Fire With Fire

She knew he wasn’t bluffing. He had the power to do exactly what he was threatening. She could just imagine Mrs T’s face when she read what Camilla had done, and no doubt the press would have a field day making it sound even worse than it was. She was sorely tempted to go home and tell Camilla that she had been unsuccessful, but the thought of her sister’s hysterics; the knowledge that it could well mean the end of her engagement—because Mrs T. would put unholy pressure on David to break the engagement, she knew—overwhelmed her.

Forcing herself to think calmly and quickly, and to detach herself from what was happening she viewed her options, and could only come up with one solution. Damn Drake Harwood and damn Camilla. She would have to agree, she decided bitterly. She had no real choice. Let him take his photographs, but he’d never be able to use them in the way he’d planned.

Bitter anger tensed her muscles as she envisaged having to explain to Robert why she could not take the job … but he would understand. They wouldn’t want her on local television either … not once Drake Harwood had splashed her photograph all over his magazine. So what, she told herself hardily, she would be able to find another job in some other field where her public image wasn’t so important and at least she would have the satisfaction of defeating Drake Harwood. As he had said himself, photographs of her, as herself would have little appeal. As Emma Court she was no one and even though her mind and body screamed objections to what she would have to do she must ignore them.

‘Well?’

She faced him coolly, ‘I agree. but first I must have a document signed by you, clearing Camilla from any charges you might make against her.’

‘You shall have it. I do admire a woman of keen perception Emma Court. Somehow I thought you and I would be able to reach a mutually acceptable agreement.’

He was taunting her, Emma was sure of it, but she wasn’t going to respond.

‘How long will it take to get the document prepared and signed,’ she asked him coolly. She must know how much time she had. She daredn’t say that she wasn’t taking the job until she had that paper in her hand.

He was watching her face. ‘It will be given to you immediately after the photographic session.’

‘Do I have your word on that?’ Her eyes were hard, and she noted the dull flush colouring his cheek bones.

‘You have it,’ he told her crisply. ‘Now let’s get down to the arrangements shall we?’

He obviously didn’t believe in wasting any time Emma thought hollowly half an hour later as she left his office. Tomorrow she had to present herself at a studio whose address he had given her, and he had promised that she would also receive the documents releasing Camilla while she was there.

She went back to her hotel and booked in for another night. Then she telephoned home and told her father she had been delayed. ‘Camilla wants to speak to you,’ he told her.

Camilla sounded tense. ‘Did you see him?’ she demanded.

‘Yes, and he’s agreed to drop all the charges.’ There wasn’t much point in telling her sister the price she was having to pay for her freedom. There was nothing martyred or self-sacrificing in her decision; it was simply the only one she could make. She had grown so used to protecting Camilla that it was almost second nature.

She put off telephoning Robert, her interview with him was best left until she got home. Thank goodness she hadn’t actually signed a new contract. The television company would be more than pleased to let her go when they knew why she was leaving. Once her photograph had appeared in Drake Harwood’s obnoxious publication no serious television station would want to touch her with a bargepole. Bitterness welled up inside her, but she fought it down; at least she would have the satisfaction of defeating his main purpose and that, she sensed, was something very few people ever did. He had been quite cold and callous about his reasons for what he was doing; her thoughts and feelings meant nothing to him and neither did the fact that he was destroying her career. She had sensed beneath the mockery a fine contempt of the female sex, and she shuddered inwardly, trying not to think about the ordeal to come.

That evening after she had had her bath she forced herself to study her nude reflection in the bedroom mirror. Her body was slender and well formed, unmistakably feminine; the thought of exposing it to the eyes of some jaded photographer made her shudder with distaste. If only she could blot the whole thing out of her mind somehow … but that wasn’t possible.

Neither was sleep; she lay awake for what felt like hours, prey to her thoughts and too-active imagination. It was difficult to visualise anything more degrading than what she was going to have to do, and her pride rebelled fiercely against it, but there was no escape.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_f3827706-570a-5ab0-9b69-31c054a46a03)

MORNING came; she was heavy eyed and lethargic. The thought of breakfast held no appeal and having showered she dressed quickly in plain cream underwear. The moment her fingers touched the pale, silky fabric she started to shiver. Dear God, she could not go through with this; she could not subject herself to such sexual debasement. She ran to the bathroom and retched painfully, shuddering convulsively afterwards. If only she could simply walk out of this hotel and away from … from everything, she thought tiredly, but she couldn’t. She had spent too many years as Camilla’s older sister to do that. She could not desert the younger girl now.

A blessed numb calm seemed to engulf her the moment she walked outside; it was like being encased in a soft plastic bubble; safe from all harm; from all contact with her own feelings.

The taxi drive to the address Drake Harwood had given her was over all too soon. The studio was housed in an elegant Regency terrace; testament to how much money could be made from their business, Emma reflected bitterly as she paid off the taxi driver and rang the bell.

It took several minutes for the door to open. A girl of about her own age stood there, dressed in tatty jeans and a bulky sweater. ‘Hi, come on in,’ she directed. ‘Drake warned me to expect you.’ She gave Emma a wide grin. ‘Feeling nervous? Drake said you might be. This way.’

Following her down a narrow corridor, Emma gritted her teeth against the biting retort she was longing to make. Her relief at discovering that the photographer was another woman had quickly been displaced by fury that Drake Harwood should discuss her with her.

‘In here …’

‘Here …’ was an expensively equipped studio, dominated by the large bed on which several spotlights were focused. The bed itself was covered in a satin spread, the colour of rich cream.

‘Drake’s idea. I’m Pat Devlin,’ the other girl introduced herself. ‘I don’t normally accept commissions of this type, but Drake made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, as the saying goes. That was his idea,’ she added gesturing towards the bed and grimacing faintly. ‘He said the spread would be a perfect foil for your hair. Fancy a cup of coffee?’

Nodding numbly, Emma tried to come to grips with reality. It seemed impossible to believe this was actually happening but it was … and there was no escape.

‘Oh and Drake left something for you, said I was to give it to you after we’d finished. It’s over there.’

Emma looked at the thick envelope. So he had kept his promise to her. Somehow she had never doubted that he would. ‘Hey are you feeling okay?’ There was genuine anxiety in the question.

Emma nodded her head. ‘First time nerves,’ she grimaced.

‘And second thoughts. Why not have third ones and forget the whole thing. It’s none of my business of course, but if you’re really hating the thought of it as much as you look as though you are, it will show in the photographs, and no matter how much Drake is paying you, it can’t possibly compensate for what it’s costing you …’

‘I have to do it.’

Emma knew her voice was shaking. She couldn’t look at Pat, just in case she broke down and gave in to her suggestion not to go through with it. The papers were there and she could take them, but pride would not let her. She had to go through with it … but if Drake Harwood chose to print the finished product it would not be of Emma Court, TV newsreader, but simply Emma Court, out of work. He had demanded a price and she was prepared to pay it, but she wasn’t prepared to involve anyone else in that payment.

‘Okay, then let’s get it over with shall we?’

Pat Devlin might not be used to doing the sort of work Drake had engaged her for, but she was a professional to her finger-tips Emma realised in the two hours that followed. Small, and wiry with a shock of thick black hair, she possessed an energy that left Emma limp.

‘Take your hair down,’ she had instructed, helping Emma to uncoil her chignon, after she had taken some initial shots of Emma as she had arrived at the studio.

‘Look,’ she asked in a kind voice when she had asked her to undress, ‘are you sure …’

‘Sure.’

‘Okay then.’

If it wasn’t as bad as she had dreaded it was bad enough. Drake’s magazine was apparently more up-market than many of its competitors and for that reason she had been instructed to make sure all the shots were in good taste, Pat told Emma with a grimace. ‘Personally if I had my way the things would be banned, but a girl has to make a living. He was right about your hair,’ she added when she had positioned Emma on the satin spread. ‘I think you’d better close your eyes,’ she added, ‘they give away too much. You’re supposed to look as though you’re enjoying this, not on the rack. Try to think of something pleasant…’

All she could think of was that at some future date, Drake Harwood would be looking at her like this. The thought made her so tense that Pat had to stop work. What was one man among thousands, Emma jeered at herself, glad of the mug of coffee Pat brought her.

‘Nearly over,’ she encouraged her. ‘God I remember the first nude shots I ever did … I was nearly sick with nerves … but after a while you get used to it …’

Emma shuddered again, thankful when at last her ordeal was over and she could discard the cream satin underwear Pat had asked her to wear. The satin was soft and of excellent quality, the underwear perfectly respectable, sexy, but in an understated way; the sort of thing she herself might even have worn, for a lover perhaps … but now the mere thought of it against her body revolted her. All she wanted to do was to immerse herself in a tub of hot water and scrub her skin until she felt clean again.

Unfortunately, it would not be as easy to erase the morning from her mind.

‘Okay, here’s your envelope, don’t forget it,’ Pat instructed handing it to her when Emma emerged from behind the changing screen.

‘I’ll just pack up my things and then I’ll be on my way too. You know you meet all types in this game, but you … you’re someone I just can’t pigeonhole. You went through agony there, and yet you kept on … why?’

When Emma shook her head, Pat shrugged. ‘Well I guess it’s your own affair. I’d better get back to my flat and get these developed before Drake starts screaming for them. It’s the first time I’ve done this sort of work for him. Industrial stuffs more his line. Still it makes a change from working for Vogue, and photographing building sites.’

‘Well come on, I want to hear ail about it.’

The first thing Emma had done when she got home was to ring Robert. Now they were sitting in the bar of a quiet local pub, nursing their drinks.