Mistress Of Deception. Miranda Lee

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      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, I gather.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘God, Alan, don’t you know anything about your own ward’s life. Our supermodel is reported to have had a fling with all of her photographers so far. She and Gary Stevenson were a really hot item a couple of years ago before he took off for Paris. But he’s back in Sydney now and has clearly taken up where he left off. I saw them myself only today, having lunch down at a café in Darling Harbour.’

      ‘Is that so?’

      ‘You don’t sound concerned. Stevenson’s a good deal older than her, you know.’

      Alan tried not to bristle, but did, anyway. ‘He’s only in his thirties.’

      ‘Closer to forty. And how old’s your Ebony?’

      ‘Twenty-two. And she’s not my Ebony,’ he bit out. ‘She’s a free agent. Now, can we watch the show? We’ve paid two hundred dollars a seat for this ringside table. Let’s get our money’s worth.’

      Alan’s colleague settled back in a disgruntled silence, leaving Alan forced to pretend to watch the rest of the parade. Ebony had been up and down a couple of times by now, and was sashaying back towards the group of models who were waiting their turn in front of the huge red velvet curtain. The highly sensual sway of her curvaceous buttocks and hips sent a cold fury into his veins.

      Does she know what she’s doing? he wondered savagely. Does she know I’m here?

      Of course she does, came the bitter answer. She’s a witch, a black-hearted witch!

      God damn you to hell, Ebony Theroux.

      

      He parked in the street opposite the three-storey square building that housed her flat, watching and waiting for her to come home. What he would do if she showed up with Stevenson, or any of her other numerous admirers, God only knew. Would he be able to meekly drive on? Or would he find some way to spoil her night, as she had already spoiled his?

      He’d vowed after the last argument they’d had not to have anything further to do with her, never to come here to see her again. But he’d vowed that the time before as well.

      His teeth clenched down hard in his jaw, his stomach muscles tightening. Would he never rid himself of this gut-wrenching desire? It had been four years now. Four painful, soul-destroying years. He really could not allow it to go on. He would have to do something about it.

      But he’d said that before, as well.

      A light snapped on in her flat, sending a wave of near-nausea churning through his innards. He hadn’t seen her enter the building, anger at this crazy but uncontrollable desire having distracted him for a moment. Now, she’d slipped in without his knowing if she was alone or not.

      He stared up at the square of light, his eyes darting left as he waited anxiously for her bedroom light to be switched on as well. That was a large window with gauzy curtains. If she had someone with her, he would soon know.

      The light remained off.

      After several tortuous minutes, he couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. With an agitated, jerky movement, he extracted the keys from the ignition, not bothering to put the steering lock on, only just remembering to lock the door before swinging it shut. It was only when the bitter winter air cut through him that he remembered his overcoat draped over the passenger seat.

      ‘Damn it!’ he swore, and, ramming his keys and hands into the trouser pockets of his black dinner suit, strode angrily across the dimly lit street and up to the locked security door. For a moment he hesitated, self-disgust urging him to turn right round and go home. But other forces were at work, forces far stronger than pride. He jabbed the buzzer on flat eight with his finger.

      His heart began to thud, disgusting him further. Why did he let her do this to him? Why?

      ‘Yes?’ came the low, husky query that sent a shiver down his hunched spine.

      ‘It’s Alan,’ he said, despising himself.

      ‘Alan…’ she repeated as though trying to recall whom she might know called Alan.

      He bit his tongue to stop himself from snapping at her. Male ego demanded he play her at her own game, keeping his cool, not allowing her any more triumph than was strictly necessary.

      ‘What do you want, Alan?’

      To strangle you, he thought viciously. God, but she liked turning the screw.

      ‘For pity’s sake, Ebony, it’s bitter out here. Just let me in. Or aren’t you alone?’ he finished cuttingly.

      There was a moment’s tense silence from the intercom before a buzzing sound indicated she had opened the door. Alan hated himself for the rush of relief, not to mention the rush of something else that immediately stampeded through his body. But already he was on that treadmill of excitement that she could generate without any conscious effort. He couldn’t look at her these days without wanting her so badly that it was a painful ache in his loins.

      She met him at the door, still wearing that damned black dress. It was one of her contract conditions, that whenever she did a fashion parade she kept the clothes she modelled. The designers didn’t mind. The fabulous Ebony wearing their clothes in public was great advertising, and cheaper than most.

      ‘That dress looks even better up close,’ he said in a desire-thickened voice.

      She eyed him coolly over the rim of a glass of white wine, sipping while those black eyes stripped his soul naked. ‘So you were there tonight,’ she remarked casually, and, turning, began walking across the tiled foyer and into the living-room. Alan was left to come in alone and close the door behind him, following СКАЧАТЬ