by Nora Roberts
and Hillary stared at him in dumb amazement. “Inconspicuous,” he said again, shaking his head as if she had just uttered something sublimely ridiculous. “What a beautiful statement. No, I think you’re a very complex woman with a remarkable affinity with her surroundings. I don’t believe it’s an acquired talent, but an intrinsic ability.”
His words pleased Hillary out of all proportion, and she made an issue of stirring her tea, giving it her undivided attention. Why should a simple, impersonal compliment wrap around my tongue like a twenty-pound chain? she wondered, careful to keep a frown from forming. I don’t think I care for the way he always manages to shift my balance.
“You do play tennis, don’t you?”
Again, his rapid altering of the conversation threw her into confusion, and she stared at him without comprehension until she recalled the afternoon session was on the tennis court of an exclusive country club.
“I manage to hit the ball over the net once in a while.” Annoyed by his somewhat condescending tone, she answered with uncharacteristic meekness.
“Good. The shots will be more impressive if you have the stance and moves down properly.” He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and drew out his wallet. “I’ve got some things to clear up at the office.” Standing, he drew her from the booth, again holding her hand in his oddly familiar manner, ignoring her efforts to withdraw from his grip. “I’ll put you in a cab. It’ll take you some time to change from little girl to female athlete.” He looked down at her, making her feel unaccustomedly small at five foot seven in her sneakers. “Your tennis outfit’s already at the club, and I assume you have all the tricks of your trade in that undersized suitcase?” He indicated the large shoulder bag she heaved over her arm.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bardoff.”
“Bret,” he interrupted, suddenly engrossed with running his hand down her left pigtail. “I don’t intend to stop using your first name.”
“Don’t worry,” she began again, evading his invitation. “Changing images is my profession.”
“It should prove interesting,” he murmured, tugging the braid he held. Then, shifting to a more professional tone he said, “The court is reserved for one. I’ll see you then.”
“You’re going to be there?” Her question was accompanied by a frown as she found herself undeniably distressed at the prospect of dealing with him yet again.
“My pet project, remember?” He nudged her into a cab, either unaware of or unconcerned by her scowl. “I intend to supervise it very carefully.”
As the cab merged with traffic, Hillary’s emotions were in turmoil. Bret Bardoff was an incredibly attractive and distracting man, and there was something about him that disturbed her. The idea of being in almost daily contact with him made her decidedly uneasy.
I don’t like him, she decided with a firm nod. He’s too self-assured, too arrogant, too … Her mind searched for a word. Physical. Yes, she admitted, albeit unwillingly, he was a very sexual man, and he unnerved her. She had no desire to be disturbed. There was something about the way he looked at her, something about the way her body reacted whenever she came into contact with him. Shrugging, she stared out the window at passing cars. She wouldn’t think of him. Rather, she corrected, she would think of him only as her employer, and a temporary one at that—not as an individual. Her hand still felt warm from his, and glancing down at it, she sighed. It was imperative to her peace of mind that she do her job and avoid any more personal dealings with him. Strictly business, she reminded herself. Yes, their relationship would be strictly business.
The tomboy had been transformed into the fashionable tennis buff. A short white tennis dress accented Hillary’s long, slender legs and left arms bare. She covered them, as she waited on the court, with a light jacket, since the October afternoon was pleasant but cool. Her hair was tied away from her face with a dark blue scarf, leaving her delicate features unframed. Color had been added to her eyes, accenting them with sooty fringes, and her lips were tinted deep rose. Spotless white tennis shoes completed her outfit, and she held a lightweight racket in her hands. The pure white of the ensemble contrasted well with her golden skin and raven hair, and she appeared wholly feminine as well as capable.
Behind the net, she experimented with stances, swinging the racket and serving the balls to a nonexistent partner while Larry roamed around her, checking angles and meters.
“I think you might have better luck if someone hit back.”
She spun around to see Bret watching her with an amused gleam in his eyes. He too was in white, the jacket of his warm-up suit pushed to the elbows. Hillary, used to seeing him in a business suit, was surprised at the athletic appearance of his body, whipcord lean, his shoulders broad, his arms hard and muscular, his masculinity entirely too prevalent.
“Do I pass?” he asked with a half smile, and she flushed, suddenly aware that she had been staring.
“I’m just surprised to see you dressed that way,” she muttered, shrugging her shoulders and turning away.
“More suitable for tennis, don’t you think?”
“We’re going to play?” She spun back to face him, scowling at the racket in his hand.
“I rather like the idea of action … shots,” he finished with a grin. “I won’t be too hard on you. I’ll hit some nice and easy.”
With a good deal of willpower, she managed not to stick out her tongue. She played tennis often and well. Hillary decided, with inner complacency, that Mr. Bret Bardoff was in for a surprise.
“I’ll try to hit a few back,” she promised, her face as ingenuous as a child. “To give the shots realism.”
“Good.” He strode over to the other side of the court, and Hillary picked up a ball. “Can you serve?”
“I’ll do my best,” she answered, coating honey on her tongue. After glancing at Larry to see if he was ready, she tossed the ball idly in the air. The camera had already replaced Larry’s face, and Hillary moved behind the fault line, tossed the ball once more, connected with the racket, and smashed a serve. Bret returned her serve gently, and she hit back, aiming deep in the opposite corner.
“I think I remember how to score,” she called out with a thoughtful frown. “Fifteen-love, Mr. Bardoff.”
“Nice return, Hillary. Do you play often?”
“Oh, now and again,” she evaded, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “Ready?”
He nodded, and the ball bounced back and forth in an easy, powerless volley. She realized with some smugness that he was holding back, making it a simple matter for her to make the return for the benefit of Larry’s rapidly snapping camera. But she too was holding back, hitting the ball lightly and without any style. She allowed a few more laconic lobs, then slammed the ball away from him, deep in the back court.
“Oh.” She lifted a finger to her lips, feigning innocence. “That’s thirty-love, isn’t it?”
Bret’s eyes narrowed as he approached the net. “Why do I have this strange feeling that I’m being conned?”
“Conned?” she repeated, wide-eyed, allowing her lashes to flutter briefly. He searched her face until her lips trembled with laughter. “Sorry, Mr. Bardoff, I couldn’t resist.” She tossed her head and grinned. “You were so patronizing.”
“O.K.” He returned her grin somewhat to Hillary’s relief. “No more patronizing. Now I’m out for blood.”
“We’ll start from scratch,” she offered, returning to the serving line. “I wouldn’t want you to claim I had an unfair advantage.”
He returned her serve with force, and they kept each other moving rapidly over the court in the ensuing volley. They battled for points, reaching deuce and exchanging advantage several times. The camera was forgotten in the focus of concentration, the soft click of the shutter masked by the swish of rackets and thump of balls.
Cursing under her breath at the failure to return a ball cleanly, Hillary stooped to pick up another and prepared to serve.
“That was great.” Larry�
��s voice broke her concentration, and she turned to gape at him. “I got some fantastic shots. You look like a real pro, Hil. We can wrap it up now.”
“Wrap it up?” She stared at him with incredulous exasperation. “Have you lost your mind? We’re at deuce.” She continued to regard him a moment as if his brain had gone on holiday, and shaking her head and muttering, she resumed play.
For the next few minutes, they fought for the lead until Bret once more held the advantage and once more placed the ball down the line to her backhand.
Hillary put her hands on her hips and let out a deep breath after the ball had sailed swiftly past her. “Ah, well, the agony of defeat.” She smiled, attempted to catch her wind, and approached the net. “Congratulations.” She offered both hand and smile. “You play a very demanding game.”
He accepted her hand, holding it rather than shaking it. “You certainly made me earn it, Hillary. I believe I’d like to try my luck at doubles, with you on my side of the net.”
“I suppose you could do worse.”
He held her gaze a moment before his eyes dropped to the hand still captive in his. “Such a small hand.” He lifted it higher and examined it thoroughly. “I’m astonished it can swing a racket like that.” He turned it palm up and carried it to his lips.
Odd and unfamiliar tingles ran up her spine at his kiss, and she stared mesmerized at her hand, unable to speak or draw away. “Come on.” He smiled into bemused eyes, annoyingly aware of her reaction. “I’ll buy you lunch.” His gaze slid past her. “You too, Larry.”
“Thanks, Bret.” He was already gathering his equipment. “But I want to get back and develop this film. I’ll just grab a sandwich.”
“Well, Hillary.” He turned and commanded her attention. “It’s just you and me.”
“Really, Mr. Bardoff,” she began, feeling near to panic at the prospect of having lunch with him and wishing with all her heart that he would respond to the effort she was currently making to regain sole possession of her hand. “It’s not necessary for you to buy me lunch.”
“Hillary, Hillary.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Do you always find it difficult to accept an invitation, or is it only with me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She attempted to maintain a casual tone while she became more and more troubled by the warmth of his hand over hers. She stared down at the joined hands, feeling increasingly helpless as the contact continued. “Mr. Bardoff, may I please have my hand back?” Her voice was breathless, and she bit her lip in vexation.
“Try Bret, Hillary,” he commanded, ignoring her request. “It’s easy enough, only one syllable. Go ahead.”
The eyes that held hers were calm, demanding, and arrogant enough to remain steady for the next hour. The longer her hand remained in his, the more peculiar she felt, and knowing that the sooner she agreed, the sooner she would be free, she surrendered.
“Bret, may I please have my hand back?”
“There, now, we’ve cleared the first hurdle. That didn’t hurt much, did it?” The corner of his mouth lifted as he released her, and immediately the vague weakness began to dissipate, leaving her more secure.
“Nearly painless.”
“Now about lunch.” He held up his hand to halt her protest. “You do eat, don’t you?”
“Of course, but—”
“No buts. I rarely listen to buts or nos.”
In short order Hillary found herself seated across from Bret at a small table inside the club. Things were not going as she had planned. It was very difficult to maintain a businesslike and impersonal relationship when she was so often in his company. It was useless to deny that she found him interesting, his vitality stimulating, and he was a tremendously attractive man. But, she admonished herself, he certainly wasn’t her type. Besides, she didn’t have time for entanglements at this point of her life. Still, the warning signals in her brain told her to tread carefully, that this man was capable of upsetting her neatly ordered plans.
“Has anyone ever told you what a fascinating conversationalist you are?” Hillary’s eyes shot up to find Bret’s mocking gaze on her.
“Sorry.” Color crept into her face. “My mind was wandering.”
“So I noticed. What will you have to drink?”
“Tea.”
“Straight?” he inquired, his smile hovering.
“Straight,” she agreed, and ordered herself to relax. “I don’t drink much. I’m afraid I don’t handle it well. More than two and I turn into Mr. Hyde. Metabolism.”
Bret threw back his head and laughed with the appearance of boundless pleasure. “That’s a transformation I would give much to witness. We’ll have to arrange it.”
Lunch, to Hillary’s surprise, was an enjoyable meal, though Bret met her choice of salad with open disgust and pure masculine disdain. She assured him it was adequate, and made a passing comment on the brevity of overweight models’ careers.
Fully relaxed, Hillary enjoyed herself, the resolution to keep a professional distance between herself and Bret forgotten. As they ate, he spoke of the next day’s shooting plans. Central Park had been designated for more outdoor scenes in keeping with the outdoor, athletic image.
“I’ve meetings all day tomorrow and won’t be able to supervise. How do you exist on that stuff?” He changed the trend of conversation abruptly, waving a superior finger at Hillary’s salad. “Don’t you want some food? You’re going to fade away.”
She shook her head, smiling as she sipped her tea, and he muttered under his breath about half-starved models before resuming his previous conversation. “If all goes according to schedule, we’ll start the next segment Monday. Larry wants to get an early start tomorrow.”
“Always,” she agreed with a sigh. “If the weather holds.”
“Oh, the sun will shine.” She heard the absolute confidence in his voice. “I’ve arranged it.”
Sitting back, she surveyed the man across from her with uninhibited curiosity. “Yes.” She nodded at length, noting the firm jaw and direct eyes. “I believe you could. It wouldn’t dare rain.”
They smiled at each other, and as the look held, she experienced a strange, unfamiliar sensation running through her—something swift, vital, and anonymous.
“Some dessert?”
“You’re determined to fatten me up, aren’t you?” Grateful that his casual words had eliminated the strange emotion, she summoned up an easy smile. “You’re a bad influence, but I have a will of iron.”
“Cheese cake, apple pie, chocolate mousse?” His smile was wicked, but she tossed her head and lifted her chin.
“Do your worst. I don’t break.”
“You’re bound to have a weakness. A little time, and I’ll find it.”
“Bret, darling, what a surprise to see you here.” Hillary turned and looked up at the woman greeting Bret with such enthusiasm.
“Hello, Charlene.” He granted the shapely, elegantly dressed redhead a charming smile. “Charlene Mason, Hillary Baxter.”
“Miss Baxter.” Charlene nodded in curt greeting, and green eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so,” Hillary returned, wondering why she felt a surge of gratitude at the fact.
“Hillary’s face is splashed over magazines covers everywhere,” Bret explained. “She’s one of New York’s finest models.”
“Of course.” Hillary watched the green eyes narrow further, survey her, and dismiss her as inferior merchandise. “Bret, you should have told me you’d be here today. We could have had some time.”
“Sorry,” he answered with a casual move of his shoulders. “I won’t be here long, and it was business.”
Ridiculously deflated by his statement, Hillary immediately forced her spine to straighten. Didn’t I tell you not to get involved? she reminded herself. He’s quite right, this was a business lunch. She gathered her things and stood.
“Please, Miss Mason, have my seat. I was just going.” She turned to Bret, pleased to ob
serve his annoyance at her hasty departure. “Thanks for lunch, Mr. Bardoff,” she added politely, flashing a smile at the frown that appeared at her use of his surname. “Nice to have met you, Miss Mason.” Giving the woman occupying the seat she had just vacated a professional smile, Hillary walked away.
“I didn’t realized taking employees to lunch was part of your routine, Bret.” Charlene’s voice carried to Hillary as she made her exit. Her first instinct was to whirl around and inform the woman to mind her own business, but grasping for control, she continued to move away without hearing Bret’s reply.
The following day’s session was more arduous. Using the brilliant fall color in Central Park for a backdrop, Larry’s ideas for pictures were varied and energetic. It was a bright, cloudless day, as Bret had predicted, one of the final, golden days of Indian summer. Gold, russet, and scarlet dripped from the branches and covered the ground. Against the varied fall hues, Hillary posed, jogged, threw Frisbees, smiled, climbed trees, fed pigeons, and made three costume changes as the day wore on. Several times during the long session she caught herself looking for Bret, although she knew he was not expected. Her disappointment at his absence both surprised and displeased her, and she reminded herself that life would run much more smoothly if she had never laid eyes on a certain tall, lean man.
“Lighten up, Hil. Quit scowling.” Larry’s command broke into her musings. Resolutely, she shoved Bret Bardoff from her mind and concentrated on her job.
That evening she sank her tired body into a warm tub, sighing as the scented water worked its gentle magic on aching muscles. Oh, Larry, she thought wearily, with a camera in your hands you become