Practised Deceiver

‘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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