CHAPTER ONE
The girl twisted and turned under the lights, her shin-
ing black hair swirling around her as various expressions
flitted across her striking face.
“That’s it, Hillary, a little pout now. We’re selling thelips here.”
Larry Newman followed her movements, the
hutter of his camera clicking rapidly. “Fantastic,” he ex-
claimed 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 favor-
ite 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 mortals—only
royalty and goddesses.”
“Well, this peasant’s been granted an audience,” Larry
returned dryly. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Bardoff’s secre-
tary 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 with—tough as nails and used to
getting his own way.”
“He wouldn’t be where he is today if he were a push-
over,” 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 ex-
panding and developing other magazines. A very success-
ful businessman, and a good photographer—one 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 from a
small Kansas farm being at home in the thriving me-
tropolis 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 es-
cape 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 ap-
pealingly 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 suc-
cess 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
that—sophisticated, practical, sensuous—whatever 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 pre-
paring 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 my-
self 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 park-
ing 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 sur-
face of the coffee table. “Ever hear of Bret Bardoff?”
Lisa’s eyes grew round. “Who hasn’t? Millionaire, in-
credibly 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 phan-
tom figure handing out monumental corporate decisions
from Mode’s Mount Olympus.”
“Maybe Larry will fill you in tomorrow,” Lisa sug-
gested, and Hillary shook her head, the frown becom-
ing a grin.
“Larry won’t notice anything unless Mr. Bardoff’s on
a roll of film.”
Shortly before nine-thirty the following morning,
Hillary used her spare key to enter Larry’s studio. Pre-
pared for the shampoo ad, her hair fell in soft, thick
waves, shining and full. In the small cubicle in the rear
she applied her makeup with an expert hand, and at nine
forty-five she was impatiently switching on the lights re-
quired for indoor shots. As minutes slipped by, she be-
gan to entertain the annoying suspicion that Larry had
neglected to arrange for a substitute. It was nearly ten
when the door to the studio opened, and Hillary imme-
diately pounced on the man who entered.
“It’s about time,” she began, tempering irritation with
a small smile. “You’re late.”
“Am I?” he countered, meeting her annoyed expres-
sion with raised brows.
Pausing a moment, she realized how incredibly hand-
some the man facing her was. His hair, the color of corn
silk, was full and grew just over the collar of his casual
polo-necked gray sweater, a gray that exactly matched
large, direct eyes. His mouth was quirked in a half smile,
and there was something vaguely familiar about his
deeply tanned face.
“I haven’t worked with you before, have I?” Hillary
asked, forced to look up to meet his eyes since he was an
inch or more over six feet.
“Why do you ask?” His evasion was smooth, and she
felt suddenly uncomfortable under his unblinking gray
glance.
“No reason,” she murmured, turning away, feeling
compelled to adjust the cuff of her sleeve. “Well, let’s get
to it. Where’s your camera?” Belatedly, she observed he
carried no equipment. “Are you using Larry’s?”
“I suppose I am.” He continued to stand, staring down
at her, making no move to proceed with the task at hand,
his nonchalance becoming thoroughly irritating.
“Well, come on then, let’s not be all day. I’ve been
ready for half an hour.”
“Sorry.” He smiled, and she was struck with the change
it brought to his already compelling face. It was a care-
lessly slow smile, full of charm, and the thought passed
through her mind that he could use it as a deadly weapon.
Pivoting away from him, she struggled to ignore its power.
She had a job to do. “What are the pictures for?” he asked
her as he examined Larry’s cameras.
“Oh, Lord, didn’t he tell you?” Turning back to him,
she shook her head and smiled fully for the first time.
“Larry’s a tremendous photographer, but he is the most
exasperatingly absentminded man. I don’t know how he
remembers to get up in the morning.” She tugged a lock of
raven hair before giving her head a dramatic toss. “Clean,
shiny, sexy hair,” she explained in the tone of a commer-
cial. “Shampoo’s what we’re selling today.”
“Okay,” he returned simply, and began setting equip-
ment to rights in a thoroughly professional manner that
did much to put Hillary’s mind at ease. At least he knows
his job, she assured herself, for his attitude had made her
vaguely uneasy. “Where is Larry, by the way?” The ques-
tion startled Hillary out of her silent thoughts.
“Didn’t he tell you anything? That’s just like him.”
Standing under the lights, she began turning, shaking
her head, creating a rich black cloud as he clicked the
camera, crouching and moving around her to catch dif-
ferent angles. “He had an appointment with Bret Bardoff,”
she continued, tossing her hair and smiling. “Lord help
him if he forgot that. He’ll be eaten alive.”
“Does Bret Bardoff consume photographers as a
habit?” the voice behind the camera questioned with dry
amusement.
“Wouldn’t be surprised.” Hillary lifted her hair above
her head, pausing for a moment before she allowed it to
fall back to her shoulders like a rich cloak. “I would think
a ruthless businessman like Mr. Bardoff would have little
patience with an absentminded photographer or any other
imperfection.”
“You know him?”
“Lord, no.” She laughed with unrestrained pleasure.
“And I’m not likely to, far above my station. Have you
met him?”
“Not precisely.”
“Ah, but we all work for him at one time or another,
don’t we? I wonder how many times my face has been in
one of his magazines. Scillions,” she calculated, receiv-
ing a raised-brow look from behind the camera. “Scil-
lions,” she repeated with a nod. “And I’ve never met the
emperor.”
“ ‘Emperor’?”
“How else does one describe such a lofty individual?”
Hillary demanded with a gesture of her hands. “From
what I’ve heard, he runs his mags like an empire.”
“You sound as though you disapprove.”
“No,” Hillary disagreed with a smile and a shrug.
“Emperors just make me nervous. I’m plain peasant stock
myself.”
“Your image seems hardly plain or peasant,” he re-
marked, and this time it was her brow that lifted. “That
should sell gallons of shampoo.” Lowering his camera,
he met her eyes directly. “I think we’ve got it, Hillary.”
She relaxed, pushed back her hair, and regarded him
curiously. “You know me? I’m sorry, I can’t quite seem
to place you. Have we worked together before?”
“Hillary Baxter’s face is everywhere. It’s my business
to recognize beautiful faces.” He spoke with careless sim-
plicity, gray eyes smoky with amusement.
“Well, it appears you have the advantage, Mr.—?”
“Bardoff, Bret Bardoff,” he answered, and the camera
clicked to capture the astonished expression on her face.
“You can close your mouth now, Hillary. I think we’ve
got enough.” His smile widened as she obeyed without
thinking. “Cat got your tongue?” he mocked, pleasure
at her embarrassment obvious.
She recognized him now, from pictures she had seen
of him in newspapers and his own magazines, and she
was busily engaged in cursing herself for the stupidity she
had just displayed. Anger with herself spread to encom-
pass the man in front of her, and she located her voice.
“You let me babble on like that,” she sputtered, eyes
and cheeks bright with color. “You stood there taking
pictures you had no business taking and just let me carry
on like an idiot.”
“I was merely following orders.” His grave tone and
sober expression added to her mounting embarrassment
and fury.
“Well, you had no right following them. You should
have told me who you were.” Her voice quavered with
indignation, but he merely moved his shoulders and
smiled again.
“You never asked.”
Before she could retort, the door of the studio opened
and Larry entered, looking harassed and confused.
“Mr. Bardoff,” he began, advancing on the pair stand-
ing under the lights. “I’m sorry. I thought I was to meet
you at your office.” Larry ran a hand through his hair in
agitation. “When I got there, I was told you were com-
ing here. I don’t know how I got it so confused. Sorry
you had to wait.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bret assured him with an easy
smile. “The last hour’s been highly entertaining.”
“Hillary.” Her existence suddenly seeped into Larry’s
consciousness. “Good Lord, I knew I forgot something.
We’ll have to get those pictures later.”
“No need.” Bret handed Larry the camera, “Hillary
and I have seen to them.”
“You took the shots?” Larry looked at Bret and the
camera in turn.
“Hillary saw no reason to waste time.” He smiled and
added, “I’m sure you’ll find the pictures suitable.”
“No question of that, Mr. Bardoff.” His voice was
tinged with reverence. “I know what you can do with a
camera.”
Hillary had an overwhelming desire for the floor to
open up and swallow her. She had to get out of there
quickly. Never before in her life had she felt such a fool.
Of course, she reasoned silently, it was his fault. The nerve
of the man, letting her believe he was a photographer! She
recalled the fashion in which she had ordered him to
begin, and the things she had said. She closed her eyes
with an inward moan. All she wanted to do now was dis-
appear, and with luck she would never have to come
face-to-face with Bret Bardoff again.
She began gathering her things quickly. “I’ll leave
you to get on with your business. I have another ses-
sion across town.” Slinging her purse over her shoulder,
she took a deep breath. “Bye, Larry. Nice to have met
you, Mr. Bardoff.” She attempted to brush by them, but
Bret put out his hand and captured hers, preventing
her exit.
“Goodbye, Hillary.” She forced her eyes to meet his,
feeling a sudden drain of power by the contact of her
hand in his. “It’s been a most interesting morning. We’ll
have to do it again soon.”
When hell freezes over, her eyes told him silently, and
muttering something incoherent, she dashed for the door,
the sound of his laughter echoing in her ears.
Dressing for a date that evening, Hillary endeavored,
without success, to block the events of the morning from
her mind. She was confident that her path would never
cross Bret Bardoff’s again. After all, she comforted her-
self, it had only been through a stupid accident that they
had met in the first place. Hillary prayed that the adage
about lightning never striking twice would hold true. She
had indeed been hit by a lightning bolt when he had ca-
sually disclosed his name to her, and her cheeks burned
again, matching the color of her soft jersey dress as her
careless words played back in her mind.
The ringing of the phone interrupted her reflections, and
she answered, finding Larry on the other end. “Hillary,
boy, I’m glad I caught you at home.” His excitement was
tangible over the wire, and she answered him quickly.
“You just did catch me. I’m practically out the door.
What’s up?”
“I can’t go into details now. Bret’s going to do that in
the morning.”
She noted the fact that Mr. Bardoff had been discarded
since that morning and spoke wearily. “Larry, what are
you talking about?”
“Bret will explain everything in the morning. You have
an appointment at nine o’clock.”
“What?” Her voice rose and she found it imperative
to swallow twice. “Larry, what are you talking about?”
“It’s a tremendous opportunity for both of us, Hil. Bret
will tell you tomorrow. You know where his office is.”
This was a statement rather than a question, since every-
one in the business knew Mode’s headquarters.
“I don’t want to see him,” Hillary argued, feeling a
surge of panic at the thought of those steel gray eyes. “I
don’t know what he told you about this morning, but I
made a total fool of myself. I thought he was a photog-
rapher. Really,” she continued, with fresh annoyance,
“you’re partially to blame, if—”
“Don’t worry about all that now,” Larry interrupted
confidently. “It doesn’t matter. Just be there at nine to-
morrow. See you later.”
“But, Larry.” She stopped, there was no purpose in
arguing with a dead phone. Larry had hung up.
This was too much, she thought in despair, and sat
down heavily on the bed. How could Larry expect her to
go through with this? How could she possibly face that
man after the things she had said? Humiliation, she deci-
ded, was simply something for which she was not suited.
Rising from the bed, she squared her shoulders. Bret
Bardoff probably wanted another opportunity to laugh at
her for her stupidity. Well, he wasn’t going to get the best
of Hillary Baxter, she told herself with firm pride. She’d
face him without cringing. This peasant would stand up
to the emperor and show him what she was made of!
Hillary dressed for her appointment the next morning
with studious care. The white, light wool cowl-necked
dress was beautiful in its simplicity, relying on the form
it covered to make it eye-catching. She arranged her hair
in a loose bun on top of her head in order to add a busi-
nesslike air to her appearance. Bret Bardoff would not
find her stammering and blushing this morning, she de-
termined, but cool and confident. Slipping on soft leather
shoes, she was satisfied with the total effect, the heels
adding to her height. She would not be forced to look up
quite so high in order to meet those gray eyes, and she
would meet them straight on.
Confidence remained with her through the taxi ride
and all the way to the top of the building where Bret
Bardoff had his offices. Glancing at her watch on the
tor, she was pleased to see she was punctual. An
attractive brunette was seated at an enormous reception
desk, and Hillary stated her name and business. After a
brief conversation on a phone that held a prominent
position on the large desk, the woman ushered Hillary
down a long corridor and through a heavy oak door.
She entered a large, well-decorated room where she
was greeted by yet another attractive woman, who intro-
duced herself as June Miles, Mr. Bardoff’s secretary.
“Please go right in, Miss Baxter. Mr. Bardoff is expecting
you,” she informed Hillary with a smile.
Walking to a set of double doors, Hillary’s eyes barely
had time to take in the room with its rather fabulous de-
cor before her gaze was arrested by the man seated at a
huge oak desk, a panoramic view of the city at his back.
“Good morning, Hillary.” He rose and approached
her. “Are you going to come in or stand there all day with
your back to the door?”
Hillary’s spine straightened and she answered coolly,
“Good morning, Mr. Bardoff, it’s nice to see you again.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite,” he stated mildly as he led her
to a seat near the desk. “You’d be a great deal happier if
you never laid eyes on me again.” Hillary could find no
comment to this all-too-true observation, and contented
herself with smiling vaguely into space.
“However,” he continued, as if she had agreed with
him in words, “it suits my purposes to have you here
today in spite of your reluctance.”
“And what are your purposes, Mr. Bardoff?” she de-
manded, her annoyance with his arrogance sharpening
her tone.
He leaned back in his chair and allowed his cool gray
eyes to travel deliberately over Hillary from head to toe.
The survey was slow and obviously intended to discon-
cert, but she remained outwardly unruffled. Because of
her profession, her face and form had been studied be-
fore. She was determined not to let this man know his
stare was causing her pulse to dance a nervous rhythm.
“My purposes, Hillary”—his eyes met hers and held
—“are for the moment strictly business, though that is
subject to change at any time.”
This remark cracked Hillary’s cool veneer enough to
bring a slight blush to her cheeks. She cursed the color
as she struggled to keep her eyes level with his.
“Good Lord.” His brows lifted with humor. “You’re
blushing. I didn’t think women did that anymore.” His
grin widened as if he were enjoying the fact that more
color leaped to her cheeks at his words. “You’re probably
the last of a dying breed.”
“Could we discuss the business for which I’m here,
Mr. Bardoff?” she inquired. “I’m sure you’re a very busy
man, and believe it or not, I’m busy myself.”
“Of course,” Bret agreed. He grinned reflectively. “I
remember—‘Let’s not be all day.’ I’m planning a layout
for Mode, a rather special layout.” He lit a cigarette and
offered Hillary one, which she declined with a shake of
her head. “I’ve had the idea milling around in my mind
for some time, but I needed the right photographer and
the right woman.” His eyes narrowed as he peered at her
speculatively, giving Hillary the sensation of being viewed
under a microscope. “I’ve found them both now.”
She squirmed under his unblinking stare. “Suppose
you give me some details, Mr. Bardoff. I’m sure it’s not
usual procedure for you to interview models personally.
This must be something special.”
“Yes, I think so,” he agreed suavely. “The idea is a
layout—a picture story, if you like—on the Many Faces
of Woman.” He stood then and perched on the corner of
the desk, and Hillary was affected by his sheer mascu-
linity, the power and strength that exuded from his lean
form clad in a fawn-colored business suit. “I want to por-
tray all the facets of womanhood: career woman, mother,
athlete, sophisticate, innocent, temptress, et cetera—a
complete portrait of Eve, the Eternal Woman.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Hillary admitted, caught up in
the backlash of his enthusiasm. “You think I might be
suitable for some of the pictures?”
“I know you’re suitable,” he stated flatly, “for all of the
pictures.”
Finely etched brows raised in curiosity. “You’re going
to use one model for the entire layout?”
“I’m going to use you for the entire layout.”
Struggling with annoyance and the feeling of being
submerged by very deep water, Hillary spoke honestly.
“I’d be an idiot not to be interested in a project like this.
I don’t think I’m an idiot. But why me?”
“Come now, Hillary.” His voice mirrored impatience,
and he bent over to capture her surprised chin in his
hand. “You do own a mirror. Surely you’re intelligent
enough to know that you’re quite beautiful and extremely
photogenic.”
He was speaking of her as if she were an inanimate
object rather than a human being, and the fingers, strong
and lean on her chin, were very distressing. Neverthe-
less, Hillary persisted.
“There are scores of beautiful and photogenic models
in New York alone, Mr. Bardoff. You know that better
than anyone. I’d like to know why you’re considering me
for your pet project.”
“Not considering.” He rose and thrust his hands in his
pockets, and she observed he was becoming irritated. She
found the knowledge rewarding. “There’s no one else I
would consider. You have a rather uncanny knack for get-
ting to the heart of a picture and coming across with
exactly the right image. I need versatility as well as beauty.
I need honesty in a dozen different images.”
“In your opinion, I can do that.”
“You wouldn’t be here if I weren’t sure. I never make
rash decisions.”
No, Hillary mused, looking into his cool gray eyes,
you calculate every minute detail. Aloud, she asked,
“Larry would be the photographer?”
He nodded. “There’s an affinity between the two of
you that is obvious in the pictures you produce. You’re
both superior alone, but together you’ve done some rather
stunning work.”
His praise caused her smile to warm slightly. “Thank
you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment, Hillary—just a fact. I’ve
given Larry all the details. The contracts are waiting for
your signature.”
“ ‘Contracts’?” she repeated, becoming wary.
“That’s right,” he returned, overlooking her hesitation.
“This project is going to take some time. I’ve no inten-
tion of rushing through it. I want exclusive rights to that
beautiful face of yours until the project’s completed and
on the stands.”
“I see.” She digested this carefully, unconsciously
chewing on her bottom lip.
“You needn’t react as if I’ve made an indecent proposal,
Hillary.” His voice was dry as he regarded her frowning
concentration. “This is a business arrangement.”
Her chin tilted in defiance. “I understand that com-
pletely, Mr. Bardoff. It’s simply that I’ve never signed a
long-term contract before.”
“I have no intention of allowing you to get away. Con-
tracts are obligatory, for you and for Larry. For the next
few months I don’t want you distracted by any other jobs.
Financially, you’ll be well compensated. If you have any
complaints along those lines, we’ll negotiate. However,
my rights to that face of yours for the next six months
are exclusive.”
He lapsed into silence, watching the varied range of
expressions on her face. She was working out the entire
platform carefully, doing her best not to be intimidated
by his overwhelming power. The project appealed to her,
although the man did not. It would be fascinating work,
but she found it difficult to tie herself to one establish-
ment for any period of time. She could not help feeling
that signing her name was signing away liberation. A
long-term contract equaled a long-term commitment.
Finally, throwing caution to the winds, she gave Bret
one of the smiles that made her face known throughout
America.
“You’ve got yourself a face.”
