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“You’re truly beautiful,” he said, pouring wine from a decanter into a crystal glass.
A brimming smile was plastered to her face. “Really?” she asked, “I always thought I looked plain.”
“You?” he said charismatically, “Never.” He handed her the glass of wine and sat next to her on the sofa, gazing at her as she drank heartily.
“What agency did you say you work for?” She squinted at the rim of the glass and shifted in her seat, turning to face him.
“You have my business card, remember?” He smiled again, his gaze never leaving her face.
She nodded meekly and set the glass on the table beside her. His gaze drifted to the empty wine glass.
He stood up, extended his right hand and said, “Why don’t I show you some of my work? You’ll know the models. They’re quite famous.”
She stood and pulled on the hem of her little black dress. He led her down a corridor, the walls covered sparingly with black and white photographs of women, none of whom she recognized.
With his hand on the small of her back he led her into a spacious room. Wine bottles stood on a desk in the corner. He walked over to a shelf and pulled out a black leather folder. “Have a look,” he said, gesturing to a seat and handing the folder to her. With his back to her he filled another glass with wine.
“I don’t recognize any of these women,” she said, her voice tinged with lethargy. Absent-mindedly, she drank the wine he handed to her.
“Of course you do,” he said. He handed her another folder filled with newspaper clippings.
Images of dead women stared at her, the same women from the previous folder. A scream stuck in her throat. She looked at the wine glass, then to him.
He smiled, “I had to doctor your drink. I can tell you’re going to be a feisty one, aren’t you?”
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