The Elliotts 03 - Cause for Scandal

by Anna DePalo

  Maybe that was why he found her so fascinating.

  He glanced over at her now as they strolled the streets of Fort Greene. She had on a short, fitted leather jacket and, under it, a black-and-white striped top that dipped low and was gathered enticingly between her pert breasts. He hadn’t been able to stop his gaze from wandering back there again and again during their recently ended dinner.

  In fact, he’d had to stop himself from whisking her back to his hotel room in order to spend the evening in bed, engaging in hot and satisfying sex.

  “Here we are,” she said, smiling and turning to him, interrupting his thoughts.

  He looked at the storefront behind her. The store windows were draped with red velvet curtains that shielded the inside, and there were no signs indicating what lay within except for a discreetly placed plaque beside the front door with the words Tentra Gallery in black.

  As he soon discovered, however, the space inside was light, airy and loft-like, with a second-floor accessible by elevator. Photographs hung on the walls, each marked by a nameplate and a brief description.

  The gallery had attracted a sizable but not overwhelming crowd. And because he didn’t want to be recognized, he kept his baseball cap on.

  He and Summer started at one end of the gallery and, taking their time, gazed at each photograph individually.

  “Remind me again of why we’re here,” he murmured.

  She laughed softly. “Because Oren Levitt is a good friend and one of the photographers whose work is being shown.”

  “How good a friend?”

  She cast him a sidelong look. “Jealous?”

  “Do I have reason to be?”

  She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “No.” Then she added, “Oren’s engaged to his longtime girlfriend.”

  “Good.” Irrational relief washed over him. He couldn’t recall ever being this possessive—or passionate—about a woman before.

  Just then, a lanky guy whose look was all grunge approached, accompanied by a petite woman with dyed black hair and heavy eyeliner.

  Summer made the introductions, and Zeke gave a nod of acknowledgment to Oren and his fiancée, Tabitha.

  Both seemed impressed and enthusiastic to be meeting the Zeke Woodlow, and, as far as Zeke could tell, the only awkwardness came when Oren asked Summer about how John was doing and she had to divulge their recent breakup. If Oren and Tabitha wondered about Zeke’s own relationship with Summer, however, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

  After Oren and Tabitha had moved on to greet some new arrivals, Zeke glanced down at Summer and said, “Not exactly the type of friends that I’d have thought a debutante like you would have.”

  She arched a brow. “Are you saying you think I’m a snob?”

  “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Until recently, you were all pearls and cashmere, and you’ve still got the posture of a comportment-school grad and the manners for afternoon tea with royalty.”

  Summer sighed. “I met Oren in photography class. I met a lot of different people in my photography classes. I like meeting different types of people.”

  “And yet,” he mused, “you were about to marry a guy who’s apparently just like you.”

  Turning, he sauntered over to the nearest photo on the wall, leaving her to mull over that observation.

  He noticed that she said nothing, but eventually she walked over to join him.

  It seemed to Zeke, from what was on display, that Oren liked to do funky portraits. His work was sort of a cross between the photos of Annie Leibovitz and the art of Andy Warhol.

  When they made their way up to the second floor, Zeke discovered more of Oren’s photographs.

  “This is some of Oren’s earlier work,” Summer said, then added with a frown, “I didn’t know he’d have some of these on display tonight.”

  Zeke spared her a glance as he walked toward the nearest photographs. One was of a clown, another of someone dressed as Marie Antoinette, the ill-fated queen of France.

  Turning a corner, he saw other photos hung on the back of a flat pillar—and was brought up short.

  Daphne.

  It was the same woman who graced the photo that now hung in his mansion back in L.A. The same woman who glorified his dreams. He could swear it was.

  Except the woman in this photograph was dressed in a Victorian ball gown, her hair in an elaborate twist on top of her head, her face made-up and partially obscured by a fan.

  His eyes went to the nameplate accompanying the photo: “Daphne Victoria.”

  “What’s wrong?” Summer asked as she joined him, glancing at his face and then at the photo on the wall.

  He heard her sharp intake of breath before she looked back at him.

  With Summer and Daphne now side by side, Zeke found he could finally really compare the two. The pale-green eyes were the same, but as with “Daphne at Play,” the hair of the woman in the photo was a couple shades darker than Summer’s own auburn.

  “The resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it?” he murmured. He tore his eyes away from the photo and looked at Summer. “Are the photos on display tonight for sale?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good.” He nodded at the photo in front of him. “I’ll take that one.” He glanced around. “In fact, if there are any others like it, I’ll take those, too.”

  “Zeke.”

  He turned back to face Summer, who stood chewing on her lower lip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated. “Oren took that photo.”

  He gazed at her for a moment, then realization slowly dawned.

  Of course. He should have guessed. He wanted to laugh.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked. If it hadn’t been for the heavy makeup and the difference in hair color, he’d have guessed right away.

  The woman who haunted his dreams didn’t just resemble Summer. She was Summer.

  He watched now as Summer nodded. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “What? Why?” He paused, then asked as suspicion dawned, “No one in your family knows?”

  She nodded again. “I posed for Oren once as a favor in order to help him with his career, but only on the condition that he use a pseudonym for me and never publicly link me to the photos.”

  “So that’s why the woman is identified as Daphne.”

  “Yes.

  Another thought occurred, and he drew his brows together. “There aren’t any nudes, are there?”

  Her eyes widened. “What? No!”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Her face shuttered. “I just didn’t want to cause my family any embarrassment.”

  “What’s to be embarrassed about?” He frowned. “Are you sure your motivation was simply that you didn’t want to embarrass your family? Or was this your little private act of rebellion against the strictures of being an Elliott?”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “Let me guess. Striking provocative poses for an up-and-coming but unknown photographer didn’t mesh well with the image of Summer Elliott as the oh-so-proper publishing heiress and Manhattan debutante.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  He grinned. “Tsk, tsk. Not very polite.”

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing.”

  “In fact, I do,” he concurred. “Amusing and fascinating. You see, I already own a photograph of Daphne, er, you.”

  She looked surprised. “You do?”

  He nodded. “It’s hanging in my home in Los Angeles. That’s why I asked you that first night after the concert whether you’d done any modeling.”

  “I denied doing any because no one was supposed to know about it.”

  He grinned. “Caitlin, Daphne, Summer. Are there any other personas that I should know about?”

  “Very funny.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “Daphne has darker hair, though.”

  “My hair was digitally enhanced in the photos to make it a couple of shades darker than it
s natural color.”

  “Ah.” No wonder both Summer and Daphne called forth the song for him: they were one and the same person. In his mind’s eye, he saw “Daphne at Play.” The woman’s face was heavily made-up, her body draped sensuously on a chaise longue.

  “You know,” he mused, “I love the photograph of you that I have back in L.A. It was the reason I was so dumbstruck when you walked into my dressing room after the concert.”

  “You do? You were?” She looked pleased, flattered, and—he hoped this wasn’t just a figment of his fevered imagination—as if she wanted to jump his bones.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said huskily.

  She nodded.

  He wanted her badly. As he punched the button for the elevator, he just hoped he could hold out until they got back to the Waldorf. He didn’t want to think of tomorrow’s newspaper headlines if they got caught having sex in his car.

  Before leaving the gallery, however, he stopped long enough to convince Oren to consider selling him the copyright to all the Daphne photos.

  He’d pay whatever it took. If one photo of Daphne could stir his imagination, who knew what a roomful of photos would do for his creativity? And then, of course, there was the stimulating idea of possessing Summer’s little secret.

  Ten

  S ummer looked around Zeke’s mansion again as she waited for him to return from running an errand. It was a bright Sunday morning, and she relished the mild southern California weather. She couldn’t remember being happier.

  After leaving the art gallery on Wednesday night, they’d wound up back at Zeke’s hotel suite, where they’d made love until the early hours of the morning and then fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

  On Thursday, they’d dined with his parents, whom she’d found to be smart, witty and charming. Sort of, she thought with a smile, like their son.

  And then, somehow, she’d let Zeke talk her into coming out to L.A. this weekend. She’d announced at work that she wouldn’t be in on Friday, so the two of them had been able to fly out to theWest Coast together.

  Now, as she walked from room to room in Zeke’s Beverly Hills mansion, she was struck anew by how impressive his estate was. When they’d arrived on Friday afternoon, he’d shown her around a bit, but she didn’t have a chance to form more than a general impression. She’d seen that the landscaped grounds boasted an indoor pool, a tennis court and a guest cottage. The house itself, a two-story in the Spanish Mission style, had a red-tile roof, arched doorways and a wonderful veranda, where they’d dined their first night al fresco because of the unseasonably warm weather.

  This morning she picked up details that she’d missed in her first walk-through. She loved the way his decor blended antiques of different periods for a look that was stately but still warm and welcoming.

  Gram would have approved. She herself approved. Very much. His style reflected her own tastes.

  As she walked to the back of the house, she couldn’t help thinking that, so far, their time in L.A. had been idyllic. Yesterday she’d snapped photos of him shirtless, then he’d laughingly taken the camera from her and snapped pictures of her. They’d played tennis, then taken a dip in the pool, which had led to their making love in the pool house, despite her halfhearted protests that someone might stumble upon them. At night, they’d eaten dinner at the Hotel Bel-Air, which had one of the city’s swankiest restaurants.

  On top of it all, Zeke was having a subtle but sure influence on other aspects of her life. Her wardrobe had become sexier and more stylish—in no small part, she realized, because she wanted to entice him. And, of course, thanks to him, she was playing hooky from work—and liking it—for the first time in her life.

  Summer stopped as she entered Zeke’s music room, where, he’d told her, he liked to play and compose. She looked again at the photograph that hung over the mantel.

  She remembered when Oren had taken that shot of her as Daphne, the Greek goddess. She’d been nervous because she’d felt as if she were rebelling, just as Zeke had guessed.

  It gave her a thrill to think Zeke had seen “Daphne at Play,” and known that he had to have it. It made her believe that it hadn’t just been she who’d felt an instant connection, as if they’d known each other forever, when they’d met for the first time. It made her think that something significant had started that night—significant enough to necessitate breaking off her engagement to John.

  “I see you’ve spotted the photo,” said a voice behind her.

  She turned from the photograph to face the man who was sauntering into the room.

  “Hello, Marty,” she said. She’d been introduced to Zeke’s manager yesterday. He’d struck her as an experienced music-industry operator who always kept his eye on his client’s interests and who’d perhaps seen too many rising music stars combust on their way to the top.

  Marty stopped beside her. “You know, when Zeke told me that you’d walked into his dressing room back in New York, I thought, what an amazing coincidence.”

  She smiled. “Wasn’t it?”

  “And lucky, too. But then luck’s always seemed to be on Zeke’s side. His first album was released just when the public seemed to have a hankering for romantic and sexy ballads.”

  “I didn’t know it was considered lucky that Zeke met me,” she said, unable to keep from feeling flattered.

  “He was going through a real dry spell as far as getting down songs for his next album. Sort of a writer’s block.” Marty nodded at the space over the mantel. “The photo was the one thing that could unblock him and get the creative juices flowing again.” He looked back at her. “Of course, having you in the flesh has been even better.”

  Summer wondered uncomfortably if there was a double meaning in Marty’s last words, but he just looked at her placidly. Surely he couldn’t have meant “having her in the flesh” literally. Aloud, she said, “I didn’t realize I was helping Zeke’s creativity.”

  “Didn’t you?” Marty returned, then nodded. “Yes, you’re more or less his muse for the time being.”

  Something in Marty’s tone gave her pause.

  Marty looked from the photograph to her again. “You know, at first I was worried. A deep entanglement wouldn’t be good for Zeke’s career. Millions of women see him as a sex symbol.”

  She managed a nod of agreement. She wasn’t sure where this conversation was heading.

  “But then,” Marty went on, “once Zeke explained his involvement with you was for, uh, artistic purposes, I realized there was nothing to worry about.”

  “I see.” Summer felt a tightness growing and taking hold in the pit of her stomach.

  Marty sighed. “Unfortunately, a celebrity of Zeke’s caliber has an image to maintain and a publicity machine that needs to be fed—with the right kind of publicity, of course.”

  “Of course.” She was beginning to dislike Marty, but then again, was she just blaming the messenger? Working at an entertainment magazine, she, more than most people, knew the truth in Marty’s words about the nature of a celebrity’s existence.

  Zeke was at the top of his game. He was young, talented and blessed with movie-star good looks. As a sex symbol, it wouldn’t be good for him to get deeply involved with someone or, heaven forbid, engaged or married at this point.

  “You work for The Buzz, don’t you?” Marty said. “Of course, you understand how these things work. Just in the last couple of days, I had to plant a story linking Zeke to a supermodel and then issue a non-denial to a competing newspaper. Zeke’s got to stay in the public eye, and my job is to keep tongues wagging, but about the right type of stuff.”

  Summer nodded. She really needed for this conversation to end. She felt sick. She should have known someone like Zeke wouldn’t have been attracted to someone like her unless there was an ulterior motive. They were…different.

  How naive could she be? Very, she answered herself.

  Aloud, she said, “Would you excuse me, Marty?” The comportment-school
grad in her kicked in. Politeness under the most distressing situations. Especially in the most distressing situations. “I have a phone call to make.” A little white lie, sparingly used, could rescue anyone from the worst circumstances.

  “Of course,” Marty said. “Enjoy the rest of your stay in L.A.”

  “Thank you,” she managed, then turned and walked toward the door, her head held high and her back ramrod straight. A part of her couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that she was fleeing…and Marty knew it.

  “You’re leaving?” Zeke asked in disbelief. “Why?”

  He’d thought they’d agreed to fly back to New York City together on the redeye tomorrow night. He had a meeting to attend tomorrow morning with his talent agency in L.A., but then he’d be free to accompany her back to New York.

  Instead, here she was packing and announcing she was leaving on an overnight flight tonight.

  Summer tossed her bathing suit into her suitcase. “I decided I needed to get back. I have a job, remember? A job that I want to advance in.”

  He was distracted by the bathing suit. He remembered taking it off her yesterday and what had happened afterward.

  “I know you have a job,” Zeke said, forcing his gaze back to Summer, “but I thought we’d agreed to leave tomorrow night.”

  “I changed my mind,” she said, continuing to pack.

  “Damn it, Summer,” he said, his patience finally snapping as he grabbed the skirt that she was about to toss into her luggage. “Would you look at me? What is this really about?”

  Probably because she didn’t have a choice, she stopped. After a moment, she said, “This weekend has been wonderful, but it’s also made me realize we’re two completely different people with two completely different lifestyles.”

  He just looked at her. What had happened? He thought they’d been heading toward…something.

  She grabbed the skirt back from him and tossed it into the suitcase. “I need to get some perspective, and for that, I think there needs to be some space between us.”