going to teacher-training college and had pursued a career that would start paying immediately.
She’d been an instant hit, on both the catwalk and behind the photographers’ lenses, and it hadn’t been long before she was giving Alan a cheque every week in repayment. Then, as soon as she’d been earning enough money, she had moved out of the house and into a flat of her own.
Alan had been furious, and had refused to speak of Ebony for a long long time. It wasn’t till Deirdre had thrown her a twenty-first birthday party a little over a year ago that he had even deigned to be in the same room with her. Whenever she’d come to visit Deirdre on previous occasions, and Alan had been home, he would make some excuse to leave the house. This time, however, under threat from his mother, he had been civil to Ebony in front of the other guests, though far from pleased when he’d found out she was to stay the night. Forgiveness was not one of Alan’s strong points.
The tension at the breakfast-table the following morning had been so acute that Deirdre had vowed never to ask Ebony to stay over again. It just wasn’t worth it. But the ongoing feud was a thorn in her side. She loved the girl, thought of her as fondly as her own daughter, Vicki. Nothing would please her more than if her son and his ward made up.
‘Don’t you think it’s time you and Ebony buried the hatchet?’ she said with an unhappy sigh.
‘I hardly think that’s ever likely.’
‘Why not? Maybe if you were nicer to her when you saw her, which you must do occasionally. You’re in the same business.’
Alan’s laugh was harsh. ‘If I were nice to Ebony, she’d spit in my face.’
‘Alan! She would not. Ebony’s a lady.’
‘Is she, now? Funny, I’ve never thought of her as such. A black-hearted witch, perhaps. But never a lady.’
Deirdre was truly shocked. ‘Are we talking about the same girl here?’
‘Oh, yes, Mother, we most certainly are. Your sweet Ebony has just never chosen to show you that side of herself.’
‘I think you’re biased.’
‘Aye, that I am,’ he agreed drily.
‘What did you say to her that night in the library that upset her so much? I never could get the details of your argument out of her.’
Alan put down his serviette and rose. ‘For pity’s sake, Mother, that was nearly four years ago. How could I possibly remember? Probably told her she was an ungrateful little wretch, which she was. Now I must go. I have appointments lined up all afternoon with prospective designers dying to head my new Man-About-Town exclusive label.’
Walking round to peck her on the forehead, he strode from the patio into the living-room and towards the front door, an elegant figure in one of his own-brand business suits. Being six feet three and finely proportioned, Alan could have modelled his own products if he’d chosen to.
Deirdre watched him go with increasing unease. He was not happy, she decided, and, like all mothers, she wanted her son to be happy. She wanted both her children to be happy. Vicki seemed happy, living in a run-down house in Paddington with some artist whom she claimed to be mad about.
But he was the latest of a series of men she’d been ‘mad about’ during the past ten years. Antimarriage and anti-establishment, Vicki had moved out of home when she was nineteen ‘in search of her own identity’, whatever that meant. Still, it was Vicki’s life and she was supposed to be doing quite well, managing a record shop in Oxford Street, though she often dropped home to ask Alan for a ‘loan’, which he usually gave her along with a lecture.
Deirdre suspected, however, that Alan didn’t mind giving his sister money—and advice—every now and then. He liked being needed. And he liked helping people.
‘Mr Alan gone, has he?’
Deirdre sighed. ‘Yes, Bob.’
He tut-tutted. ‘That man works too hard. Have you finished too, Mrs Carstairs? Will I clear away?’
‘Yes, do. It was lovely, Bob. You cook Italian like an Italian.’
The little man beamed, and began clearing the table, stacking up the plates with a very steady hand for a man pushing sixty. Deirdre watched him bustle off back into the kitchen, thinking to herself that he was another example of Alan’s basic kindness.
Bob, and his twin brother, Bill, had up till two years ago lived on a chicken farm, with Bob tending to the household chores while Bill did the manual labour outside. Neither twin had ever married, both being very shy men. Their farm had been their life till the recession and high interest rates had sent them broke. Alan had spotted them being interviewed on a television programme on the day the bank was to repossess their property and evict them. Both men had broken down during the painful interview. It had torn Deirdre’s heart out, making her cry.
When Alan had abruptly left the family room, she’d thought maybe he was upset too. And he probably had been. But, being a man of action, he’d left the room to telephone the station and start making arrangements to meet the elderly twin brothers. The upshot was Bob and Bill were brought to Sydney and installed in the Carstairses’ home, Bob as cook and cleaner, Bill as gardener and handyman. Alan had even had the old servants’ quarters fitted out as a self-contained flat for them. Both men thought him a prince of the first order, and were devoted to his service. When Alan had casually mentioned one day that he liked Italian food, Bob had raced out and bought several Italian cookbooks with his own money.
Yes, Alan could do good deeds, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a difficult man. Deirdre hoped he’d be polite to Ebony at the show tonight. Fancy his calling her a black-hearted witch! Why, Ebony was no such thing! She had always been such a sweet girl, pleasant and polite to her elders. She was a little aloof at times, but that was to be expected, given her background. Deirdre could not understand why Alan was so hard on her…
Ebony came out on to the catwalk, tall and sophisticated in a black wool dress that was basically strapless but had a black lace overlay that went right up to the neck and down her arms in tight sleeves. If the intention of the lace was modesty, then it failed miserably.
Every male in the room snapped to attention as she moved with a lithe, sensuous grace down that raised pathway, her waist-length straight black hair draped over one shoulder and her deeply set black eyes projecting a dark, mysterious allure from underneath black, winged brows. Her wide, full mouth was painted a deep scarlet in vivid contrast to her white, white skin.
Alan shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked away. He needed no reminders of what she looked like, or how easily she could bewitch.
‘Geez, Alan,’ the man seated next to him whispered. ‘And to think you had that living under your roof all those years. How did you stand it, man?’
‘Familiarity breeds contempt, my friend,’ he returned smoothly. ‘Besides, she doesn’t look the same without her make-up on.’
‘I’d like an opportunity to wake up in bed with her one morning and judge that for myself,’ came the dry rejoinder. ‘Still, from what I’ve heard, I’m not her type.’
Alan straightened in his chair. ‘Oh? And what’s her type?’
‘Photographers,