Practised Deceiver. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

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      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 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 СКАЧАТЬ