Close Up and Personal (13 page)

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 are you?”

“I’m in a photography studio.”

“You’re
where
?”

A feeling of uneasiness creeps thr
ough me. Something tells me Mr-Old-Fashioned is not going to like another man taking my picture.

“I have a part-time job having my picture taken for historic book covers,” I explain.

“Who is taking the photos?” His voice is icy.

“A photographer
,” I snap back.

“Answer the question
, Isabella,” he says, and there’s a dangerous tone in his voice.

Have I made him angry?

The idea has a new dimension now he’s said what he’d like to do to me if I step out of line.

“Chris,” I say carefully
. “He’s a celebrity photographer who shoots book covers.”

There’s a silence as he considers this.

“Isabella, I don’t like men taking photos of you,” he says.

Surprise,
surprise.

“But since we haven’t yet reached a mutual agreement as to how we might progress, I will have to contain my annoyance.”

I’m not sure how to respond, so I change the subject. “Why did you call?” I ask.

“I needed to give you some information about this evening. About what to wear.”

Oh. So we are still on. But he’s starting with the obsessive dressing me thing again.

“I want you wearing a dress,” he says, “something feminine and not too short.”

Excuse me?

“Listen,” I say, my hackles rising. “As you so correctly stated before, we haven’t reached an arrangement. You are not going to dictate to me what to wear.”

Chris has stopped packing away his camera and is looking at me in amazement.

“It’s important,” says James, his voice softening
. “Trust me, Isabella. It’s not about my dictating to you. It impacts on where we’re going this evening. Believe me, it would be very remiss for me not to explain what you needed to wear.”

Possibilities and questions are rising up in my mind. What on earth could we be doing that requires such a specific outfit? Surely
, he’s just using it as an excuse?

“Alright,” I say slowly. “I’ll wear what you suggest. But if I get there and find it’s not necessary
, then you’ll be in big trouble.”

He gives a soft laugh. “Believe me, Isabella,” he says. “When I’m around you
, I’m always in trouble.”

There’s a click and the line goes dead. I’m left standing in my princess dress with Chris gaping at me.

“Who was
that?”
he manages. “Someone has finally managed to get through to that cold heart of yours?”

Chris is joking. He’s a massive flirt and makes no secret of the fact
he’d like to have sex with me. But seeing as he does this with every girl on the planet, I don’t take it personally.

“Shut up
, Chris.” I am grinning.

“Oh my God!”

“It’s not like that.” I’m shaking my head.

“Ohhhhh. So what is it like then?”

You tell me. I’ve found a man who wants to turn back the equality clock about two hundred years.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“They’re all complicated, darlin’” says Chris, shouldering his bag. “And right now,
I
am about to join several of you gorgeous complicated female creatures in the boozer down the road for a pint. Care to join us?”

I laugh. “No thanks
, Chris.”

“Fair enough.”

“You make sure this geezer treats you right,” he adds, making his way out of the studio and leaving me to change and lock up. “You’re a special girl, Isabella, you need to be treated special.”

Oh
, he wants to treat me special alright.

“Bye
, Chris.” I give him a tired wave, wondering what life must be like in his easy world of flirting and sex. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter 12

Lorna is buzzing round me excitedly as I dress for my date.

I’ve chosen a green dress with a fitted fifties style halter-top and a flowing skirt. And since his
gift of the Jimmy Choos are the only genuine designer shoes I own, I’ve reluctantly slipped them on. James Berkeley has a habit of choosing fancy locations, and I don’t want to look out of place.

“A secret date!” she says. “How romantic is that?”

I have a feeling she wouldn’t think it was quite so romantic if she knew the reasoning behind it.

So that I might persuade you to my way of thinking.

The thought gives me a thrill of fear. He also promised it would be something I could explain to my mother. How bad could it be?

There’s a ring of the doorbell as I’m making the final touches to my make-up.

Lorna looks at me knowingly.

“That’ll be him!”

“I don’t think so
, Lorna. Last time he waited in the car. Besides,” I check my watch. “It’s only a quarter to eight.”

I return to fixing my hair to match the dress. I’ve chosen to sweep it up into a chignon, but right now it’s misbehaving.

I hear Lorna answer the door and then a male voice. My heart skips a beat.

Then he’s there, in my doorway, looking beyond handsome in a grey wool coat, and holding an elegantly wrapped bunch of
yellow roses.

Lorna is behind him, almost bouncing up and down with glee.

“She’s in here, Mr Berkeley,” she says, her eyes glued to his face. Over the past few days, I’ve conveniently forgotten that every other female on the planet finds James Berkeley irresistible. Why did I ever think he might be interested in me?

A wave of depression sweeps over me.

I’m just another sexual liaison to him, I think, remembering his words. The love of his life is dead. I wonder at how beautiful she must have been to make him fall in love with her.

Lorna melts away into the hallway
, and suddenly there’s only me and him, standing in my bedroom.

“Very nice,” he says, looking around the room.

“Oh.” I glance around distractedly. My room is a homely jumble of
flea-market finds, and furnishings from the nearby Portobello Market.

“
It’s just things I’ve collected over the years.”

“I was talking about you,” he murmurs, taking a step closer and handing me the flowers.
His eyes follow the halter-neck of my green dress.

“Thank you
.” I take them from him. I’ve never had such a beautiful bouquet. The green paper wrapping is emblazoned with the words Orlando Hamilton. I recognise the name from the newspapers. This is the florist which Guy Ritchie used to send flowers to Madonna.

“They’re a clue to where we’re going tonight,” he says.

I frown. This doesn’t help at all. Unless we’re going to a flower show. Unlikely.

“They’re also
yellow rather than red,” he says. “Do you know what that signifies?”

I shake my head.

“Jealousy,” he says.

What? My eyes widen in surprise.

“I do not like you being photographed by other men, Isabella,” he says. “If we come to an arrangement between us, behaviour of that sort will command a very heavy kind of punishment.”

I place the flowers on my dressing table.

“But we haven’t reached an arrangement,” I remind him, smiling sweetly.

Ha.

He smiles infuriatingly.

“We’ll see.” He looks around the bedroom and his gaze falls on my bed. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

It’s a large sleigh-bed which I got for a steal in an auction, and as an item of furniture it’s my pride and joy. But the way Berkeley is looking at it is giving my favourite purchase a whole new meaning.

“It’s shame there’s no place I can tie you to that bed,” he says.

He wants to tie me to my bed?

The thought is outrageous and
sexy at the same time.

He steps closer and runs his hand under my chin.

“But first I have something arranged for you.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what it is now?” My voice comes out as a squeak. The bed remark has made me flustered despite my best intentions to play it cool.

“Not yet.” He smiles, and the boyish carefree James who I caught a glimpse of last night returns.

“Come with me,” he
leans forward to plunk a single yellow rose from the bouquet, and then offers me his arm.

We pass Lorna in the hallway and she waves us out. I pray she hasn’t been listening in on
Berkeley’s pillow talk.

She frowns at me as we leave, and I realise she’s signalling me to be safe. For whatever reason
, she doesn’t trust Berkeley.

I roll my eyes and mouth ‘OK
’ back at her, and then we’re out of the apartment.

As we slide into the backseat of the car Berkeley reaches into his pocket and presents me with a slim wrapped box. He still holds the single yellow rose in his other hand.

“What’s this,” I ask, as the car pulls away, “another gift?”

“In a manner of speaking.” His eyes twitch in amusement. “Although it’s more a gift for me.”

I tear off the paper, looking at him questioning
ly. Under the wrapping is a card box. I ease of the lid, and inside is a silk blindfold.

“You’ll need to wear it,” he says.

I stare at him.

“Isabella,” he says gently. “Trust me.”

He takes it from my hands and eases it over my eyes. The silk is soft on my face.

“It’s so you can’t see where we’re going,” he explains.