Smiling, Sophia was halfway through the next room before she realized she’d started naming her photos. As if someday, she’d actually put them in a show. She wasn’t sure how she felt about ambition growing stronger than her fear of failure.
Maybe she had more confidence because Max liked her work. He’d insisted on seeing actual prints, claiming he couldn’t tell diddly on the tiny view screen. So she’d printed a few of her favorites. Not any of the photos of him, of course. But one of the Golden Gate on a foggy morning, a couple of floral studies. Like her, his favorite had been the shot she’d taken of her family the morning before Rico had gone overseas. Using a timer, she’d squeezed into the shot at the last minute. Her father had been seated in his favorite recliner, with his sons ranging all around him and Sophia curled at his feet.
Max had been impressed with how strong each personality had come through in just a photo. Rico’s wildness, Carlos’ humor, Ben’s thoughtfulness. Most of all, her father’s pride.
Sophia was used to using her photos for clarity, to see to the heart of people or situations. She’d never thought that they’d provide that same gift to others.
So the idea of others seeing her work? Of deeming it worthy art? She wasn’t quite there, yet. But…maybe someday.
Which was safe, she assured herself. Someday was a nice, murky time way off in the future with no pressure.
Grinning at her own self-justification, she waved to Gina as the other woman came through the back with lunch, setting Sophia’s on her desk for later.
“Go ahead and eat,” she told her assistant. “I’ll cover the front until you’re done.
Twenty minutes and four additional pictures later, Sophia returned to her office. She was much less depressed now. So what if things weren’t quite where she wanted them yet? And yes, Max was leaving, but not tomorrow. They had a couple of weeks together. She was sure that a few more bouts of wild, hair-tangling sex and she’d be over this silly idea of falling in love.
She had to be. Her priority was the gallery. First, pulling it out of this mess, then working hard to make it the success she’d always dreamed of. After that, maybe she’d start thinking about other things.
Like letting that dream of being a photographer out of hiding. And falling in love.
Both equally terrifying.
Filled with a calm that she knew perfectly well was hiding the heartbreak underneath, Sophia unwrapped her salad, tore off a piece of tortilla and nibbled.
Then, fortified and ready to tackle the letter Gina had brought in earlier, she slit open the envelope and pulled out the papers. Yep, more legal crap.
She skimmed the cover letter. The tortilla fell from her numb fingers.
What the hell?
Horrified, she read the letter. The Historical Guild of Northern California was insisting that Esprit vacate the premises or they’d take legal action to sell the building. Since they, in effect, owned it and were only leasing it long-term—a freaking century should count for something, shouldn’t it?—they were within their rights, the letter stated.
She had the phone in hand and had dialed Olivia before she realized she’d moved. Ten minutes later, her shock had faded into stunned horror.
“What do you mean, they have documentation? How can someone document a lie?” she demanded.
“What they have is a case file of what the Historical Guild feels is a breach of confidence,” Olivia, who’d received her own special delivery letter, replied. “Obviously whoever had started those rumors about your sex addiction sent them documented evidence of what they see as the gallery’s focus on offensive fetishes. In the Guild’s opinion the gallery isn’t supportive of their vision and policy.”
“It all comes down to the gallery showing erotic art instead of photographs?” Which had been going on for four freaking years. So why now? Sophia ground her teeth together. Because of Lynn, obviously.
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t do that. Joseph did. And we’ve stopped.” Sophia rolled her eyes at her whiny tone. Way to stand up and take control of her life. By sniveling like a three-year-old.
“What can I do?” she asked before Olivia could say anything. “How can I keep the gallery?”
In the long pause, Sophia could almost hear Olivia lining up and discarding options.
Finally she sighed. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Just tell me,” Sophia insisted with a sigh.
“Negotiate with Ms. Castillo. Split the estate so you can access enough funds to purchase the building outright.”
Automatic refusal was on the tip of Sophia’s tongue. She swallowed it back with an effort.
“I’ll work up a list of suggestions,” Olivia continued, obviously sensing Sophia’s struggles. “I have notes on the specifics your stepdaughter was especially adamant about. Perhaps we can find a middle ground. I’ll get back to you in the next few days with suggestions.”
Sophia made some sort of grunt that must have passed as agreement, because Olivia hung up. It took Sophia a while longer to unclench her fingers from the phone.
She hadn’t lost the gallery.
She could buy it.
All she had to do was come up with a whole lot of money in the next ninety days.
“DOES IT ALL LOOK OKAY?” Sophia asked Max the next afternoon as she set out a tray of cookies and a bowl of sugared nuts on the small sofa table in her office. She was expecting von Schilling any time now.
Max didn’t know which made him hungrier—the sugar glistening off the chunky peanut butter cookies, or the sight of Sophia bending over, her black skirt stretched temptingly over her hips.
He knew which he wanted more. But he was pretty sure lusting after Sophia’s body was fogging up his clear head. He knew damn well that she needed help. She was over her head and going down for the third time. There had to be some way he could save her from drowning.
“Who’s trying to shut you down, again?” he asked, hoping he’d heard her wrong.
“The Historical Guild of Northern California,” she said, barely paying him any notice as she busied herself with a silver tea service.
The name didn’t help. California was full of do-gooder clubs and historical societies. His mother served on a million of them. He remembered his first night home and her talking about a problem her gang was having with some building or other.
Could she have meant Esprit? No. Of course not. She wouldn’t do something so underhanded. Tabby would have the decency to confront the business owner and give her a chance to make things right. Wouldn’t she?
His shoulder blades twinged from the recent stab wounds in his back he’d recently incurred from his uncle. Maybe that underhanded, as-long-as-I-get-my-way-I-don’t-care-how-I-screw-you habit was contagious.
Hell, he was guilty of it himself. He thought of the money he’d handed over to the busboy across the street to watch the gallery building and the online snooping he’d done on Lynn Castillo. He’d even planned to drive up to Tahoe, where she lived, and confront her in person. But his career suddenly crumbling yesterday had got in the way of that scheme.
But the things he’d done, they’d been to help Sophia. He only had her best interest at heart.
“I wish you’d let me lend you the money so you can just buy the building,” he offered again. He didn’t even have to wait for her to shake her head to know what her response would be.
He didn’t know if her independence was sweet or stubborn.
Probably both.
“That’s kind of you, but no. I couldn’t. I’ll make this happen myself,” Sophia insisted. She gave Max a determined smile and claimed, “One way or another, I’ll work it out.”
His jaw worked as he tried to keep from telling her that one way or another wasn’t good enough. Even though she’d finally given in and decided to do a show with von Schilling, it was going to take more than one show to bring in enough money to buy the building.
Unable to do anything else, Max grabbe
d her hand and tugged so she tumbled into his arms. Soft meets hard.
Hand behind her neck, he pulled her down for a kiss. Her lips were magic, sending a shaft of heat straight through his body. His tongue slipped between her teeth, tasting, teasing and tempting. His ego, among other things, soared when her body went lax, her breasts pressing tight against his chest.
Mmm. She was delicious. He wanted to lose himself in her arms. To let all the worries and decisions fade in the face of such hot temptation. He wanted to explore all the sexy possibilities she was offering.
She slowly pulled her lips away from his and gave his chest a pat, then levered herself to her feet.
She checked the coffeepot and the hot water for tea for the fourth time. “You don’t have to stick around, you know. I can handle this meeting on my own.”
“The guy’s a perv,” Max pointed out. “He takes pictures of naked women. Maybe I’d be jealous leaving him alone with you.”
“Maybe you should be,” Sophia teased.
“After all,” she continued, “he’s seen it all. Done it all. And recorded it all on film.”
Max nodded, getting up to swipe a cookie off the tray. He wandered the room for a few minutes, then dropped to the couch again.
Picking up on his restless stress, Sophia stopped fussing around the office. She sat next to him and rubbed a comforting hand over his knee. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” At least, nothing he planned to talk about until he’d figured out his new career. And made sure Sophia wanted him around. He took a bite of the cookie. Mmm, good. Almost as tasty as Sophia herself.
“Are you sure?” She frowned, her blue eyes shining with concern. “I know I’ve been a little obsessed with my own problems today, but you really do seem off-kilter. Maybe later, we can get dinner and talk. If you don’t have something else to do, of course.”
He winced, the peanut butter cookie turning to dust in his mouth. He had absolutely nothing to do. At twenty-eight, his career about to go up in flames, his family was sure to disown him when they found out his plan, and he didn’t know if the woman he loved wanted him to stick around past the end of the month.
A chilly terror moved through his body. He ignored it, as always, pushing emotion aside. A man didn’t survive defusing bombs if he let emotions in. He’d deal with all of his problems later, after he’d fixed things for Sophia.
After all, ladies should always come first.
“Dinner sounds great,” he finally told her. “I’m all yours, babe.”
11
SOPHIA TOOK A DEEP BREATH, not sure why the idea of Max being all hers made her stomach a knotted mess. Maybe because he looked so miserable about it?
Worried, she watched the impatience roll off him like an early morning San Francisco fog. She wanted to help. She really did. But she had enough experience with stubborn men to know he’d tell her when he wanted and not a second sooner.
Unless maybe she asked naked. Something to try later. Sophia gave a happy little sigh, knowing that image would get her through this afternoon.
Sophia tried not to chew her lipstick off, but, man, she was nervous. Von Schilling was her hero. The man was a photographic genius. And she was going to meet him. Meet him and discuss his show in her gallery.
She hurried to her desk to reapply her ruined lipstick.
“Mr. von Schilling,” she said half an hour later. She forced herself to offer the plate of cookies to the man seated on the tapestry couch instead of throwing it at his head like she wanted. “I don’t understand. Why did you contact me if you didn’t want to do a show?”
“Hans, please,” the gray-haired septuagenarian insisted. “And what do I want with a show? Things like that, they belong in the material world. I’m old. I’ve disavowed the material world in search of a higher spiritual realm. I have no need for adulation and groveling.”
“You have need of money, though,” muttered the woman sitting next to him.
There were four people sitting in Sophia’s office—herself and Hans, one of the most celebrated photographers of his decade, Max, who was silently watching from behind her desk, and Lily, von Schilling’s daughter.
Lily was beige. Beige hair, beige skin, beige clothes. She sort of faded into the tapestry fabric of the couch. Her father, on the other hand, seemed to suck in all the light and color from the space around him. Long and lanky, he looked like the crooked man from that kid’s poem. Knees and elbows poked out at odd angles, not softened at all by his loose hemp pants and shirt, both held together with drawstrings. He’d obviously never left his hippie days behind.
And then there she was, all prepared to graciously accept von Schilling’s request to do a show, then flex her negotiating muscles by getting him to agree to a higher commission. Smart move when she’d thought he was desperate to show and she was his only option.
Now? Now she had a guy who didn’t want to do a show she really didn’t want to give. And now she had to talk him into it? Sophia gave Max a desperate look, but he just shrugged, his expression as baffled as hers.
“Why are you disavowing the material world?” she asked, more to buy time to figure out how to rescue this situation than because she cared.
“I no longer need physical constraints. I have closed the book on that phase of my life,” he declared, his tone echoing eerily through the room. Like one of those TV psychics she remembered watching as a child at one in the morning when she’d snuck out of bed for a snack. “The constant focus on outside demands creates a ripple in my chi.”
“Right,” Lily said, finally speaking up. “But don’t forget that Guru Wolfdragon said you can’t move forward until all of the baggage of the past is released.”
Wolfdragon? Sophia mouthed to Lily. The younger woman rolled her eyes and sighed, then in a subtle gesture out of Hans’s line of sight, rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
Ahhh, Wolfdragon must be from the Guru school of con artists.
“The photos are baggage?” Sophia guessed. And from the look on Lily’s face, she was worrying a little that the baggage might end up a donation to the guru’s retirement fund.
“They tie me to the past,” Hans declared. “I no longer live there and am ready to move on.”
“Okay, so you want to move on.” Baffled, Sophia stared at the two of them. “But if you don’t want to exhibit your photographs at Esprit, why has someone been calling weekly, nagging me to do a show?”
Sophia wanted so badly to rub her forehead and try to massage away the ache there. From what he’d said so far, Hans had spent most of the seventies stoned and never recovered. He’d walked away from his art, claiming the stress of photography was at odds with his Zen.
More likely, his daughter had cut off his dope supply and insisted he get clean.
“Hans is going to do this show,” Lily broke in, her voice quiet, but firm. “His various…hobbies have sunk him in debt. His financial advisor suggested he sell off all those photos that are gathering dust in the attic. He won’t sell direct to the public, though. He claims it’s against his artist ethics.”
“Plebeians.” Hans dismissed her around a mouthful of cookie.
His daughter ignored him, continuing in her soft, almost nothing voice. “This will be his final show. The goal is to sell his entire body of work. His contract with Esprit de l’Art requires that he show them here.”
Sophia glanced over at Max, who was leaning back in her desk chair reading the contract. He met her eyes and nodded, then gave a slight head tilt toward the calendar hanging on the wall next to him.
A reminder, she knew, that the only way the show would be held at the gallery was if they did it next week before word got out that the building was being sold.
Sophia didn’t bother freaking out. There wasn’t time. If she did this show right, and von Schilling was serious about this being his final show, a huge thing since it would be his first in twenty years, then she stood to make enough for a solid down payment on the buildi
ng.
Her gallery, and her future, lay in the hands of a man wearing embroidered silk bedroom slippers and beads in his goatee.
“I’ll be happy to host the show,” she heard herself say. “But we’ll have to have it the weekend of the fourteenth.”
“That soon? Isn’t it a holiday?”
“That’s the only weekend I have available,” she claimed. “And I think tying the show in with the romance and glamour of Valentine’s Day will be a wonderful promotional tool.”
“SO WHAT’RE YOU DOING for Valentine’s Day?” Gina asked as she uncrated yet another stunning framed black-and-white photo. This one of a topless cabaret dancer, one leg stretched to amazing lengths as she bent over a wooden spindle-back chair. “Hot plans for the most romantic holiday of the year?”
“I’m working on Valentine’s, same as you,” Sophia said.
Exhausted, she shoved the long swing of hair off her face and leaned back on her heels. It was casual night in the back of the gallery with she and Gina both in jeans. Gina’s were shredded every which way, held together with band pins, while her own were pure stonewashed comfort.
After her meeting with the von Schillings two days before, she’d called in every favor, used every contact she had to push a promotional blitz like none other. She’d even recruited Max, giving him free rein to contact his country club cronies, his mother’s ladies’ club grand dames and any and all military personnel who might want to see some naked pictures.
Screw glamour and dignity. She’d pulled out Joseph’s show playbook to use as a template. It’d worked plenty of times in the past, and even if she didn’t like it, she knew it’d work now.
“A hugely successful gallery show, with promotion guaranteed from three newspapers, a magazine and a local TV crew,” she muttered, unwrapping the paper from yet another half-naked dancer. “You know, ole Hans must’ve been tight with all the clubs here in the seventies. He’s got cabaret, he’s got ballet, he’s got girls in go-go boots dancing in cages. And he got them all to take their tops off.”
Uniformly Hot! Volume 1 from Harlequin: Letters from HomeBreaking the RulesComing Up for Air Page 29