pulled a sickie—ever. Taking a few days off would cause an immense stir.
She was just going to have to get through the week as best she could. Her infatuation with him was ridiculous. There was absolutely no point getting herself into a dither over a man that she was never going to have. She’d resigned herself to her asexual existence many years ago, and no one had ever tempted her out of her self-imposed celibacy. She wasn’t about to let a man who looked as if he could have his pick of beauties ruin her hard-won reputation.
Isobella wrapped the towel around her, anchoring it under her arms, and wandered into her room. She felt edgy and stared at the clothes in her wardrobe, wondering what the hell she was going to wear. Damn it, she never thought about what she had to wear any more. She had a cupboard full of high-necked garments, and she usually just put her hand in and picked one.
But then she hadn’t gone out socially in years with anyone outside her family. And she never had to give too much thought to what she wore to work. Loose and comfortable were essential, and it was always covered by her white coat anyway. Fashion just didn’t come into it.
The fact that she always dressed to hide and camouflage her figure and that tonight she was thinking purely of fashion made her restless and annoyed. She was suddenly thinking of all the beautiful outfits she’d worn in the past. In another life. Coveting them and that time as she hadn’t in years. Why? So she could attract Alexander Zaphirides?
A man whose abrupt, dispassionate dismissal of her this afternoon had left her in no doubt of his utter disinterest? His gaze had swept over her body as if she was of no more interest to him than a bug squashed on the pavement. It was crazy to entertain any other thoughts.
And she knew better than that. Paolo dumping her had been lesson number one. Anthony had been lesson number two. Even now the memory of Anthony’s response, how he had recoiled from her, still had the power to crush her into the ground. She’d been foolish to dare even to think that a man could see beyond the physical.
She shut the cupboard in disgust, trying to beat back the memories, trying to not give the swell of despair that had overwhelmed her so often sixteen years ago any purchase. It was no use getting caught up in the bitterness and anguish of the past.
Except maybe as a reminder. Maybe a good hard look at herself would remind her that this infatuation with Alex was out of the question.
She stalked into her sister’s room, heading straight for Carla’s full-length mirror. Isobella only had a small high mirror in her en suite bathroom, preferring not to be reminded on a daily basis of her mutilated body.
She peeled the towel off her body, standing naked before the glass. She clenched her hands by her sides, still shocked by her appearance after all these years. How could she blame Anthony for his reaction when her first instinct was to run screaming away from herself too?
She forced herself to look, though. It was brutal—emotional shock therapy at its worst—but it was also just what she needed. She wasn’t Izzy Tucker the high-flying international model any more. She’d made the decision at nineteen to turn her back on that world jaded by hypocrisy and the relentless pursuit of beauty. And she’d been at peace with her choice and excited about starting a new phase of her life.
But she hadn’t been prepared for the final cruel blow that had taken her controversial decision to turn her back on a successful high-profile modelling career and punished her for it. Her life as she had known it had ended during a photo shoot on an idyllic North Queensland beach sixteen years ago. In fact it had nearly ended full-stop.
The evidence still taunted her today, as she gazed in the mirror. Her nudity didn’t register. All she could see were the marks where a box jellyfish, a Chironex Fleckeri, had wrapped its tentacles around her waist, disfiguring her, branding her with its ugly signature. And almost killing her in the process.
The purple whip-like scars that criss-crossed her abdomen were as mean-looking as ever. They’d faded a little over the years, but essentially each tentacle had left its savage mark, causing a permanent welt and marring the once sought-after bikini body that had graced many a magazine cover.
Isobella trembled with the effort it took not to look away in disgust. It had been a cruel twist of fate to have her career end on such a note, instead of on the high she’d imagined. At nineteen, being selected as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had been a major coup, and the perfect ending to a stellar career. And then it had all gone to hell.
Isobella secured the towel around her, unable to look any longer. She collapsed back on her sister’s bed, staring at the ceiling, allowing herself to wallow in self-pity for a moment or two. It had been a long time since she’d let herself be pulled back into the awful quagmire of grief. A tear squeezed out from behind her lids and she let it trek down across her temple.
Damn Alexander Zaphirides. She hated this. It was his presence that had unsettled her so much. Here she was feeling sorry for herself when in reality she’d been exceedingly lucky. For one, she’d survived, and from what she’d been told, things had been touch and go for quite a few weeks.
And for another, her decision to leave modelling had already been announced, and she’d been happy and excited about embarking on a new career. She’d already made the mental shift away, preparing herself for a new chapter in her life. Had she been counting on continuing modelling when she finally awoke from her drug-induced coma she would have been very disappointed. The phones had stopped ringing. A disfigured model was no good to anyone.
Over the years she’d managed to develop a philosophical outlook to the incident. An acceptance, even, that there had been a grand plan for her—a destiny, a fate bigger than hers, beyond her control.
That was why she believed so much in the research that Alex was conducting. Helping to find a topical treatment for the dermonecrotic lesions caused by Chironex Fleckeri before they scarred its victims permanently. To date there had been no agent identified to reduce the long-term scarring, and she was at the forefront of the research.
It had been almost a calling from a divine force when she’d seen the advertisement just over two years ago. She’d been working in burns scarring research, but had known instantly the dermonecrosis study was her destiny. It was too late for her—but for future victims? It had been a challenge, a calling she hadn’t been able to deny.
And nothing had swayed her from that path for two years. Nothing. Not thoughts of her past or of the unfairness of life or the vile flu. She’d had her face glued to a microscope, obsessively stalked the world wide web, and stayed back way too many nights leaving no stone unturned.
But now, tonight, with the prospect of having to socialise with a man who was sexier than a hundred Greek gods, she wanted to be beautiful again. To be Izzy again. If even just for a night.
Damn it. Damn her vanity to hell!
‘Hey, babe? Are we having a slumber party?’
Carla? Her plane wasn’t due back until later tonight. Was it? Isobella dashed away the moisture beneath her lids. She gave a shaky laugh, not bothering to rise from the bed. ‘Sure, if you like.’
She looked up as Carla came into her line of vision. She looked as professional as she always did in her stewardess uniform. Her sister frowned down at her as she pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt.
‘Move over,’ she ordered, and flopped back onto the mattress like a felled tree next to her.
‘Exhausted?’
