by Nora Roberts
whirled. “You’ve snow all over your face.” His mouth roamed to her cheek, his tongue gently removing flakes, instilling her with exquisite terror. “Oh, Hillary, what a delectable creature you are.” Lifting his face, he stared into her wide, anxious eyes. He let out a deep breath and brushed the remaining snow from her cheeks with his hand. “The others should be stirring about now. Let’s go have some breakfast.”
“Stand over there, Hil.” Hillary was once more out in the snow, but this time it was Larry and his camera joining her.
He had been taking pictures for what seemed to Hillary hours. Fervently, she wished the session would end, her mind lingering on the thought of steaming chocolate in front of the fire.
“All right, Hillary, come back to earth. You’re supposed to be having fun, not floating in a daze.”
“I hope your lenses freeze.” She sent him a brilliant smile.
“Aw, cut it out, Hil,” he mumbled, continuing to crouch around her.
“That’ll do,” he announced at last, and she fell over backwards in a mock faint. Larry leaned over her, taking still another picture. Shutting her eyes in amusement, she laughed up at him.
“Are the sessions getting longer, Larry, or is it just me?”
“It’s you,” he answered, shaking his head, allowing the camera to dangle by its strap. “You’re over the hill, past your prime. It’s all downhill from here.”
“I’ll show you who’s over the hill.” Hillary scrambled up, grabbing a handful of snow.
“No, Hil.” Placing a protective hand over his camera, Larry backed away. “Remember my camera, don’t lose control.” Turning, he ran through the snow toward the lodge.
“Past my prime, am I?” The snowball hit him full on the back as Hillary gave chase. Catching him, she leaped on his back, beating him playfully on the top of the head.
“Go ahead,” he told her, carrying her without effort. “Strangle me, give me a concussion—just don’t touch my camera.”
“Hello, Larry.” Bret strolled over as they approached the house. “All finished?”
Hillary noted with some satisfaction that, with the advantage of being perched on Larry’s back, she could meet Bret’s eyes on level.
“I shall have to speak to you, Mr. Bardoff, about a new photographer. This one has just inferred that I am over the hill.”
“I can’t help it if your career’s shot,” Larry protested. “I’ve been carrying you figuratively for months, and now that I’ve carried you literally, I think you’re putting on weight.”
“That does it,” Hillary decided. “Now I have no choice—I have to kill him.”
“Put it off for a while, would you?” June requested, joining them by the door. “He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m dragging him off for a walk in the woods.”
“Very well,” Hillary agreed. “That should give me time to consider. Put me down, Larry—you’ve been reprieved.”
“Cold?” Bret asked as Hillary began to strip off her outdoor clothing.
“Frozen. There are those among us who have developing fluid rather than blood in their veins.”
“Modeling is not all glamour and smiles, it is?” he commented as she shook snow from her hair. “Are you content with it?” he asked suddenly, capturing her chin with his hand, his eyes narrowed and serious. “Is there nothing else you want?”
“It’s what I do,” she countered. “It’s what I’m able to do.”
“Is it what you want to do?” he persisted. “Is it all you want to do?”
“All?” she repeated, and, battling the urgent longing, she shrugged. “It’s enough, isn’t it?”
He continued to stare down at her before he mirrored her shrug and walked away. He moved, even in jeans, with a rather detached elegance. Puzzled, Hillary watched him disappear down the hall.
The afternoon passed in vague complacency. Hillary sipped the hot chocolate of her dreams and dozed in a chair by the fire. She watched Bret and Bud play a long game of chess, the three of them unconcerned by Larry’s occasional, irrepressible intrusions with his camera.
Charlene remained stubbornly by Bret’s side, following the contest with ill-concealed boredom. When the match was over, she insisted that he show her through the forest. It was apparent to Hillary that her mind was not on trees and squirrels.
The day drifted away into darkness. Charlene, looking disgruntled after her walk, complained about the cold, then stated regally that she would soak in a hot tub for the next hour.
Dinner consisted of beef stew, which left the redhead aghast. She compensated by consuming an overabundance of wine. Her complaints were genially ignored, and the meal passed with the casual intimacy characteristic of people who have grown used to each other’s company.
Again accepting kitchen detail, Hillary and June worked in the small room, the latter stating she felt she was due for a raise. The job was near completion when Charlene strolled in, yet another glass of wine in her hand.
“Almost done with your womanly duties?” she demanded with heavy sarcasm.
“Yes. Your assistance was greatly appreciated,” June answered, stacking plates in a cupboard.
“I should like to have a word with Hillary, if you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind,” June returned, and continued to clatter dishes.
Charlene turned to where Hillary was now wiping the surface of the stove. “I will not tolerate your behavior any longer.”
“Well, all right—if you’d rather do it yourself.” Hillary offered the dishcloth with a smile.
“I saw you this morning,” Charlene flung out viciously, “throwing yourself at Bret.”
“Did you?” Hillary shrugged, turning back to give the stove her attention. “Actually, I was throwing snowballs. I thought you were asleep.”
“Bret woke me when he got out of bed.” The voice was soft, the implication all too clear.
Pain throbbed through Hillary. How could he have left one woman’s arms and come so easily into hers? How could he degrade and humiliate her that way? She shut her eyes, feeling the color drain from her face. The simple fun and precious intimacy they had shared that morning now seemed cheap. Holding on to her pride desperately, she turned to face Charlene, meeting triumphant green eyes with blue ice. “Everyone’s entitled to his own taste.” She shrugged indifferently, tossing the cloth on the stove.
Charlene’s color rose dramatically. With a furious oath, she threw the contents of her glass, splattering the red liquid over Hillary’s sweater.
“That’s going too far!” June exploded, full of righteous anger on Hillary’s behalf. “You’re not going to get away with this one.”
“I’ll have your job for speaking to me that way.”
“Just try it, when the boss sees what you—”
“No more,” Hillary broke in, halting her avenger. “I don’t want any more scenes, June.”
“But, Hillary.”
“No, please, just forget it.” She was torn between the need to crawl away and lick her wounds and the urge to pull out handfuls of red hair. “I mean it. There’s no need to bring Bret into this. I’ve had it.”
“All right, Hillary,” June agreed, casting Charlene a disgusted look. “For your sake.”
Hillary moved quickly from the room, wanting only to reach the sanctuary of her bedroom. Before she reached the stairs, however, she met Bret.
“Been to war, Hillary?” he asked, glancing at the red splatters on her sweater. “Looks like you lost.”
“I never had anything to lose,” she mumbled, and started to walk by him.
“Hey.” He halted her, taking her arms and holding her in front of him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she retorted, feeling her precious control slipping with each passing moment.
“Don’t hand me that—look at you.” His hand reached out to tilt her chin, but she jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he commanded. His fingers gripped her face and held her still. “What’s wro
ng with you anyway?”
“Nothing is the matter with me,” she returned, retreating behind a sheet of ice. “I’m simply a bit weary of being pawed.”
She watched, his eyes darkening to a thunderous gray. His fingers tightened painfully on her flesh. “You’re darned lucky there’re other people in the house, or I’d give you a fine example of what it’s really like to be pawed. It’s a pity I had a respect for fragile innocence. I shall certainly keep my hands off you in the future.”
He relaxed his grip, and with chin and arm aching from the pressure, she pushed by him and calmly mounted the stairs.
Chapter Eight
February had drifted into March. The weather had been as cold and dreary as Hillary’s spirits. Since the fateful weekend in the Adirondacks, she had received no word from Bret, nor did she expect to.
The issue of Mode with Hillary’s layout was released, but she could build up no enthusiasm as she studied the tall, slim woman covering the pages. The smiling face on the glossy cover seemed to belong to someone else, a stranger Hillary could neither recognize nor relate to. The layout was, nevertheless, a huge success, with the magazines selling as quickly as they were placed on the stands. She was besieged by offers as the weeks went by, but none of them excited her. She found the pursuit of her career of supreme indifference.
A call from June brought an end to her listlessness. The call brought a summons from the emperor. She debated refusing the order, then, deciding she would rather face Bret in his office than to have him seek her out at home, she obeyed.
She dressed carefully for the meeting, choosing a discreetly elegant pale yellow suit. She piled her hair up from her neck, covering it with a wide-brimmed hat. After a thorough study, she was well pleased with the calm, sophisticated woman reflected in her mirror.
During the elevator ride to Bret’s office, Hillary schooled herself to remain aloof and detached, setting her expression into coolly polite lines. He would not see the pain, she determined. Her vulnerability would be well concealed. Her ability to portray what the camera demanded would be her defense. Her years of experience would not betray her.
June greeted her with a cheery smile. “Go right on in.” She pushed the button on her phone. “He’s expecting you.”
Swallowing fear, Hillary fixed a relaxed smile on her face and entered the lion’s den.
“Good afternoon, Hillary,” Bret greeted her, leaning back in his chair but not rising. “Come sit down.”
“Hello, Bret.” Her voice matched the polite tone of his. Her smile remained in place though her stomach had begun to constrict at the first contact with his eyes.
“You’re looking well,” he commented.
“Thank you, so are you.” She thought giddily, What absurd nonsense!
“I’ve just been looking over the layout again. It’s certainly been every bit as successful as we had hoped.”
“Yes, I’m glad it worked out so well for everyone.”
“Which of these is you, Hillary?” he muttered absently, frowning over the pictures. “Free-spirited tomboy, elegant socialite, dedicated career woman, loving wife, adoring mother, exotic temptress?” He raised his eyes suddenly, boring into hers, the power almost shattering her frail barrier.
She shrugged carelessly. “I’m just a face and body doing what I’m told, projecting the image that’s required. That’s why you hired me in the first place, isn’t it?”
“So, like a chameleon, you change from one color to the next on command.”
“That’s what I’m paid to do,” she answered, feeling slightly ill.
“I’ve heard you’ve received quite a number of offers.” Once more leaning back in his chair, Bret laced his fingers and studied her through half-closed eyes. “You must be very busy.”
“Yes,” she began, feigning enthusiasm. “It’s been very exciting. I haven’t decided which ones to accept. I’ve been told I should hire a manager to sort things out. There’s an offer from a perfume manufacturer”—she named a well-known company—“that involves a long-term contract—three years endorsing on TV and, of course, magazines. It’s by far the most interesting, I think.” It was at the moment the only one she could clearly remember.
“I see. I’d heard you’d been approached by one of the networks.”
“Oh, yes.” She made a dismissive gesture, wracking her brains for the details. “But that involves acting. I have to give that a great deal of thought.” I’d win an Oscar for this performance, she added silently. “I doubt if it would be wise to jump into something like that.”
He stood and turned his back, staring out at the steel and glass. She studied him without speaking, wondering what was going on in his mind, noting irrelevantly how the sunlight combed his thick blond hair.
“Your contract with me is finished, Hillary, and though I’m quite prepared to make you an offer, it would hardly be as lucrative as a television contract.”
An offer, Hillary thought, her mind whirling, and she was grateful his back was to her so that he could not observe her expression. At least she knew why he had wanted to see her—to offer her another contract, another piece of paper. She would have to refuse, even though she had no intention of accepting any of the other contracts. She could never endure continuous contact with this man. Even after this brief meeting, her emotions were torn.
She rose before answering. “I appreciate your offer, Bret, but I must consider my career. I’m more than grateful to you for the opportunity you gave me, but,”—her voice was calm, even professional—
“I told you before, I don’t want your gratitude!” He spun to face her, the all-too-familiar temper darkening his eyes. “I’m not interested in perfunctory expressions of gratitude and appreciation. Whatever you receive as a result of this”—he picked up the magazine with Hillary’s face on the cover—“you earned yourself. Take that hat off so I can look at you.” He whipped the hat from her head and thrust it into her hands.
Hillary resisted the need to swallow. She met his angry, searching gaze without flinching.
“Your success, Hillary, is of your own making. I’m not responsible for it, nor do I want to be.” He seemed to struggle for a measure of control and went on in calm, precise tones. “I don’t expect you to accept an offer from me. However, if you change your mind, I’d be willing to negotiate. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck—I should like to think you’re happy.”
“Thank you.” With a light smile, she turned and headed for the door.
“Hillary.”
Hand on knob, she shut her eyes a moment and willed herself the strength to face him again. “Yes?”
He stared at her, giving her the sensation that he was filing each of her features separately in his brain. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” she returned, and turning the knob, she escaped.
Shaken, she leaned her back against the smooth other side of the door. June glanced up from her work.
“Are you all right, Hillary? What’s the matter?”
Hillary stared without comprehension, then shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Oh, everything.” With a muffled sob, she streaked from the room.
Hillary hailed a cab a few nights later with little enthusiasm. She had allowed herself to be persuaded by Larry and June to attend a party across town in Bud Lewis’s penthouse apartment. She must not wallow in self-pity, cut off from friends and social activities, she had decided. It was time, she told herself, pulling her shawl closer against the early April breeze, to give some thought to the future. Sitting alone and brooding would not do the job.
As a result of her self-lecturing, she arrived at the already well-moving party determined to enjoy herself. Bud swung a friendly arm over her shoulders and, leading her to the well-stocked bar, inquired what was her pleasure. She started to request her usual well-diluted drink when a punch bowl filled with a sparkling rose pink liquid caught her eye.
“Oh, that looks nice—what is it?”
“Planter
’s punch,” he informed her, already filling a glass.
Sounds safe enough, she decided as Bud was diverted by another of his guests. With a tentative sip, Hillary thought it remarkably good. She began to mingle with the crowd.
She greeted old and new faces, pausing occasionally to talk or laugh. She glided from group to group, faintly amazed at how light and content was her mood. Depression and unhappiness dissolved like a summer’s mist. This is what she needed all along, she concluded—some people, some music, a new attitude.