Mistress of Deception

'Mr Alan gone, has he?'

Deirdre sighed. 'Yes, Bob.'

He tut-tutted. "That man works too hard. Have you finished too, Mrs Carstairs? Will I clear away?'

'Yes, do. It was lovely, Bob. You cook Italian like an Italian.'

The little man beamed, and began clearing the table, stacking up the plates with a very steady hand for a man pushing sixty. Deirdre watched him bustle off back into the kitchen, thinking to herself that he was another example of Alan's basic kindness.

Bob, and his twin brother, Bill, had up till two years ago lived on a chicken farm, with Bob tending to the household chores while Bill did the manual labour outside. Neither twin had ever married, both being very shy men. Their farm had been their life till the recession and high interest rates had sent them broke. Alan had spotted them being interviewed on a television programme on the day the bank was to repossess their property and evict them. Both men had broken down during the painful interview. It had torn Deirdre's heart out, making her cry.

When Alan had abruptly left the family room, she'd thought maybe he was upset too. And he probably had been. But, being a man of action, he'd left the room to telephone the station and start making arrangements to meet the elderly twin brothers. The upshot was Bob and Bill were brought to Sydney and installed in the Carstairses' home, Bob as cook and cleaner, Bill as gardener and handyman. Alan had even had the old servants' quarters fitted out as a self-contained flat for them. Both men thought him a prince of the first order, and were devoted to his service. When Alan had casually mentioned one day that he liked Italian food, Bob had raced out and bought several Italian cookbooks with his own money.

Yes, Alan could do good deeds, but that didn't mean he wasn't a difficult man. Deirdre hoped he'd be polite to Ebony at the show tonight. Fancy his calling her a black-hearted witch! Why, Ebony was no such thing! She had

always been such a sweet girl, pleasant and polite to her elders. She was a little aloof at times, but that was to be expected, given her background. Deirdre could not understand why Alan was so hard on her...

Ebony came out on to the catwalk, tall and sophisticated in a black wool dress that was basically strapless but had a black lace overlay that went right up to the neck and down her arms in tight sleeves. If the intention of the lace was modesty, then it failed miserably.

Every male in the room snapped to attention as she moved with a lithe, sensuous grace down that raised pathway, her waist-length straight black hair draped over one shoulder and her deeply set black eyes projecting a dark, mysterious allure from underneath black, winged brows. Her wide, full mouth was painted a deep scarlet in vivid contrast to her white, white skin.

Alan shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked away. He needed no reminders of what she looked like, or how easily she could bewitch.

'Geez, Alan,' the man seated next to him whispered. 'And to think you had that living under your roof all those years. How did you stand it, man?'

'Familiarity breeds contempt, my friend,' he returned smoothly. 'Besides, she doesn't look the same without her make-up on.'

'I'd like an opportunity to wake up in bed with her one morning and judge that for myself,' came the dry rejoinder. 'Still, from what I've heard, I'm not her type.'

Alan straightened in his chair. 'Oh? And what's her type?'

'Photographers, I gather.'

'Meaning?'

'God, Alan, don't you know anything about your own ward's life. Our supermodel is reported to have had a fling with all of her photographers so far. She and Gary Stevenson were a really hot item a couple of years ago before he took off for Paris. But he's back in Sydney now and has clearly taken up where he left off. I saw them myself only today, having lunch down at a cafe in Darling Harbour.'

'Is that so?'

'You don't sound concerned. Stevenson's a good deal older than her, you know.'

Alan tried not to bristle, but did, anyway. 'He's only in his thirties.'

'Closer to forty. And how old's your Ebony?'

'Twenty-two. And she's not my Ebony,' he bit out. 'She's a free agent. Now, can we watch the show? We've paid two hundred dollars a seat for this ringside table. Let's get our money's worth.'

Alan's colleague settled back in a disgruntled silence, leaving Alan forced to pretend to watch the rest of the parade. Ebony had been up and down a couple of times by now, and was sashaying back towards the group of models who were waiting their turn in front of the huge red velvet curtain. The highly sensual sway of her curvaceous buttocks and hips sent a cold fury into his veins.