by Livia Quinn
Just before recess she’d risen from her seat and delivered a low blow saying he had used what happened to his brother to get rich. If she hadn’t been so obviously disrespected by her colleagues, he would’ve walked. In the end, as with most of his endeavors since he was ten, Ridge would win. And lose, as usual, but the losing was his choice.
“There he is!” A woman’s shrill voice was accompanied by a stampede of movement across the lobby floor. Ridge looked up to see a crowd of women headed in his direction. He groaned. Busted. Time to take his medicine.
Off in the distance sitting at the same table where he’d talked to her the night before was Buffy Calloway, grinning and shaking her head, as if to say, it was bound to happen.
“Tucker, would you take a picture with us?” a plump brunette asked, and before he could answer, phones flashed. Women grabbed his arms. “Selfie,” another woman cried and planted her substantial backside to his front and said, “Smile, Tucker,” then asked if he wanted a copy. She offered to e-mail it to him. He smiled at her and declined politely.
Three women came from behind the crowd through the front door and asked if they could get a picture with him. “We met each other over your pants, Tucker.”
“Or whoever you are,” one of them said.
The other explained, “We’re going to split them into three pieces so we’ll each have a souvenir. That was the best strip bingo we’ve ever been to.” Ridge just watched them shuffle for position and sighed.
One said, “Sonya, shoot the picture while he signs my arm.” She bared her shoulder producing a chorus of “sign me(s)” from the other women nearby. Ridge signed the woman’s arm in an unreadable scrawl and felt a firm hand on his arm.
“Sorry, ladies, I have an appointment with Tucker’s standin. If you’ll excuse us.”
Ridge looked down at his savior—Buffy. “I owe you. I think I was about to be divided up like my pants. These women are crazy.”
“They’re enthusiastic, when they like something, or believe in something.”
“Even a charlatan cover man?” Ridge asked as she slipped her arm through his and led them toward the rear elevators. “Where are we going?” he asked when he saw her destination.
She laughed, “Relax. I’m not kidnapping you. Though it would be a hoot.”
A hoot. He’d never heard that expression. He tried to place Buffy’s accent. It was the first clue he’d had to where she was from—the South? She was photographer. Her take-charge manner and confidence suggested she’d traveled and had experience in the entertainment industry. And marketing. Perhaps that’s what he was picking up on. He still couldn’t shake the idea that he’d seen her somewhere. “Are you an actress?” He asked. He saw little TV or movies…
“No,” she said deflecting his question. “I didn’t know if you still wanted to get that drink—”
“Yes, I could use one actually.” He resisted pushing his hair back with his hands. ”Did you have somewhere in mind? Someplace…”
“Where that pretty face won’t be recognized by your doting fans?” He might’ve scowled. “I can see I have my work cut out for me.”
She stopped in front of the elevators. ”Do you need to change, if so—”
“I’m fine, and you look amazing I might add, though somewhat belatedly. I apologize,” he said and did not try to hide his appreciation.
She stood back and let him take a good long look. Her hair was down, the ginger colored mass spilling over her bare shoulders in a riot of shiny curls. The dress she wore was a shimmering rose gold that seemed to pour down her curves like a waterfall. He must be seeing things because he could swear her skin sparkled as well.
He had the sudden urge to lick that pearly flesh from her ears, to… Holy hel—cow, Ridge. You—” He knew her. His jaw dropped. He knew that body. The face. The hair was different… he squinted, trying to bring the image into focus.
It had been a darker red? His lids drifted down as he brought the image closer. She’d been wearing a Scottish plaid. Wear wasn’t the right word; it had been more of a hanky. The material had hidden strategic body parts everyone who bought the magazine had wanted to see. Ridge didn’t buy magazines to look at nude women and never just for the picture of one on the cover. Or, he never had, until that issue of Vanity Fair. He couldn’t lie. He loved the magazine for the way it covered certain issues he followed. That month’s focus had been entrepreneurs.
The woman in front of him had been the star of the article, but like him, he doubted any of the male readers cared about what was between the covers. He’d even have to admit to spreading the magazine open on his kitchen counter, sipping a glass of Glenlivet as he admired the front and back covers. Both photographs, like her, had been elegant, artistic renditions of the perfect female form.
He felt the tightness in his groin as he remembered how many nights he’d sat there looking at those photographs, like a lovesick schoolboy with his first crush. He felt his face flush again. “Lana Maisel. I knew I’d seen you… um…”
She laughed and pushed the down button. “Well, it was only a matter of time. Better to get it over with.”
Chapter Seven
Her smile was genuine and Ridge admired her lack of pretentiousness, the easy acceptance of her notoriety, and sexuality for that matter. She pulled him on to the elevator and hit the garage level.
She’d surprise him once again. “You rented a car?” With so many public transportation options in D.C. and so many parking limitations in the busy downtown area, he expected her to be afoot.
“No, actually, I drive so I can think, and plan.” She popped the locks on a white Porsche 911 Carrera 4S.
He whistled. “Nice.”
“Just a sec.” She bent in front of him to remove a file box, an iPad and a camera case from the passenger seat and popped the trunk. “Make yourself comfortable. I have the seat pushed up.”
Buffy watched Ridge settle onto the white leather seats and stretch his legs out. With those dark good looks and the black hair that brushed his collar and sometimes fell across his dark eyes, he looked like an ad for Porsche… cologne… or diamonds and satin sheets. Her belly curled with desire. She tamped it down, but it was hard. Business before pleasure. His face turned toward hers.
“So, which is your real name, Buffy or Lana?” he asked.
“Both are more my real names than yours, Tucker.” She grinned, enjoying his discomfort.
He grimaced, “Do you think I’ll be able to live that down before it ruins me?”
“Oh, I hope not, but we’ll talk about that over some appetizers. How about Jaleo’s, ever been there?”
A pause, and then, “Anywhere I can wind down is good.”
“Tough day, huh?” Buffy asked.
“I had to testify in some hearings at the Capitol. If I hadn’t been preoccupied by the disagreeable circumstances of the meetings, I would have remembered to take the back entrance.”
Buffy pulled into the traffic and headed toward Pentagon City. She glanced quickly at Ridge. “It wasn’t so bad being an idol for a few minutes, was it? You made their day.”
“I’ve never been considered the life of the party. I guess you could say I’m more of a geek and a loner.”
“How did you end up on stage playing strip bingo then,” she asked, and wanted to pull over so she could see his expression. She could hear the discomfort in his voice though.
“I wish I knew. Why did I wind up on that conference floor? Why did I see your poster? I know the basis of it—” Scientific inquiry, he thought. “Curiosity—the bane of my existence—and the inspiration.” He sighed.
“I’ve always been an explorer of sorts. When I was seven I wanted to build a robot that would travel across more than the flat ground on my backyard, so I spent days in Dad’s workshop watching science shows online, taking classes in mechanics, and ended up reinventing Miko, my remote toy, so well it got me in a world of trouble. I took him out for a trial run and lost track of time. We ende
d up at the bottom of a ravine, with about half the county and at least three police agencies hunting for us.”
Buffy listened with fascination. “How did they find you if you were stuck in the ravine?”
“Oh, we weren’t stuck. I was testing him to see if he could climb up as well as he climbed down. See the use of upper body muscle groups and mechanics…” He launched into an explanation with so many technical terms, Buffy’s eyes glazed over. But not before she realized he was far above her intelligence quotient.
“It seems I’d forgotten to turn his GPS on. I equipped him with a GPS so he couldn’t get lost. I planned on making his remote work…” he paused, looking over at her. “You’re not really interested in all this are you?”
“Fascinated,” Buffy said honestly. And while he finished the story about how his parents had tapped into the frequency of the robot to find him, she thought about Ridge Romano, the geek and self-proclaimed loner. The man—no, the little boy had reprogrammed and rebuilt a toy when he was seven. He must be a brilliant. When he finished, she said, “I want to know more, but we’re here.”
Buffy drove up to the front of the restaurant and Ridge came around to help her out. Points for him. As they walked in the front door heads turned. She was used to that. People recognized her face, her look, whether they knew who she was or not. Tonight, she watched the eyes that admired her companion. This geek had a polished manner that drew their gaze. She realized what it was, military bearing and discipline, not to downplay his looks.
When she called for reservations, she’d requested a secluded table and as usual her name had opened pathways closed to many. But she wasn’t the only one who was recognized. The hostess spoke to Ridge. “Mr. Romano, how nice to see you twice in one day. Ms. Calloway, your table’s this way.”
After they were seated, Buffy asked, “You were here today?”
“One meeting was at the Pentagon. I’m transferring the security business to my partner. Internal Security Systems specializes in research facilities, and I was meeting with DoD to make sure the contracts were still going to stand since it’s essential that it remain operational.”
Buffy said, “You were about to tell me how you ended up on the stage doing such a great impersonation of a stripper…”
He chuckled, “No one was more surprised than me. If you told anyone who knows me about it, as God is my witness, they’d call you a liar.”
“Not a fun magnet, eh?” Buffy studied Ridge.
His light expression fell. “I don’t have much time for fun.”
Whoa, wait. Where had Mr. Stuffy come from all of a sudden? Buffy frowned, “Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The waiter took their drink orders and Ridge sat back. “I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten over the strange confrontation that happened today. A personal attack in the middle of what should’ve been a straightforward information exchange between parties with, I assumed, a common goal.”
“What is that?”
“Veterans issues. The congressional committee was meeting about funding for PTSD and Traumatic Brain Injury, which affects ninety percent of our vets. I was there to lend support to some vets and their family members. Our youngest vets have suicide rates that are four times higher than other veterans. It’s past alarming. Something has to be done.”
So much passion blazed in those dark eyes. This was a warrior, a man who placed others’ needs above his own, whose passionate beliefs were responsible for his lack of fun. Now she understood.
She felt guilty that her biggest concern was talking him into posing for her, and she realized, she’d never be able to convince him that modeling, being the face of her ad agency was as important as his work. He was a hero. His work was infinitely more important than hers.
Grandmama Calloway might as well have been whispering in her ear, the curl in her belly was so strong. As stout as a baby’s kick. He’s the one! The one! There was a cry going out from her subconscious as his hands animated the needs of the vets.
Then she remembered what he’d said. “What did you mean by ‘personal attack’?”
Chapter Eight
His hair slipped over one eye as his head dipped to the side. He ran his large hand through it as if that would make it obey. It didn’t. “I’d rather talk about you. What happened to Lana Maisel? Was there some reason you don’t like the name?”
“Oh, no. Lana Calloway is my real name, and Maisel, my mother’s maiden name. I always planned on using Buffy Calloway for my new enterprise. My great-grandfather christened me Buffy when I was two. Lana is…was a public persona I don’t feel is necessary to the success of my business. I’m trying to create a bit of separation between her life, and mine. At home, no one calls me Lana. And enough people know of my photography as Buffy Calloway that I hope it won’t create an obstacle.” She brushed the strands back over her ear.
“There are strong women in my family, the Calloways. I’m proud of them and want to pay homage to them; I’m even thinking about calling the business the Calloway Talent Agency or Calloway Studios. I haven’t decided on a name yet, but it’s important that I have one soon.”
She admitted, “I feel a little silly, after hearing about the work you do.”
“You shouldn’t. Passion is an individual trait. That’s something I try to impress upon the guys I meet who felt like they had purpose in the service and now they’re trying to find a new direction. So many are suffering from mental disorders or injuries that keep them from regaining their former lives. They can have more than one life purpose, one passion, one hope, but knowing that under those circumstances is difficult.”
He sipped his scotch. “Tell me about this company you’re starting.”
Ridge listened attentively while Buffy laid out her plans to open her agency; told him how she’d worked toward it every minute she hadn’t been on a shoot, not that she was idle then. She’d collected scenery from all over the world.
“Artists, web designers, marketing firms—all your stock photo sites use images to create their custom designs. And video is one of the most powerful new tools. Clients like the traditional publishers and film companies, require detailed shots with specific requirements regarding actors, costumes and settings.”
“I detect a southern accent, where is home?”
“Larue, Louisiana. I’m anxious to get there, too. I traveled so much in the last eight years that when I drive up to my farmhouse out in the country, I get an overwhelming sense of peace…”
“Seems kind of a rural location to put a business like yours.”
“Larue is a great location, set near the beautiful backdrop of Storm Lake. You wouldn’t believe the variety of scenery there. It’s located northwest of New Orleans, close to Lafayette, plenty of larger cities that have already had success in film production. I want to take advantage of that, offering not just extras for movies and advertisements but continuing to build a gallery of photo stock and custom shoots for the publishing industry, in particular the romance segment.
“The demand for images for book covers has exploded since the popularity of electronic readers.” Buffy had envisioned this when she placed her photo gallery online four years earlier. By the time she retired from modeling at the ripe old age of twenty-four, she’d already had a substantial client base for her stock photos.
She’d loved being outdoors, capturing the beauty of nature, but her passion was for producing photo shoots and video trailers that brought the consumer straight into the settings and scenarios. “It’s the interaction between the production and the audience, that creates the challenge, and brings that desire to the table. It’s the photo, the ad, the actor that will elicit that emotion in the public and make them act, and that will make a success out of the Calloway Agency.
“My success will depend on the ability to make the most out of my first couple of years, the funds I have set aside for hiring designers, buying costumes, sets, equipment, promotion and rent. A friend of mine’s mother offered me
a property rent free, but the location is farther away from New Orleans and Larue, and I’m afraid that’s a sticking point for me. I’ve dreamed of going back home for nine years.”
His eyebrows rose and she grinned, “Yeah, I started modeling when I was fourteen, left home when I was fifteen. This is my dream. I’ll make it work. Besides the building location, there’s just one other important detail, and to me it’s the most important. Without that, I might fail.”
Ridge almost looked over his shoulder, so strong was the prickling on the back of his neck.
“A face—the face—of my franchise. One to start, and more as soon as I can afford more contracts.”
“Lana—”
“Buffy. Hear me out, Ridge. You have exactly what I need. The women at the conference confirmed my choice. You’re very photogenic and it’s not like you’d have to move or give up any of your work. I could come to you at first, most of the time anyway.”
“I can’t, Lana—Buffy.”
“You mean you won’t.” She held up her hand. “That’s your right. I mean that, I… just don’t sound like it.”
Ridge made a sound in his throat and looked apologetic. “I mean, I can’t. Besides the fact that I can’t see myself—like those covers in that swag room—those guys really put it out there.”
“You could do it. I see it in you, Ridge. On stage, the emotion, the fun, the way you worked the crowd…” He winced. “You’re a natural.”
His eyes flared briefly and he threw himself back on the chair, swiped his hands down over his face. “Worked the crowd makes me feel like a stripper at a night club. I’m sorry to let you down. The work I do depends a lot on my reputation. Those models, hell—sorry—some of the books I saw on the shelves in the gift shop and in that room—the men were bare-assed, some dressed in…heck, I was worried about iPhone pictures going out over Facebook and getting to the wrong people; I’d be totally discredited if my face and body were on a racy romance cover.”