Nora Roberts - Blithe Images

Blithe Images

(1982)

A novel by

Nora Roberts

To Ron"s Patience

The girl twisted and turned under the lights, her shining black hair swirling around her as various expressions flitted across her striking face.

That"s it, Hillary, a little pout now. We"re selling the lips here. Larry Newman followed her movements, the shutter of his camera clicking rapidly. Fantastic, he exclaimed as he straightened from his crouched position. That"s enough for today.

Hillary Baxter stretched her arms to the ceiling and relaxed. Good, I"m beat. It"s home and a hot tub for me.

Just think of the millions of dollars in lipstick your face is going to sell, sweetheart.

Switching off lights, Larry"s attention was already wavering.

Mind-boggling.

Mmm, so it is, he returned absently. We"ve got that shampoo thing tomorrow, so make sure your hair is in its usual gorgeous state. I almost forgot. He turned and faced her directly. I have a business appointment in the morning. I"ll get someone to stand in for me.

Hillary smiled with fond indulgence. She had been modeling for three years now, and Larry was her favorite photographer. They worked well together, and as a photographer he was exceptional, having a superior eye for angles and detail, for capturing the right mood. He was hopelessly disorganized, however, and pathetically absentminded about anything other than his precious equipment.

What appointment? Hillary inquired with serene patience, knowing well how easily Larry confused such mundane matters as times and places when they did not directly concern his camera.

Oh, that"s right, I didn"t tell you, did I? Shaking her head, Hillary waited for him to continue. I"ve got to see Bret Bardoff at ten o"clock.

The Bret Bardoff? Hillary demanded, more than a little astonished. I didn"t know the owner of Mode magazine made appointments with mere mortalsonly royalty and goddesses.

Well, this peasant"s been granted an audience, Larry returned dryly. As a matter of fact, Mr. Bardoff"s secretary contacted me and set the whole thing up. She said he wanted to discuss plans for a layout or something.

Good luck. From what I hear of Bret Bardoff, he"s a man to be reckoned withtough as nails and used to getting his own way.

He wouldn"t be where he is today if he were a pushover, Larry defended the absent Mr.

Bardoff with a shrug. His father may have made a fortune by starting Mode, but Bret Bardoff made his own twice over by expanding and developing other magazines. A very successful businessman, and a good photographerone that"s not afraid to get his hands dirty.

You"d love anyone who could tell a Nikon from a Brownie, Hillary accused with a grin, and pulled at a lock of Larry"s disordered hair. But his type doesn"t appeal to me. A delicate and counterfeit shudder moved her shoulders. I"m sure he"d scare me to death.

Nothing scares you, Hil, Larry said fondly as he watched the tall, willowy woman gather her things and move for the door. I"ll have someone here to take the shots at nine-thirty tomorrow.

Outside, Hillary hailed a cab. She had become quite adept at this after three years in New York. And she had nearly ceased to ponder about Hillary Baxter of a small Kansas farm being at home in the thriving metropolis of New York City.

She had been twenty-one when she had made the break and come to New York to pursue a modeling career. The transition from small-town farm girl to big-city model had been difficult and often frightening, but Hillary had refused to be daunted by the fast-moving, overwhelming city and resolutely made the rounds with her portfolio.

Jobs had been few and far between during the first year, but she had hung on, refusing to surrender and escape to the familiar surroundings of home. Slowly, she had constructed a reputation for portraying the right image for the right product, and she had become more and more in demand. When she had begun to work with Larry, everything had fallen into place, and her face was now splashed throughout magazines and, as often as not, on the cover. Her life was proceeding according to plan, and the fact that she now commanded a top model"s salary had enabled her to move from the third-floor walk-up in which she had started her New York life to a comfortable high rise near Central Park.

Modeling was not a passion with Hillary, but a job. She had not come to New York with starry-eyed dreams of fame and glamour, but with a resolution to succeed, to stand on her own.

The choice of career had seemed inevitable, since she possessed a natural grace and poise and striking good looks. Her coal black hair and high cheekbones lent her a rather exotic fragility, and large, heavily fringed eyes in deep midnight blue contrasted appealingly with her golden complexion. Her mouth was full and shapely, and smiled beautifully at the slightest provocation.

Along with her stunning looks, the fact that she was inherently photogenic added to her current success in her field. The uncanny ability to convey an array of images for the camera came naturally, with little conscious effort on her part. After being told the type of woman she was to portray, Hillary became just thatsophisticated, practical, sensuouswhatever was required.

Letting herself into her apartment, Hillary kicked off her shoes and sank her feet into soft ivory carpet. There was no date to prepare for that evening, and she was looking forward to a light supper and a few quiet hours at home.

Thirty minutes later, wrapped in a warm, flowing azure robe, she stood in the kitchen of her apartment preparing a model"s feast of soup and unsalted crackers. A ring of the doorbell interrupted her far-from-gourmet activities.

Lisa, hi. She greeted her neighbor from across the hall with an automatic smile. Want some dinner?

Lisa MacDonald wrinkled her nose in disdain. I"d rather put up with a few extra pounds than starve myself like you.

If I indulge myself too often, Hillary stated, patting a flat stomach, I"d be after you to find me a job in that law firm you work for. By the way, how"s the rising young attorney?

Mark still doesn"t know I"m alive, Lisa complained as she flopped onto the couch. I"m getting desperate, Hillary. I may lose my head and mug him in the parking lot.

Tacky, too tacky, Hillary said, giving the matter deep consideration. Why not attempt something less dramatic, like tripping him when he walks past your desk?

That could be next.

With a grin, Hillary sat and lifted bare feet to the surface of the coffee table.

Ever hear of Bret Bardoff?

Lisa"s eyes grew round. Who hasn"t? Millionaire, incredibly handsome, mysterious, brilliant businessman and still fair game. These attributes were counted off carefully on Lisa"s fingers. What about him?

Slim shoulders moved expressively. I"m not sure. Larry has an appointment with him in the morning.

Face to face?

That"s right. Amusement dawned first, then dark blue eyes regarded Lisa with curiosity. Of course, we"ve both done work for his magazines before, but I can"t imagine why the elusive owner of Mode would want to see a mere photographer, even if he is the best. In the trade, he"s spoken of in reverent whispers, and if gossip columns are to be believed, he"s the answer to every maiden"s prayer. I wonder what he"s really like. She frowned, finding herself nearly obsessed with the thought. It"s strange, I don"t believe I know anyone who"s had a personal dealing with him. I picture him as a giant phantom figure handing out monumental corporate decisions from Mode"s Mount Olympus.