I’ve got the message.’ Ross sighed, rising to his feet and strolling over to gaze out of the large plate glass window at the skyline of New York city. “So, where do we go from here?’
‘Well, your “Duncan Ross” books are continuing to sell like hot cakes. What’s more—thanks to the Oscar—we can add another zero to the sum offered by the publishers for your next contract So, all in all, I’d say that you’re now a very rich man!’
Ross turned to grin at his agent. ‘I’m not likely to complain about that.’
‘I should hope not!’ Marty laughed. ‘And definitely not when you see the terms I’ve managed to screw out of the film company for the rights on your latest book,’ he added, tossing a thick, heavy contract onto the desk in front of him.
‘They’ll have to find some other writer to do the adaptation, because I’m never going to write another screenplay,’ Ross announced grimly. ‘In fact, rather than have to put up with any more of those neurotic Hollywood filmmakers, I’d prefer to spend the rest of my life working down a Siberian salt mine!’
The older man gave a deep chuckle of laughter. ‘OK—I reckon it’s now my turn to say that I’ve got the message. So, what are your plans for the next six months? Will you be returning to that Caribbean island of yours?’
‘Yes, I think so. Especially since I want to get the next book to you as soon as possible.’
‘OK, that sounds fine. There is just one thing...’ The agent paused for a moment, gazing at the tall, dark figure of the man once again clearly buried in thought as he stared out of the window.
Powerfully built, his body all lean muscle and sinew with a mind to match his physical perfection, Ross was certainly nobody’s fool. And Marty wasn’t looking forward to getting the brush-off from such a very hard, tough man—who was perfectly capable of annihilating a guy with just one scathing glance from those deep blue eyes beneath their heavy lids. There was no way, for instance, that he would have made the mistake of asking Ross about his romance with Lois Shelton—a subject which was clearly off-limits as far as his client was concerned.
‘I wonder...’ Marty cleared his throat. ‘I wonder if you’d do me a favour?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Well, I’m really asking for your help on behalf of my wife. I like to try and keep her happy, and...’
‘Oh, Marty!’ Ross grinned and shook his dark head. After twenty-five years of marriage, and despite all his friends’ dire warnings, the small, tubby agent had insisted on divorcing his wife to marry a blonde bimbo young enough to be his own daughter. ‘Is she giving you a hard time?’
‘Yeah, you could say that,’ the agent muttered, wondering—as he’d done so often lately—whether possessing a ‘trophy wife’ was all it was cracked up to be. ‘But the favour is really for my wife’s brother, Bernie Schwartz. He’s a real whiz-kid, and earning piles of dough with that cosmetic company he joined a few years ago.’
‘So—what’s the problem?’
‘Well, it isn’t exactly a problem, as such. More the fact that Bernie has put together a spectacular advertising campaign which, so my wife tells me, is likely to get him a seat on the board. Unfortunately, with everything all set for “go”, there’s been some problem with the proposed location.’ Marty shrugged. ‘To put it in a nutshell, Bernie needs to find a small, virtually uninhabited island in the Caribbean—and as quickly as possible.’
‘Hold it!’ Ross gave a grim laugh. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that he uses Buccaneer Island?’
‘Aw...come on, Ross—it wouldn’t be for more than a week. And just think about all those sexy young model girls, skipping along the beach with hardly a stitch on. You’d love it!’
‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t!’ Ross growled, turning away from the window to pace up and down the room. ‘I was once married to a fashion model, so I know what I’m talking about. Believe me, a more vain, egotistical, selfish bunch of people would be hard to find.’
‘Hey—wait until you see the girl who’s been chosen to promote the new line of cosmetics.’ Marty grinned, ignoring his client’s rough words as he spread some large photographs on the desk. ‘Bernie says that she’s absolutely gorgeous. According to him, she looks just like a Botticelli angel! What do you think?’
Ross gave a heavy sigh as he stopped pacing and strode towards the desk. ‘I think both you and your brother-in-law need your heads examined,’ he muttered, picking up one of the pictures. ‘And why you should imagine I’d want my quiet, peaceful island turned into a damned circus, or have to—’ He broke off, his brows drawing together in a sharp frown as he gazed down at the glossy print.
‘Nice, huh...?’ The older man gave a deep chuckle of laughter. ‘I wouldn’t mind spending a few days on a desert island with that particular girl!’
‘What’s her name?’ Ross demanded curtly, carrying the photograph over to the window to study it more closely.
Marty shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about her, except that, like you, she’s British—and Bernie clearly thinks she’s the best thing since sliced bread!’
There was a long silence as Ross continued to study the picture in his hand. ‘You say that your brother-in-law only wants to use my island for a week?’ he said at last.
‘Yeah—maybe even less,’ Marty assured him quickly. ‘On top of which, he’s more than willing to pay a large fee.’
‘Well...if it’s only going to be for a few days, I suppose I could probably help him out...’ Ross drawled slowly.
‘Great! And, there’s no reason for you to get involved with all the shenanigans if you don’t want to. All you have to do is to take off on your yacht, or whatever, and leave them to it.’
‘No.’ Ross shook his dark head. ‘Unfortunately, the small number of staff on the island would never be able to cope on their own. Besides,’ he added with a grim bark of sardonic laughter, before abruptly tossing the photograph back down onto the desk, ‘I’m beginning to think that this little idea of Bernie’s might prove to be very interesting, after all. Very interesting indeed!’
CHAPTER ONE
‘JUST remember—this is a contract to die for! There are hundreds of gorgeous-looking models who’d give their eye teeth for a chance to be the new Angel Girl. So, whatever happens, don’t mess up what could be the last chance to resurrect your career.’
Flora Johnson sighed, her lips tightening with apprehension as she recalled the words of her agent, Meredith Taylor, at the end of their celebratory lunch just over a month ago. Turning to stare blindly out of the small window of the aeroplane, she barely noticed the white clouds or the sparkling, azure sky.
Exactly why she should be apprehensive about the job which lay ahead of her, she had absolutely no idea. There seemed no sane, sensible reason for her faint, vague feelings of disquiet and unease. She was obviously being ridiculous, and it was time she pulled herself together, she told herself firmly. Anyone who wasn’t looking forward, with one hundred percent enthusiasm, to enjoying the warm sandy beaches, blue seas and brilliant
