Practised Deceiver. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

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СКАЧАТЬ smile. ‘Look,’ he coaxed, his voice taking on a gentler note as he flipped over the pages of the folder. ‘Look at those women. You know who they are. Do you think they’d have let me take those pictures if they hadn’t trusted me? I don’t have any ulterior motive—if I want a woman, I don’t have to resort to underhand tricks, believe me. I want to take your picture because you’re beautiful—that’s all there is to it.’

      She gazed up at him, caught in the spell of those strangely changeable silver-grey eyes. Did he really think she was beautiful? Suddenly she knew that that was the only thing in the world that mattered. His brusque treatment of her was forgotten—she wanted only to please him...

      ‘A...all right,’ she whispered shyly. ‘I’ll do it.’

      He smiled slowly; not in triumphant gloating, but simply in straightforward acknowledgement of her agreement. ‘There’s a batik thing in the changing-room,’ he said. ‘Sling it around your hips, and then come back in here—we’ll start like that.’

      She nodded, her mouth dry. Of course it would be all right, she told herself reassuringly; this was no seedy back-street operation—Ross Elliot was one of the most respected names in the business. And as he had so caustically pointed out, if he wanted someone to...sleep with, there would be plenty of willing candidates, she was quite sure of that. It would really be rather conceited of her to think he was plotting to... seduce her. But even so, the thought of standing there in front of him, half-naked...

      The batik was a large square of cotton, printed in vivid shades of red, orange, yellow and green. She unfolded it and shook it out, and then, setting her jaw in determination, she slipped out of her swimsuit and wrapped the batik around her hips—there was quite enough fabric to wear it like a sarong, but her hands were shaking so much it was difficult to tie the knot.

      ‘Ready?’ he called, a touch of that now-familiar impatience returning to his voice—she 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 СКАЧАТЬ