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 women 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
