She frowned, then shrugged. Not like she could do anything about it anyway.
Chapter 3
Waiting for Autumn, Rennie idly clicked through the TV menu.
Hadn’t his mother emphasized Autumn specialized in sexy photographs of women? So why was that explicit picture of Francisco in her bedroom? Arrogance? No, she was too modest.
If she’d taken it, she was as good as everyone said. The photo projected the smoldering carnality that intrigued any female foolish enough to venture within ten feet of Francisco.
Autumn should be too smart to fall for his overbearing brother, but that picture was too intimate, too revealing.
Nope, he had to be wrong. Francisco and Autumn didn’t belong together.
Like he and Jane hadn’t belonged together.
Disgusted, he switched off the TV and lay back into the squishy sofa.
Seemed he was good at choosing women wedded to their careers. Maybe this time he’d learned his lesson. He laid his head back, clasped his hands on his stomach, and stared up at the ceiling.
Pointless to dwell on the past. The future would keep him busy enough. He’d have to find a place to live in Athens, put down utility deposits, give notice at his job, sublease his LA place, get his things packed and shipped…
Not today. All that could wait. He had a whole week off to relax, get his head together.
He stretched, edgy in the condo despite its soothing blues and greens, its precise placement of furniture.
Such tidiness contrasted with the Degardoveras’ constant state of chaos. His mother, who cleaned for other people, kept her own carpets vacuumed and floors mopped, but with nine children, nothing got put away. He was used to clutter.
Face it, man, you’re thirty-five years old. Time to admit you aren’t going to change. Once a slob, always a slob.
Unlike Autumn.
The first time he’d seen her, she was five. She wore a pink dress with a matching hair bow and shiny black shoes, and looked like a child model. When later, the kids ate snacks, her place at the table was, unlike everyone else’s, free of crumbs.
She’d been fastidious then. From what he could see, she still was. Everything out of place here belonged to him.
And that was why her being with Francisco irked him. She was too structured, too trusting. Francisco would break her heart.
Not that Autumn’s love life was his affair.
And wasn’t there some compulsive disorder associated with excessive neatness?
He snorted. “Your envy’s showing.” Getting up, he slipped on his scuffed loafers that needed replacing. One of these days, he’d get around to it.
Over the fireplace, a Richmond Stubbs watercolor, full of peaceful blues, graced one side of the mantel. On the other stood candlesticks he’d given Autumn for her seventeenth birthday, his last spring at home. Mom had asked him to take her to an estate sale where he’d spotted them. Graceful, on marble bases with curving pewter tops, they reminded him of Autumn.
They’d been buds back then. No stand-offishness like today.
What was up with that? She was reserved even as a child, but after that warm welcome today, she’d cooled noticeably.
Because she was disappointed? Maybe. Unlike him, his brother fascinated women, in particular standoffish women like Autumn. Those types fell all over themselves for Francisco.
He’d hate for Autumn to be one more conquest.
Light quick steps flew down the stairs.
The slacks and knit blouse showed she was still willowy, but she’d changed her hairstyle. Close on the back and one side, but long and clinging to the other jaw in a trendy cut that accentuated gold highlights and set off delicate bones.
“I like your hair like that.”
“Thanks. It’s easy to take care of.”
Like she was easy to look at. Autumn had always been pretty and still was.
She dropped a duffel on the varnished foyer floor, barely missing the skulking cat. “What did the garage say about my car?”
“Not ready yet. A belt hasn’t come in. Maybe Tuesday.”
“Drat. They sent for that belt a week ago. I guess it can’t be helped. Good thing I have a ride.” She smiled at him, a natural smile but not radiant like earlier.
What made the difference? Emotion. Or its absence. Perhaps spontaneity. Sure, that was it. Autumn hid her feelings, but for one brief instant on seeing him, delight had won out.
She was happy to see him.
Not that you could tell now. She was as restrained as ever.
“I’d hate to miss Laney and John’s party.” She opened a closet door and pulled out a Dresden blue jacket which, when slipped on, turned out to be a swingy cape-like affair.
A lot different from the tailored blazers she used to wear. This coat was flamboyant enough for one of his sisters. It didn’t look like Autumn, but what did he know?
“Nice jacket.”
She started to close the closet door as the big orange cat streaked inside, left it cracked. “A little dashing, maybe.” She flipped the cape sides and twirled. “But Aunt Laura bought it for me after my uncle died, when we went to Europe to recuperate. It’s wool, warm. The weatherman says Helen will be cold this weekend.”
“Cold, but we’ll enjoy it.”
“Uh huh. Helen’s a fun place.” Her fingers, ringless with short nails, fastened buttons with unhurried efficiency.
No longer plump and dimpled, her hands were thin and agile. A woman’s hands. He’d been thinking of her as a girl. “I haven’t been up to Helen in years. I might not recognize it.”
She was, what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? No. She was between Laney and Norma. Laney was thirty-one and Norma had turned twenty-nine last February so she’d be…
Thirty? Could that be right? Yeah, when he’d left home she’d been barely seventeen. He’d sure changed in the intervening years so how could he expect Autumn to stay the same?
She set a camera bag down beside the duffel.
He walked over. “Want me to get those?”
“I’d rather you pull the minivan inside my garage. I don’t want to leave it out while I’m gone and there’s no need to take it back to the studio since my car isn’t ready.”
“Sure.”
One hand threw her key to him as the other brought out a cell phone. A confident woman used to coping with any and all situations. “While you do that, I’ll check in with the studio and then make sure Squeaky’s got enough dry food and litter. Oh, and watch her. She’ll dart outside if you aren’t careful.”
He wasn’t sure he liked this poised stranger as well as the shy girl.
When he moved the van inside her garage, a memory stick fell from an open dash pocket marked with an SS and today’s date.
Inside, he said, “A thumb drive fell out of the dash, but I put it back.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it to the studio Monday.”
He couldn’t resist teasing. “Celebrity shots, by any chance? Like maybe of the notorious Sarita Sartowe?”
Her blue eyes widened. “How did you—? Oh. Fran, I suppose. He blabs everything.”
“The boy can’t help himself.”
Not that his brother would confide anything to Rennie about Sarita. Not after last year’s full-fledged quarrel. A quarrel that had nothing to do with Sarita but everything to do with Francisco’s deep-seated, mystifying envy that made him try to outdo his big brother in every way.
Rennie would never understand Francisco.
Fair was fair though. “Actually, the kid was the soul of discretion. Mom couldn’t help crowing about how she got you the commission through Kaneka.”
Kaneka, Sarita’s mother, was another of his mother’s housecleaning customers.
Autumn made a moue. “It doesn’t matter, except I wanted to tell you myself and impress you.”
“Hey, I’m impressed, believe me. Mom said you were taking the proofs to Sarita today. I gather she liked them.”
“I think so.”
“You think? You couldn’t tell? Knowing Sarita, I’m sure she gave you some pretty heavy hints. She’s not the reticent type.”
Not in the least.
If only he could forget the days of hysterics and quarrels and laughter. The nights of biting and scratching and name-calling. The screaming, shattering orgasms after making up.
Sarita could never be called reticent.
Not that Autumn would ever know anything about Sarita’s proclivities or his long-ago part in them.
One whole summer in thrall. He’d been young but still… How could he have been so naïve? Those memories could belong to another person.
He’d give anything if they did.
“Actually, Sarita was very outspoken.” Autumn glowed. “She said she liked them, loved them, adored them. She’s going through the proofs right now to see which ones she wants.”
“Then why aren’t you excited? Aren’t you happy?”
The glow vanished. “Sure. I’ve never been one to jump up and down.”
He’d hurt her feelings. “Of course not. You never get wound up about stuff. Are you going to do more pictures for her?”
A tiny line creased her brow. “She wants me to shoot publicity shots for her concert tour next summer. She says if I move out there, I’ll have no trouble getting clients.”
“Move? To LA?” She’d never make it in Sarita’s world. She’d be broken in six months.
He couldn’t say that. What Autumn did was none of his business. “Big decision.”
She ran fingers brusquely through her hair, a gesture that would have signaled nerves in anyone else. Her pacing, true to form, was slow and dignified. “I thought I could fly back and forth at first, see how it goes. Then later I might move. I don’t know. Fran says California’s terribly expensive. Is it?”
Candid blue eyes fastened on him. Maybe she was nervous.
“Yeah, it is pretty expensive.”
“Fran says that’s why he came back, that the cost of living was so high he couldn’t stay. Is that why you came back, too?”
Fran says. Autumn couldn’t be so naive as to fall for a womanizer like Francisco.
He chose his words. “Money was part of the reason. But this opening at the University came up and I was sick of—” No need to broadcast his failures. “Sick of working eighty hours a week.”
“I see.”
“Besides, California’s too weird for me. I’m a straitlaced conservative at heart.”
“I thought you were a liberal Democrat.”
“No, ma’am. Not me. I’m one of the dissatisfied, disenfranchised, disinterested independents.”
Thick lashes narrowed and nearly converged into one black line. He’d forgotten the way her eyelashes bunched together when she laughed. Autumn was a nice kid, even if she was a neat freak.
No, not a kid. A nice woman. “Ready to go?”
“Son as I get the groceries I’m taking up to the cabin.” When she passed by, her perfume wafted by, the same rose scent she’d worn in high school.
It had clung to his shirt after she cried on his shoulder the night before he left for graduate school, when she’d begged him to take her with him. The poor kid was miserable at home, but he’d pointed out that the next year she’d be going to college herself. He’d hated leaving her with her aunt and uncle, but he’d persuaded her she could hack one more year.
That was all he could do. And they’d never again mentioned her lapse nor his inadequate response.
“Hey!” he called after her. “I wouldn’t mind a preview of Sarita’s photos. Or any of your work. Mom and the girls have been bragging like crazy about you, but I’d like to see samples.”
Over her shoulder, she made a wry face. “The kinds of pictures I take don’t lend themselves very well to viewing by third parties.”
“Oh, come on. I’m a good critic of naked women. I’ve seen at least five in the flesh, counting my sisters and Tia Alejandra.”
“When you were six? Sorry. Confidentiality is something my clients insist upon.” She disappeared into the kitchen without sounding the least bit sorry. Instead, she sounded like the successful photographer his family claimed she was.
Oh, yes, the Degardoveras had been delighted to fill Rennie in on Autumn’s mushrooming career.
When her uncle had died and she’d dropped out of Ringling Brothers College of Art to join her aunt at the studio, its trade had consisted of the usual family, business, and school shots. Autumn had begun experimenting with intimate photographs, staged in the comfort of women’s homes among familiar surroundings. According to Laney, the shots sexed up the plainest female.
And Sarita’s photos, Reseda had prophesied, would make Private Portraits by Merriwell known worldwide.
It’d be nice if his mom was right. But Autumn ought to stay in Georgia. California might be touted as a place where dreams came true, but far more dreams died there. He’d hate to see that happen to Autumn.
She reappeared. “Besides,” she said, taking up their previous conversation, “I don’t photograph naked women. Most of the time, the vital spots are covered.”
“That can’t be fun for their boyfriends.”
“You’d be surprised. I haven’t had any complaints. Ready?”
After loading her groceries and bags in the trunk, he got behind the wheel. “I noticed Francisco’s picture in your bedroom upstairs. Did you do it?”
Damn, why did he bring that up?
“Yes.” Her crinkling eyes hinted at agreeable recollections. “Did you like it?”
“It was great. You captured everything about him in that one shot. Everything.”
So she did have something going with Francisco. Mom, zealous in policing her children’s romantic interests, had hinted that Francisco was serious, but Rennie had heard that before. Autumn, elegant and refined as she was, should have been proof against his brother’s volatile charm. Couldn’t she see that Francisco was all surface and no substance?
From the looks of that photograph, no.
She’d shot Francisco nude, sprawled in a squashy armchair with his legs stretched out before him. Concessions to modesty were the angle of one half-bent knee and a religious medal hanging around his neck. An unidentifiable but unmistakably feminine garment lay in a frothy pile at his feet. While one hand held a cell phone, the other held a condom foil. His dark curls hugged an old-fashioned, wired telephone receiver, caught between ear and shoulder. Sultry eyes challenged the camera.
The picture implied that Francisco murmured enticements on the phone to one lover while simultaneously seducing a second with his eyes and texting still another on his cell.
Autumn had to be the lover in the room.
He turned the ignition key. It was none of his business, but he couldn’t help himself. “I didn’t think you photographed men.”
“I don’t. Just Fran.”
The indifferent words emphasized her life separate from his, a life he had to guess at. Sunglasses covered her eyes, further distancing her.
Rennie couldn’t imagine her flailing beneath Francisco in passionate abandonment. Someone like Autumn shouldn’t be with anyone remotely resembling his brother.
How the hell could she fall for Francisco?
He pulled the Lexus away from the curb slowly, smoothly, with no jerk or screech of tires.
Madre de Dios, he hated seeing a fine girl—woman!—like Autumn fall victim to Francisco’s charm.
****
As Rennie and Autumn started their journey toward Helen in northeast Georgia, Sam Bogatti sat in a car parked at a hamburger place. Cars whizzed by on the busy side street, several entering and exiting beside where Sam dialed a throwaway cell phone.
“Yes?” came the tentative voice over the phone lines.
“Me.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sam didn’t take the rudeness personally. His call hadn’t been expected and wouldn’t be welcome. “We gotta problem.”
A pause cam
e, like Bernie was searching his memory. “What kind of problem?”
A gray-haired couple got out of a sedan and went inside, walking side by side without speaking to each other, complacent like two people who’ve lived together for so long that each knows the other’s thoughts.
He and his old lady would look like that in fifteen or twenty years.
“I said, what kind of problem.”
Sam dragged himself back to the present. “Like some pictures.”
Silence, then: “What kind of pictures?”
“Like of the stuff.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No.”
“You mean she took pictures of the stuff?”
Bernie might be a high-powered lawyer, but he was dumb, dumb, dumb. Dumb enough to get on Sam’s nerves. “No, asshole. Somebody else took pictures of her wearing it.”
A hiss came over the line, a long-drawn exhalation. “You get the pictures?”
“Yeah, but somebody took ’em, saw the stuff. Somebody here in town.”
“Do you know who?”
Bernie was scared. About time.
“Yeah. So here’s the thing. Do I recover any originals and the camera? Or let it all slide and hope the photographer’s got a bad memory?”
Sam knew what he’d do if it was up to him, but he wasn’t about to call the play. Decision-making wasn’t his job.
The line went silent. Sam pictured Bernie chewing on his bottom lip like he did every time he got nervous.
Dumb ass. What was there to think about?
“We can’t let it slide,” came at last. “If anybody sees, puts two and two together… We can’t risk somebody… And if the guy who made the pictures remembers… I don’t know.”
A sturdy teenager in leggings and tee shirt emerged from the hamburger place with a super-sized drink and paper bag.
Kids. Eating that kind of stuff and no exercise would make her sloppy-fat in five years. Good thing his boys liked sports. They had to work out and watch their diet. His wife was good about cooking lots of vegetables and fish, too. And that chicken broccoli casserole she made…
Bernie was still thinking out loud. “Probably on the computer, too. Damn digital cameras. You’ll have to, you know, take care of it. Him, too. The photographer, I mean. We can’t risk him recognizing the stuff.”
Intimate Portraits Page 3