The Highest Price to Pay by Maisey Yates Page A

allowing herself to pretend. But her name, whispered on his lips, was like getting doused with a bucket of cold water.
    She wasn’t the sort of woman who made love with gorgeous men beneath a blanket of stars. She wasn’t the sort of woman to inspire that sort of desire in a man, any man, but especially one like Blaise. She was just Ella. She was the woman with disfiguring scars. The virgin whose lack of experience proved just what an insecure, damaged person she was. If she were to sleep with Blaise, he would know that. He would see her worst, he would see her fears, her pain. How could she show him that? How could she ever show anyone? It was less about her skin, more about her. About the scars beneath her skin, the weakness.
    “No,” she said, releasing his shoulders, her hands flying behind her back to stop him from lowering the zipper further.
    “No?” he asked.
    “I can’t. I can’t. Oh, I’m so sorry, but I can’t.” Words came out in a jumbled rush, and she felt tears pooling in her eyes, ready to spill.
    She was devastated. She was angry. She was scared. And she still wanted him more than she wanted her next breath. But she couldn’t.
    When he touched her, he was in charge, he commanded her body, he orchestrated the movements. And she had nothing to cling to. No facade of confidence, of being at ease with herself. She didn’t want him to know, didn’t want him to see into her, to see all her insecurity. All her fear.
    She turned and went back into the house. And she cursed. She had run away. She was the worst kind of coward. And she was too afraid to be anything else.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “T HE art director wants the blue boots.” One of the gofers for the photo shoot was standing in front of Ella, the sand colored boots she’d selected for the china-blue gown dangling from her fingertips.
    Ella gritted her teeth. It had been like this for most of the day. They had Ella give her opinion on accessories, makeup and hair. And then the director sent the model, or the shoes, or the belt back to be changed.
    Ella reached behind her to the bag full of shoes and rifled for a pair of sky-blue velvet ankle boots. She handed them back to the gofer. “Here. I’m sure these will translate better in pictures.”
    Grudgingly she had to admit they probably would. They would make a brilliant foil for the white sand beach. She was just touchy because of Blaise. More specifically, because the imprint of Blaise’s lips was branded on her skin, and her own cowardice, her own fear, was laughing quietly over its victory.
    Fortunately Blaise had been absent for the entirety of the shoot so far. Ella moved from beneath the tents that had been set up on the shore to provide the crew with relief from the sun and went to stand near the photographer.
    The wafer-thin model with pale blond hair and dark eye makeup was most certainly working her look, contorting her body in a way that made her look like a sad, beautiful, broken doll.
    A little shiver of excitement wound through Ella, momentarily chasing away her annoyance and regret. The model was Carolina, a very highly sought after editorial model, and to see the woman in her designs was like seeing her dreams truly come into fruition.
    “She looks good.” Blaise’s voice penetrated her reverie and brought reality back in on her.
    Ella didn’t turn toward the sound of his voice. If she did…the flashbacks would ensure she ended up melted into a puddle. “She does.”
    “Going well?”
    “Yes, we’re almost done for the day. Tomorrow we’re going to move to an inland location, have her pose in a waterfall.”
    “You are sure this magazine is meant to sell to women?”
    Ella turned sharply this time. “It’s not going to be a wet T-shirt contest. It’s high fashion.”
    “My apologies.” He sounded amused. She cursed him mentally twenty different ways.
    “This isn’t a men’s magazine,” she added, for good measure, knowing she sounded like a prude.
    “Point