Forsaking All Others (3 page)

Holy Moses! He didn’t even know what he had. It was more than looks, more than bone structure and vibrant skin and come-hither eyes. It was . . . charisma! The kind photographers search for and rarely find. He quickly grasped each mood she sought to create and portrayed them not only with facial expression but with body language so poignant and natural that she hardly sensed him changing from one pose to the other until his mood caught her in the gut and telegraphed itself.

Suddenly realizing she was standing there clasping the top of her head as if trying to hold it on, she let her hands slide down and moved toward her desk, crossed her arms, and stared at the windows while stammering, “The . . . there’s one other thing I have to ask you to do, and it may be rather unorthodox, but . . . I . . . I . . .”

He noted the defensive way she turned her back and
crossed her arms. “You haven’t seen me running yet, have you? So what’s next?” He smiled.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Take off your jacket.”

“It’s off,” he claimed, snaps flying open even as he spoke. He dropped the jacket nonchalantly across one corner of her desk.

His arms and chest filled out the jersey beautifully. She took a gulp and reminded herself he was just a model.

“Now the jersey.”

That one slowed him down for a fraction of a minute.

“The jersey . . . sure.” It came off, but a little slower than the jacket.

He was now in a white V-neck T-shirt, the jersey bunched up in one uncertain hand as if he were getting ready to pitch it at the first thing that threatened.

“The T-shirt, too,” she ordered.

He illustrated “suspicious” without being ordered to. His magnificent eyes skittered to her, to the desk top, to the wall where a few totally unobjectionable samples of her work were displayed. Finally, frowning, his eyes came to rest on her. “Hey, lady—”

She spun to face him fully. “The name is Scott, Allison Scott.”

“Okay, Ms. Scott, I don’t do any of that kinky stuff that I’ve heard—”

“Neither do I, Mr. Lang!”

“Well, just what kind of book is this, anyway?”

“It’s not pornography, if that’s what you’re thinking. But if you’re scared to take off the shirt, I’ve got a file full of faces that’ll suffice just as nicely as yours!”

“I guess I’d like to know why first.”

“I told you, it’s a romance. It takes place on Sanibel Island.” Why was she being so defensive, she wondered. Because suddenly, when confronted with such an impressive physical specimen, she found she was wondering what he looked like bare-chested—and wondering out of mere female curiosity, not just artistic professionalism. Immediately she realized her mistake—it was amateurish and childish to be hedging the issue. She should have asked him immediately and avoided all mystery. Allison decided to be honest.

“All I need to know is if you have hair on your chest, but I felt a little silly asking.”

Without another word the T-shirt came off. He stood before her in those tight, washed-out blue jeans, the nipples of his chest puckered up in the old icebox of a building, while zephyrs of too-fresh air sneaked along the floors. His was the first naked chest she’d seen since Jason departed, and Allison found she had to force her thoughts into structured paths while viewing it. But it was difficult to disassociate herself from the fact that he was—masculinely speaking—superb. Allison felt her body radiating enough heat to melt every shred of ice off those windows while he stood before her, shivering, letting her study him.

He looked down his chest, then back up at her. “Enough?” he asked.

For a moment she felt like a curious teenager peeping at the boys through a knothole in the changing-room wall, while he stood before her thoroughly at ease.

“Yes,” she answered, and immediately the shirts started coming back over his head. From inside the first he asked, “So what am I going to wear for this picture?”

“Bathing trunks. Have you got any?”

“Sure.” His head popped out, hair tousled in gamin boyishness that belied the mature, well-proportioned body she’d just assessed.

“What color are they?” she asked, moving back around the desk.

“White.”

“Perfect, since we’ll be shooting at night and they’ll show up more.”

His eyebrows curled and again he watched her warily as she moved, businesslike, to pick up pencil and clipboard, making a note while asking, “Do you have any scars on your legs or back?”

“No.” He tossed the jersey on, shivering visibly now.

“Do you have any objections to kissing a stranger?”

With one arm half drawn into his jacket sleeve, he stopped, as if struck dumb.

“Kissing a stranger?”

“Yes.” She raised serious eyes to his, making a desperate effort to appear calm.

“Who?”

Allison plucked the photo of the chosen female model from the pile on her desk and handed it to him. “Her.”

He gave it a cursory glance. “The other subject in the photo, I take it?”

“Yes, if her coloring turns out to be right when I see her.”

He turned it over and read the name on the back. “Vivien Zuchinski.” He laughed and shook his head, lifting some of the tension from the room. “With a name like that she’d better know how to kiss!”

It broke the ice. Their eyes met and he chuckled first, followed by her mellow sounds of mirth.

“I feel like an ass,” she admitted, relaxing even further, at last able to look him in the eye again.

“Well, I was a little uncomfortable there for a minute myself.”

She ambled past the windows, toward the back of the studio, away from him. “I’ve never hired anybody for this kind of assignment before. I went about it all wrong. I apologize for making you feel ill at ease.” She turned a brief glance back over her shoulder. He was still beside the desk.

“It’s okay . . . as long as I get to kiss . . .” He checked the back of the photo again, “Vivien Zuchinski,” he finished with a grin. He tossed the photo back onto the desk and followed Allison along the length of the studio.

“Do you mind my asking
you
a few things?” Rick Lang queried.

“No, ask away.”

“Well, for starters, why are we shooting at night?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I can see you’re still suspicious, Mr. Lang.”

“Well, you have to admit it sounds a little fishy.”

“Not when you want a nighttime effect. It’s going to be a beach scene with a fire. I’ll need total darkness outside so I can control the lighting. As you can see, the place is solid windows.” She waved a hand at the glass wall and scanned the length of the studio before her eyes came to rest on him.

“A fire?” he repeated dubiously.

“Yup.” With her hands in her pockets, one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other, she looked a trifle smug.

“In here?” he asked skeptically.

“In here. You don’t believe I can do it?”

He shrugged. “It’ll be a good trick if you do. How many shots are you planning to take?”

“Oh, sixty-five maybe . . . of each cover, front and back.”

He whistled softly. If she took that many shots, she was serious, dedicated, and thorough. He glanced around, obviously searching for a beach.

“Trust me,” she said. “When you come for the
session there’ll be a beach. And all you have to do is wear a bathing suit and kiss a pretty girl. Is that so tough?”

“Not at all.”

“Then do you want the job or not, Mr. Lang?”

“This is really on the level? Nothing kinky?”

“Honestly, you
are
a skeptic, aren’t you? I admit the poses will be sensual. There’ll be body contact—after all, it is a romance. But the final result will be tasteful.”

A teasing light came into Rick’s eyes. “Hmm . . . it’s beginning to sound like more fun all the time.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“When do we shoot?”

“Thursday night, if things go right. I’ve got to create the set first, and this one might give me a little trouble.”

“The scuba gear?”

“No, not that. That’s for the next series I’m doing. I was just planning ahead. It’s the beach that’s going to give me trouble on this one. I’ll face the scuba gear later.”

“Would it help you out if I borrowed some from a friend of mine?”

Her face registered pleased surprise. “Could you really?”

He glanced at the snowy city below. “I really don’t think he’s putting it to very hard use right now, do you?”

“And I wouldn’t have to take scuba lessons and get the bends?” She feigned great relief, then added seriously,
“Taking the pictures is often the easiest part. It’s setting them up that makes my hair turn gray sometimes.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” He raised his eyes to the top of her head, then let them drift back to her face, an easy smile on his lips.

Immediately she was on her guard. It was the kind of remark Jason might have made, that sly, flattering brand of innuendo that had broken down her barriers and made her break her one basic rule of thumb: never get personal with the male models.

Though it was meant as banter, not flattery, the moment the words were out of Rick Lang’s mouth he noticed how she crossed her arms tightly across her ribs. She was a classy-looking woman, particularly when she let her guard down. But often she set up unconscious barriers—the crossed arms, the lowered sunglasses, jumping behind the desk. He couldn’t help but wonder what made her so defensive.

“I’ll drop the gear by some afternoon.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can pick it up, wherever he lives.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I appreciate it, really. And thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.” He opened the door, turned with a grin, and finished, “As long as I get to kiss Vivien Zucchini.”

“Zuchinski,” she corrected, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her lips.

“Zuchinski.”

Then he was gone.

Allison’s arms slowly came uncrossed. She stared at the door, picturing his face, his form, his too-good-to-be-true physique. Unconsciously she slipped one hand through her long hair, kneading the back of her neck where pleasant tingles displaced common sense.

Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, Scott? He’s just another pretty boy out to make a score, and don’t forget it!

V
IVIEN
Zuchinski turned out to have exactly the right color and length of hair. Her face wasn’t quite as long as her publicity photo made it appear, but she had flawless skin, still clinging to most of last summer’s tan, and a mouth that could be called nothing but voluptuous. Her eyes were a stunning blue, as big as fifty-cent pieces, eyes, Allison knew, that would photograph beautifully, for they were fringed with sooty lashes so thick it seemed they’d weigh her down. Her breasts, it seemed, threatened to do the same. Oh, Vivien Zuchinski had all the qualifications, all right. Her main shortcoming, Allison could tell immediately, was that the girl was stupid, which—thankfully—would not show in a photograph. She chewed gum like an
earth-breaking machine, had a fixation with lip gloss, which she constantly pulled out of her shoulder bag and painted on her pouting lips, whether in the midst of conversation or not. Her favorite word, which made Allison grimace, was “nice.”

“Hey,
nice
studio,” Vivien said immediately upon entering. “Hey,
nice
boots! Wheredja get them? I got a pair’s kinda like them but not as nice. Those’re really nice.”

Allison cringed. Most of the models she worked with were intelligent, upbeat, many of them students on their way to professional careers in another field, helping themselves through college with the money they earned modeling. Vivien Zuchinski was definitely the exception to the rule.

“Hey, ah, what’s the guy look like? Is he a fox, I mean, you know, ah, has he got a nice bod?”

“Very nice,” Allison answered dryly. “Almost as nice as yours, Vivien.”

“Hey, really? I like a guy with a nice bod.”

It was all Allison could do to keep from rolling her eyes. “Have you got a bathing suit?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, got a bunch of ’em, nice ones, too.”

“Would you mind bringing them along when you come?”

“Sure, you bet.”

“The girl in the book wears a blue bikini.”

“Hey, no sweat! I got this really nice blue bikini,
bought it last summer when this lifeguard up at Madden’s kinda started givin’ me the eye, you know? And I figure I’d just put on a little show for him and come out on the beach with a different bikini every day, but I only had five and I was gonna be there for six days, so, gol, what was I s’posed to do?” She flipped her palms up at shoulder height, hopelessly. “So I find this nice blue bik—”

“Vivien, bring them all, would you?”

Vivien was too much of a stereotype to be believable. She hung a hand on one hip, threw Allison a wide-eyed look of innocence, and answered, “Oh, sure . . . yeah, sure thing.”

“Then I’ll see you Thursday.”

“Yeah, sure. Where’d you say you got them boots again?”

By the time Allison had gotten rid of Vivien she wondered if she’d made a mistake hiring her. Allison stood with hands on hips, shaking her head at the door through which Vivien had left, then glanced down at her own high-heeled boots and said to herself, “Nice boots, hey.”

T
HE
following afternoon Allison was standing disgruntledly with a broom and dustpan in her hand, spilled sand around her feet, when Rick Lang showed up with air tanks, flippers, hoses, and pipes.

“Hi.”

She looked up, surprised, realizing in a flash how glad she was to see him again. “Oh, hi . . . oh, you brought them!” She dropped the dustpan, wiped her hands on her thighs, and came eagerly toward the door.

“Where do you want this stuff? It’s kind of heavy.”

She motioned toward the wall, sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. “Thanks. At least that’s one thing that’s gone right today.”

“Have you got troubles?” He noted the sand, then her disgusted face. She noted his same old jeans and letter jacket, not at all the kind of clothing a guy wears to turn a girl’s head.

“Have I ever.” She glared at the mess. “I’m thinking about flying us down to Florida to do these shots! Except I think Vivien Zuchinski would drive me crazy before we got there.”

“Vivien didn’t turn out to be what you wanted?”

“Vivien’s . . .” Allison searched for the proper word and turned a sardonic smirk his way. “Vivien’s . . .
nice
.”

He eyed the upward tilt of Allison’s lips as she enjoyed some private joke. When she smiled, her eyes smiled with her mouth. She was dressed in off-white corduroy trousers with some kind of stylish, little army-green rubber shoes with bumpy white soles and long tongues and laces. They looked like something a socialite might wear duck hunting. Cute, he thought,
taking in her modish hooded jacket and turtleneck sweater. Again she wore the sunglasses, pushed high up on her head.

“What’s wrong with Vivien?”

“Nothing!” But there was a smirk of sarcasm in the quick word as she flipped her palms up innocently, then repeated, “Nothing. She has a terrific face and a very nice body.”

“Good for me,” he teased. “When can I kiss her?”

“Anytime you want . . . I’m sure she’ll make that abundantly clear. You see, Miss Zuchinski has already pointed out the fact that she likes a guy with a, quote, ‘nice bod,’ unquote. Also, she likes her men foxy.”

He laughed, leaning back, but it had a nice, easy sound, uncluttered by ego. “Need a hand?” he asked.

“I thought you’d never ask. The damn gunnysacks weigh a ton, and the first one came open halfway across the floor, which is not where I wanted to build my beach.”

Already he was shucking off his frowsy letter jacket, laying it across the top of the refrigerator. “Just show me where.”

She pointed to the area where the backdrop paper hung in huge rolls from the ceiling, then led the way, rolling aside some tall strobe lights on stands while he grabbed the ears of the closest gunnysack and dragged it over. She went to work cleaning up the loose sand while he moved the rest of the sacks. Covertly she
watched the play of his back muscles as he lugged the bags.

“Do you go through this with every job you do?” He grunted, letting the first sack roll to its resting spot.

“Sometimes. I do what has to be done, get whatever props are necessary. You’d be surprised where trying to find them sometimes leads me.”

“So I guessed when I walked in here the other day.”

“A gentleman would tactfully refrain from mentioning the other day,” she stated, her eyes on the broom while she swept. “Now the sand . . . I got it from a sand-and-gravel company, even got them to haul it up here free. In return I’ll do a series of free shots of their operation when it’s in full swing next summer. The kind of thing they can use on their Christmas calendar or whatever.”

He glanced around the studio. “I never realized how much went into your kind of photography. In my kind the settings are already made for me.”

“You’re a photographer, too?” she asked, surprised.

“No, I’m a wildlife artist, but I paint from original photos.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised had he said he moonlighted as a fat man at the fair.

“An artist?” Yet the clothes fit, the lack of guile, of style.

“It’s not a very lucrative business until you make a name for yourself. I only do the modeling to pay the bills.”

“Like my school pictures.”

“Your what?”

“I take school pictures . . . you know—little kids, stool, string-to-nose, smile and say
gravee-e-e!
” She made a clown face, tipping her head to one side, hands spread wide beside her ears, while the broom handle rested against her chest. “It pays the bills here, too.”

“I thought that, working with publishers from New York, your career was going full swing.”

“Not yet it isn’t, but it will be,” she stated, then set to work sweeping determinedly. “I had a good start once, but . . .” Suddenly her face closed over, and she bit off the remark abruptly. He waited, studying her as she again attacked her sweeping, this time too intensely.

“But what?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“Nothing.” Suddenly she dropped the broom and turned toward her files. “Hey, wanna see some of the things I’ve done for local ad agencies?”

“Sure, I’d love to,” he answered agreeably, following her.

It took no more than thirty seconds of viewing her work for Rick Lang to see she had enormous talent. “You’re good,” he complimented, scarcely glancing up as he studied her work. “Your concepts are fresh and vital.” It was true. Still objects seemed to have motion, moving objects to have speed, scented objects smell, and flavored objects taste. He noted that she had two favorite models—one male, one female—whom she’d
used predominantly, as was the case with most commercial photographers.

“Thanks. I love the work, absolutely do.”

“It shows.” He glanced up, but she was staring at the top photo, one of the favorite male model. The man wore a textured shirt and was posed against a background of bleached barn boards and a rich, rough stone foundation. The ancient building created the perfect foil for the man’s handsome face and classic clothing. This was no manufactured set. She’d taken the shot when the sun was low in the sky, either early morning or sunset, for the shadows, even on the rocks and boards, were dark, rich, and intense. Shot after shot showed an artist’s soul, an enviable talent behind the viewfinder.

While Rick Lang leafed through the matted enlargements, Allison saw Jason’s face flash past time and again. She felt a sense of loss as keenly as ever, this time a professional loss, for the works featuring him were the best of the lot. Oh yes, she’d lost much more than a lover when she’d lost Jason Ederlie.

Rick looked up and caught an expression of unconcealed pain on her features. Realizing he was studying her, a tinge of color stained Allison’s cheeks before she quickly reached to flip through the pictures to one she particularly liked. “I sold this one to
Bon Appetit
magazine.” It was a photo of freshly sliced apples and cheese viewed through a bottle of pale amber wine.

“Mmm . . . you make my mouth water,” Rick said.

She shot him a censorious look, but he was only studying the photo. How often Jason had said things like that—glib, quick, thoughtless compliments, laced with his irresistible teasing grin, that were meant to do a snow job on her emotions while together they worked up an impressive portfolio of fashion shots of him alone. And, like a fool, she’d believed it all when he strung her along.

She swallowed now, trying to forget. Abruptly she lowered the sunglasses to cover her eyes, squared her shoulders, slipped her palms into her hip pockets, and walked away.

“Listen, thanks a lot for helping me haul the sand to where it belongs,” she said. “I really appreciate it.” The cool dismissal was unmistakable. It chilled the studio like air currents blowing across an icy tundra. Taken aback at her swift change, Rick’s eyes narrowed, but he moved immediately toward his jacket.

“Sure. Anything else I can do before I leave?”

“No, I’m just about to close up here for the day.”

“How about a cup of coffee? It’s colder in here than it is outside.”

“It always is, even though I crank up the radiators till they clank like a rhythm section. I’m used to it by now.”

He waited, realizing she’d artfully glossed past his invitation without either accepting or rejecting it. “Maybe I’d better find one of those old-fashioned
bathing suits, the ones shaped like long underwear, if it’s always this cold in here.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Vivien will warm you up.”

“You know, you’ve really got me wondering about this Vivien.”

He managed to make Allison smile again, but her gaiety seemed to have seeped away. Her lips turned up, but this time the smile seemed forced.

“Oh, I never should have made any comment about Vivien. She’s just a little . . . inane, that’s all,” Allison noted apologetically.

“Which is a polite way for saying she’s not too bright.”

“Who am I to say?” She hadn’t been too bright herself, falling for Jason’s line all those months. Maybe it was better to be like Vivien Zuchinski and look for a man with a nice body, have a good time with it for as long as you both were willing, and forget in-depth relationships.

Rick Lang had snapped up his old jacket, and stood now with his hands lost in its pockets.

“How come you hide behind those glasses like that all the time?”

“What? Oh . . . these!” She flipped them up with a false laugh. “I didn’t even realize I had them on.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, serious now, his gaze steady, blue, and determined. He stood between Allison and the door.

“A minute ago I asked you if you wanted to have a cup of coffee. I thought maybe you were hiding so you wouldn’t have to answer.”

She experienced a brief thrill before quelling it to wonder why he asked. Goodness, he was nice enough—Vivien’s word, but apropos at the moment—and handsome enough to land any woman in the city. But no matter how inviting it sounded, Allison had learned her lesson.

“Thanks, but my work’s not done for the day. I still have to find a log.”

He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “A what? You lost me somewhere.”