From Dirt to Diamonds

by Julia James

  Then she just had to find a photographer. Katya recommended one. Kat was sceptical, given the Polish girl’s line of work, but Katya went on at her, and eventually Kat said OK. She didn’t like Mike, straight off, but Katya was with her, so she didn’t walk out. She liked him even less when he wanted her to strip off—just to see her underlying figure, he claimed—nor did she like the fact he didn’t like it when she said no. The session took for ever, with Katya redoing her hair and make-up, changing her clothes all the time. She didn’t like Mike physically changing her pose, moving her around like a doll. But she knew that was all a model was—a clothes horse. Not a person. She had better get used to it. Train herself to be docile. Even though it went against the grain.

  Finally he finished, and when the photos were ready Kat was so stunned she could only stare. The face which all her life hadn’t seemed to be anything much, was suddenly, out of nowhere, amazing! Her eyes were huge, her cheekbones like knives, and her mouth—

  ‘I look fantastic,’ she said faintly. It was like looking at a stranger—a face that wasn’t hers, but was. She gave Katya a hug. ‘Thanks!’ she choked.

  She didn’t see the strange expression fleetingly in the other girl’s eyes.

  She took the next morning off work and, nerves shredded like paper, heart thumping, headed for the modelling agency she’d selected as her first try with her new portfolio.

  They had, to her exultation, taken her on.

  But even after being signed it was a long, slow haul. Assignments were thin on the ground, and competition for them fierce.

  Especially the best ones.

  Like the one she was racing for now. For a start, the casting was at a seriously flash Park Lane hotel, and the shoot itself was going to be in Monte Carlo—posing on yachts in a marina. She felt a thrill of excitement as she raced out of the tube station. She’d never been abroad in her life, let alone anywhere that fantastically swanky.

  As she dashed up to the hotel, heart-rate zapping in her chest, she was intent only on getting to the entrance as fast as possible. She completely ignored the sleek limo pulled up at the kerb, and the frock-coated doorman stepping back from opening the rear door. Nor did she pay the slightest attention to whoever it was getting out. Except that as she raced up to the hotel’s revolving door he was in her way.

  “Scuse me!’ she exclaimed, and made to push past him, to get into the revolving door first.

  But the man simply turned his head sharply and stopped, blocking her. Kat glared at him. She took in height, a dark suit, a tanned complexion, strong features which made her pulse give a strange kick, and dark, forbidding eyes clashing with hers.

  Her pulse gave that strange kick again. But it was because she was running late, was in a hurry, didn’t have time to waste—and this block of a man was in her way. That was why. No other reason.

  ‘Look, are you going to shift or not?’ she bit out impatiently, glaring at him belligerently.

  Something flashed in the dark eyes. Something that made that kick come again. But it was just because he was still in her way—and because he was looking at her as if she was some inferior being. Her back went up as automatically as the kick that came in her pulse.

  ‘Would you be so very kind,’ she gritted, in mock-ingratiating accents, ‘as to allow me to get into the damn hotel?’

  The dark eyes flashed again. But this time it was different. She didn’t know how different, or why. But it was. This time it didn’t make her pulse kick. It made something arrow in her stomach instead.

  Then he stepped back. He said nothing, just indicated with his hand for her to go into the revolving door. It was an offhand gesture—dismissive. She didn’t like it. It made her back go up even more. She stepped into the open angle of the doorway, then turned her head.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, in sweetly acid, exaggerated tones. ‘How terribly kind of you!’

  Something glinted in his eye, which she didn’t like either, and she turned her head sharply and swept inside, pushing the door round, to gain the marbled entrance lobby.

  ‘Posh idiot!’ she muttered. Then she pulled her mind away from the incident. She had to find where the casting was.

  Fifteen minutes later she was sitting on a spindly gilt chair in a huge hotel function room, looking depressed at the usual horde of fantastic-looking hopefuls. There seemed to be a bit of a lull in the proceedings. The suits at the far end, bunched around a table, must be making their minds up. Kat stared round, feeling strangely edgy—more so than she usually felt at a casting. Maybe it was because she didn’t like this room—it made her feel out of place. This was the poshest place she’d ever been in, and all the people who came here were posh. Like the bloke who’d looked down on her for daring to push past him.

  Kat’s eyebrows drew together. She felt antagonism flick inside her, then pushed the memory out of her mind. No point thinking about it—it had been brief, annoying, and now it was over. Just one of those things. She wondered how long it would take for the suits to decide whether she was one of the lucky chosen.

  She wasn’t a strong candidate, she knew. Not for a swanky shoot like this. Her looks and style were fine for streetwise stuff, smart and sassy or aggro-cool, but if this was all about yachts then they’d want models that looked the part. Those sleek, classy girls who spoke with plums in their mouths, who were called Christabel and Octavia and knew each other from boarding school. Who were only modelling for a hobby or a lark until they married, or got bored with the hard work it really was.

  She went on staring, keeping herself to herself, the way she always did at castings, not caring if other girls thought her standoffish. Then, abruptly, the huddle at the table straightened and a chicly dressed middle-aged woman started reading names out.

  Kat’s wasn’t one of them.

  She gave a mental shrug. What had she expected? Disappointment and frustration went with the territory, and you rolled with the punches because there was no alternative. She, like the rest of the girls in the room apart from the chosen nine, who’d hurried forward to the table, started to pick up their stuff and prepared to leave.

  Except that, abruptly, another door at the far end of the room opened, close to the table with the suits, and someone walked in.

  Kat recognised him instantly, and it set the seal on the casting. It was the man she’d hustled at the entrance to the hotel. By the way the suits had jumped to their feet—even the two women—the guy was clearly a head honcho type. Kat wasn’t surprised—it was obvious from the handmade suit to the way he’d looked at her with coldly arrogant eyes, as if she was an inferior being.

  Well, if he was the head honcho, then it was just as well she hadn’t been picked. She hadn’t exactly impressed the guy, had she, back-talking him like that? She hefted her bag, and stood up.

  As she did so, she felt something on her. It was the man—he was sweeping a rapid glance over the girls in the room. Maybe he was just checking that the models on the short list, clustered eagerly by the table, were the best there. Well, it wouldn’t be her, anyway, not once he’d recognised her. She turned away, moving towards the door.

  The voice of the middle-aged woman rang out.

  ‘You—short blonde hair, green shift. Wait.’

  Slowly, Kat paused and turned. The woman beckoned to her impatiently.

  ‘Kat Jones, is it?’

  Kat nodded, but her eyes went past the woman to the tall figure at her side. The man she’d hustled. Mr Big. His eyes were resting on her. She couldn’t read them, not from this distance, but there was something in them that made her feel suddenly very, very weird.

  She started to walk towards him.

  Angelos Petrakos watched her approach. She appeared wary. He was unsurprised. She’d be ruing her rudeness to him at the hotel entrance. His gaze rested on her critically as she came forward. Too thin for his personal taste, and although her features were stunning, her short, jagged hairstyle was not what he liked in a woman. He liked wome
n chic, elegant, soignée. Not raw off the street like this. With a lip to her that would get her nowhere fast in life.

  And yet his eyes narrowed speculatively. There was something about her …

  His eyes flicked over her one more time, assessing her. He saw something flash in hers, surprising him. She hadn’t liked the way he’d looked her over.

  Curious. She was a model—it was her livelihood to be looked over. But she hadn’t liked him doing it. And that was an anomaly in itself. Women liked him to look them over. They queued up for the privilege. But this fauve girl just about had her hackles raised, claws out. Kat was clearly a good name for her …

  But her name was irrelevant. So was anything else. The only thing on the agenda was whether she would suit the campaign he wanted—lend an edge to it that more conventional models wouldn’t. Well, he’d think about it. He snapped off his surveillance and nodded at the creative director of the advertising agency that had been selected for the campaign.

  ‘Put her on the list,’ he instructed. He didn’t expand on his choice—that was not the concern of those he paid. He turned to go. ‘Have the short-listed girls back here for seven o’clock this evening.’

  Then he walked out of the function room.

  * * *

  At five to seven precisely, Kat walked out of the hotel’s powder room, where she’d changed into her evening gown, having done her face and hair at home earlier. She was looking good, she knew, and she hung on to the knowledge, knowing her nerves were stretched and she needed all that her reflection could offer her. The thin-strapped eau de nil silk gown bought in a sale fell sheer down her slender body, its pale colouring suiting her own paleness. Strappy, high-heeled sandals lifted her hips and gave an assertive boost to her stride.

  But beneath the surface her emotions were conflicted. Predominant was nervousness—but running alongside that was another emotion. One that she didn’t want to feel.

  She knew who he was now—she’d had it spelt out to her by the suits after he’d walked out of the room that afternoon. Angelos Petrakos. He wasn’t the guy who owned the yacht company—he was the guy who owned the company that owned the yacht company.

  Yeah, well, she thought bitingly to herself as she strode into the hotel lobby, she wasn’t going to tiptoe around him, however much she wanted the job. If he wanted to hire her—fine. But no way was she kow-towing to him! No way!

  She still didn’t know why he’d put her on the short list. She was a completely different type from the sleek, posh others. Well, she didn’t care about that, either. Either she’d be picked or she wouldn’t. That was it, really. Nothing to do with her—just what Mr Big wanted.

  She felt an odd sensation jitter through her. It was different from the impulse she’d had to slug the guy for looking at her like meat. Yet it still had something to do with him looking at her. She frowned as she walked along. It wasn’t a feeling she’d had before. It felt alien. Unnerving. She found, too, that she was replaying the encounter at the hotel door in her head—and then the bit where she’d been summoned to the table. The odd jittery sensation went through her again.

  She didn’t like it. It made her feel—vulnerable.

  And vulnerable was something she never, never wanted to feel.

  Quickening her pace, she headed up the broad sweep of stairs up to the function suite. Inside, she saw that the other nine girls were already there—and so was Mr Big, talking to the most important suit. Deliberately not looking at him, Kat took her place beside the group, standing quietly to one side.

  Angelos looked up. Immediately his eyes went to girl he’d added to the short list. His gaze stilled.

  She was looking stunning. With part of his mind he tried to analyse why—and failed. Every girl here looked outstandingly beautiful, yet there was something about the edgy blonde that made her stand out even from them—that made him want to look at her …

  Was that quality, whatever it was, enough to make him break the brief he’d given his creative team? That the models for this campaign should have the glossy, upmarket look that went with the new line of luxury yachts Petrakos Marine was launching? He turned to his creative director, taking a seat at the table and tilting his chair back slightly.

  ‘Have the girls walk,’ he instructed.

  Deliberately he studied the other girls as they paraded up and down as if they were on a runway. Then, equally deliberately, he let his eyes go to the edgy blonde.

  She doesn’t like it, surmised Angelos. She doesn’t like parading up and down on command. Doesn’t like taking orders. Showing herself off. He could see her resentment in every stiffened line of her body as she stalked up and down.

  ‘That’s enough.’

  The girls stopped, came back to the table. The creative director leant forward to say something to Angelos, but he held out a hand to silence him. His gaze remained on the girls clustering around. He worked his gaze along them, his face expressionless.

  Then he simply said, ‘You, you, you,’ nodding at each he’d chosen in turn.

  One was blonde, with long hair down to her waist—clearly her particular asset—the second was an aristocratic brunette, and the third was Eurasian and any man’s private fantasy. They would all be ideal for the campaign.

  Having made the required decision, he left everything else to his staff. But as he got to his feet his eyes went to the girl at the end of the row. She looked even more apart than before. The other rejected girls were peeling off into a group, some shrugging, some looking unconcerned, while the favoured three were taken off by two of his staff to get more details of the forthcoming shoot.

  For a long moment the girl in the eau de nil silk just stood there, very still. Her face was quite expressionless. Then she turned away, walking back to the door.

  There wasn’t any sign of resentment now. Only deliberate indifference.

  Except that it wasn’t indifference. He could see exactly what it was—defiance. Not by the slightest slump of her shoulders letting any trace of having been rejected show. He watched her a moment, ignoring whatever it was his creative director was saying to him.

  Then he went after her.

  He caught her up just in the upper foyer, as she was heading for the stairs down and out of the hotel. He took her arm.

  She stopped dead and jerked around. Her eyes flashed.

  ‘Don’t handle the merchandise, sunshine!’ she said, and made to tug away. It had no effect on his grip.

  Angelos looked down at her upturned face. There was antagonism bristling in her eyes, but more than that. Something behind the antagonism.

  ‘There may be room for one more model. I’m prepared to consider it,’ he said.

  Something flashed in her eyes, then disappeared.

  He let go of her arm. ‘I’ll discuss it with you in my suite.’

  Her eyes flashed again, but not with the emotion that had just been in them.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ she said, and wheeled round. He caught her again.

  ‘You mistake me,’ he said, and his voice was icy. ‘This concerns merely whether you are, or are not, suitable for this campaign. Nothing else.’ He walked towards the bank of lifts, not bothering to see if she was following. She would be, he knew.

  She stepped into the lift beside him, standing as far away from him as possible, staring straight ahead, her shoulders rigid. Wary as a cat, but with a hunger, he knew perfectly well, for what he had in his power to offer her. As the elevator lifted away he caught the faintest tang of perfume—something citrusy. Sharp. It suited her, he realised.

  Beside him, Kat stood, every nerve end bristling. It had been a rollercoaster all afternoon—from realising she wasn’t going to be short-listed to the exultation that she had been, and then, just now, the bitter knowledge that she still hadn’t made it, despite her best shot and her evening gown.

  Only to have hope flare all over again—

  She felt pincers snip away inside her stomach. And now it was not just because of the jo
b she wanted so much. It was because of the man she was standing beside. Something about him was setting her nerves jangling.

  It’s because he’s an arrogant s.o.b—that’s why! Mr High-and-Mighty, Filthy-Rich-Big! Looking at me like I’m nothing more than meat.

  And it was in his power to give her a job she really, really wanted.

  No other reason. Absolutely no other reason.

  As she walked after him into the suite she stopped dead, gazing round, mouth dropping open. So this was how the rich lived! The place was like some kind of apartment, with rooms opening off a lounge that had a balcony on one side and a dining table in a huge alcove. Two huge sofas faced each other across an acre of coffee table.

  ‘Sit down and wait.’

  The voice was indifferent, assuming obedience. She did as she was told, still looking around her, and then her eyes went to him without her volition, watching as he extracted some papers from a briefcase, setting them down upon the dining table and standing to look through them. He started to make phone calls in a foreign language. It didn’t sound like anything she’d heard before, so maybe it was Greek—the guy was Greek, the model who’d told her about him downstairs had said. Greek—and loaded.

  And not just with money.

  Kat found herself looking at him. Staring at him.

  He might be an arrogant s.o.b, but she knew exactly how he was getting away with it. With looks like his—all that height and toughness and hard, planed features and dark, measuring eyes, plus that magnetic Mediterranean appeal with his olive skin tone and sable hair and that indefinable aura of being ‘foreign’—he must have women slavering for him!

  Oh, not her. No chance. Because she didn’t slaver over any man, and never would. But she could still feel her nerves jangling, and she didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one bit. Every impulse told her to jump to her feet and run, but she had to sit there, like a good little girl, because this man—however much her made her hackles rise—could give her the job she craved.

  Her eyes flashed momentarily. But I’m still not kow-towing to him! He can take the job and stuff it before I do that!