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  for romantic entanglements. When the time came for settling down, it certainly would not be with a man like Bret Bardoff, but with someone safe, someone who did not set her nerves on end and confuse her at every encounter. Besides, she reminded herself, ignoring the sudden gloom, he wasn’t interested in her romantically in any case. He seemed to prefer well-proportioned redheads.

  Shooting resumed the next morning, once again in Mode’s offices. Today, dressed in a dark blue shirt and boot-length skirt of a lighter shade, Hillary was to take on the role of working girl. The session was to take place in Bret’s secretary’s office, much to that woman’s delight.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am, Miss Baxter. I feel like a kid going to her first circus.”

  Hillary smiled at the young woman whose eyes were alight with anticipation. “I’ll admit to feeling like a trained elephant from time to time—and make it Hillary.”

  “I’m June. This is all routine to you, I suppose.” Her head shook, causing chestnut curls to bounce and sway. “But it seems very glamorous and exciting to me.” Her eyes drifted to where Larry was setting up for the shooting with customary absorption. “Mr. Newman’s a real expert, isn’t he? He’s been fiddling with all those dials and lenses and lights. He’s very attractive. Is he married?”

  Hillary laughed, glancing carelessly at Larry. “Only to his Nikon.”

  “Oh.” June smiled, then frowned. “Are you two, ah, I mean, are you involved?”

  “Just master and slave,” Hillary answered, seeing Larry as an attractive, eligible man for the first time. Looking back at June’s appealing face, she smiled in consideration. “You know the old adage, ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’ Take my advice. The way to that man’s heart is through his lenses. Ask him about f-stops.”

  Bret emerged from his office. He broke into a slow, lazy smile when he saw Hillary. “Ah, man’s best friend, the efficient secretary.”

  Ignoring the pounding of her heart, Hillary forced her voice into a light tone. “No corporate decisions today. I’ve been demoted.”

  “That’s the way of the business world.” He nodded understandingly. “Executive dining room one day, typing pool the next. It’s a jungle out there.”

  “All set,” Larry announced from across the room. “Where’s Hillary?” He turned to see the trio watching him and grinned. “Hello, Bret, hi, Hil. All set?”

  “Your wish is my command, O master of the thirty-five millimeter,” Hillary said, moving to join him.

  “Can you type, Hillary?” Bret inquired cheerily. “I’ll give you some letters, and we can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Bardoff,” she replied, allowing herself to enjoy his smile. “Typewriters and I have a longstanding agreement. I don’t pound on them, and they don’t pound on me.”

  “Is it all right if I watch for a while, Mr. Newman?” June requested. “I won’t get in the way. Photography just fascinates me.”

  Larry gave an absent assent, and, after casting his secretary a puzzled look, Bret turned to reenter his office. “I’ll need you in a half hour, June—the Brookline contract.”

  The session went quickly with Larry and Hillary progressing with professional ease. The model followed the photographer’s instructions, often anticipating a mood before he spoke. After a time, June disappeared unobtrusively through the heavy doors leading to Bret’s office. Neither Hillary nor Larry noticed her silent departure.

  Sometime later, Larry lowered his camera and stared fixedly into space. Hillary maintained her silence, knowing from experience this did not signal the end, but a pause while a fresh idea formed in his mind.

  “I want to finish up with something here,” he muttered, staring through Hillary as if she were intangible. His face cleared with inspiration. He focused his eyes. “I know. Change the ribbon in the typewriter.”

  “Surely you jest.” She began an intense study of her nails.

  “No, it’ll be good. Go ahead.”

  “Larry,” she protested in patient tones. “I haven’t the foggiest notion how to change a ribbon.”

  “Fake it,” Larry suggested.

  With a sigh, Hillary seated herself behind the desk and stared at the typewriter.

  “Ever harvested wheat, Larry?” she hazarded, attempting to postpone his order. “It’s a fascinating process.”

  “Hillary,” he interrupted, drawing his brows together.

  With another sigh, she surrendered to artistic temperament. “I don’t know how to open it,” she muttered, pushing buttons at random. “It has to open, doesn’t it?”

  “There should be a button or lever under it,” Larry returned patiently. “Don’t they have typewriters in Kansas?”

  “I suppose they do. My sister … Oh!” she cried, and grinned, delighted out of all proportion, like a small child completing a puzzle, when the release was located. Lifting the lid, she frowned intently at the inner workings. “Scalpel,” she requested, running a finger over naked keys.

  “Keep going, Hil,” Larry commanded. “Just pretend you know what you’re doing.”

  She found herself falling into the spirit of things and attacked the thin black ribbon threaded through various guides with enthusiasm. Her smooth brow was puckered in concentration as she forgot the man and his camera and gave herself over to the job of dislodging ribbon from machine. The more she unraveled, the longer the ribbon became, growing with a life of its own. Absently, she brushed a hand across her cheek, smearing it with black ink.

  An enormous, ever-growing heap tangled around her fingers. Realization dawned that she was fighting a losing battle. With a grin for Larry, she flourished the mess of ribbon as he clicked a final picture.

  “Terrific.” He answered her grin as he lowered his camera. “A classic study in ineptitude.”

  “Thanks, friend, and if you use any of those shots, I’ll sue.” Dumping the mass of loose ribbon on the open typewriter, she expelled a long breath. “I’ll leave it to you to explain to June how this catastrophe came about. I’m finished.”

  “Absolutely.” Bret’s voice came from behind, and Hillary whirled in the chair to see both him and June staring at the chaos on the desk. “If you ever give up modeling, steer clear of office work. You’re a disaster.”

  Hillary attempted to resent his attitude, but one glance at the havoc she had wrought brought on helpless giggles. “Well, Larry, get us out of this one. We’ve been caught red-handed at the scene of the crime.”

  Bret closed the distance between them with lithe grace and gingerly lifted one of Hillary’s hands. “Black-handed, I’d say.” Putting his other hand under her chin, he smiled in the lazy way that caused Hillary’s reluctant heart to perform a series of somersaults. “There’s quite a bit of evidence on that remarkable face as well.”

  She shook off the sweet weakness invading her and peered down at her hands. “Good Lord, how did I manage that? Will it come off?” She addressed her question to June, who assured her soap and water would do the trick. “Well, I’m going to wash away the evidence, and I’m leaving you”—she nodded to Larry—“to make amends for the damage.” She encompassed June’s desk with a sweeping gesture. “Better do some fast talking, old man,” she added in a stage whisper, and gave June the present of her famous smile.

  Reaching the door before her, Bret opened it and took a few steps down the long hall beside her. “Setting up a romance for my secretary, Hillary?”

  “Could be,” she returned enigmatically. “Larry could do with more than cameras and darkrooms in his life.”

  “And what could you use in yours, Hillary?” His question was soft, putting a hand on her arm and turning her to face him.

  “I’ve … I’ve got everything I need,” she stammered, feeling like a pinned butterfly under his direct gaze.

  “Everything?” he repeated, keeping her eyes locked on his. “Pity I’ve an appointment, or we could go into this in more detail.” Pulling her close, his lips
brushed hers, then formed a crooked smile that was devastatingly appealing. “Go wash your face—you’re a fine mess.” Turning, he strode down the hall, leaving Hillary to deal with a mixture of frustration and unaccustomed longing.

  She spent her free afternoon shopping, a diversionary tactic for soothing jangled nerves, but her mind constantly floated back to a brief touch of lips, a smile lighting gray eyes. The warmth seemed to linger on her mouth, stirring her emotions, arousing her senses. A cold blast of wind swirling in her face brought her back to reality. Cursing her treacherous imagination, she hailed a cab. She would have to hurry in order to make her dinner date with Lisa.

  It was after five when Hillary entered her apartment and dumped her purchases on a chair in the bedroom. She released the latch on the front door for Lisa’s benefit and made her way to the bath, filling the tub with hot, fragrant water. She intended to soak for a full twenty minutes. Just as she stepped from the tub and grabbed a towel, the bell sounded at the front door.

  “Come on in, Lisa. Either you’re early, or I’m late.” Draping the towel saronglike around her slim body, she walked from the room, the scent of strawberries clinging to her shining skin. “I’ll be ready in a minute. I got carried away in the tub. My feet were …” She stopped dead in her tracks, because instead of the small, blond Lisa, she was confronted by the tall, lean figure of Bret Bardoff.

  “Where did you come from?” Hillary demanded when she located her voice.

  “Originally or just now?” he countered, smiling at her confusion.

  “I thought you were Lisa.”

  “I got that impression.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Returning this.” He held up a slim gold pen. “I assumed it was yours. The initials H.B. are engraved on it.”

  “Yes, it’s mine,” she concurred, frowning at it. “I must have dropped it from my bag. You needn’t have bothered. I could have gotten it tomorrow.”

  “I thought you might have been looking for it.” His eyes roamed over the figure scantily clad in the bath towel and lingered on her smooth legs, then rested a moment on the swell of her breast. “Besides, it was well worth the trip.”

  Hillary’s eyes dropped down to regard her state of disarray and widened in shock. Color stained her cheeks as his eyes laughed at her, and she turned and ran from the room. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Hastily, she pulled on chocolate brown cords and a beige mohair sweater, tugged a quick brush through her hair, and applied a touch of makeup with a deft hand. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the living room, attempting to assume a calm front that she was far from feeling. Bret was seated comfortably on the sofa, smoking a cigarette with the air of someone completely at home.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said politely, fighting back the embarrassment that engulfed her. “It was kind of you to take the trouble to return the pen to me.” He handed it to her and she placed it on the low mahogany table. “May I … would you …” She bit her lip in frustration, finding her poise had vanished. “Can I get you a drink? Or maybe you’re in a hurry—”

  “I’m in no hurry,” he answered, ignoring her frown. “Scotch, neat, if you have it.”

  Her frown deepened. “I may have. I’ll have to check.” She retreated to the kitchen, searching through cupboards for her supply of rarely used liquor. He had followed her, and she turned, noting with a quickening of pulse how his presence seemed to dwarf the small room. She felt an intimacy that was both exciting and disturbing. She resumed her search, all too conscious of his casual stance as he leaned against the refrigerator, hands in pockets.

  “Here.” Triumphantly, she brandished the bottle. “Scotch.”

  “So it is.”

  “I’ll get you a glass. Neat, you said?” She pushed at her hair. “That’s with no ice, right?”

  “You’d make a marvelous bartender,” he returned, taking both bottle and glass and pouring the liquid himself.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” she muttered.

  “Yes, I remember—a two-drink limit. Shall we go sit down?” He took her hand with the usual familiarity, and her words of protest died. “A very nice place, Hillary,” he commented as they seated themselves on the sofa. “Open, friendly, colorful. Do the living quarters reflect the tenant?”

  “So they say.”

  “Friendliness is an admirable trait, but you should know better than to leave your door unlatched. This is New York, not a farm in Kansas.”

  “I was expecting someone.”

  “But you got someone unexpected.” He looked into her eyes, then casually swept the length of her. “What do you think would have happened if someone else had come across that beautiful body of yours draped in a very insufficient towel?” The blush was immediate and impossible to control, and she dropped her eyes. “You should keep your door locked, Hillary. Not every man would let you escape as I did.”

  “Yes, O mighty emperor,” Hillary retorted before she could bite her tongue, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He captured her with a swift movement, but whatever punishment he had in mind was postponed by the ringing of the phone. Jumping up in relief, Hillary hurried to answer.

  “Lisa, hi. Where are you?”

  “Sorry, Hillary.” The answering voice was breathless. “The most wonderful thing happened. I hope you don’t mind, but I have to beg off tonight.”

  “Of course not—what happened?”

  “Mark asked me to have dinner with him.”

  “So you took my advice and tripped him, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Oh, Lisa,” Hillary cried in amused disbelief, “you didn’t really!”

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “We were both carrying all these law books and ran smack into each other. What a beautiful mess.”

  “I get the picture.” Her laughter floated through the room. “It really has more class than a mugging.”

  “You don’t mind about tonight?”

  “Do you think I’d let a pizza stand in the way of true love?” Hillary answered. “Float along and have fun. I’ll see you later.”

  She replaced the receiver and turned to find Bret regarding her with open curiosity. “I must admit that was the most fascinating one-ended conversation I’ve ever heard.” She flashed him a smile with full candlepower and told him briefly of her friend’s long unrequited love affair.

  “So your solution was to land the poor guy on his face at her feet,” he concluded.

  “It got his attention.”

  “Now you’re stood up. A pizza, was it?”

  “My secret’s out,” she said, carefully seating herself in a chair across from him. “I hope I can trust you never to breathe a word of this, but I am a pizza junkie. If I don’t have one at well-ordered intervals, I go into a frenzy. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  “Well, we can’t have you foaming at the mouth, can we?” He set down his empty glass and stood with a fluid motion. “Fetch a coat, I’ll indulge you.”

  “Oh, really, there’s no need,” she began with quick panic.

  “For heaven’s sake, let’s not go through this again. Get a coat and come on,” he commanded, pulling her from her chair. “I could do with some food myself.”

  She found herself doing his bidding, slipping on a short suede jacket as he picked up his own brown leather. “Got your keys?” he questioned, reengaging the latch and propelling her through the door.

  Soon they were seated in the small Italian restaurant that Hillary had indicated. The small table was covered with the inevitable red and white checkered cloth, a candle flickering in its wine bottle holder.

  “Well, Hillary, what will you have?”

  “Pizza.”

  “Yes, I know that,” he countered with a smile. “Anything on it?”

  “Extra cholesterol.”

  White teeth flashed as he grinned at her. “Is that all?”

  “I don’t want to overdo—these things can get out of hand.
”

  “Some wine?”

  “I don’t know if my system can handle it.” She considered, then shrugged. “Well, why not, you only live once.”

  “Too true.” He signaled the waiter and gave their order. “You, however,” he continued when they were once more alone, “look as though you had lived before. You are a reincarnation of an Indian princess. I bet they called you Pocahontas when you were a kid.”

  “Not if they were smart,” Hillary returned. “I scalped a boy once for just that.”

  “Do tell?” Bret’s attention was caught, and he leaned forward, his head on his hands as his elbows rested on the table. “Please elaborate.”

  “All right, if you can handle such a bloodthirsty subject over dinner.” Pushing back her hair with both hands, she mirrored his casual position. “There was this boy, Martin Collins. I was madly in love with him, but he preferred Jessie Winfield, a cute little blond number with soulful brown eyes. I was mad with jealousy. I