Close Up and Personal by JS Taylor Page B

Right. Like I would tell her I’m on a date with a man who wants to spank me for showing up late.
    “But it is a surprise. That is part of the deal. I am in charge.” He gives a devilish grin.
    I sigh. Can I accept this?
    “Somewhere I can tell me mother about?” I venture.
    “Yes.”
    That doesn’t sound too bad.
    “Ok,” I accept warily.
    “Good. The car will collect you at 8pm. Make sure you’ve had something to eat.”
    Not dinner then. I mentally cross that option off the list. Then what?
    He stands up, pulling me up with him by the hands.
    “Now,” he says, “before you go, I am going to give you something to remember me by.”
    He sweeps me into his arms, and his mouth is like fire, his tongue moving sensually, and his lips bringing alive every sense in my body.
    Wow .
    Then he reaches his hand down and strikes my behind in a sharp little spank. I gasp as a surge of desire runs through me.
    “Now go, and think about what I said,” h e whispers as he releases me. And I realise with a sense of foreboding that I don’t know how I will be able to resist this dangerous man doing anything he wants with me.

Chapter 11

    Click. The lens shutter hammers away as Chris angles the camera.
    “Beautiful! Beautiful , Isabella.”
    He drops to his knees, angling the camera up under my face.
    “Just a few more.”
    I’m dressed like a medieval princess, with a long flowing dress and a small crown. My black hair flows beneath it, and I wear a heavy piece of gold-coloured costume jewellery at my neck.
    “Lovely.” Chris moves around to the other side, clicking away.
    My slightly bizarre part-time job came courtesy of Lorna, who introduced me to Chris at a party. Chris is a classic London cockney photographer who started out snapping glamour girls and celebrities.
    He’s since expanded to supply book covers and portrait shots, but can always be relied upon to supply the latest celebrity gossip.
    “Come on, Isabella,” he says, unleashing a flurry of shutter shots, “give me that reluctant model look I love.”
    I’m a terrible model, but for some reason my face just fits for a series of historical romance books. Chris roped me into the job a year ago, when he found that model agencies couldn’t supply him with a girl who looked medieval enough.
    I also look a lot more ordinary than girls like Lorna, who would look too modern and model-like decked out in olden day costumes, so I got the gig. And it earns me a few hundred pounds every six months or so when a new title is released.
    “Ok,” says Chris, “just a few more.”
    The shutter clicks again, and then he puts the camera down.
    “Perfect.”
    I give a sigh of relief. Standing in the heavy dress for hours is exhausting.
    “Here .” Chris throws me my phone. “You have about a hundred missed calls on this.”
    I catch the phone – no easy job in princess robes – and check the screen.
    Ten missed calls flash up at me and four messages.
    I scan through them. All from James Berkeley. What the hell ?
    My immediate thought is he must be phoning to cancel, and my heart drops a little.
    I scroll through the texts.

    Need to talk to you about tonight.

    Isabella, call me.

    Are you alright?

    Call me. I’m worried.

    Wow. The guy is determined. Maybe that’s what makes famous directors. I click to call him back, mentally revising my evening. Lorna’s out partying as usual, so maybe I’ll have a much-deserved quiet night in.
    The phone picks up after one ring.
    “Isabella, are you alright?”
    The intensity of his answer throws me.
    “Yes. Yes I’m fine.”
    I hear him sigh in relief.
    “I thought something might have happened to you.”
    “Nothing bad can happen to me with you around, remember,” I tease.
    I look over the room to see Chris staring at me. With my poor dating history, he’s not used to hearing me flirt on the phone.
    “But I’m not with you,” growls James. “That’s the problem.” He lets out a little huff of air. “Where