Mistress of Deception

Monday dawned blessedly dry, but there was not a skerrick of warmth in the sun. The photographs were to be taken on Bondi Beach and the company who'd contracted her had thankfully organised a caravan for her to dress and shelter in between takes. Since she had a dozen different suits to model, this was more a necessity than a luxury.

Actually, she hadn't done a swimwear shoot in ages, mainly because of her condition of only modelling black clothing these days. Most swimwear was colourful. But this particular sportswear company had created a new line to

cash in on the idea that swimwear could double as sophisticated body-suits for evening wear. They were starting with an all black range, which featured daring necklines, a lot of stretch lace and net, and quite a bit of beading. Built into each crotch was a clever, velcro-type seam to facilitate the wearer's going to the bathroom without completely undressing.

Ebony could not imagine any right-thinking person actually wearing the costumes in the water, and fortunately the photographer seemed to agree. He kept her out of the surf, draping her across rocks, having her lie in the sand, even bringing a sleek silver Porsche down on to the beach so he could take shots of her beside it, in it, and on top of it.

It was while she was lying on the roof of the car, her face lifted to the watery sun, eyes shut, her long dark hair spread out in a circle on the thankfully warm silver metal, that Ebony felt the first prickling awareness of being watched.

She tried telling herself that of course she was being watched. Even in the middle of winter, Bondi Beach was never deserted. Surfboard riders in wet-suits still came to catch waves; joggers and power walkers strutted their stuff along the esplanade; overseas tourists came to see first-hand what they had only ever seen in a brochure or on a postcard. Bondi was, after all, Sydney's most famous beach.

But it wasn't the curious gazes of accidental passers-by and tourists that were making the hairs on the back of Ebony's neck stand on end. She was sure of that. Someone was watching her with an intensity that was being telegraphed to her through the air waves, someone with whom she had a close emotional and physical bond.

'Alan,' she breathed, and sat bolt upright, wide black eyes darting around.

'Oh, for Pete's sake!' the photographer exclaimed frustratedly from where he was standing on the hood of the car. 'I just had the greatest shot in my sights and you damned well moved. What gives, Ebony? It's not like you to be skittish.'

' I . . . I had this feeling,' she said shakily. 'I thought someone was watching...'

The photographer gave a dry, disbelieving laugh. 'Honey, in that rig-out, the eyes of every red-blooded male within five hundred yards are watching you. Now lie back down, like a good girl, and let's get this wrapped up. The light's

beginning to go.'

It was too, despite being only three in the afternoon. But the sun set early on an eastern beach when the city behind it blocked out the sun's rays.

Ebony lay back down, extra-conscious now that the stretch-lace costume was semi-transparent where her curves stretched the material, her areolae and nipples partially visible through the thinnish lace. A blush of embarrassment coloured her cheeks, which surprised her. Over the years she'd become rather nonchalant about showing off her body. Familiarity did breed a certain contempt and she had ceased to be worried by the odd semi- nude shot, as long as it was tasteful.

Suddenly, however, she didn't like to think strange men were ogling her body. Even the photographer was making her uncomfortable, yet she had worked with him many times before and he was one of the best. A real professional. But he was also one of the men her name had been linked with at one time, simply because he had been able to coax a sensuality from her that previous photographers hadn't. One look at his photographs of her and people had jumped to conclusions. Their mutual denials had only made the story a hotter item for the gossip columns.

'Now arch your back, honey,' he was saying. 'And open your eyes, just a little. That's it. Perhaps a bit more pout. Yes, like that. Great! Mmm, yes,

very sexy. Yes, hold that!'

The camera clicked away as she held the highly erotic look, and, while common sense told her she was only doing her job, all of a sudden she hated what she did for a living. It was a lie and a con. She didn't feel erotic at that moment. She felt cold and miserable and oddly ashamed.