by Nora Roberts
“It’s a tremendous opportunity for both of us, Hil. Bret will tell you tomorrow. You know where his office is.” This was a statement rather than a question, since everyone in the business knew Mode’s headquarters.
“I don’t want to see him,” Hillary argued, feeling a surge of panic at the thought of those steel gray eyes. “I don’t know what he told you about this morning, but I made a total fool of myself. I thought he was a photographer. Really,” she continued, with fresh annoyance, “you’re partially to blame, if—”
“Don’t worry about all that now,” Larry interrupted confidently. “It doesn’t matter. Just be there at nine tomorrow. See you later.”
“But, Larry.” She stopped, there was no purpose in arguing with a dead phone. Larry had hung up.
This was too much, she thought in despair, and sat down heavily on the bed. How could Larry expect her to go through with this? How could she possibly face that man after the things she had said? Humiliation, she decided, was simply something for which she was not suited. Rising from the bed, she squared her shoulders. Bret Bardoff probably wanted another opportunity to laugh at her for her stupidity. Well, he wasn’t going to get the best of Hillary Baxter, she told herself with firm pride. She’d face him without cringing. This peasant would stand up to the emperor and show him what she was made of!
Hillary dressed for her appointment the next morning with studious care. The white, light wool cowl-necked dress was beautiful in its simplicity, relying on the form it covered to make it eye-catching.
She arranged her hair in a loose bun on top of her head in order to add a businesslike air to her appearance. Bret Bardoff would not find her stammering and blushing this morning, she determined, but cool and confident. Slipping on soft leather shoes, she was satisfied with the total effect, the heels adding to her height. She would not be forced to look up quite so high in order to meet those gray eyes, and she would meet them straight on.
Confidence remained with her through the taxi ride and all the way to the top of the building where Bret Bardoff had his offices. Glancing at her watch on the elevator, she was pleased to see she was punctual. An attractive brunette was seated at an enormous reception desk, and Hillary stated her name and business. After a brief conversation on a phone that held a prominent position on the large desk, the woman ushered Hillary down a long corridor and through a heavy oak door.
She entered a large, well-decorated room where she was greeted by yet another attractive woman, who introduced herself as June Miles, Mr. Bardoff’s secretary. “Please go right in, Miss Baxter. Mr. Bardoff is expecting you,” she informed Hillary with a smile.
Walking to a set of double doors, Hillary’s eyes barely had time to take in the room with its rather fabulous decor before her gaze was arrested by the man seated at a huge oak desk, a panoramic view of the city at his back.
“Good morning, Hillary.” He rose and approached her. “Are you going to come in or stand there all day with your back to the door?”
Hillary’s spine straightened and she answered coolly. “Good morning, Mr. Bardoff, it’s nice to see you again.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite,” he stated mildly as he led her to a seat near the desk. “You’d be a great deal happier if you never laid eyes on me again.” Hillary could find no comment to this all-too-true observation, and contented herself with smiling vaguely into space.
“However,” he continued, as if she had agreed with him in words, “it suits my purposes to have you here today in spite of your reluctance.”
“And what are your purposes, Mr. Bardoff?” she demanded, her annoyance with his arrogance sharpening her tone.
He leaned back in his chair and allowed his cool gray eyes to travel deliberately over Hillary from head to toe. The survey was slow and obviously intended to disconcert, but she remained outwardly unruffled. Because of her profession, her face and form had been studied before. She was determined not to let this man know his stare was causing her pulses to dance a nervous rhythm.
“My purposes, Hillary”—his eyes met hers and held—“are for the moment strictly business, though that is subject to change at any time.”
This remark cracked Hillary’s cool veneer enough to bring a slight blush to her cheeks. She cursed the color as she struggled to keep her eyes level with his.
“Good Lord.” His brows lifted with humor. “You’re blushing. I didn’t think women did that anymore.” His grin widened as if he were enjoying the fact that more color leaped to her cheeks at his words. “You’re probably the last of a dying breed.”
“Could we discuss the business for which I’m here, Mr. Bardoff?” she inquired. “I’m sure you’re a very busy man, and believe it or not, I’m busy myself.”
“Of course,” Bret agreed. He grinned reflectively. “I remember— ‘Let’s not waste time.’ I’m planning a layout for Mode, a rather special layout.” He lit a cigarette and offered Hillary one, which she declined with a shake of her head. “I’ve had the idea milling around in my mind for some time, but I needed the right photographer and the right woman.” His eyes narrowed as he peered at her speculatively, giving Hillary the sensation of being viewed under a microscope. “I’ve found them both now.”
She squirmed under his unblinking stare. “Suppose you give me some details, Mr. Bardoff. I’m sure it’s not usual procedure for you to interview models personally. This must be something special.”
“Yes, I think so,” he agreed suavely. “The idea is a layout—a picture story, if you like—on the Many Faces of Woman.” He stood then and perched on the corner of the desk, and Hillary was affected by his sheer masculinity, the power and strength that exuded from his lean form clad in a fawn-colored business suit. “I want to portray all the facets of womanhood: career woman, mother, athlete, sophisticate, innocent, temptress, et cetera—a complete portrait of Eve, the Eternal Woman.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Hillary admitted, caught up in the backlash of his enthusiasm. “You think I might be suitable for some of the pictures?”
“I know you’re suitable,” he stated flatly, “for all of the pictures.”
Finely etched brows raised in curiosity. “You’re going to use one model for the entire layout?”
“I’m going to use you for the entire layout.”
Struggling with annoyance and the feeling of being submerged by very deep water, Hillary spoke honestly. “I’d be an idiot not to be interested in a project like this. I don’t think I’m an idiot. But why me?”
“Come now, Hillary.” His voice mirrored impatience, and he bent over to capture her surprised chin in his hand. “You do own a mirror. Surely you’re intelligent enough to know that you’re quite beautiful and extremely photogenic.”
He was speaking of her as if she were an inanimate object rather than a human being, and the fingers, strong and lean on her chin, were very distressing. Nevertheless, Hillary persisted.
“There are scores of beautiful and photogenic models in New York alone, Mr. Bardoff. You know that better than anyone. I’d like to know why you’re considering me for your pet project.”
“Not considering.” He rose and thrust his hands in his pockets, and she observed he was becoming irritated. She found the knowledge rewarding. “There’s no one else I would consider. You have a rather uncanny knack for getting to the heart of a picture and coming across with exactly the right image. I need versatility as well as beauty. I need honesty in a dozen different images.”
“In your opinion, I can do that.”
“You wouldn’t be here if I weren’t sure. I never make rash decisions.”
No, Hillary mused, looking into his cool gray eyes, you calculate every minute detail. Aloud, she asked, “Larry would be the photographer?”
He nodded. “There’s an affinity between the two of you that is obvious in the pictures you produce. You’re both superior alone, but together you’ve done some rather stunning work.”
His praise caused her smile to warm
slightly. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment, Hillary—just a fact. I’ve given Larry all the details. The contracts are waiting for your signature.”
“Contracts?” she repeated, becoming wary.
“That’s right,” he returned, overlooking her hesitation. “This project is going to take some time. I’ve no intention of rushing through it. I want exclusive rights to that beautiful face of yours until the project’s completed and on the stands.”
“I see.” She digested this carefully, unconsciously chewing on her bottom lip.
“You needn’t react as if I’ve made an indecent proposal, Hillary.” His voice was dry as he regarded her frowning concentration. “This is a business arrangement.”
Her chin tilted in defiance. “I understand that completely, Mr. Bardoff. It’s simply that I’ve never signed a long-term contract before.”
“I have no intention of allowing you to get away. Contracts are obligatory, for you and for Larry. For the next few months I don’t want you distracted by any other jobs. Financially, you’ll be well compensated. If you have any complaints along those lines, we’ll negotiate. However, my rights to that face of yours for the next six months are exclusive.”
He lapsed into silence, watching the varied range of expressions on her face. She was working out the entire platform carefully, doing her best not to be intimidated by his overwhelming power. The project appealed to her, although the man did not. It would be fascinating work, but she found it difficult to tie herself to one establishment for any period of time. She could not help feeling that signing her name was signing away liberation. A long-term contract equaled a long-term commitment.
Finally, throwing caution to the winds, she gave Bret one of the smiles that made her face known throughout America.
“You’ve got yourself a face.”
Chapter Two
Bret Bardoff moved quickly. Within two weeks contracts had been signed, and the shooting schedule had been set to begin on a morning in early October. The first image to be portrayed was one of youthful innocence and unspoiled simplicity.
Hillary met Larry in a small park selected by Bret. Though the morning was bright and brisk, the sun filtering warm through the trees, the park was all but deserted. She wondered a moment if the autocratic Mr. Bardoff had arranged the isolation. Blue jeans rolled to mid-calf and a long-sleeved turtleneck in scarlet were Hillary’s designated costume. She had bound her shining hair in braids, tied them with red ribbons, and had kept her makeup light, relying on natural, healthy skin. She was the essence of honest, vibrant youth, dark blue eyes bright with the anticipation.
“Perfect,” Larry commented as she ran across the grass to meet him. “Young and innocent. How do you manage it?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I am young and innocent, old man.”
“O.K. See that?” He pointed to a swing set complete with bars and a slide. “Go play, little girl, and let this old man take some pictures.”
She ran for the swing, giving herself over to the freedom of movement. Stretching out full length, she leaned her head to the ground and smiled at the brilliant sky. Climbing on the slide, she lifted her arms wide, let out a whoop of uninhibited joy, and slid down, landing on her bottom in the soft dirt. Larry clicked his camera from varying angles, allowing her to direct the mood.
“You look twelve years old.” His laugh was muffled, his face still concealed behind the camera.
“I am twelve years old,” Hillary proclaimed, scurrying onto the crossbars. “Betcha can’t do this.” She hung up by her knees on the bar, her pigtails brushing the ground.
“Amazing.” The answer did not come from Larry, and she turned her head and looked directly into a pair of well-tailored gray slacks. Her eyes roamed slowly upward to the matching jacket and further to a full, smiling mouth and mocking gray eyes. “Hello, child, does your mother know where you are?”
“What are you doing here?” Hillary demanded, feeling at a decided disadvantage in her upside-down position.
“Supervising my pet project.” He continued to regard her, his grin growing wider. “How long do you intend to hang there? The blood must be rushing to your head.”
Grabbing the bar with her hands, she swung her legs over in a neat somersault and stood facing him. He patted her head, told her she was a good girl, and turned his attention to Larry.
“How’d it go? Looked to me as if you got some good shots.”
The two men discussed the technicalities of the morning’s shooting while Hillary sat back down on the swing, moving gently back and forth. She had met with Bret a handful of times during the past two weeks, and each time she had been unaccountably uneasy in his presence. He was a vital and disturbing individual, full of raw, masculine power, and she was not at all sure she wanted to be closely associated with him. Her life was well ordered now, running smoothly along the lines she designated, and she wanted no complications. There was something about this man, however, that spelled complications in capital letters.
“All right.” Bret’s voice broke into her musings. “Setup at the club at one o’clock. Everything’s been arranged.” Hillary rose from the swing and moved to join Larry. “No need for you to go now, little girl—you’ve an hour or so to spare.”
“I don’t want to play on the swings anymore, Daddy,” she retorted, bristling at his tone. Picking up her shoulder bag, she managed to take two steps before he reached out and took command of her wrist. She rounded on him, blue eyes blazing.
“Spoiled little brat, aren’t you?” he murmured in a mild tone, but his eyes narrowed and met the dark blue blaze with cold gray steel. “Perhaps I should turn you over my knee.”
“That would be more difficult than you think, Mr. Bardoff,” she returned with unsurpassable dignity. “I’m twenty-four, not twelve, and really quite strong.”
“Are you now?” He inspected her slim form dubiously. “I suppose it’s possible.” He spoke soberly, but she recognized the mockery in his eyes. “Come on, I want some coffee.” His hand slipped from her wrist, and his fingers interlocked with hers. She jerked away, surprised and disconcerted by the warmth. “Hillary,” he began in a tone of strained patience. “I would like to buy you coffee.” It was more a command than a request.
He moved across the grass with long, easy strides, dragging an unwilling Hillary after him. Larry watched their progress and automatically took their picture. They made an interesting study, he decided, the tall blond man in the expensive business suit pulling the slim, dark woman-child behind him.
As she sat across from Bret in a small coffee shop, Hillary’s face was flushed with a mixture of indignation and the exertion of keeping up with the brisk pace he had set. He took in her pink cheeks and bright eyes, and his mouth lifted at one corner.
“Maybe I should buy a dish of ice cream to cool you off.” The waitress appeared then, saving Hillary from formulating a retort, and Bret ordered two coffees.
“Tea,” Hillary stated flatly, pleased to contradict him on some level.
“I beg your pardon?” he returned coolly.
“I’ll have tea, if you don’t mind. I don’t drink coffee; it makes me nervous.”
“One coffee and one tea,” he amended before he turned back to her. “How do you wake up in the morning without the inevitable cup of coffee?”
“Clean living.” She flicked a pigtail over her shoulder and folded her hands.
“You certainly look like an ad for clean living now.” Sitting back, he took out his cigarette case, offering her one and lighting one before going on. “I’m afraid you’d never pass for twenty-four in pigtails. It’s not often one sees hair that true black—certainly not with eyes that color.” He stared into them for a long moment. “They’re fabulous, so dark at times they’re nearly purple, quite dramatic, and the bone structure, it’s rather elegant and exotic. Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “where did you get that marvelous face of yours?”
Hillary had thought he
rself long immune to comments and compliments on her looks, but somehow his words nonplussed her, and she was grateful that the waitress returned with their drinks, giving her time to gather scattered wits.
“I’m told I’m a throwback to my great-grandmother.” She spoke with detached interest as she sipped tea. “She was an Arapaho. It appears I resemble her quite strongly.”
“I should have guessed.” He nodded his head continuing his intense study. “The cheekbones, the classic bone structure. Yes, I can see your Indian heritage, but the eyes are deceiving. You didn’t acquire eyes like cobalt from your great-grandmother.”
“No.” She struggled to meet his penetrating gaze coolly. “They belong to me.”
“To you,” he acknowledged with a nod, “and for the next six months to me. I believe I’ll enjoy the joint ownership.” The focus of his study shifted to the mouth that moved in a frown at his words. “Where are you from, Hillary Baxter? You’re no native.”
“That obvious? I thought I had acquired a marvelous New York varnish.” She gave a wry shrug, grateful that the intensity of his examination appeared to be over. “Kansas—a farm some miles north of Abilene.”
He inclined his head, and his brows lifted as he raised his cup. “You appear to have made the transition from wheat to concrete very smoothly. No battle scars?”
“A few, but they’re healed over.” She added quickly, “I hardly have to point out New York’s advantages to you, especially in the area of my career.”
His agreement was a slow nod. “It’s very easy to picture you as a Kansas farm girl or a sophisticated New York model. You have a remarkable ability to suit your surroundings.”
Hillary’s full mouth moved in a doubtful pout. “That makes me sound like I’m no person on my own, sort of … inconspicuous.”
“Inconspicuous?” Bret’s laughter caused several heads to turn,
