Читать книгу Practised Deceiver - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 5

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?’

‘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. ‘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.