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...’
‘Mummie, I have to be in London. If I wasn’t working, you wouldn’t be able to go to your tennis club at all.’
‘I hardly call that working,’ Audrey responded dismissively. ‘Just having your picture taken. If you ask me... Ah, there’s Oliver!’ she exclaimed, instantly alert to the sound of a car turning on to the drive. ‘Dear boy—he promised to try to come home for the weekend, and he always keeps his promises.’
Alysha smiled wryly to herself as her mother jumped to her feet and bustled out into the hall to welcome her younger brother. Oliver had always been the apple of Audrey’s eye—he could do no wrong. Considering how spoilt he had been as a child, it was really quite remarkable that he had grown up into such a very pleasant, good-natured young man.
He came into the hall, grinning as usual, his slightly wayward dark hair flopping about his ears, and accepted his mother’s hug with tolerant amusement. ‘Hi, Mums—hi, Sis. I’ve brought Nige home for the weekend—is that OK?’ He waved a vague hand in the general direction of a lanky, fair-haired young man who had followed him up the steps, and was now hovering bashfully behind him.
Mrs Fordham-Jones frowned at this casual introduction. ‘Oh, dear—I wish you’d warned me you were planning to bring a guest,’ she protested. ‘I would have asked Mrs Potter to get the spare room ready.’
‘Oh, there’s no need to fuss,’ Oliver declared dismissively. ‘Nige can sleep on the floor in my room—he’s brought a sleeping-bag along.’
‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient, Mrs Fordham-Jones?’ the lad put in diffidently. ‘I told Ollie we should have rung first.’
‘Not at all,’ Audrey insisted, stepping adroitly into her practised role of social hostess. ‘Do come in, Nigel. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m sure you must be freezing, driving all the way from London in that dreadful old car of Oliver’s. I can’t think why he insists on keeping it, instead of getting a new one, but then I suppose those old bangers are all the thing with you young people nowadays, aren’t they?’
Oliver