Rules Of The Game. PENNY JORDAN

      Rules of the Game

      Penny Jordan

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘I AM sorry about having to leave you in the lurch like this Van, but I really don’t have any option.’ A winning smile accompanied Gavin’s apologetic statement, and Vanessa quelled her urgent desire to tell her brother that ‘leaving her in the lurch’ as he put it, was one of the things he seemed to have a remarkable aptitude for. Even though she was the younger by two years, since the death of their parents, Vanessa had always felt a sense of responsibility towards her brother. ‘You know the sort of shots we want, don’t you,’ he called, as he opened the studio door, ‘the model’s already been told.’ He grinned at his sister, wicked amusement dancing in his deep blue eyes. ‘You can always close your eyes!’

      Vanessa groaned as the door closed behind him. At times Gavin really was impossible. By rights she ought to have refused outright to help him out today, but then he had worked so hard getting the studio going, canvassing for work and building up his reputation until he was the most sought after photographer in Clarewell, but to expect her to do the photographs for this advertisement he was booked to do, simply so that he could go and hero-worship a ‘local boy made good’ who had recently returned to Clarewell!

      Stifling her irritation she busied herself in the studio, checking the carefully arranged background ‘scene’, and pulling a slight face. When Gavin had persuaded the town’s largest employer to allow him to do the photography for their latest national advertising campaign they had agreed, but had stipulated a very small budget. Hardferns like many other companies were struggling to keep their lead on their competition, pruning down all extraneous costs, hence the ‘background’ depicting a lush tropical scene, instead of the real thing. Their new product was a revolutionary range of men’s toilet products, including a skin-care range, and as Gavin had told her, Hardferns were very anxious to promote their new range with a tough macho image.

      It was Hardferns publicity department who had suggested using a virtually nude male model while stipulating that the advertisements had to be in the ‘best possible taste’. But it was Gavin who had dropped on her the bombshell that she was to be the photographer, and just so that he could go to the ‘Welcome Home’ celebrations at the town hall to laud the arrival of Jay Courtland, local football hero turned entrepreneur, who had astounded the press recently with his announcement that he intended to return to his home town and sponsor the ailing football team which had been responsible for his ultimate rise to fame as an England player. Now, at thirty-four, Jay Courtland had long since left the game—at least on the field, but rumour had it that he used the tactics he had developed there to assure him of a winning passage through the boardrooms he had conquered on his journey up the financial ladder. Was she the only person not to be impressed by his outwardly philanthropic gesture, Vanessa wondered sourly. Surely there were others who had drawn a parallel line between Jay Courtland’s desire to promote his fourth division home team higher in the league, and the ailing sportswear company which was the latest of his many acquisitions. Who could tell, with Jay Courtland’s support Clarewell might even make it as far as the Cup Final!

      Suppressing her acid thoughts she freely acknowledged that they were partially motivated by Gavin’s desertion. He was the one who was supposed to be in charge of this morning’s session, and he knew how much she would dislike it. Her full lips pressed tightly together as she remembered the wicked amusement dancing in her brother’s eyes. ‘Twenty-two, and still a virgin!’ he had mocked her on her last birthday, and although she had wanted to deny his teasing assumption they had both known that she could not. That was the trouble about living in such a small town. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.

      She glanced towards the back of the studio, frowning as her eye was caught by the portraits hanging there. They all featured the same woman. Hair like black silk hung water-straight down past her nude shoulders, her skin possessing the soft gleam of mother of pearl. Eyes the colour and depth of gentians shone out of a perfectly oval face, her nose and lips delicately carved, nostrils curled in a way that was faintly arrogant. It was a face that was intensely beautiful, holding both sensual allure and aloofness. It was in many ways the same face that Vanessa saw each morning when she glanced into her mirror, combing her dark hair back off her face, securing it into the confining clasp that kept it out of the way as she worked. But her face was all that she had in common with the girl in those portraits, she thought grimly.

      As children they had been inseparable. They were the same age, she and Nadia. Their fathers had been twins which was why they were so very alike; alike enough for those who did not know them to be confused, but the likeness was only superficial. For as long as she could remember, she had been the tomboy while Nadia had been the pretty-pretty one; the one the adults always fussed and cooed over. Even her own brother had not been immune.

      She sighed, as she worked steadily setting up the equipment she would need. When their parents had been killed in a climbing accident, she and Gavin had turned quite naturally to their aunt and uncle, sharing a common loss. Gavin had just started up on his own then, and it had been Nadia who had persuaded him to take the photographs of her which she later submitted to the beauty competition which had changed all their lives. With hindsight Vanessa supposed they ought to have guessed that Nadia would win. Although physically their faces were the same, Vanessa had always felt like a shadow standing next to the sun when she was with Nadia. Nadia glittered and drew people into her orbit like a flame attracting helpless moths but unlike the flame she had no warmth to give her victims. She used them to fuel her own mammoth self-conceit, used them and discarded them, as she had discarded Gavin once she had accepted the modelling contract he had helped her to obtain. That Gavin had once loved Nadia Vanessa did not doubt, but her brother was not a child. He knew what their cousin was and what she wasn’t.

      Vanessa sighed, brushing grubby hands along her jeans. Tight and faded, together with one of Gavin’s discarded shirts they were her normal working uniform. She rarely wore skirts or dresses, hardly ever used make-up, and did everything she could to minimise the similarities between Nadia and herself. Her refusal to do what Gavin called ‘making the most of herself’ annoyed him, she knew. He had often asked her to model for him but she always refused. On her eighteenth birthday he had given her a dress, a misty confection of silk chiffon in shades of blue to complement and match her eyes, and she had thrown it back at him in a fit of fury. ‘You bought this for Nadia, not for me,’ she had accused him, and they had quarrelled angrily about it.

      ‘Why don’t you admit that where Nadia is concerned you’re suffering from one hell of an inferiority complex?’ he had accused. She had denied it vehemently, but some part of her had recognised the truth. All her life she had been compared