"Oh no, I don't think so," Sandi demurred. That certainly wouldn't please Verne either!

"Well, then," the lady was beginning to sound impatient and the nineteen year old blonde felt distinctly embarrassed. "I just don't know what we can offer you…" she shuffled through her cards again, shaking her head, and then rather doubtfully plucked one out. "How about modeling? This is a rather – uh – odd position, but maybe…?"

Sandi licked her lips, then gulped, "Odd?" Models make lots of money, she was thinking, and people are always telling me I'm built like a model.

"Mr. Fletcher seems to be a bit particular; he never seems to like the girls we send over. I suppose its because he's a foreigner. But you could give it a try."

The woman's statement was a command rather than an offer, and Sandi rose hurriedly, aware that the woman was anxious to get on with her more lucrative clients.

Clutching the paper on which the woman had written Mr. Fletcher's address, she slowly threaded her way cross the medium-sized town toward the three-story brick building which housed the "Deja-Vu Studio". She pushed the button labeled, "Tony Fletcher, Fashion Photographer", and waited, her heart thumping against her ribs and her mouth dry with nervousness. Suddenly the headache she'd woken up with returned to throb behind her temples, and when no one answered her rather timid ring she felt a sensation of relief.

Turning so quickly that her mini-skirt caught in the current of the autumn breeze and exposed her firm-fleshed thighs and pink lace panties, she started down the three rather steep front steps, her long slender legs wobbling slightly in her chunky navy blue platform heels. I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm feeling calmer, she promised herself. And I'll wear something more conservative too. But try as she would, she couldn't block out the guilty whispers that persisted in creeping through into her consciousness.