SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Practised Deceiver

Well, fine, she could play it like that; her whole career was based on her ability to create illusions—a few deft touches of make-up, a different hairstyle, a change of clothes, and she could be a winsome ingénue one moment, a cool sophisticate the next, a purring sex-kitten or mysteriously exotic, Latin or oriental or suntanned English gamine. That was her stock-in-trade.

‘Who else is going to be on the team?’ she asked, adopting a pointedly businesslike tone.

‘It isn’t all tied up yet,’ he responded, accepting her change of subject with just the faintest glint of knowing amusement in those cool eyes. ‘Alastair Grant will be the make-up man, and Gemma Caldwell the stylist.’

‘Gemma?’ Bobbie queried, slanting him a look of teasing amusement.

He nodded, seemingly unaware of any reason why employing one of his previous girlfriends should be any cause for surprise. ‘She’s one of the best in the business.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ Bobbie conceded graciously. ‘And Alastair is an absolute genius, of course. And what about the photographer? Or will you be doing the pictures yourself?’

To Alysha’s intense relief he shook his head. ‘I’m talking to Harry Keaton.’

Bobbie lifted an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Harry? Is he off the sauce?’

‘He hasn’t had a drink in months,’ Ross assured her. ‘He’s done quite a bit of work for me recently, and he’s back to his old form.’

‘It’s very generous of you to give him the chance,’ Bobbie insisted, her eyes glowing.

Ross shrugged his wide shoulders in a gesture of casual dismissal. ‘He’s an old friend—he helped me a lot in my early days.’

Alysha was barely paying attention to the conversation; she had registered only that Ross wouldn’t be taking the pictures himself. But of course he wouldn’t—he was the head of a very busy advertising agency now. Even the Lozier contract would be only one of a number of interests. She would probably hardly even see him. What she was feeling could only be relief.

She sipped her wine, struggling to relax the tension in her taut-strung nerve-fibres. On the other side of the table, Ross and Bobbie were laughing together at some piece of wicked gossip that was going the rounds. Watching them covertly from beneath her lashes, Alysha remembered that the two of them had once been an ‘item’. It had been quite serious, too, at the time—or so the gossip claimed.

He seemed to have a talent for retaining the friendship of his exes, she mused thoughtfully—although the way Bobbie was flirting with him suggested that she had rather more than mere friendship on her mind! And he didn’t seem entirely indifferent, Alysha noted with a stab of something she didn’t care to examine too closely; there was a glint of appreciative amusement in his eyes as he responded to that sharp New York wit.

Of course, Barbara Lange was still strikingly beautiful; she had been one of the top models in the business in her day, and though she was now in her late thirties her figure was still as slender as a reed in her chic designer suit, her glossy ash-blonde hair cut in a fashionable bob. Twice divorced, she exuded an air of sophisticated independence: the kind of woman who had no need of a man to lean on. But apparently even she wasn’t immune to Ross Elliot’s high-octane brand of male sexuality.

Would the two of them get back together? And if they did, why should she care? It meant nothing to her—her own relationship with him would be strictly business; she had seen too many complications for other girls through getting involved with men on location shoots, and she preferred to keep her private life, such as it was, strictly separate. And even if she didn’t, the last man she would want to get involved with was Ross Elliot!

They had finished their meal, and the waiter had brought coffee, when Bobbie spotted an acquaintance on the other side of the restaurant, and excused herself to go table-hopping. Left alone with Ross, Alysha absently picked up a coffee spoon and began fiddling with it; it was very difficult to maintain her cool façde when he was sitting there across the table, those smokey grey eyes watching her...

‘Have you finished stirring your coffee?’ he queried, an inflection of mocking humour in his voice. ‘Only I feel I should point out that you haven’t put any sugar in it.’

She felt a rush of pink colour her cheeks, and put the spoon down quickly. Damn the man—somehow she just couldn’t seem to keep him from getting under her skin! Forcing herself to return him a level look, she enquired, ‘When will you be announcing that you’ve chosen the Lozier Girl?’

‘As soon as the contract is signed.’

Her eyes met his with a hint of challenge. ‘Who else was on the short list?’

A faint smile curved that intriguing mouth—how was it that it could appear both sensual and cruel at the same time? ‘I don’t think you really expect me to tell you that,’ he countered, fencing with her again. ‘It would hardly be...professional.’

‘I shall find out,’ she reminded him coolly. ‘The grapevine is usually pretty efficient.’

He laughed softly. ‘Really? Then I’m surprised you bothered to ask me.’

She regarded him with narrowed suspicion. ‘How many were on the short list?’

Those steel-grey eyes were glinting with amused appreciation of her perspicacity. ‘There wasn’t a short list,’ he acknowledged. ‘I don’t work like that. I had a list of prerequisites, and I used my contacts in the business to identify a girl who matched that list. This is a long-term commitment on both sides—to choose someone on the basis of a brief go-see would be like choosing a wife on the basis of a one-night stand.’

Alysha was suddenly conscious of the dryness of her mouth, and lifted her coffee-cup, taking a convulsive swallow that burned her tongue and made her choke. Ross quickly took her cup from her, setting it down as she struggled to regain her breath, all too acutely aware of her scarlet face and the eyes of everyone in the restaurant turned to their table.

‘I’m...sorry,’ she managed, her voice disastrously unsteady. ‘It was...hotter than I expected.’

‘Of course,’ he conceded, though the glint of sardonic humour in his eyes warned her that he knew exactly what it was that had disconcerted her.

She could only hope that his other business commitments would prevent him from becoming too closely involved in the Lozier campaign. Their one brief meeting had had a devastating effect on the course of her life; of course she should be much wiser now, five years on—but she had an uncomfortable feeling that maturity and wisdom would prove no defence against that treacherous charm if he chose to deploy it against her again.

* * *

‘Tennis? What on earth do you want to take up tennis for?’ Alysha queried, trying hard to keep the exasperation she was feeling out of her voice.

‘I’ve always enjoyed tennis,’ her mother responded peevishly. ‘Even though I haven’t had much chance to play since I was at school. Besides, it’s very good exercise.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Alysha acknowledged wryly. ‘But did you have to join such an expensive private club?’

‘You surely wouldn’t expect me to go to the council courts?’ Audrey Fordham-Jones protested in haughty indignation. ‘Anyway, if you want the best coaching you have to go to a good club—it’s not the sort of thing you can cut corners on.’

‘Yes, but, Mummie, twenty-five pounds for half an hour’s couching...? Who have you got?’

‘It gets me out of the house,’ Audrey countered, sliding into a familiar refrain. ‘It’s no fun for me, you know, sitting around with nothing to do and no one to talk to. It’s all right for you, down there in London, having a good time...’