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delineated.
    Lara saw his face harden and wondered what had happened to the courteous man who had wrapped the soft wool around her shoulders. The golden eyes had darkened, a flush of colour was running along the high, aristocratic cheekbones. For a moment she saw the glimmerings of a hard, almost cruel contempt, and his expression filled her with trepidation even while something feminine ached at the very core of her, revelling in that cold look of mastery.
    With an effort she tore her gaze away from him, staring instead at the phtographer, giving the shot everything she had and suddenly wishing that she was a million miles away from that hard, glittering scrutiny.
    She held her arms aloft and the silk chiffon twirled and clung to her thighs. Abruptly, he turned away, and she forced herself to concentrate on the job in hand, losing herself in it because that seemed infinitely easier than losing herself in the gaze of Darian Wildman.
    But when the photographer had stopped shooting there was no sign of him.
    ‘Where’s Darian?’ she questioned casually as she pulled the wrap back round her shoulders.
    ‘Gone,’ said the assistant.
    She hadn’t even noticed him leaving, and she was surprised by a great, swamping feeling of disappointment. Gone! There were five other London locations to get through and suddenly the day seemed to stretch away endlessly in front of her.
    Had she thought that he would be accompanying them to Tower Bridge and the Mall and Leadenhall Market and the other places which had been carefully chosen each to reflect a different mood of London life?
    But perhaps this was best—he was a distracting man in anyone’s book.
    Lara channelled all her frustration into getting exactly the poses which the photographer demanded, and tried not to think about whether she would see him again, and where she went from here if she did not.
    It was dark by the time she arrived back at the apartment and Jake was at home, all dandied up in a stunning black dinner jacket, swearing softly as he attempted to subdue his bow-tie.
    ‘Do this for me, would you, Lara?’
    She put her bag down, knotted the black silk into a neat bow, and stood back. ‘How’s that?’
    ‘Perfect.’ He made another small, unnecessary adjustment. ‘Someone rang for you,’ he said casually as she flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘A man.’
    ‘Oh, again,’ said Lara uninterestedly. But something about the amused curiosity in his voice made her sit up. ‘Did he leave a message?’
    ‘He did.’
    ‘Jake—stop playing games! Who was it and what did he say?’
    Jake enunciated his words carefully. ‘His name is Darian Wildman and he says he’ll call you tomorrow.’

CHAPTER FOUR

    W HY was it, Lara wondered, that whenever you wanted someone to telephone you, they didn’t—and the opposite was always true?
    And why had he rung at all? Had he already seen the finished photos and decided he didn’t like them?
    Making up her mind that there was no point wasting time wondering what he wanted until she actually heard from him, Lara spent a frustrating morning deliberately doing much-needed chores around the flat—which would give her a legitimate excuse to stay in while not looking as though she was deliberately hanging around waiting for Darian Wildman to ring.
    He didn’t.
    By nine o’clock that evening she was feeling pent-up, frustrated and angry with herself, telling herself that it shouldn’t matter. Of course it shouldn’t. But Jake had gone to stay with his parents, so she couldn’t even drag him out for a pizza, and it was too late to ring anyone else. Instead she had a long, scented bath, taking care to leave the bathroom door open just in case the phone rang. And of course it did, just as she was up to her neck in jasmine-scented bubbles.
    Leave it on the machine, she told herself sternly. If he really wants to speak to you he’ll ring back.
    But she found herself clambering out of the bath, dripping