Practised Deceiver

Practised Deceiver
SUSANNE MCCARTHY

I don't believe in dicing with danger… But when top model Alysha Jones signed an exclusive contract with Lozier Cosmetics, her life became positively hazardous. Ross Elliot - the man whose casual seduction she'd nearly fallen for years before - was handling the new campaign! Alysha was determined to fight her old attraction for him.Ross was a womanizer - pure and simple - a practised deceiver, and any relationship he was offering could only be one of short-term satisfaction and high risk to Alysha's heart!

Practised Deceiver

Susanne McCarthy

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE (#u8718d68b-7c5f-5e10-992b-6f3447c18710)

CHAPTER TWO (#uf826f924-d1cc-54fd-888d-448586ea229f)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf189cbdd-2a71-51ee-b0fd-e628866db232)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

‘DON’T want it? Whaddya mean, you don’t want it?’ In moments of extreme stress, Barbara Lange’s well-modulated voice had a tendency to slip back into her native Brooklynese. ‘Listen, honey, everybody’s been after that contract. Don’t you realise what it means? Not only is it worth a fortune, it’s guaranteed to launch your career into orbit! I damn near busted a gut getting you on the short list—you’ve gotta want it!’

‘I’m...sorry, Bobbie.’ Alysha shifted the telephone into her left hand and held out her right for the stylist to paint her long fingernails with plum-coloured lacquer. ‘I had no idea you’d even thought of putting me up for it. Anyway,’ she added with a characteristic lack of conceit, ‘it probably doesn’t matter—I doubt if I’d get it.’

‘Are you kidding?’ her agent demanded trenchantly. ‘Honey, the minute you walked through my door I knew you were gonna be a star! What’s got into you? It’s not like you to be backward in snapping up a break like this. I’ll tell you, there must be a coupla hundred girls out there would give Ross Elliot their right arm to be the Lozier Girl—along with any other part of their anatomy he happened to take a fancy to!’ she added with a rich chuckle.

Alysha’s soft mouth twisted into a wry smile. She had no doubt whatsoever that there were plenty of girls who would be more than willing to offer Ross Elliot whatever he wanted—and not just in the hope of furthering their careers. And she had every reason to know that he wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to take advantage of their foolishness.

She had only met him once, and that had been five years ago, but that single encounter had been enough; he had succeeded in that one short afternoon in putting her off the whole idea of a modelling career. It was only personal circumstances that had driven her back—but she had been careful to avoid any further contact with him.

So far that hadn’t proved difficult. Though he was still known to the public as a top photographer, in the intervening years he had set up his own very successful advertising agency—and it wasn’t the sort that used struggling beginners. Maybe she should have known that as her career progressed she was bound to run into him again—but she wasn’t sure if she was quite ready for it yet.

‘I...do appreciate all you’ve done, Bobbie,’ she responded carefully. Barbara didn’t know she’d even met Ross before—no one did; it was a secret she had been too ashamed to tell. ‘But... Well, to be honest, it’s the thought of working with him that’s putting me off. He’s...got such a reputation...’

‘Do you mean personally, or professionally?’ Barbara queried, conceding a hint of sympathy.

‘Both!’

The older woman laughed. ‘Listen, honey, you can cope with him. Sure, he’s a bit of a slave-driver, but you’ve never had any problems with hard work—you’re one of the most reliable girls I’ve ever had on my books. And as for the rest—if you ask me, a lot of that’s just wishful thinking on the part of a lot of very silly girls. They should be so lucky!’

‘Alysha? We’re ready for you.’ The photographer’s assistant stuck his head into the trailer.

She acknowledged him with a nod. ‘I’m sorry, Bobbie, I have to go now...’

‘He’s doing us lunch on Wednesday,’ Barbara pleaded urgently. ‘He’s seen your portfolio and the video of that shampoo thing you did, and I guess he wants to give you the final once-over in person. Look, you probably won’t have to see too much of him anyway—he spends most of his time behind a desk these days, not behind a camera. Just come along and meet him, talk it over, huh? It’s just a go-see—I swear I won’t push you into anything you’re not happy with.’

Alysha sighed, and then laughed wryly; she couldn’t pretend that she was busy on Wednesday—Barbara would already have checked that with the girl who booked all her jobs. It would be a tremendous boost for the agency to get a prestigious contract like this for one of its girls. And she owed Barbara a great deal—she had taken her on as a complete beginner when, at twenty, she was already three or four years older than most girls starting out, giving her the chance of earning the sort of money she needed. Now was her chance to pay some of that back.

‘All right,’ she conceded, trying not to sound too reluctant. ‘Lunch, Wednesday.’

‘Good girl,’ Barbara chuckled. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘Alysha...?’

‘Coming. See you, Bobbie.’

She put down the phone, careful not to allow herself to frown—it would ruin the perfect maquillage that Sharon, the make-up artist on the shoot, had taken so long to apply. Rising gracefully to her feet, careful not to disturb the artless tumble of midnight-dark curls that fell halfway down her back, she stepped down from the trailer.

The rich plum-coloured swirl of her silk dress lovingly moulded the slender curves of her figure and glowed against the flawless honey-gold of her skin. She owed her almond-shaped eyes, flecked with amber, to her Malaysian grandmother, but the self-discipline that enabled her to maintain her poise and smile through endless tedious hours of being photographed she had developed herself.

Shooting in the middle of Trafalgar Square on a Monday afternoon, it was inevitable that they had drawn quite a crowd. Envious office-girls gazed wide-eyed at the panoply of lights and reflectors and cameras, and the handsome couple in evening clothes waltzing on the edge of one of Lutyens’ fountains, with the elegant stone facade of the National Gallery in the background. From the outside, it must seem like a glamorous dream.

It had seemed like that to her once, she mused wryly as she moved with practised grace, showing off the fabulous dress to best advantage. At seventeen, up in London without the knowledge either of her parents or of the headmistress of her exclusive Sussex boarding-school, she had been about as naïve as they came.

And Ross Elliot had had no scruples whatsoever about taking advantage of her; he was a rat of the first water...

* * *

The studio was in the heart of London’s trendy fashion and theatre district around Covent Garden. It took her a while to find it in the tangle of narrow, old-fashioned streets; she walked past the door twice before she spotted the discreet name-plate: Ross Elliot—Photographic Studio. Ross Elliot had no need to advertise his location ostentatiously.

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she rang the bell—and was startled when an abrupt voice close to her ear responded, ‘Yup?’

Blinking at the entry-phone in surprise, she managed an unsteady, ‘Er...hello. It’s...Alysha Fordham-Jones. I’ve an appointment with Mr Elliot.’

‘First floor,’ the voice instructed, and the door buzzed and clicked open.

Her heart pounding, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was in a small, narrow hallway, lit up with a row of industrial-design spotlights suspended from the high ceiling; the floor was of bare boards, sanded and gleaming, and the walls were starkly white, hung with several huge framed black-and-white prints of gleaming sports cars, shot close up and from low angles, striking and dramatic.

For a moment she hesitated, a little daunted by the realisation that she was actually here, in Ross Elliot’s studio, and about to meet him face to face. Suddenly it was all beginning to seem less of a good idea than it had when she had planned it so carefully, poring eagerly over every magazine article she could find about the glamorous lives of the super-models who jetted around the world from one catwalk to the next, posing for the world’s top photographers.

But if anyone could make her dreams come true, release her from the stultifying boredom of her nice, respectable, middle-class family and the terminal tedium of school into a world of excitement and adventure, it was Ross Elliot; he was the best, as famous as any of the models he photographed.

And after all, she had come all this way, taking quite a chance of getting caught playing hooky from school—she wasn’t going to chicken out now. Screwing up her courage, she climbed the spiral staircase that led up to the first floor.

She found herself in a spacious reception area, decorated in the same style as the downstairs hall; a large window, draped with a casual swag of bleached muslin, looked out over the lively piazza in front of Covent Garden itself, with its colourful street performers and Aladdin’s cave of exotic little shops and market stalls.