by Nora Roberts
Simon Legree. What you put me through today. I know I’ve been snapped from every conceivable angle, with every conceivable expression, in every conceivable pose. Thank heavens I’m through until Monday.
This layout was a big assignment, she realized, and there would be many more days like this one. The project could be a big boost to her career. A large layout in a magazine of Mode’s reputation and quality would bring her face to international recognition, and with Bret’s backing she would more than likely be on her way to becoming one of the country’s top models.
A frown appeared from nowhere. Why doesn’t that please me? The prospect of being successful in my profession has always been something I wanted. Bret’s face entered her mind, and she shook her head in fierce rejection.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she told his image. “You’re not going to get inside my head and confuse my plans. You’re the emperor, and I’m your lowly subject. Let’s keep it that way.”
Hillary was seated with Chuck Carlyle in one of New York’s most popular discos. Music filled every corner, infusing the air with its vibrancy, while lighting effects played everchanging colors over the dancers. As the music washed over them, Hillary reflected on her reasoning for keeping her relationship with Chuck platonic.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t enjoy male companionship, she told herself. It wasn’t as though she didn’t enjoy a man’s embrace or his kisses. A pair of mocking gray eyes crept into her mind unbidden, and she scowled fiercely into her drink.
If she shied away from more intimate relationships, it was only because no one had touched her deeply enough or stirred her emotions to a point where she felt any desire to engage in a long-term or even a short-term affair. Love, she mused, had so far eluded her, and she silently asserted that she was grateful. With love came commitments, and commitments did not fit into her plans for the immediate future. No, an involvement with a man would bring complications, interfere with her well-ordered life.
“It’s always a pleasure to take you out, Hillary.” Thoughts broken, she glanced over to see Chuck grin and look pointedly down at the drink she had been nursing ever since their arrival. “You’re so easy on my paycheck.”
She returned his grin and pushed soul-searching aside. “You could look far and wide and never find another woman so concerned about your financial welfare.”
“Too true.” He sighed and adopted a look of great sadness. “They’re either after my body or my money, and you, sweet Hillary, are after neither.” He grabbed both of her hands and covered them with kisses. “If only you’d marry me, love of my life, and let me take you away from all this decadence.” His hand swept over the dance floor. “We’ll find a vine-covered cottage, two-point-seven kids, and settle down.”
“Do you know,” Hillary said slowly, “if I said yes, you’d faint dead away?”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” He sighed again. “So instead of sweeping you off your feet to a vine-covered cottage, I’ll drag you back to the decadence.”
Admiring eyes focused on the tall, slim woman with the dress as blue as her eyes. Hillary’s skirt was slit high to reveal long, shapely legs as she turned and spun with the dark man in his cream-colored suit. Both dancers possessed a natural grace and affinity with the music, and they looked spectacular on the dance floor. They ended the dance with Chuck lowering Hillary into a deep, dramatic dip, and when she stood again, she was laughing and flushed with the excitement of the dance. They wove their way back to their table, Chuck’s arm around her shoulders, and Hillary’s laughter died as she found herself confronted with the gray eyes that had disturbed her a short time before.
“Hello, Hillary.” Bret’s greeting was casual, and she was grateful for the lighting system, which disguised her change of color.
“Hello, Mr. Bardoff,” she returned, wondering why her stomach had begun to flutter at the sight of him.
“You met Charlene, I believe.”
Her eyes shifted to the redhead at his side. “Of course, nice to see you again.” Hillary turned to her partner and made quick introductions. Chuck pumped Bret’s hand with great enthusiasm.
“Bret Bardoff? The Bret Bardoff?” Hillary cringed at the undisguised awe and admiration.
“The only one I know,” he answered with an easy smile.
“Please”—Chuck indicated their table—“join us for a drink.”
Bret’s smile widened as he inclined his head to Hillary, laughter lighting his eyes as she struggled to cover her discomfort.
“Yes, please do.” She met his eyes directly, and her voice was scrupulously polite. She was determined to win the silent battle with the strange, uncommon emotions his mere presence caused. Flicking a quick glance at his companion, her discomfort changed to amusement as she observed Charlene Mason was no more pleased to share their company than she was. Or perhaps, Hillary thought idly as they slid behind the table, she was not pleased with sharing Bret with anyone, however briefly.
“A very impressive show the two of you put on out there,” Bret commented to Chuck, indicating the dance floor with a nod of his head. His gaze roamed over to include Hillary. “You two must dance often to move so well together.”
“There’s no better partner than Hillary,” Chuck declared magnanimously, and patted her hand with friendly affection. “She can dance with anyone.”
“Is that so?” Bret’s brows lifted. “Perhaps you’ll let me borrow her for a moment and see for myself.”
An unreasonable panic filled Hillary at the thought of dancing with him and it was reflected in her expressive eyes.
She rose with a feeling of helpless indignation as Bret came behind her and pulled out her chair without waiting for her assent.
“Stop looking like such a martyr,” he whispered in her ear as they approached the other dancers.
“Don’t be absurd,” she stated with admirable dignity, furious that he could read her so effortlessly.
The music had slowed, and he turned her to face him, gathering her into his arms. At the contact, an overpowering childish urge to pull away assailed her, and she struggled to prevent the tension from becoming noticeable. His chest was hard, his basic masculinity overwhelming, and she refused to allow herself the relief of swallowing in nervous agitation. The arm around her waist held her achingly close, so close their bodies seemed to melt together as he moved her around the floor. She had unconsciously shifted to her toes, and her cheek rested against his, the scent of him assaulting her senses, making her wonder if she had perhaps sipped her drink too quickly. Her heart was pounding erratically against his, and she fought to control the leaping of her pulses as she matched her steps to his.
“I should have known you were a dancer,” he murmured against her ear, causing a fresh flutter of her heartbeat.
“Really,” she countered, battling to keep her tone careless and light, attempting to ignore the surge of excitement of his mouth on the lobe of her ear. “Why?”
“The way you walk, the way you move. With a sensuous grace, and effortless rhythm.”
She intended to laugh off the compliment and tilted her head to meet his eyes. She found herself instead staring wordlessly into their gray depths. His hold on her did not lessen as they faced, their lips a breath apart, and she found the flip remark she had been about to make slip into oblivion.
“I always thought gray eyes were like steel,” she murmured, hardly aware she was voicing her thoughts. “Yours are more like clouds.”
“Dark and threatening?” he suggested, holding her gaze.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, caught in the power he exuded. “And others, warm and soft like an early mist. I never know whether I’m in for a storm or a shower. Never know what to expect.”
“Don’t you?” His voice was quiet as his gaze dropped to her lips, tantalizingly close to his. “You should by now.”
She struggled with the weakness invading her at his softly spoken retort and clutched for sophistication. “Really, Mr.
Bardoff, are you attempting to seduce me in the middle of a crowded dance floor?”
“One must make use of what’s available,” he answered, then lifted his brow. “Have you somewhere else in mind?”
“Sorry,” she apologized, and turned her head so their faces no longer met. “We’re both otherwise engaged, and,” she added, attempting to slip away, “the dance is over.”
He did not release her, pulling her closer and speaking ominously in her ear. “You’ll not get away until you drop that infuriatingly formal Mr. Bardoff and use my name.” When she did not reply, he went on, an edge sharpening his voice. “I’m perfectly content to stay like this. You’re a woman who was meant for a man’s arms. I find you suit mine.”
“All right,” Hillary said between her teeth. “Bret, would you please let me go before I’m crushed beyond recognition?”
“Certainly.” His grip slacked, but his arm remained around her. “Don’t tell me I’m really hurting you.” His smile was wide and triumphant as he gazed into her resentful face.
“I’ll let you know after I’ve had my X rays.”
“I doubt if you’re as fragile as all that.” He led her back to the table, his arm still encircling her waist.
They joined their respective partners, and the group spoke generally for the next few minutes. Hillary felt unmistakable hostility directed toward her from the other woman, which Bret was either blissfully unaware of or ignored. Between frosty green eyes and her own disquieting awareness of the tall, fair man whose arms had held her so intimately, Hillary was acutely uncomfortable. It was a relief when the couple rose to leave, and Bret refused Chuck’s request that they stay for another round. Charlene looked on with undisguised boredom.
“Charlene’s not fond of discos, I’m afraid,” Bret explained, grinning as he slipped an arm casually around the redhead’s shoulders, causing her to look up at him with a smile of pure invitation. The gesture caused a sudden blaze of emotions to flare in Hillary that she refused to identify as jealousy. “She merely came tonight to please me. I’m thinking of using a disco background for the layout.” Bret gazed down at Hillary with an enigmatic smile. “Wasn’t it a stroke of luck that I was able to see you here tonight. It gives me a much clearer picture of how to set things up.
Hillary’s gaze narrowed at his tone, and she caught the gleam of laughter in his eyes. Luck nothing, she thought suddenly, realizing with certainty that Bret rarely depended on luck. Somehow he had known she would be here tonight, and he had staged the accidental meeting. This layout must be very important to him, she mused, feeling unaccountably miserable. What other reason would he have for seeking her out and dancing with her while he had the obviously willing Charlene Mason hanging all over him?
“See you Monday, Hillary,” Bret said easily as he and his lady made to leave.
“Monday?” Chuck repeated when they were once more alone. “Aren’t you the fox.” His teeth flashed in a grin. “Keeping the famous Mr. Bardoff tucked in your pocket.”
“Hardly,” she snapped, irritated by his conclusion. “Our relationship is strictly business. I’m working for his magazine. He’s my employer, nothing more.”
“O.K., O.K.” Chuck’s grin only widened at her angry denial. “Don’t take my head off. It’s a natural mistake, and I’m not the only one who made it.”
Hillary looked up sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“Sweet Hillary,” he explained in a patient tone, “didn’t you feel the knives stabbing you in the back when you were dancing with your famous employer?” At her blank stare, he sighed deeply. “You know, even after three years in New York, you’re still incredibly naive.” The corners of his mouth lifted, and he lay a brotherly hand on her shoulder. “A certain redhead was shooting daggers into you from her green eyes the entire time you were dancing. Why, I expected you to keel over in a pool of blood at any second.”
“That’s absurd.” Hillary swirled the contents of her glass and frowned at them. “I’m sure Miss Mason knew very well Bret’s purpose in seeing me was merely for research, just background for his precious layout.”
Chuck regarded her thoroughly and shook his head. “As I said before, Hillary, you are incredibly naive.”
Chapter Three
Monday morning dawned, cool, crisp, and gray. In the office of Mode, however, threatening skies were not a factor. Obviously, Hillary decided, Bret had permitted nature to have a tantrum now that shooting had moved indoors.
At his direction, she was placed in the hands of a hairdresser who would assist in the transformation to smooth, competent businesswoman. Jet shoulder-length hair was arranged in a sleek chignon that accented classic bone structure, and the severely tailored lines of the three-piece gray suit, instead of appearing masculine, only heightened Hillary’s femininity.
Larry was immersed in camera equipment, lighting, and angles when she entered Bret’s office. Giving the room a quick survey, she was forced to admit it was both an elegant and suitable background for the morning’s session. She watched with fond amusement as Larry, oblivious to her presence, adjusted lenses and tested meters, muttering to himself.
“The genius at work,” a voice whispered close to her ear, and Hillary whirled, finding herself staring into the eyes that had begun to haunt her.
“That’s precisely what he is,” she retorted, furious with the way her heart began to drum at his nearness.
“Testy this morning, aren’t we?” Bret observed with a lifted brow. “Still hung over from the weekend?”
“Certainly not.” Dignity wrapped her like a cloak. “I never drink enough to have a hangover.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot, the Mr. Hyde syndrome.”
“Hillary, there you are.” Larry interrupted Hillary’s search for a suitable retort. “What took you so long?”
“Sorry, Larry, the hairdresser took quite some time.”
The amused gleam in Bret’s eyes demanded and received her answer. As their gaze met over Larry’s head with the peculiar intimacy of a shared joke, a sweet weakness washed over her, like a soft, gentle wave washing over a waiting shore. Terrified, she dropped her eyes, attempting to dispel the reaction he drew from her without effort.
“Do you always frighten so easily?” Bret’s voice was calm, with a tint of mockery, the tone causing her chin to lift in defiance. She glared, helplessly angry with his ability to read her thoughts as if they were written on her forehead. “That’s better,” he approved fending off the fire with cool composure. “Anger suits you. It darkens your eyes and puts rose in your cheeks. Spirit is an essential trait for women and”—his mouth lifted at the corner as he paused—“for horses.”
She choked and sputtered over the comparison, willing her temper into place with the knowledge that if she lost it she would be powerless against him in a verbal battle. “I suppose that’s true,” she answered carelessly after swallowing the words that had sprung into her head. “In my observation, men appear to fall short of the physical capacity of one and the mental capacity of the other.”
“Well, that hairstyle certainly makes you look competent.” Larry turned to study Hillary critically, oblivious to anything that had occurred since he had last spoken. With a sigh of defeat, Hillary gazed at the ceiling for assistance.
“Yes,” Bret agreed, keeping his features serious. “The woman executive, very competent, very smart.”
“Assertive, aggressive, and ruthless,” Hillary interrupted, casting him a freezing look. “I shall emulate you, Mr. Bardoff.”
His brows rose fractionally. “That should be fascinating. I’ll leave you then to get on with your work, while I get on with mine.”
The door closed behind him, and the room was suddenly larger and strangely empty. Hillary shook herself and got to work, attempting to block out all thoughts of Bret Bardoff from her mind.
For the next hour Larry moved around the room, clicking his camera, adjusting the lighting, and calling out directions as Hillary assumed the pose
s of a busy woman executive.
“That’s a wrap in here.” He signaled for her to relax, which she did by sinking into a soft leather chair in a casual, if undignified, pose.
“Fiend!” she cried as he snapped the camera once more, capturing her as she sprawled, slouched in the chair, legs stretched out in front of her.
“It’ll be a good shot,” he claimed with an absent smile. “Weary woman wiped-out by woesome work.”
“You have a strange sense of humor, Larry,” Hillary retorted, not bothering to alter her position. “It comes from having a camera stuck to your face all the time.”
“Now, now, Hil, let’s not get personal. Heave yourself out of that chair. We’re going into the board room, and you, my love, can be chairman of the board.”
“Chairperson,” she corrected, but his mind was already involved with his equipment. Groaning, she stood and left him to his devices.
The remainder of the day’s shooting was long and tedious. Dissatisfied with the lighting, Larry spent more than half an hour rearranging and resetting until it met with his approval. After a further hour under hot lights, Hillary felt as fresh as week-old lettuce and was more than ready when Larry called an end to the day’s work.
She found herself searching for Bret’s lean form as she made her way from the building, undeniably disappointed when there was no sign of him and angry with her own reaction. Walking for several blocks, she breathed in the brisk autumn air, determined to forget the emotions stirred by the tall man with sharp gray eyes. Just a physical attraction, she reasoned, tucking her hands in her pockets and allowing her feet to take her farther down the busy sidewalk. Physical attraction happens all the time; it would pass like a twenty-four-hour virus.
A diversion was what she required, she decided—something to chase him from her mind and set her thoughts back on the track she had laid out for herself. Success in the field she had chosen, independence, security—these were her priorities. There was no room
