SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Practised Deceiver

‘I’ll tell Ross you’re ready,’ Tina added, her eyes dancing. ‘He’ll be absolutely knocked out when he sees you!’

Alysha doubted that—he had studied too many really beautiful women through the eye of his camera to be even remotely impressed by her. But even so, that unfamiliar person she could see, gazing back at her with her own amber-flecked eyes, looked very much the part.

Her mouth felt a little dry as she walked through into the studio. Ross was already there, setting up the lighting around a simple set that consisted of a tall wooden three-legged stool in front of a backdrop of bleached cotton draped from a track hanging from the ceiling. He didn’t even glance up as she came in, just waved her into place with a casual gesture of his hand.

She wasn’t sure what to do, so she perched on the stool, one foot on the floor, her hands clenched in her lap.

Ross bent to look through his camera. ‘Try to look a little less as if you’re about to have a tooth extracted,’ he appealed, a sardonic inflection in his voice.

Behind him, Tina placed her hands on her hips, turning her shoulders slightly. With a grateful smile, Alysha mirrored her actions.

‘Better,’ Ross approved, oblivious of his assistant’s prompting. ‘Lift your chin. Slide that left leg forward a little more.’ He moved to adjust one of the lights a little. ‘Tina, if you’ve nothing better to do than stand there, go and turn the tape-deck on.’

Tina grinned wryly, and obeyed, filling the room with the sounds of Genesis, and then with a small wave to Alysha she slipped out of the room.

The next couple of hours were the hardest work Alysha had ever known—if she had dreamed of modelling as a glamorous career, she was quickly finding out that standing perfectly still for endless moments, or repeating the same small movement over and over until he was completely satisfied, made her ache with cramp until she longed to scream.

As the afternoon wore on, she became convinced that he had only agreed to do the session to teach her some kind of lesson. He was ruthless in his demands, barking instructions and impatiently critical when she was wooden or awkward. But though she was exhausted and close to tears, she refused to let him defeat her.

The sensational backless black evening dress she had splurged so much money on drew no comment from him whatsoever; Tina had changed her make-up, using a darker shade of lipstick and more shadow on her eyes, creating an image of sensual sophistication, but she might as well have been wearing a paper bag over her head.

It was getting late by the time they were ready to start on the swimsuit shots, and Ross had sent Tina out to pick up something from the dry-cleaners. She seemed to work like a galley-slave for him, without expecting even a word of thanks, Alysha reflected as she brushed out her hair to let it fall loose around her shoulders; she was probably in love with him.

She was a little nervous of posing in front of him wearing only the cerise-pink designer swimsuit she hadn’t dared let anyone else see; cut high on the thigh and low between her small, firm breasts, it clung like a second skin. But Ross Elliot betrayed not the slightest sign that he found her blossoming curves even remotely alluring; his indifference was humiliating—she wasn’t used to being treated in such an off-hand manner. Everyone else thought she was beautiful, they were always saying she ought to be a model—but apparently he didn’t agree. And he ought to know—he was the professional. Had all this been for nothing, after all?

They had been working for twenty minutes when he told her to take a break while he loaded his cameras with fresh film. With a sigh of relief, Alysha stepped down from the set, glad to be able to stretch her weary limbs a little. During breaks in the shooting she had wandered around the studio, gazing enviously at the pictures taped all over the walls; many of the models she recognised—beautiful women, the ones whose faces regularly graced the covers of Vogue and Harper’s . One day...?

There was a low table and some chairs at the back of the studio, for meetings, and on the table was a thick bound folder of mounted photographs. She flipped it casually open to look; the pictures were all of those same top models—and they had posed for him in various states of elegant undress, some of them even naked! Yet there was nothing at all pornographic about them; they were pure art—strong images of women confident in their own sexuality, photographed by a man who had a genuine liking and respect for them...

‘Do you like them?’

She stared as Ross spoke close behind her—in his battered old tennis-shoes he had made no sound across the studio floor. ‘Oh...yes,’ she stammered, her heart thudding so loudly she was afraid he would hear it. ‘They’re...fabulous.’

A strange glint was lurking in the depths of those mesmerising grey eyes. ‘How would you like to try some like that?’ he asked, nodding towards them.

Her cheeks flamed scarlet; the thought had already crossed her mind—maybe that would be the way to get some positive reaction out of him! But she had told herself at once not to be so stupid; she could never compete with the stunning creatures in those pictures. And besides, the thought of taking her clothes off in front of Ross Elliot...

‘Oh... No, I couldn’t,’ she protested breathlessly. ‘I...’

She felt the chill of his anger, tautly controlled. ‘Suit yourself,’ he responded with a dismissive shrug of his wide shoulders. ‘If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine by me—there’s no need to come on like some prudish little schoolgirl. Do I look like one of the dirty-mac brigade, for Pete’s sake?’

She swallowed hard, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...’

He seemed to relent a little, conceding a grim 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.