by Donna Hill
Margaret appeared in the doorway as silently as she’d left. “Jean is ready for you,” she said.
She led them upstairs, turned right at the top of the landing and walked down a long hallway that was lined on either side with photographs of Cartel members. Danielle caught a glimpse of Savannah’s mother, Claudia, and just before Margaret tapped on the partially opened door, Danielle saw a picture of a smiling Savannah.
Wow, it’s like going to the White House or somewhere prestigious and seeing the rows of presidents hanging on the walls, she thought, then she wondered if her picture would wind up there one day.
Margaret opened the door, stepped aside and let Savannah and Danielle pass. “Good luck,” she whispered to Danielle before closing the door behind her.
The room was dimly lit by an antique lamp on a desk behind which Jean sat. Outdoor sunshine was blocked by the heavy brocade drapes, in sharp contrast to the floor below.
“Ladies.” Jean took off her pink-framed glasses and stood. “Thank you for coming. Please have a seat.” Her radiant red hair fell in soft waves around her delicate face to brush her shoulders.
Danielle noticed that her skin was almost translucent as a trickle of perspiration shimmied down the center of her own spine even though the air-conditioning was running at optimum level. She took a seat opposite Jean and next to Savannah. She crossed her ankles and drew in a long, calming breath, then put on her best smile.
“How are you feeling these days, Savannah?”
Savannah gently patted her barely noticeable baby bump. “If I can get past these first three months, I just might survive.”
Jean offered a lukewarm smile. “Children.” Her right brow flicked reflexively. “They never factored into my life—always busy traveling, getting from one assignment to the next.” She sighed. “Now it’s too late.”
“I’m sorry,” Savannah offered.
“Oh, don’t be,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’d make a terrible mother. I don’t have a nurturing bone in my body.” She turned her attention to Danielle. “Ms. Holloway.” She said it in such a way that it hung in the air, more like an accusation than a greeting.
Danielle swallowed and offered a tight-lipped smile, feeling as if she’d been caught with her top off in the boys’ locker room with the captain of the basketball team. “It’s good to meet you.”
“I’m sure that Savannah told you this is completely against protocol. This is not how we recruit members.” She tossed Savannah a sharp look, and Savannah adjusted her behind in her seat. “However, because Savannah did such an excellent job on her first assignment and was recruited by her mother, whom I hold in the highest regard…” She drew in a breath, then on the exhale said, “I’ve decided after much deliberation and consultation, to consider your admittance.”
Danielle felt her lungs fill with air and realized that she’d been holding her breath. She almost broke out in laughter, she was so relieved.
“However, you have no skills. You haven’t been trained. Ideally I should be using one of our more seasoned members, but I wanted Savannah for this job. Obviously she can’t handle it now, and because you and Mia Turner were so integral to resolving the land fraud deal, I think that you would be a perfect substitute.”
“Thank you.” I think.
“You’re going to have to take a crash course. We don’t have much time to get you up to speed. You will need to master in two weeks what would normally take two to three months. If I’m satisfied with your progress at the end of the training, you’ll get your kit and be briefed on the details of the assignment.”
“Is she always like that?” Danielle asked once they were safely inside Savannah’s car.
Savannah grinned. “Like what?”
“So…distant, no-nonsense and…cold.” She fastened her seat belt.
“In her position, I think you have to be. She has a lot of responsibility.”
“You think she has a man in her life?”
“You would ask something like that,” she said, laughing. “Why?”
“Just figured if she had a man, it would loosen the lines around her mouth.”
Savannah cracked up. “Girl, you are terrible.”
“Just honest. Anyway,” she continued as Savannah pulled off, “what does this training entail?”
“Well…”
It was nearly nine by the time Danielle got home. She’d told Nick that she was going with Savannah after work to look at cribs.
“Hey, babe,” Nick said from the archway of the kitchen. He brushed a damp lock of hair away from his forehead and stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. His torso was a series of hard ripples, his slightly tanned skin glistening with water where the towel had missed. His eyes sparkled and crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which was often.
Danielle’s heart sputtered in her chest, and that butterfly feeling in the center of her stomach went on a rampage. Just looking at Nick and having him look at her with such love and lust in his eyes made her weak all over.
She tossed her bag on the counter and slowly approached him. He leaned against the frame of the door. She stood right in front of him, barely a breath away, and pressed the palms of her hands against his chest.
Nick lowered his head, brushed her fluttering eyelids with his lips.
Danielle felt the heat tap out a rhythm between her thighs.
Nick snaked an arm around her waist, his other hand cupped the back of her head. His mouth dragged down her upturned face, planting kisses until he reached her lips; then he took her mouth in movie close-up fashion, slow, soft and sure.
Danielle’s body vibrated. She sighed into his mouth as his tongue played with hers.
Nick pulled her tightly against him. Dani groaned, feeling the bulge of his erection press firmly against her stomach.
He lifted his mouth from Danielle’s. Her eyes remained slightly parted, then fluttered open. Nick’s lips curved upward.
“And how was your day?” he teased, stroking her back.
Danielle pressed her head against his chest. “It just got better, but I need to get settled.”
“No problem. I fixed dinner. Come on out when you’re ready.”
She tilted her head back, looked into his inky dark eyes and lost herself in the light that danced in their depths.
“I…I’m crazy about you,” she whispered over the sudden tightness in her throat.
For a nanosecond she caught the flash of disappointment that passed across his gorgeous face and dimmed his eyes. Then it was gone, and that half smile that always made her melt was in place.
“I know.” His gaze locked with hers, seeing beyond her words.
Danielle tugged in a breath. “I’ll be out in a few.” She picked up her purse from the hall table and walked toward their bedroom. She plopped down on the side of bed and took off her shoes.
A sense of exhilaration rippled through her. She had her first assignment—well, almost—and she couldn’t wait to get started with her training. Two weeks, humph, she could handle it. Piece of cake.
She got up from the bed and began to take off her clothes. Walking into the bathroom and turning on the shower, she wondered how she was going to handle Nick, especially if he was going to the spa right across the street. Geez, how freaky was that?
Not only did she and Nick live together, but they also worked together as fashion photographers. Their days were busy, often grueling yet at the same time exciting. They loved what they did and were as passionate about their work as they were about each other. The adrenaline rush that they felt all day while shooting those perfect shots, getting the lighting just right to frame the model, spilled over into the bedroom, where they strove for the perfection that would run them all day as they watched the other work—Nick getting turned on watching Danielle style the set, then get behind the lens to capture the moment, or Dani as she looked on while Nick, now behind the camera, coaxed and cooed at the models to bring out that special something that wou
ld pop on film.
Maybe that was what made their lovemaking so intense, so passionate and earth-shaking, Danielle thought, as she stepped under the rush of water. The need that built up between them all day exploded at night.
She knew their relationship was more than great sex. There were feelings involved. Nick was in love with her. She knew it, she felt it, he admitted it.
She also knew that she had deep feelings for Nick. She felt it deep in her soul. It was probably love—something she admitted hesitantly to Savannah and Mia but never to Nick. She couldn’t. If she did, it would become real—and if it was real, it could hurt her and she could lose again.
Danielle lathered her body with her favorite mango body wash, running her hands over her smooth skin. They settled for a moment over her flat stomach.
Life once bloomed there. Once. Not even Savannah or Mia knew. She never spoke about it. Too painful. Because, of course, if she said it out loud, it would be real and that devastating reality she wouldn’t deal with.
So she kept that dark part of her life buried so deep beneath the surface that she hardly thought about it, especially because she could cover it all up with beauty, excitement, work—and now Nick Mateo.
Danielle stepped out of the shower stall and wrapped herself in a thick, pearl-gray towel. Before leaving, she caught a glimpse of herself in the foggy mirror. The ethereal image evoked a sense of illusion—something or someone being there but not quite. That was her. That was her life.
She opened the door and the cool rush of air blew in, dissolving the steam. Her image cleared. The hazy edges evaporated. There she stood, the way the world saw and knew her. She looked away.
“You and Savannah find a crib?” Nick asked before he lifted a forkful of penne pasta swathed in primavera sauce to his mouth.
“Crib?” For a moment, Danielle had no clue what he was talking about.
“Yeah, you said you two were going crib shopping.”
“Oh.” She laughed, hoping to cover her gaff. “Yes, uh, we looked around. There were a couple that she really liked.” She kept her gaze focused on her mixed-green salad.
Nick angled his head a bit to the right. “Are you okay? You seem out of it since you got home.”
She forced herself to look at him, and her heart hammered in her chest as the lie flowed smoothly from her lips. She shrugged, then reached across the small table and covered his hand. “You know the kind of day we had, and then all that walking around from store to store this evening. I don’t know how Savannah does it, but I’m beat. That’s all.”
Nick stared at her a moment.
“For real,” she insisted with a smile.
“Okay.” He paused. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”
“Of course.”
It was the first lie and, like scalding water it burned her tongue, and she knew it was only the first of many.
“Are you all set for your shoot tomorrow?” she asked, switching to a neutral topic.
“Yeah.” He dipped his bread in the sauce and took a bite. “I’m going to the site early to check on the final details.”
“If I can finish in time with my meeting with Michael Preston, I’ll stop by. I’m determined to get the account to photograph the ads for his new line.”
Nick chuckled. “I love when you get that little bass in your voice and that kick-ass look in your eye.”
“Very funny,” she said, failing at sounding offended.
“It’s one of the things I love about you, Dani, that fierce determination, knowing what you want and going after it.”
Her gaze dragged over the planes and valleys of his face. That determination that he spoke of was instilled in her as a child growing up in a mixed-heritage household, filling out countless applications and checking “other” for ethnicity, never wanting to negate one parent’s heritage for the other and living a life walking that fine line. All of that made her determined to be somebody on her own, independent of tags and labels.
Often she believed that stubborn streak of independence kept her from allowing anyone to get too close, beneath the surface, only to discover that she was no more than a confused girl who was searching for her identity.
She reached over and with the tip of her finger wiped a spot of sauce from the corner of Nick’s mouth.
He took her hand and kissed her fingertips, and she silently hoped that when the investigation was all over he would still want to hold her hand.
Chapter 4
If she could land the Michael Preston account, it would take her business to the next level, Danielle thought, as she entered the building on Seventh Avenue—also known as Fashion Avenue. And she was dressed for the part. Her ebony hair flowed in gentle waves around her face. Her five-foot nine-inch frame was the perfect showpiece for the body-hugging, sleeveless, black cotton T-shirt, covered with a belted, hip-length jacket in a riot of orange, gold and muted green, over skinny black jeans that hugged her hips and defined her long legs.
Danielle gripped the handle of her oversize black leather portfolio and stabbed the button for the elevator. Impatiently she tapped her foot, encased in black alligator sling backs with three-inch heels. The finishing touch was her Sean John designer shades, which gave her a hint of mystery. More times than she could count, she’d been mistaken for the songstress Alicia Keys, and although she’d had several opportunities to profit from the mistake, she never had.
The elevator bell dinged and the stainless steel doors soundlessly slid open. She stepped on with two other riders.
Preston’s offices were on the thirty-fifth floor of the glass and steel tower. She watched the numbers light up as they ascended.
“Love that jacket,” the woman standing next to her said.
Danielle turned. “Thanks.”
“Anyone ever tell you look like Alicia Keys?”
Danielle gave a slight smile. “Every now and then.”
The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “If you’re ever interested in modeling work, give me a call. I do a whole thing with celebrity look-alikes.”
Danielle took the card just as the doors opened on her floor. “Thanks.” She stepped off.
“Call me. I’d love to work with you.”
Danielle took a quick look at the woman before the doors closed. She walked away, shaking her head in amusement, and stuck the card in her jacket pocket.
She strode down the corridor toward the glass doors with the Michael Preston logo on them. She drew in a breath and pressed the buzzer.
“Yes?” came the voice through the intercom from the fashionista sitting at the desk on the other side of the glass door.
“Danielle Holloway to see Mr. Preston.”
The lock buzzed and the door slowly swooshed inward. She entered a space that could only be described as classy. Sleek elegance in simple black and white. Bursting blooms of exotic plants showcased in glass bowls sat majestically on low tables. The stark white walls were adorned with near life-size photographs of models wearing Michael’s creations. The frames matched the walls so perfectly that the images seemed to float. It was a powerful optical illusion.
A stunning young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty greeted her. She was pencil thin with startling blue eyes and a mane of strawberry-blond hair that fell straight as a board down the center of her back, held away from her heart-shaped face with a tortoiseshell headband.
“Good morning.” She stuck out her hand, which Danielle shook. Her thin lips tinged in dramatic fuchsia widened to reveal a brilliantly perfect smile. “My name is Tasha, Michael’s assistant. If you’ll follow me, we can get started.”
We?
Danielle followed Tasha and the scent of patchouli that wafted around her down a short carpeted hallway, turning right along another that was three times the length of the first. Behind either side of the glass walls, designers were busy at work, their creations in various stages of construction.
Tasha led her to
the end of the hallway and opened a heavy inlaid wooden door with Conference Room etched in gold on the front. She stepped aside to let Danielle enter.
Danielle expected to see Michael sitting behind a desk, but he wasn’t.
“Please have a seat, I’m eager to see some of your work.”
Trying not to show her confusion, which bordered on annoyance, Danielle laid her portfolio on a table that could easily seat twenty, and she unzipped it.
“Uh, is Mr. Preston going to be joining us?”
Tasha gave a little laugh. “Michael is out of town. But not to worry. If I like what I see, he likes what I see.”
Danielle blew out a silent breath. This chick wasn’t old enough to know the difference between commercial photography and Photoshop.
“Actually, I’m a fan of yours,” Tasha said, as she sat down and began reviewing Danielle’s work.
“Really?” The knot in her stomach loosened.
“I’ve studied your work at Parsons and The New School for Design in my advertising and marketing classes.”
Her brows rose in surprise. “I had no idea.”
“You have a very distinct style, Ms. Holloway. I could pick your shots out from a crowd any day.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
There was that little laugh again. “I think so.”
Tasha closed the book before she was even halfway finished. Not a good sign, Danielle thought.
“I’d like to take you on a tour of the design floor—get your impressions—and then we can wrap up in my office.”
A little more than an hour and a half later, Danielle was sitting behind the wheel of her Navigator with a retainer check in her hand for ten thousand dollars.
Her head was still spinning. She’d actually landed the account. She was to be the official photographer for the Michael Preston fall collection.
Her photographs would be on his Web site, in his catalogs and all of his promotional material. They’d wind up in every fashion magazine across the country and in Europe.
She didn’t even care why they needed a new photographer. All she knew was that she had finally taken her business to the next level.