Chapter One
The strong male voice sounded too close to the curtain. “Are you okay in there?”
Vashti sat on the worn sofa in the changing room, shivering. She had never, ever felt this nervous about exposing her body before. Until a year ago, that was her job, something she’d done almost since she could remember, but now she had this dreadful hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She knew why, and despite the hours and hours of therapy, she couldn’t suppress it. Try to think of your fear in terms of one to ten. Eleven, she was an eleven. No, hospitals were eleven.
She took a deep breath and sat bolt upright, drawing the silk robe around her like a princess receiving a subject. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Don’t be long, or we’ll lose the light.”
She’d heard that before from photographers, but not here, not now. She lifted her chin, as ready as she’d ever be, and concentrated on getting to her feet without wobbling. That had once been second nature to her. Now, not so much.
It didn’t help. But she’d known worse. Much worse.
She stepped out to face her irascible artist.
Zoltan glared at her, a frown marring his handsome face, his light eyes sparking fire. “It took nearly an hour for you to take your clothes off. It takes me five minutes.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime.” Her smile betrayed nothing of her inner turmoil. She knew, because she’d practised it in the mirror until she could do it in any circumstances—with jetlag confusing her, with flu raging through her, with starvation threatening to fell her. This time she only had nervousness to deal with, but it seemed worse than all the others.
He gave her a cursory glance and gestured across the studio. “Over there, please. I want to take some photos, get some idea of what I want.” He strode across to his easel and picked up a camera from behind it.
Zoltan’s studio had three walls of glass. Nothing overlooked it except the lush greenery of the park beyond. Very unusual in this built-up city, but London still had its oases. This was one. A very expensive one. But Zoltan could afford it. Riding high on public approval, even the critics loved him.
She still didn’t know why he’d chosen her for this project, but it would bring her back into the public eye. It might seal her career tight shut, but she couldn’t feel sorry about that.
She walked over to a typical artist’s couch, a chaise-lounge with mahogany legs and a scrolled back, partly covered with a dark blue velvet throw. A screen stood behind it, starkly white, no doubt performing the same function as a photographer’s umbrella. She smiled.
“What is it?”
Having worked with artists before, or people who considered themselves artists, Vashti found his abruptness odd, but not unique. “The screen. I haven’t seen one in a while.”
“How long?”
Why should he care? “A year.”
“Is that when you had your accident?”
She gazed at him, meeting his hard stare, knowing he wasn’t looking at her as a person, but as a subject. That was why she’d chosen to take this job. To be a subject, not a person. “Yes.” And to get it over with, she answered the question everyone wanted to ask but rarely did. “I was coming back from a photo shoot when a car ploughed into mine. My mother was with me. She died, I didn’t.” She stared at him, dry-eyed.
“Sorry.”
The muttered word nevertheless sounded sincere. That surprised her. She’d met with curiosity, requests for her story and other prurient queries, but rarely sympathy. “Thanks.”
She sat up, legs tightly together, thinking of a pose for him. Without fuss, she undid the belt to her robe before letting the robe fall onto the chaise. As a statement, it fell far short. He glanced up, nodded and returned to his camera, presumably adjusting it for the settings he wanted. It made her feel more secure, that he didn’t stare. Weird, but true.
After a moment, she
The strong male voice sounded too close to the curtain. “Are you okay in there?”
Vashti sat on the worn sofa in the changing room, shivering. She had never, ever felt this nervous about exposing her body before. Until a year ago, that was her job, something she’d done almost since she could remember, but now she had this dreadful hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She knew why, and despite the hours and hours of therapy, she couldn’t suppress it. Try to think of your fear in terms of one to ten. Eleven, she was an eleven. No, hospitals were eleven.
She took a deep breath and sat bolt upright, drawing the silk robe around her like a princess receiving a subject. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Don’t be long, or we’ll lose the light.”
She’d heard that before from photographers, but not here, not now. She lifted her chin, as ready as she’d ever be, and concentrated on getting to her feet without wobbling. That had once been second nature to her. Now, not so much.
It didn’t help. But she’d known worse. Much worse.
She stepped out to face her irascible artist.
Zoltan glared at her, a frown marring his handsome face, his light eyes sparking fire. “It took nearly an hour for you to take your clothes off. It takes me five minutes.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime.” Her smile betrayed nothing of her inner turmoil. She knew, because she’d practised it in the mirror until she could do it in any circumstances—with jetlag confusing her, with flu raging through her, with starvation threatening to fell her. This time she only had nervousness to deal with, but it seemed worse than all the others.
He gave her a cursory glance and gestured across the studio. “Over there, please. I want to take some photos, get some idea of what I want.” He strode across to his easel and picked up a camera from behind it.
Zoltan’s studio had three walls of glass. Nothing overlooked it except the lush greenery of the park beyond. Very unusual in this built-up city, but London still had its oases. This was one. A very expensive one. But Zoltan could afford it. Riding high on public approval, even the critics loved him.
She still didn’t know why he’d chosen her for this project, but it would bring her back into the public eye. It might seal her career tight shut, but she couldn’t feel sorry about that.
She walked over to a typical artist’s couch, a chaise-lounge with mahogany legs and a scrolled back, partly covered with a dark blue velvet throw. A screen stood behind it, starkly white, no doubt performing the same function as a photographer’s umbrella. She smiled.
“What is it?”
Having worked with artists before, or people who considered themselves artists, Vashti found his abruptness odd, but not unique. “The screen. I haven’t seen one in a while.”
“How long?”
Why should he care? “A year.”
“Is that when you had your accident?”
She gazed at him, meeting his hard stare, knowing he wasn’t looking at her as a person, but as a subject. That was why she’d chosen to take this job. To be a subject, not a person. “Yes.” And to get it over with, she answered the question everyone wanted to ask but rarely did. “I was coming back from a photo shoot when a car ploughed into mine. My mother was with me. She died, I didn’t.” She stared at him, dry-eyed.
“Sorry.”
The muttered word nevertheless sounded sincere. That surprised her. She’d met with curiosity, requests for her story and other prurient queries, but rarely sympathy. “Thanks.”
She sat up, legs tightly together, thinking of a pose for him. Without fuss, she undid the belt to her robe before letting the robe fall onto the chaise. As a statement, it fell far short. He glanced up, nodded and returned to his camera, presumably adjusting it for the settings he wanted. It made her feel more secure, that he didn’t stare. Weird, but true.
After a moment, she
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