Maybe the make-up artist had put it in a nutshell. Think Darian Wildman and the last thing you felt was professional.
She turned away, breaking the spell with an effort. The last thing she needed was for him to look up and see her staring at him like some kind of starstruck adolescent. There were enough people already doing that.
‘We’re never going to keep your hair under control with this breeze!’ grumbled the stylist as she pushed a wayward strand off Lara’s face.
‘Looks perfect to me,’ came a slow, deep voice from behind her.
Lara tried to count to ten, but the numbers became jumbled in her mind as she turned round. At least the half-smile on her lips was appropriate, as was the polite, almost deferential raising of her eyebrows. After all, he was the boss and she the model.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ He found himself mocking her, enjoying the brief moment of discomfiture which allowed itself to break through her cool little smile, but then his eyes narrowed. Maybe she was used to men coming onto her. With looks like that she was bound to be. He saw her shiver. ‘You’re cold,’ he said softly.
Lara looked down at the goose bumps on her arms, which was infinitely easier than meeting that clear golden stare, and composed herself enough to look up again, a rueful smile playing on her lips. ‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Silk chiffon is a wonderful floaty fabric, but it wasn’t exactly designed with warmth in mind!’
‘No.’ He forced himself to be objective. He had sat in with the creative team while they thrashed around the kind of image they wanted to project. Delicate and ethereal had been the objective—an objective achieved perfectly on the mock-ups they had shown him.
But reality, in the flesh and blood form of Lara Black, had an impact he had not been expecting. A bone-melting, sensual impact. Maybe that had been the subtle difference which had marked her out from all the others, Darian thought—that understated but persuasive femininity which could overpower men by stealth.
‘Do you want a jacket or something?’ he asked suddenly.
The question took Lara off-guard, and for one mad moment she thought he was actually going to take off his own jacket and offer it to her! As if! Lara pointed to a soft pink wrap which lay draped over one of the canvas chairs.
‘I have a shawl. I’ll—’
‘Here—let me.’ He bent and scooped the garment up, and draped it around her shoulders, feeling her shiver as he did so. ‘You really are cold,’ he observed, feeling the smoothness of her skin through the fine cashmere.
‘Yes.’ But that was not the reason she had shivered. She knew that, and she suspected he knew that, too. It seemed like the most deliciously old-fashioned and chivalrous act—a disarming act—to put her shawl on for her like that. A man like Darian Wildman would be aware of that. Talk to him, she told herself. This is your opportunity!
‘Do you…do you often go on shoots like this?’ she ventured.
The lips curved into a cool smile. ‘Is that a take on the “do you come here often” line?’ he mocked.
At that moment Lara hated him for making her feel so unoriginal, but she didn’t show it, shrugging her shoulders instead. ‘Don’t answer if you don’t want to,’ she murmured. ‘I’d hate to think I was straying into unprotected waters!’
He laughed. This was better. He liked her spiky better than he liked her soft. Softness made women vulnerable, and vulnerable women weren’t equals. They got hurt, and then they made you feel bad because of it. ‘Was I being rude?’ he mused.
‘Yes.’
He raised his eyebrows fractionally, taken aback by her blunt reply. ‘The answer to your question is no—but then I rarely conduct advertising campaigns.’
‘So why this one?’
He wasn’t about to start telling her about his plan to float Wildman on the stockmarket—she, like the rest of the world, would find out about it soon enough. ‘Because I want the name Wildman to be synonymous with mobile phone technology.’
‘You mean it isn’t already?’ she teased. ‘Shame on you!’
He allowed his mouth to curve into a small smile. ‘I know. Shocking, isn’t it?’ he questioned gravely.
‘Utterly,’ she agreed, realising that he was flirting with her and that she was flirting right back.
Their eyes met and he regarded her thoughtfully. He wanted to take her out to dinner, he realised, not exchange snatches of conversation while the crew ran around, shout-ing and disrupting them. And just then, as if echoing his thoughts, someone shouted her name.
He frowned. ‘Sounds like you’re needed,’ he observed.
‘Sounds that way.’ She hugged the shawl tightly around her as the stylist beckoned, hoping that she didn’t sound reluctant to leave. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, glad to get away because nothing seemed to be going according to plan—although when she stopped to think about it what plan had she actually made, other than to somehow get to meet him? And now that she had managed to do that, all she could do was fantasise about his golden eyes and his lean, hard body. It just wasn’t good enough.
Darian watched while the stylist fussed around with Lara’s hair and then the photographer moved over, whipped the wrap away and began to coax her into position, prowling around in front of her, crooning directions.
‘That’s right, baby—smile! Not too much—just a kind of cool, thoughtful smile, as if you’re deciding whether to dump your lover or not!’
Lara smiled.
‘That’s good! Now half close your eyes—as if you’re trying to drive him wild with jealousy! You’re thinking of another man—and you want him more!’
Lara did as she was told, her eyelashes fluttering down, finding it remarkably easy, picturing golden eyes and tawny skin and a dark, burnished head of royal descent…
She snapped her eyes open, startled as the bright flash exploded, staring into the eyes of the man who was fantasy and yet real, and for a moment the rest of the world receded.
Darian stared back at her, and for the first time in his life he recognised the intrusiveness of the camera and despised the intimacy it created between photographer and subject. For a moment there she had looked so sexually excited that it might almost have been for real. His mouth tightened. What a way to earn a living, he thought in sudden disgust. Yet it was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
No. It was what his company wanted. And this was an assignment, he reminded himself. A professional assignment. He hadn’t been introduced to her at a party—maybe if he had it might be different. Instead, he had run across her in the course of work, and he kept the line between work and pleasure strictly delineated.
Lara saw his face harden and wondered what had happened to the courteous man who had wrapped the soft wool around her shoulders. The golden eyes had darkened, a flush of colour was running along the high, aristocratic cheekbones. For a moment she saw the glimmerings of a hard, almost cruel contempt, and his expression filled her with trepidation even while something feminine ached at the very core of her, revelling in that cold look of mastery.
With an effort she tore her gaze away from him, staring instead at the phtographer, giving the shot everything she had and suddenly wishing that she was a million miles away from that hard, glittering scrutiny.
She held her arms aloft and the silk chiffon twirled and clung to her thighs. Abruptly, he turned away, and she forced herself to concentrate on the job in hand, losing herself in it because that seemed infinitely easier than losing herself in the gaze of Darian Wildman.
But when the photographer had stopped shooting there was no sign of him.
‘Where’s Darian?’ she questioned casually as she pulled the wrap back round her shoulders.
‘Gone,’ said the assistant.
She hadn’t even noticed him leaving, and she was surprised by a great, swamping feeling of disappointment. Gone! There were five other London locations to get through and suddenly the day seemed to stretch away endlessly in front of her.
Had she thou
ght that he would be accompanying them to Tower Bridge and the Mall and Leadenhall Market and the other places which had been carefully chosen each to reflect a different mood of London life?
But perhaps this was best—he was a distracting man in anyone’s book.
Lara channelled all her frustration into getting exactly the poses which the photographer demanded, and tried not to think about whether she would see him again, and where she went from here if she did not.
It was dark by the time she arrived back at the apartment and Jake was at home, all dandied up in a stunning black dinner jacket, swearing softly as he attempted to subdue his bow-tie.
‘Do this for me, would you, Lara?’
She put her bag down, knotted the black silk into a neat bow, and stood back. ‘How’s that?’
‘Perfect.’ He made another small, unnecessary adjustment. ‘Someone rang for you,’ he said casually as she flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.
‘Oh?’
‘A man.’
‘Oh, again,’ said Lara uninterestedly. But something about the amused curiosity in his voice made her sit up. ‘Did he leave a message?’
‘He did.’
‘Jake—stop playing games! Who was it and what did he say?’
Jake enunciated his words carefully. ‘His name is Darian Wildman and he says he’ll call you tomorrow.’
CHAPTER FOUR
WHY was it, Lara wondered, that whenever you wanted someone to telephone you, they didn’t—and the opposite was always true?
And why had he rung at all? Had he already seen the finished photos and decided he didn’t like them?
Making up her mind that there was no point wasting time wondering what he wanted until she actually heard from him, Lara spent a frustrating morning deliberately doing much-needed chores around the flat—which would give her a legitimate excuse to stay in while not looking as though she was deliberately hanging around waiting for Darian Wildman to ring.
He didn’t.
By nine o’clock that evening she was feeling pent-up, frustrated and angry with herself, telling herself that it shouldn’t matter. Of course it shouldn’t. But Jake had gone to stay with his parents, so she couldn’t even drag him out for a pizza, and it was too late to ring anyone else. Instead she had a long, scented bath, taking care to leave the bathroom door open just in case the phone rang. And of course it did, just as she was up to her neck in jasmine-scented bubbles.
Leave it on the machine, she told herself sternly. If he really wants to speak to you he’ll ring back.
But she found herself clambering out of the bath, dripping water all over the bathroom floor, and depising herself for doing so.
‘Hello?’
‘Lara? It’s Darian.’
She knew that; he had one of those voices which, once heard, was never forgotten. Briefly she wondered whether to play the game a little and say, Darian who? but decided against it. A man like that would be used to the pointless little games that some women played, and he would like her no better for it.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘I haven’t disturbed you?’
There were games and there were games, and half-truths were sometimes necessary—especially if you wanted to avoid looking like a fool.
‘Not really.’ She watched the water running down her bare legs to form a small puddle on the bathroom floor. ‘I was just…relaxing.’ Which didn’t have even a grain of truth to it, because she had never felt less relaxed in her life. And there seemed something slightly decadent about talking to him while she was naked, so she injected a brisk and professional note into her voice. ‘What can I do for you, Darian? Have you seen the photos yet?’
‘That’s what I’ve just been doing.’ He allowed himself a brief half-smile. It seemed that his instincts had not failed him—because Lara looked nothing short of sensational. Some of London’s most stunning backdrops emphasised her bewitching looks as she stood holding a variety of his company’s phones in her hand, a dreamy, thoughtful little smile on her face. She looked as if she was talking to her lover. Beneath each one would be printed the single shout-line: Wildman: Presses All The Right Buttons!
He had felt the unmistakable tremorings of desire as he had studied them. But, having seen them, had wondered aloud to Scott whether the final images weren’t just too sexy. Scott had shrugged and given him a knowing look.
‘Oh, come on, Darian—you don’t use a young and beautiful model to do anything but sell sex,’ he had pointed out. ‘Do you?’
Selling sex.
Put like that, it sounded off-putting, and Darian had grimaced with a slight element of distaste—but that hadn’t stopped him finding her number and ringing her, had it?
‘They’re terrific,’ he said softly.
‘Good. I’m pleased.’ She waited. She knew that she wanted to see him again, in fact she had to see him again, but she was perceptive enough to know that she was dealing with a man who would always be pursued, and natural predators did not like to be pursued.
‘I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me?’ he asked. ‘As a kind of thank-you for turning in such a fantastic job.’
Lara very nearly asked him whether he always asked people out to dinner on the strength of their having done a good job, but she knew she couldn’t risk scaring him away.
This, after all, was precisely why she had fought to get the job in the first place. To get closer to Darian, to find out as much as she could about him before she told Khalim what she knew.
‘I’d love to,’ she murmured. ‘When?’
Human nature was a funny thing, Darian decided as a contrary feeling of disappointment washed over him. He hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy, but why on earth should it make her seem marginally less desirable because she had not played games with him?
Because women always made it this easy for him, that was why. Had he hoped that her spikiness and spirit would make him have to battle for a bit to get her to agree to have dinner with him—and hadn’t there been a part of him which had been anticipating that battle?
‘I don’t suppose you’re free tomorrow night?’
Lara heard the slight cooling of his voice and knew immediately that she had been too eager. ‘Not tomorrow night, I’m afraid.’ She paused, waiting.
Darian relaxed. There was nothing more off-putting than a woman who dropped everything because she wanted to see you—or, worse, a woman who had a social diary with great yawning gaps in it. But then he thought about her sparkling blue eyes and her perfect figure and guessed that Lara Black would not suffer from a lack of anything to do.
‘Thursday, I’m flying to Paris for the day,’ he mused. ‘And I’m back late. How about Friday?’
She paused for just long enough to sound as though she was consulting a diary—after all, he wasn’t to know that she was standing dripping in the bathroom, with her body tingling not just from the cold but from the effect of that rich, deep voice and the thought of seeing him again.
Because you need to see him, she reminded herself firmly. ‘Friday’s fine,’ she said calmly.
‘Shall I pick you up?’
To her horror, she felt her breasts tighten in response to the sudden softening of his voice, and the face which looked back at her through the blurred and misty mirror was startled. And confused. She didn’t want to be attracted to him—certainly not this attracted. So she’d spend one evening with him, she told herself. That was all. ‘Okay,’ she said slowly.
‘Good. Give me your address, and I’ll see you around eight.’
Darian parked the car, expertly edging into the tiny space available at the address she had given him, and as he switched the powerful engine off he registered that he was surprised.
So she lived in Notting Hill, did she?
Which meant that she was successful. Property in this part of West London was astronomically expensive these days, ever since it had become ‘the’ place to live, with rock stars and Hollywood actresses
swooping in to buy up every graceful house available.
Except that no one had heard of Lara Black—not really. So how come all the outward trappings of success? Scott had told him that she had done a few forgettable plays and a couple of television commercials where she had either been playing a vegetable or lost in a crowd of people drinking cola. But she’d been in nothing major to date.
He climbed the elegant steps to the house and pressed the button for Flat B. She probably rented, he reasoned. Or shared with a group of other impecunious women, pooling their resources so that they could live in an area with a prestigious address.
The door opened and Darian’s eyes narrowed as he was greeted by a tall man with a lock of hair flopping into his eyes. Darian was rarely taken off-guard, but this time he was—amazed to be staring into the face of a stranger who was instantly recognisable. You would have had to have been living underground not to have recognised the star of the film which had broken all records at the international box-office last year.
What the hell was Jake Haddon doing here?
‘I’m looking for Lara Black,’ growled Darian.
Jake smiled. ‘I know you are, but she’s having one of those dress crises that women are prone to. The last thing I heard was a squeaked request from the bedroom asking me to answer the door! Come up and have a drink,’ he offered easily.
‘Thanks,’ said Darian shortly.
He followed Jake up the stairs, his mind buzzing. What had Jake said? A squeaked request from the bedroom. So what kind of bedroom was that? A shared bedroom? And if that were the case then why had she agreed to have dinner with him tonight? Unless she had thought it was business—that he wanted to discuss the shoot with her.
Darian was unprepared for the overwhelming sensation of irritation and—disappointment.
He walked into the flat, which was huge—but at least now the up-market address became understandable. Of course she could afford to live in a place like this if Jake Haddon was footing the bill!
The Desert Prince's Mistress Page 4
