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CHAPTER ONE
Lena shot a final look at her reflection in the mirror placed strategically behind the side-curtain of the stage. What she saw caused a wry smile to curve her full lips. A tall, beautiful girl with luminous green eyes, a short straight nose and a soft full-lipped mouth. Long blonde hair skilfully arranged in ringlets peeked beneath the exquisite lace of a bridal veil. She looked like a Gainsborough lady, the dress a magnificent confection in satin and lace. The finale and Claude's piece de resistance of the charity fashion show.
A shadow darkened her lustrous eyes; once, years ago, she had dreamed of wearing just such a gown for a very special man, but not any more...
Straightening her shoulders and plastering a smile on her face, she stepped out on to the stage, and glided down the catwalk. Keeping her head high, her glance skimmed the illustrious audience. The baronial hall appeared to be full. Fluidly she moved, pausing, turning, her smile for everyone and no one, then finally one last turn and she was retreating through the curtain and off stage to tumultuous applause.
Lena smiled for the small group of photographers outside the hotel, and with a few lithe strides sank gratefully into the back seat of the gleaming white Rolls-Royce waiting at the kerb.
It was a beautiful August evening; even London sparkled in the red of the setting sun, the buildings tinged with pink and gold. She straightened the close-fitting black dress over her thighs, and sighed. One more performance for the benefit of an elderly couple, then—a small smile tugged at her full lips—Lena Lawrence would be no more. Kathleen Lawrence Meldenton would resurface, hopefully as a designer and possibly as a businesswoman.
'We have arrived, madam.'
The polite words of the chauffeur brought her out of her reverie, and, looking out of the window, she noted they had stopped outside a large elegant apartment building overlooking the Thames. The chauffeur opened the door, but before she could say thank you the breath stuck in her throat as another voice, deep and melodious, echoed her thought, and the large figure of a man slid into the back seat beside her.
'Hello, Katy. It has been a long time, and you're as beautiful as ever, though I'm not sure I like all this makeup,' and with a casual intimate gesture one long tanned finger tilted up her chin. 'Your mouth's hanging open. Is that an invitation to a kiss, Katy, darling?' the deep voice drawled, while glittering black eyes stared down at her with open amusement. 'Or should I call you Lena?'
No one except her father had called her Katy in years, though she intended changing that after tonight. Her heartbeat thundered in her breast as she looked up into the darkly handsome face of the large man crowding her into the corner of the back seat of the Rolls.
Jake Granton... What evil trick of fate had brought him to this street at this precise moment, she did not know, but shock and a fast-rising anger made her creamy complexion flush furiously.
'Just what the hell do you think you're doing? Get out of this car immediately,' she snapped angrily.
Then she was blushing for a totally different reason as dark eyes slid blatantly over her face, the gold hair tumbling around her shoulders, down to the soft swell of her full breasts, partially exposed by the sexy little black knitted cotton sheath dress. Jake Granton's eyes lingered appreciatively on her breasts then slid lower to her thighs and the elegant curve of her long legs.
The dress started under her armpits and ended above her knees. It was one of Claude's, designed for the youthful end of the fashion market, and she wished like hell she had not let Claude talk her into wearing it tonight.
She wanted to pull her skirt down, fold her arms over her chest. Her Lena Lawrence image was not for this man, and his obvious sexual appraisal made her skin prickle with totally unwanted awareness.
'Are you deaf or something? I said get out!' she cried, desperately clinging to her anger. In her peripheral vision she saw the chauffeur, an uncertain look on his lined face, his hand hesitant on the door, unsure whether to close it.
'Is everything all right, madam?' he enquired politely.
'No.'
'Yes,' the deep voice drowned her out. 'I am the lady's date for this evening, and I paid three thousand pounds for the privilege. Check the card the agency gave you. Jake Granton, the penthouse, Albermarle Towers.'
Lena watched in stunned amazement as the chauffeur withdrew a card from his pocket, read it, then checked the card with the wallet Jake flashed at him.
"That appears to be correct, sir,' and with a brief glance at Lena he closed the car door and, walking to the front of the car, slid into the driving seat and started the engine.
'Now just a minute,' she spluttered ineffectually as the car moved off into the London traffic.
'Lena, I am surprised. Your sophisticated image is slipping badly. That is hardly fair to me, a devoted member of your drooling public,' he drawled with mocking amusement.
With a terrific effort of self-control, Lena forced herself to think clearly. There must be a mistake somewhere, but she had a sinking feeling it was she who had made it.
'I don't know what you're playing at, Jake, but I had a date with a kindly old grey-haired gentleman and his wife; perhaps you would care to explain,' she said coolly.
'The grey-haired gentleman was my agent at the auction, and he did say it was for someone else. If you check with your friend Claude, you will find I am right.'
She did not need to check, as she thought back over the night in question. Two days ago she had arrived in London from France to appear as the star model in a glittering charity fashion show given by Claude, the top Paris designer, in aid of leukaemia research.
