WILD AND WANTON
WILD AND WANTON
Dorothy Vernon
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.
Published by arrangement with the Author.
Epub ISBN 9781445824734
Copyright © 1984 by Dorothy Vernon
All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved
Cover illustration © iStockphoto.com
Chapter One
‘Nick Farraday wants six young blondes,’ Jim Bourne announced, recognizing the soft step that approached his desk.
‘That shouldn’t present a problem. All he has to do is crook his finger and any number will come running,’ Lindsay Cooper said dryly.
‘How did someone as young as you get to be such a cynic?’ her employer rebuked, but his tone was as soft as the thoughts flitting under his thick gray thatch of hair.
Lindsay’s hair was blond, soft and fly-away, its wayward strands trapped at the back of her slender neck in a narrow ribbon. If he’d been ten years younger he would have reached out before now and untied that small, neat, black velvet bow.
Jim Bourne remembered when he’d first interviewed her for the position of his secretary. It had been one of those days when everything goes wrong, and he had been elbow-deep in work. He had desperately wanted someone to take the mountain of paperwork off his hands, a mountain getting higher because of the time he was wasting on interviewing unsuitable applicants.
‘Sit down. Be with you in a moment,’ he’d growled.
He had liked the way she sat so patiently, with no nervous twisting of fingers. Her hands had rested quietly on her lap, and he had detected a trace of shyness in the way her eyes had been fixed upon them. Her long lashes, obligingly colored by nature a darker gold than her hair, were still casting silky shadows on her cheeks when he’d eventually gotten round to giving her his attention.
‘And now, Miss Cooper. Tell me a little about yourself.’
The next second he’d found himself dazzled by the amazing beauty of her eyes—not blue, as he would have expected from her fair coloring, but a deep and rich tawny gold. Qualifications hadn’t seemed important anymore. He would have engaged her for her eyes alone. Yet she wasn’t a beauty, not by any stretch of the imagination, and her figure, though quite easy on the eye, could not claim to have a model’s statistics. She had a tiny waist, with soft curves above and below. Fashion trends favored the snake-hipped, long-legged look which she lacked, although the shape of her legs was more than just okay. He knew about these things, indeed considered himself to be something of an expert, since he ran one of London’s most successful modeling agencies—hence the reason Nick Farraday, of the House of Delmar, had come to him for six blondes.
‘When I say he wants six blondes, that’s just a round figure. He’ll select one from the bunch we send over. It’s all very hush-hush, but in the absolute confidence that it will go no further than these four walls, I can tell you it’s got to do with a new product that will be marketed under the trade name of Allure. The woman selected for the promotion is going to be one lucky beauty. Overnight fame, and all the trimmings that go with it, will be hers.’
Lindsay tried to look suitably impressed, even though such things didn’t cut much ice with her.
She must have succeeded; at least her expression elicited a satisfied nod from her employer as he continued. ‘Naturally, as you’d imagine, Farraday being the head of a large cosmetic house, the girls must have flawless complexions. The only other stipulation he made is coloring. I understand this has to complement the gold-and-white packaging. Do we have six blondes available for instant call?’
‘How instant?’
‘Day after tomorrow. Evening.’
Two whom Lindsay might have called on were out of the country. Another very popular model was on an assignment in Leeds and not due back until the middle of the next week. ‘No, but—’ This time the dry inflection in her voice was rooted in sincerity—‘for Nick Farraday, every girl on call will make an appointment with her hair stylist.’
A slight frown shifted Jim Bourne’s lips. ‘Farraday won’t stand being cheated, and he has an astute eye.’
‘People who cheat themselves are usually like that. Aware of all the angles.’
‘Do you know the guy?’
‘Only by repute.’
‘That’s not always a reliable source. Even if only half of what has been said about Farraday was true, he would have to be . . .’ He coughed, and an abashed grin curved his mouth. ‘I’ll spare your blushes. In case evening work causes a problem, since I know it’s not too popular with a girl who has an assignment for the following morning, I’ll throw in another carrot. The venue is Nick Farraday’s penthouse suite.’ His grin widened at the quickening of interest on Lindsay’s face. ‘That even intrigues you. I bet you’d rearrange your own plans to get an eyeful of his reputedly sumptuous lifestyle,’ he said, unable to resist the gibe.
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ Lindsay retorted, getting briskly to her feet. ‘It’s short notice. I’d better get busy.’
Smiling slyly, not the least bit fooled by her feigned lack of interest, Jim said, ‘If you can only rustle up five blondes, you can be the sixth yourself.’
She made a face at him. ‘It would serve you right if I did, and Nick Farraday chose me.’
‘Lindsay, you’re a honey, but . . .’
‘I know, no chance of catching his eye.’ At the same time a speculative look entered the tawny gold depths of her own eyes. ‘Would you mind if I took you up on what you just said and went along? Just for the fun of it.’ Why she added that she didn’t know. Even as quick as Jim was, he couldn’t know what her real motive was. She wanted only to observe, not be observed in the hope that Nick Farraday would take a fancy to her.
Nick Farraday, and the elite, glittery circle he revolved in, were as far removed from her life as it was possible to be. And that was the way she wanted it to stay. She knew that that put her in a minority; most women were fascinated by the mere mention of his name. But when she thought of Nick Farraday, her reaction was one of revulsion. In her opinion, the women who lit up for him, angling for his attention and hoping to be added to his list of conquests, were a disgrace to their sex. They did not seem to mind knowing that once they were elevated to the exalted rank of paramour they could start counting the days until his jaded eye strayed in search of another eager victim. It was said that he was very generous when it came to the pay-off. With his vast wealth he could afford to be. But there were some things which no amount of money could buy, at least in Lindsay’s mind.
Grinning widely, Jim said, ‘Is that an admission that I’m right and you’re as curious as anyone to see the great man up close?’
There was more to it than that. An excited shiver of apprehension ran down her spine, as if she could pierce the shrouds that concealed the future and somehow see beyond them. Jim could think what he liked as long as it got her a chance to see the demon in his den.
Her mouth tilted upward at each corner. There was something infectious and beguiling about the smile that lifted her winsome face into a completely different category, almost one of beauty. ‘Don’t tell me it’s just a feminine characteristic. Wouldn’t you like to curl up on the window seat and take a surreptitious peep from behind the plush velvet drapes?’
‘How do you know that his drapes are velvet, or that there’s a window seat, for that matter?’ Jim inquired, a shrewd, concerned frown creasing his forehead.
‘I must have read it somewhere. Maybe one of the glossies did a feature on his home,’
she invented quickly.
Jim accepted that, but she knew that it had been a most indiscreet slip and that she would have to guard her tongue in the future. If he thought there was anything, anything at all, plaguing her about Nick Farraday, he would block her attempt to see him.
She knew all about Jim Bourne’s feelings for her, how strongly he was attracted to her. Several times she had sensed that he was tempted to put their relationship on a different footing. She even knew why he hadn’t made a move in that direction. His prematurely gray hair made him look older than he was, but even at forty-two he considered himself too old for her. In terms of worldly experience she realized that they were separated by more than the actual twenty years’ difference. He had come up the hard way—he had been on his own since he was sixteen, and even before that he had gotten used to taking his knocks. Anyone who had pulled himself up from nothing had to have a streak of ruthlessness in his makeup. And guts. And those characteristics had overflowed into his personal life. He had played as hard as he’d worked, but now he was ready to settle down. Perhaps he hadn’t settled down before because he had never met a woman for whom he had the right kind of feelings, but that had backfired on him, in a sense: it was the very tender, protective nature of his regard for Lindsay that was holding him back. He thought she should find a mate of her own sort, someone who hadn’t yet tasted all the fruits of life.
Lindsay had never properly analyzed her feelings toward him, which were reciprocal—up to a point. She was most certainly attracted to his looks. He had a friendly, lived-in face, and brown eyes that induced a feeling of trust. His build and physique could be described as better than average. And his gray hair was not a detriment to his appearance, but a distinguishing feature. He was the one who was careful not to brush too close; she never bothered to guard against it. She had once asked herself if she would back away if he made a pass at her, and in all honesty hadn’t been able to come up with an answer.
‘Well?’ she beseeched softly. ‘Is it all right if I put my own name down?’
‘Of course. Just go easy on the liquor. Remember, you haven’t much of a head for it.’
‘Liquor?’ she queried.
‘Did I forget to mention it? Farraday’s throwing a party. Looks, apparently, aren’t all that he wants. Intelligence, intellect, and personality also count. He wants to observe the models, see how they shape up in public, how at ease they are with people, and vice versa. It’s not enough for her appeal to be drawn out by a clever cameraman; she’s got to radiate it.’
Defensively Lindsay said, ‘Most of the girls on our books do, so there’s no problem there. But . . . intellect, did you say?’
‘I know. That might present difficulties.’
‘If I’d said that it would have sounded catty.’
‘That’s why I said it for you.’
‘Thanks. It’s nice to have someone going on ahead and dethorning the roses for me. Do you know, I can only think of four girls who meet all the requirements.’
‘Besides yourself?’
‘Of course. You wouldn’t like to put on a blond wig and come in drag, would you?’
‘Out!’
She left on the double, leaving behind the delicious sound of his laughter.
She spent much of what was left of the day on the telephone. Her endeavors paid off, and she knew by day’s end that she could count on five of the loveliest girls in the modeling profession. Moreover, she had accomplished her task with only a minimum of cheating. She had advised one girl to remember to smile and say as little as possible. And then, with an even greater fear of being chastised later, she had whispered the words ‘blonde rinse’ to another.
That evening, going through her wardrobe while thinking about the competition she would face, she wondered what Nick Farraday would think of the cuckoo in the nest. It would have been easy to make the competition less weighted against herself, but she hadn’t; rather, she had been scrupulously honest in her selection. A frown tormented her forehead as she wondered where that thought had come from. She wasn’t in competition: she was going for personal reasons, not as a possible applicant. Still, it was feminine to want to look her best.
Her wardrobe was less than helpful; she had not one dress that was even remotely suitable. So the next day she gave herself an extended lunch break and went shopping.
After more than two years she still caught her breath at the beauty of London’s churches, designed by such well-known names as Sir Christopher Wren and James Gibbs. The Gothic cathedrals, Victorian grandeur and Georgian elegance, Regency terraces and Renaissance palaces, and pageantry that was positively medieval in its splendour—all delighted her heart and eyes. She could never exhaust the sightseeing possibilities of the parks and art galleries and museums. She loved to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and the Horse Guards Parade. She loved the Cockney warmth of the cab drivers, loved the ballet and the opera and the maze of theatres. After dark, Shaftesbury Avenue turned into a glittering wonderland. And the shops! They were a whole fascination in themselves! They ranged from Harrods, the domed brownstone palace that was Knightsbridge’s chief landmark, and Fortnum & Mason in Piccadilly, to the street markets and the shops in Oxford Street and Regent Street, more within Lindsay’s modest means.
In coming to London she’d followed her brother, Phil, who had raved in his letters about the new life he’d made for himself. He’d said that it was like being reborn. Of course, Cathy, the girl he’d met in London and married after a whirlwind courtship, could have added to the enchantment.
City life had taken some getting used to for a girl whose roots had been in a small stone village in the north of England. There were still occasions when Lindsay felt a tremendous sense of awe, but for the most part she’d adapted well; London was now her city. At first it had seemed like a dream, but now her past was the dream and this was the reality. Though she’d been lucky in her job and now earned a good salary, the luxury of having her own apartment made making ends meet a problem.
Ami, one of the models, had told her about a trendy boutique in King’s Road which featured high fashion at low prices, a veritable paradise for anyone on a tight budget who needed to look good. It seemed an appropriate time to find out if Ami had been right.
She gave herself over completely to the salesgirl and was guided into buying a figure clinging black sheath of a gown that accentuated the lovely curves of her figure as well as her fair coloring and pale blond hair. Because of an imperfection that was barely noticeable, and then only if pointed out, the gown came at a fraction of its intended price. It was the kind of gown that went with French perfume and Russian sable. Even without those luxurious extras Lindsay felt very desirable and expensive in it—not at all herself. Since she had no appropriate footwear she had to make a second purchase—high heeled black sandals with a silver thread enhancing delicate straps. This color scheme would enhance her silver bracelet and necklace, the only really good jewelry she possessed.
When she tried everything on again back at her apartment she was quite shocked to see what a sensuous image she cut. She hadn’t realized how daring the dress was. But because it was too late to do anything about it now, she valiantly tried to swallow her apprehension.
The arrangement was for each model to make her own way to Nick Farraday’s penthouse suite. Since they all lived in different sections of the city, this was the sensible course, but on leaving the friendly confines of the London taxicab that evening she felt oddly isolated. She wished she had someone with her for support as she entered the elevator which connected directly with the penthouse. On stepping out again she found herself looking at another door. It hadn’t occurred to her that the penthouse would be sound-proofed, and the lack of noise coming from the suite made her wonder if she had come to the wrong address, particularly because she wasn’t conspicuously early.
On the door was a button that she assumed was attached to a bell. She pressed it. The door glided open, and a glitte
ry, noisy scene exploded before her astonished eyes. The party was really going with a bang. A maid approached, looking very chic in her uniform, and showed Lindsay to the ladies’ powder room, first taking her coat from her and hanging it up. A last cursory glance in the mirror did nothing to calm the misgivings that were crowding back. She was worried about the dress, and wondered whether leaving her hair loose, as the salesgirl had recommended, was appropriate. Did it make her look a little wild and wanton? Should she be there at all? She asked herself. What was the purpose? She was stirring up an old sadness, making herself desperately unhappy all over again.
A man in his mid to late thirties came forward to greet her. He stood about five eight or nine, and had light brown hair that was beginning to recede. Though he had a homely face, he looked friendly, and Lindsay warmed to him even before he announced his name.
‘Greg Hammond,’ he said easily, extending his hand. ‘I’m happy to welcome you.’
‘Lindsay Cooper.’ As she gave her own name she responded to his friendliness with a smile.
Cathy had talked a lot about Greg Hammond. He had been supportive at the time of Phil’s death, and to the best of Lindsay’s knowledge he and Cathy still kept in touch. All the same, her tongue had locked momentarily before giving her surname as she wondered if he would connect her with Phil. She knew that he had been her brother’s friend as well as a colleague at work.
To her intense relief nothing showed on his face as he said, ‘You’re from the modeling agency, right?’
‘How very astute of you to know that!’ She could have said ‘How amazing!’ but because models tended to have a certain polish which she knew she lacked, she decided on the more formal response.
His ‘astute’ remark was neatly explained when he said, ‘Not really. I know it looks to be a select crowd here this evening, but most of them are regulars. I’ve been in Nick Farraday’s employ long enough to be acquainted with all the people he knows. Besides,’ he added with a puckish smile, ‘I compiled the guest list.’
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