I think someone’s going to make a speech.’
The chairman of the company producing the new cosmetic range mounted the flower-decked dais at the end of the room, and tested the microphone a shade uncertainly. After the usual words of welcome, he launched into an enthusiastic description of the new range.
‘Flawless,’ he told them, ‘is not just another brand of make-up. We regard it as a total look—part of today’s woman’s complete way of life—hypo-allergenic, yet highly fashion-conscious at the same time. And we pride ourselves on the fact that we are leading the way in banning animal testing from our laboratories.’
Carly joined in the dutiful ripple of applause, and took a sideways step towards the open window to gulp another breath of fresh air. And in that moment she saw him.
He was standing at the head of the short flight of stairs which led down into the banqueting suite from its main entrance, his eyes restlessly scanning the crowded room.
He was tall, she thought, her gaze devouring him. Broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. He was by no means conventionally handsome. His features were too strong—too assertive with those heavy-lidded grey eyes, jutting chin, and a nose that was almost a beak. He shouldn’t even have been attractive, Carly told herself. His face was too thin, and the lines round his face and mouth altogether too cynical. His hair was too long, and the formality of his dinner-jacket sat uneasily on him, Carly told herself critically. His tie was slightly crooked, as if he’d wrenched at its constriction with an impatient hand.
Yet in spite of this—because of this?—he was attractive. Devastatingly, heart-stoppingly, unequivocally attractive. All man, someone had called him once, and it was true. A man who spent his life among beautiful women, and enjoyed that life to the full.
But no one else had noticed his arrival, Carly realised as she stared across at him. They were all facing the dais, listening to the chairman’s peroration.
With total deliberation and concentration, she focused all her attention on him, willing him to turn his head, and see her.
Look at me, she commanded silently. Look at me now.
Slowly, as if she was operating some invisible magnet, Saul Kingsland’s head turned, and across the room their eyes met.
For a long moment Carly held his gaze, then she deliberately snapped the thread, turning to watch Septimus Creed who’d followed the chairman on to the dais and was outlining the thinking behind the plans for the campaign.
‘The Flawless concept is one of total freshness—naturalness—even purity,’ he was saying. ‘And this is what we want our Flawless Girl to represent.’
‘Well, that cuts me out,’ Gina whispered with a humorous grimace.
Carly forced a smile in return, but said nothing. Her mind was working feverishly. She’d made him notice her, but was it—would it be enough?
It means so much, she thought. It has to be enough. Has to.
‘My goodness!’ Gina’s eyes were widening. ‘Do you see who’s here—who’s actually arrived? How long do you think he’s been standing there?’ She took a breath. ‘I’m going over to say hello. Introduce myself. Coming with me?’
Carly shook her head. ‘I’ll catch up with you later, Gina. I—I need some air.’
It wasn’t an excuse. The force of her emotions was making her feel dizzy. She slipped out on to the balcony, and stood leaning on the stone balustrade looking down into the garden. Lamps had been lit now among the tall shrubs, and the scent of the roses was warm and strong in the evening air. Above the bulk of the hotel building, a crescent moon hung like a slash of gold in the sapphire sky.
Carly looked up at the moon, and inclined her head to it, as the old superstition dictated.
‘Oh, moon,’ she whispered silently. ‘I wish—oh, how I wish …’
‘Good evening.’ The sound of his voice from the doorway behind her made Carly start violently. She spun to face him, the fragile wine-glass falling from her hand to shatter on the tiles at her feet.
‘Are you all right?’ Two long strides brought him to her side. ‘You haven’t cut yourself?’
‘No,’ she forced from her taut throat. ‘I—it’s just some champagne on my dress.’
‘Damnation.’ He produced an immaculate handkerchief. ‘Let me see …’
She took a step backwards. ‘I can manage—really.’
He’d followed her, and that was incredible. But it was also too soon. He’d caught her off guard. She wasn’t ready for this confrontation—and she certainly wasn’t ready to be touched by him.
‘Just as you wish.’ He sounded faintly surprised, but he passed her the handkerchief, and she dabbed at her dress, her hands shaking, sharply aware that he was watching her.
He said abruptly, ‘You’re very nervous.’
‘What do you expect? You—startled me.’
‘I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you like that.’ Saul Kingsland’s smile contained both repentance and charm. He paused. ‘But then, you knew I’d follow you—didn’t you? Isn’t that exactly what you intended?’
He certainly believed in the direct approach, Carly thought, rallying her defences.
‘You’re a free agent, Mr Kingsland.’
He shook his head. ‘Not tonight. I’m here to do a job—fulfil an obligation. I have to find a face—a body around which an entire advertising campaign can pivot. Frankly, I thought it was impossible—a gimmick foisted on me by Septimus Creed. How could I choose anyone when I didn’t know what I was looking for—what special qualities I needed?’ He broke off, the cool eyes skimming over her, missing nothing.
Carly found the intensity of his scrutiny and the continuing silence unnerving. She broke it deliberately, moving backwards, resting an elbow on the balustrade. ‘And do you know now?’
He said slowly, ‘Yes, I think I do. It’s totally incredible.’
His gaze went down the curve of her body as she lounged against the stonework, lingering on breast and thigh. It was as if he’d put out a hand and touched her intimately, and she was hard put to it not to flinch.
She thought, I don’t know if I can go through with this. But I must …
She laughed. ‘Is this your usual line, Mr Kingsland? “Put yourself in my hands, little girl, and I’ll make you famous”?’ She pulled a face. ‘A little tacky, don’t you think?’
‘Yes—if it were true.’ He sounded impatient. ‘But I assure you I’m not just shooting a line. I should know your name. Why don’t I? Who’s your agent?’
‘My name is Carly North,’ she said. ‘My agent is Clive Monroe, and if you’re not careful, I shall begin to think you mean this.’
‘Believe it,’ he said shortly. His brows drew together in a frown. ‘Or is there some problem?’
She
