So he’d reined in all his destructive behavior and poured his energy into something positive and healing. Something that grabbed his imagination and let him grow into a world-renown artist. Photography.
When the waiter returned with the whiskey and set it before Oliver, he scarcely noticed. His attention was fixed on the couple that had just walked past him on their way to the bar. More specifically, his interest was snagged by the willowy, graceful woman with sable hair restrained in a low, sleek knot. She looked like a model dressed for a go see in black skinny jeans, a snug black top and lightweight bomber jacket. In her three-inch ankle boots, she topped six feet, inches taller than her companion, something that must have poked at the man’s ego, given his pushy handling of the woman as he directed her onto a barstool.
Oliver bristled as he noted the woman’s stiff posture. Why was someone with her level of sophistication and refinement wasting her time with such a bully?
The woman balanced a model’s portfolio on her lap as the man settled on her far side. Oliver had an unobstructed view of her profile. Even as he noted her sleek dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, suggesting she could be of Filipina descent, his hand moved automatically toward the bag beside him, fingers sliding around the camera inside. What stopped him from drawing it out and aiming the lens at the woman wasn’t a sense of propriety but something else.
He’d taken up photography in high school, observing people, capturing their essence with his camera, taking from them without giving anything back. Once he’d turned professional, he’d snapped photographs that won him great acclaim, but he viewed these as career achievements rather than personal wins.
This woman evoked a desire to appreciate her up close, without the barrier of a camera between them. He wanted to absorb her with his fingers and drink her in with his lips. To close his eyes and listen to the patterns of her voice. But for now, Oliver settled back and let his gaze follow her every movement.
She sat without speaking, her gaze fixed on the cocktail the man had ordered for her, never once reaching for the martini glass. Meanwhile the man slammed two drinks in rapid succession, each one spurring his rudeness as he berated her. The third drink spilled as he gestured with the glass, but the woman had become stone. Yet, despite her stillness, Oliver sensed she wasn’t cowed. Fury, not fear, made her cling to the portfolio on her lap.
Oliver watched their interaction in rapt fascination, wishing he was close enough to overhear their exchange. She wore no rings on either hand, so their relationship wasn’t a permanent one. Oliver was surprised how much this assumption cheered him. But a moment later, all he could feel was a sudden rush of fury as the guy slammed his drink on the bar, making the liquid slosh onto her. Not only did he not apologize as she began blotting her jeans with a napkin, but the guy got up from his stool and delivered yet another ultimatum. Both figures remained frozen while the man waited for the woman to reply. She left off drying her clothes and studied him with solemn eyes for several seconds before shaking her head. Obviously, this was not the response he’d been after, because he spat out a vicious retort and abandoned the woman where she sat.
As the man neared the exit, Oliver picked up his untouched drink and stood in time to bump into the guy. The expensive whiskey sloshed vigorously in the crystal tumbler. With a twist of his wrist, Oliver doused the man.
“What the hell?” he shouted, glaring at Oliver.
“Sorry about that.” Oliver pushed sincerity into his tone, hiding his satisfaction as the bully got a little taste of his own rudeness.
“Sorry?” the man raged, pulling out a business card. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. I want you to pay for my dry cleaning.”
“Of course.” Oliver scanned the card. “Ty Littel. I promise you’ll be hearing from me soon.”
“It’s pronounced Li-tell, not Little.”
Oliver inclined his head and replied smoothly, “My mistake.”
“Whatever.” With a sneer, Littel pushed past Oliver and stomped toward the exit.
Tapping the card against his fingertips, Oliver watched until the man disappeared from sight. He then headed toward the bar and the woman who sat stiffly facing forward, her lips tight with suppressed emotion. Oliver stepped up to her side and slid a fifty toward the bartender to cover the couple’s tab. He’d noted when Littel had left his date that he’d neglected to pay for the drinks.
“That guy was a dick,” Oliver declared, hoping his words would alleviate some of the sting from the previous encounter. “You’re better off without him.”
Not wanting to intrude after what had been a fraught moment for the woman, he’d intended to make the gallant gesture and leave. But then her warm-brown gaze touched his, and for an instant, every thought came to a crashing halt. He was utterly transfixed by the emotions darting across her oval face. Anger. Horror. Recognition. Relief. The changes came so fast that Oliver could barely keep up. But it wasn’t until she slammed the door on her reaction to his appearance that an elusive memory tugged at him.
“Do I know you?” The question blurted out of him.
He expected her to bristle at the obvious pickup line in a hotel bar. Instead, her left eyebrow gave a minute twitch.
“Do I look familiar?”
“Somewhat. I just can’t place you. Are you a model?”
Her lashes flickered, giving the impression that his question displeased her. “For the moment.”
Her enigmatic remark stirred his curiosity. “I thought so. I’m Oliver Lowell.”
A tiny tug at the corner of her mouth might have indicated a smile. “I know.”
Unsurprising, since he’d made a splash in the fashion industry as a model before earning a solid reputation around town for his photography. “Have I photographed you?”
When he’d quit modeling, the transition to fashion photography had made the most sense. He’d started by doing beauty shots for up-and-coming models, and his work had been so well received that he’d started getting offers from magazines.
She shook her head.
“Of course not,” he murmured. “I definitely would’ve remembered you.”
Her enigmatic smile flashed, making his fingers twitch, but as before, not in the direction of his camera. He longed to caress her flawless skin and see if it could possibly be as soft and smooth as it appeared.
“So, where did our paths cross?” he asked, scouring his memories but finding only a vague impression that they’d met. Not surprising, since much of his early twenties were lost in a drug-induced haze.
“We walked the Valentino spring show eight years ago.” As they spoke, she eased the white-knuckle grip on the purse in her lap. Now she brushed a wayward curl behind her ear with long fingers, tipped with short nails painted a forgettable nude. “It was my first runway show.”
Fury and self-loathing burned in Oliver’s gut. “And my last.”
That was the night his friend died from an overdose. A night where Oliver had not been there for Carson because he’d been too busy screwing up his life.
“And now you’re behind the lens,” she said, seemingly unaware that his thoughts had taken him down a dark road. “How does that feel?”
“I like being in control,” he replied, ignoring the mocking laughter echoing in the back of his mind.
Control was something he hadn’t known much growing up as the youngest son of a powerful family. His father had pushed him to do better, to match the achievements of his older twin brothers, and then punished Oliver when he failed to live up to the expectations established by Joshua and Jacob.
He’d had no control when his father told him he would attend Falling Brook Prep and later Harvard. Nor when Oliver had tried to resist his father’s heavy hand and join the photography club. Older brother Joshua’s artistic talent and their mother’s insistence on indulging it, despite their father’s protests, meant that Oliver h
ad been bullied into going out for soccer and baseball.
Nor had he been in control at Harvard. The circumstances surrounding his father’s disappearance led him to act out. Partying and doing drugs had been a deep dive into his anger that his father had abandoned them all.
“Control,” she murmured, her bitter tone deepening Oliver’s fascination. “What’s that like?”
Control was choice. He’d learned in therapy that everyone responded differently to pressure. Josh had chosen responsibility. Jacob decided to retreat. Oliver’s refuge had been oblivion. Until rehab had taught him a different way to cope.
“I like being in charge.”
Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “I imagine you do.”
He considered the scene between her and the man who’d left. “You should try it.”
“Maybe I should.” She swiveled on the stool, facing him. “How do I start?”
“You might start by dumping the boyfriend.”
“Too late.” Her gaze rolled toward the exit. “He already gave me the heave-ho.”
Oliver greeted the bit of news with a nod while satisfaction fired in his chest. His mood was lightening with each passing second in her company. “His loss is my gain.”
Her eyes widened in surprise at his blunt statement, but she made no move to shut him down.
“Earlier you said you’re a model for now,” he continued, eager to learn more about what made her tick. “Are you thinking of quitting?”
“I’ve been modeling since I was one year old. Twenty-five years in the business is long enough, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “I only modeled for five.”
“And quit at the top of your game,” she pointed out. “How come?”
“Always go out with a bang,” he quipped, before thinking the better of his answer. This woman was contemplating a major life change and deserved better than a flippant reply. “If I kept going with modeling, I’d be dead.”
Rather than shock her, his stark declaration caused her to nod. “It really is a terrible business,” she said in complete seriousness. “Why do so many want to break in?”
He wanted to banish the shadows filling her eyes. Their presence hinted at a painful history.
“Obviously for the fast and easy money,” he said, dark amusement lightening his tone.
“And the short hours,” she added, the corners of her lips twitching into a semblance of a smile.
“And of course,” he added, recalling hundreds of rejections that followed hours and hours spent in casting calls, auditions and go-sees, “the self-esteem boost.”
She dipped her head in recognition. “Nothing like being regarded like a piece of meat.”
They both took a second to absorb the words, and Oliver found himself in sync with someone for the first time in more years than he could count. A second later he noticed that his earlier anger was gone. Conversing with this woman was the distraction he’d been looking for.
“So, if you’re not planning to model in the future, what do you want to do instead?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, looking crestfallen. “And until I have a plan, I can’t stop modeling.”
The same desire that had prompted him to dump a drink on her date and pay her bar tab swept through him now. Having little patience for weakness, he’d never championed anyone before. He had no explanation for why now and why this woman except that since she’d entered the bar, his mood had improved, and he didn’t want the distraction to end.
“Maybe I can help.”
* * *
The wild pounding of Sammi Guzman’s heart drove the breath from her body. She gaped at Oliver Lowell, astonished how readily her teenage crush flared back to life.
And yet, was it really a surprise? In snug jeans, a white T-shirt and worn bomber jacket, the man exuded raw male charisma and swoon-worthy sex appeal. She’d been more than a little giddy since he’d sat down beside her at the bar. Now, with his penetrating gaze fixed on her, all sorts of reckless urges were awakening.
“Help how?” she wheezed out, unable to believe her luck.
“Let me take your picture.”
Disappointed, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Oh.”
“Oh?” he echoed, a muscle jumping in his square jaw.
Convinced she’d insulted him, Sammi smiled to soften the rebuff. “That’s not at all what I expected you to say, and I’m flattered that the incredibly talented Oliver Lowell wants to photograph me, but I’m looking to escape my modeling career, not turn up the heat on it.”
Long moments passed while he pondered her response in grim silence. She fiddled with the untouched martini Ty had ordered while her nerves jangled and her thoughts raced. The last time she and Oliver had occupied the same room, she’d been seventeen and he hadn’t known she was alive. In the eight years since, he’d added muscle to his tall frame, changing from a willful pretty boy with an aggressive stare and petulant mouth into a gorgeous hunk with guarded eyes and a commanding presence. One thing that hadn’t changed was his reputation for brilliance and a volatile temper.
“This will be a photo just between us.”
His enigmatic words scrambled her emotions. She didn’t understand his interest in her. For months and months after walking in the same runway show, she’d imagined a different sort of encounter with Oliver, where his penetrating blue eyes wouldn’t look past her or through her, but where she would have his full attention. She’d indulged romantic daydreams where he swept her off her feet and overwhelmed her with soul-stealing kisses.
Of course, nothing like that could ever have happened. Even if Oliver had been interested in her, Sammi’s freedom was limited by her mother. A reckless thrill spurred her racing pulse to greater speed. Although Celeste hadn’t relinquished her influence over her daughter, Sammi was no longer a child.
“Is this your version of come up and see my etchings?” she asked, wincing at the awkwardness of her banter.
He arched his left eyebrow, the one split in half by a scar. Far from taking away from the perfection of his face, the flaw enhanced his appeal.
“No,” he said, even as something hot and unsettling flared in his eyes for the briefest of seconds. “This is a legitimate offer.”
“So this isn’t some elaborate come-on?”
He blinked in surprise. From his startled reaction to her question, she’d read his invitation all wrong. Mortified heat stung her cheeks as she contemplated the bad impression he must have of her. First, he’d seen her badgered and then abandoned by Ty. Now she was misunderstanding his offer to help her.
“Maybe I should explain what I’m talking about.”
“That would be great,” she murmured, determined to stop making a fool of herself.
“What I love about being a photographer is how I get to see the world through the lens of my imagination.” Oliver began his explanation slowly, his gaze directed toward the rows of bottles behind the bar, but his attention was turned inward. “After I quit modeling, I went back to what I’d loved to do when I was still in high school.” His features went as still as stone as he reflected on his past. “Initially I started with what I knew, but being a fashion photographer was nearly as boring as being a model. But I needed to eat, so I took the jobs that came my way. To supplement my income I also helped up-and-coming models build their portfolios. It was in those portrait sessions that I discovered my true passion. And those photos led to my work being noticed. Suddenly I was in demand, with offers from magazines to shoot celebrities and other people of note.”
Oliver paused in his story and shook free of his past. He raked the long fingers of his left hand through his wavy dark blond hair and suddenly seemed younger than his thirty-two years.
“While celebrities are accustomed to being photographed, they wear their public
personas like a mask. I became interested in what made them tick.”
“And did you find out?”
“It often took a long time. I took thousands of photos in a session and often wore them down to the point of exhaustion. It becomes difficult to maintain a facade as the mind grows tired.” From the expression on his face, he’d gone to a moment far away from this hotel bar. “The photos I took in the minutes after we wrapped were sometimes the most fascinating pictures of the day. But they weren’t magazine quality. They were for me and my subjects.”
His deep voice had drawn her into his tale, and she caught herself leaning forward to catch his every word. Shocked to realize she’d dropped her guard, Sammi straightened her spine. Her breath gave a little hitch as her retreat caused his gaze to glance off hers.
Wondering what he’d glimpsed in her eyes, Sammi cleared her throat. “So you showed them the photos?”
“I print one, something that captured their essence and revealed their true nature, and deliver it.” Oliver sounded as indifferent as if he discussed the weather. “It’s up to them to decide what to do with the picture.”
Sammi shivered as a fanciful notion took root. Some cultures believed that taking a person’s photograph was like stealing their soul. For someone who’d spent her life in front of a camera, she’d always kept her emotions hidden and portrayed what the client wanted to see. She’d never observed a single image of herself that came close to exposing all she was.
What would Oliver Lowell lay bare?
“Having your greatest vulnerability captured...” Sammi shuddered. “That sounds terrifying.”
He nodded in understanding. “For some it can be.”
Sammi thought this sounded presumptuous of him. No doubt growing up in an affluent family left him indifferent to what others might struggle with. Through this entire encounter her perception of Oliver had been shifting. At first, she’d been thrilled that her teenage crush had finally noticed her, but she was fast discovering that he possessed more layers than she’d imagined.
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