Practised Deceiver. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
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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