Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  No. His apparel wasn’t the problem. Posing was. Something about staring into the cyclops lens of a camera unnerved him.

  He couldn’t imagine why getting shot—by a camera, for God’s sake, not by a gun—rattled him so much. He ran a successful business, made plenty of money for his clients and himself, lived affluently and didn’t resemble Mr. Potato-Head’s mutant half-brother, except in last year’s annual report. He played cutthroat tennis and dollar-ante poker, went head-to-head with Wall Street nabobs, and strong-armed friends and enemies alike into donating money to his pet causes.

  But bring a photographer into the situation and he’d freeze up. His jaw would stiffen, his neck would ache and he’d feel clumsy, at the mercy of someone he didn’t even know. He hated to be at anyone’s mercy.

  “He’s in here,” he heard Janet saying, her voice growing louder as she neared his office door. “He’s in a lousy mood.”

  Brett swore under his breath. He glanced at the open doorway, then focused on the empty desk in front of him. As much as he hated being at the mercy of others, he also hated being idle. He ought to be reviewing his file on Baro-Tech, Inc., so he could decide whether to invest money from his high-risk fund in the firm. He ought to be doing anything—picking the brains of his managers, checking out the new models on the Porsche web site, playing tic-tac-toe left hand against right—anything other than staring at his work-free desk, braced like a convict about to face a firing squad, about to get shot.

  “Right in here,” Janet continued, and he forced himself to rise from his chair and attempt a cordial welcome for the photographer his secretary led into the room. She appeared young, breezy, as relaxed as he was tense. Her smile was so natural he couldn’t help returning it, even though in his case it was more a courtesy than a genuine show of pleasure.

  She strode directly over to him, her right hand outstretched and her gaze steady. Straight, dark-blond hair framed the sort of face that could be called handsome: sharp chin, high forehead, long nose and large hazel eyes. She wore khakis, a white silk T-shirt and a lightweight moss-colored blazer that picked up the green in her eyes. In her left hand she gripped the handles of a bulky leather tote bag.

  Her camera would be in that tote, he reminded himself, his smile fading.

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, “you’re much better looking than I expected.”

  “I showed her last year’s annual report,” Janet informed him. “Sharon Bartell, this is Brett Stockton. Brett, this is Sharon Bartell, and whether or not you want her taking your photo, she’s going to do it. So be a big boy and eat your vegetables.” With that, Janet glided from the room.

  The photographer peered after her for a moment. When she turned back to Brett, she was grinning. “She’s quite a character.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” He let out a breath. “You’re not going to make me eat my vegetables, are you?”

  “No vegetables. I did bring lollipops.” She ventured further into the room, studying it from different perspectives. Adjusting the vertical blinds, she pondered the angle of the late-morning sunlight that filtered into the room, her lips pressed together and her expression thoughtful. A tiny line spanned the bridge of her nose as she contemplated her surroundings.

  He wondered if he’d have to defend his office to her. It was a fine office. Not big, nothing ostentatious about it, and it suited him. He’d be damned if he was going to let her put him on the defensive. He’d hired her, after all—well, technically, Janet had hired her, but Brett was the CEO of the company paying her fee—and it was her job to make him look human while he sat at his desk, not to inspect his office with such a critical eye.

  “Okay.” Apparently done analyzing the room, she strode to his desk and switched on the light. Then she set her bag on one of the visitors’ chairs and rummaged through it. When she pulled out her camera he winced. She must have noticed, because she said, “Lots of people hate having their pictures taken, Mr. Stockton. I’ll make it as painless as I can.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Why don’t you sit?” She pointed to his chair, then poked around some more in her bag and removed a flashgun and a light meter. She was slim and long-limbed. Little make-up, no nail polish. When her hair fell in front of her face, she tucked it behind her ears. Her lack of elegance made her look like a teenager, but the faint lines at the outer corners of her eyes added a few years to her appearance. “I’ve taken plenty of pictures of your staff already,” she told him, her voice a rich alto, much too mature to belong to a teenager. Late twenties, he’d guess. “A few candids, a few posed. Whoever publishes your annual report should have more than enough material to choose from.”

  “That’ll thrill them,” Brett said dryly.

  She smiled. Every time she smiled, he realized, her face transformed from handsome to pretty. Her cheeks arched, her thin lips spread wide and her eyes brightened.

  He watched her as she pressed a button on her light meter and frowned. Frowning transformed her face, too, animating it. He hoped she wasn’t a poker player, because her every thought played clearly across her face. “Your office is kind of dark,” she said. “Doesn’t it bother you, working in this dim light?”

  “I was a vampire in a previous life,” he said.

  She laughed, a low, throaty sound, and met his gaze. He allowed himself a brief smile, which slipped away once she resumed working with her light meter. She pulled a white square of cardboard from her bag and affixed it to her flashgun with a rubber band.

  “Last year the photographer really hated the light in this room,” Brett told her. “He wound up bringing in one of those huge lamps that look like umbrellas.”

  “I’ll bet that made you feel like a celebrity.” She flashed the gun while monitoring her light gauge.

  The sudden explosion of light caused him to flinch. “It made me feel like an idiot,” he said.

  “I’ll try not to make you feel like an idiot today.” She sent him a quick smile. He wished she would laugh again. Or flick her hair back so he could observe the sleek line of her chin, the delicate curve of her ear, the small gold hoop adorning the lobe.

  She glanced at him and he realized she’d caught him—well, not exactly ogling her, but staring. He looked away, feeling very much like an idiot, after all.

  “No, no—look at me. I won’t bite, I promise,” she teased. “You’re the vampire, not me.”

  He turned back to her and she gave him a dazzling smile. He wished he could return it, but she was lifting the camera to her eye and he felt himself go rigid.

  She hesitated, her brow dipping in a frown. “Oh, my. You look like you just swallowed something disgusting. Can I call you Brett?”

  “Call me whatever you want,” he grumbled.

  “You know what I do when I’m photographing a child and the child starts to panic?”

  “You give him a lollipop.”

  “I give him a toy.” She lowered her camera and dug around in her tote. After a few seconds she pulled out a small stuffed bunny. “No, that won’t do. What kind of toys do you like?”

  “I don’t like toys.”

  “No toys?”

  “Unless you count high-performance cars.”

  She groped in her bag. “Nope—no cars in here. Do you like dancing girls?”

  He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or just trying to loosen him up, but her question edged toward one of those illegal areas, sexual harassment or something. Before he could decide whether to act indignant, she pulled from her tote a doll dressed as a belly dancer. A flimsy square of cloth hung across its mouth, and it wore a filmy vest and blousy trousers and lots of plastic beads around its neck. She perched it on his desk and pressed down on its head. Apparently it contained some sort of spring mechanism, because it proceeded to bounce up and down and gyrate.

  Brett guffawed.

  She snapped a photo.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked, still laughing. The doll looked ridiculous, its Bett
y-Boop eyes painted onto its plastic face, its midsection bouncing around. “You can’t use that picture.”

  “Why not? It’s great.” Before he could object, she snapped another photo, and another.

  “Seriously.” He held up his hand to stop her. “If my clients see a photo of me with that—that thing on my desk, they’re going to pull their money out of Arlington Financial Services and have me carted off to the nearest padded cell.”

  “She won’t show up in the photo. Don’t worry about that.”

  “She’s grotesque.”

  “She made you smile. She usually works better than the bunny on kids, too.” Sharon grinned at him, and this time he grinned back. “You look wonderful when you smile. I got some great shots of you.”

  “Are you sure you’re going to be able to delete her from the picture?” he asked, gesturing toward the plastic belly dancer. Unable to resist, he reached out and pressed its head. It launched into a fresh round of bouncing and gyrating, and he laughed again. The click of the shutter as she shot another picture eroded his amusement.

  “You’d be amazed at what technology can do with a photograph. But if you’d really like, I’ll take her away. Maybe we should get a few serious shots, anyway.”

  “Yeah, that would be useful. I don’t think my clients want to see me grinning like a fool.”

  “You were grinning like a successful executive,” she assured him, scooping up the doll and dropping it into her tote. Turning back to him, she lifted her camera, then hesitated. “And now, instead of a successful executive, you look like a successful executive who’s overdosed on Ex-Lax. I know I said serious, but try not to look panicked.”

  “Maybe my clients should know how much panic is involved in high-stakes investing.”

  “Do you panic a lot?”

  “No,” he admitted, lowering his hands to his knees so she wouldn’t see how tightly fisted they were. “I’m perfectly calm ninety-eight percent of the time. The other two percent of the time, I’m posing for pictures.”

  “Good thing you decided not to become a movie star.” As she talked she snapped photos. He heard the camera’s motor, saw the flashgun fire in blinks of light, and tried to ignore the pressure of his tie against his Adam’s apple. “You’re a terrific-looking man, you know,” she said as she shifted a few steps to her left, took aim and snapped a few more shots.

  “Are you making a pass at me?” he asked, amused despite his anxiety.

  “You’ve got me figured out, haven’t you.” Click. “No, I’m not making a pass at you. Just stating a fact.” Click. “That’s nice, Brett. If you could just...”

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing.” Click, click, click. He had no idea what he’d done, what she’d wanted him to do, what she’d changed her mind about. All he heard were the clicks. His jaw cramped from his effort to hold it still. He tried to gaze past her but couldn’t, not when the left half of her face was hidden by her camera and the right half looked so intent, her eye shut, her chin steady. “You’re doing great.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Ten bucks says you’re going to win the Hunky Executive Award based on your annual report photo.” Click, click.

  He laughed and she clicked again. “You are making a pass at me.”

  “I make passes at everyone, especially if it gets them to look as good as you look right now.”

  He knew she was playing him, but he was enjoying the game. Usually, when a woman flirted, she had a specific, selfish goal in mind: to snag him. When Sharon Bartell flirted with him, it was for an utterly selfless reason: to improve his appearance in her viewfinder. He couldn’t imagine why her flirting would work—and for all he knew, it wasn’t working. She might be lying about his appearance in the hope that he’d believe her and uncoil a little.

  Even if she was lying, he liked being complimented by her. He didn’t have to try to guess what her angle was, whether she was looking for a one-night stand or something more involved, whether she was more attracted to his personality, his wealth or his connections. He knew what Sharon wanted to get out of this encounter: a halfway decent photograph of him. Not having to figure out her motives, he could let down his guard a little.

  Click, click. Click. “You ought to try wearing more colorful ties,” she advised.

  “Really?” His tie was subtle, quietly classy. He hated ties but recognized their necessity. If he was going to wear one, he didn’t want it to trumpet its existence.

  “Even hot-shot executives wear colorful ties.” Click. Click. “A blue tie would bring out the color in your eyes.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because your eyes are sexy.” One final click and she lowered her camera. “I think I’ve got enough.”

  He exhaled, feeling the muscles along his spine unclench. Loosening his not-blue tie and unfastening his collar button was as refreshing as guzzling cold water after a hard-fought set on the court at the tennis club. “Does this mean you don’t think my eyes are sexy anymore?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I still think they’re sexy.” Before he could react, she swung her camera back up and shot a final, unposed picture of him. He felt ambushed. He hadn’t had a chance to tense up and shape his mouth into its I-hate-posing grimace. His posture was slouchy, his tie dangling. God knew he wouldn’t look like the competent founder and president of a highly profitable investment firm in that photo.

  He wanted to ask her why she’d taken it, since it was certainly not going to appear in the annual report. He wanted, even more, to ask her whether she truly thought his eyes were sexy, whether she’d be flattered or upset if he’d said he thought her eyes were sexy, too. But she hunched over her tote, fastening a lens cap onto her camera and then carefully wedging it in, removing the cardboard from her flash gun and packing those items away. Her posture and actions warned him off. “Do you want a lollipop?” she asked. “I’ve got grape, orange and cherry.”

  All the flirtatiousness had left her. She was closing up, shutting down, through with Brett Stockton and Arlington Financial. And yes, he realized, her eyes were sexy, tilting slightly up at the outer corners and fringed with thick golden lashes.

  A lollipop was the last thing he wanted from her. He wasn’t sure what the first thing was, though. A photo for the annual report, he told himself—but he wanted something more. Her attention, her wit, the mischievous smile she wore when she made her doll belly-dance for him. Another, longer look at her eyes.

  Belatedly, he remembered to answer her. “No, thanks. I don’t really like lollipops.”

  She hoisted her bag and turned to him, her expression cool and reserved, not a shred of playfulness in it. “You’ll see all the proofs,” she told him, “but I’ll print the half-dozen I think are the best. You can decide which one to use.”

  “Fine.” He rose from his chair, aware that she was about to leave.

  “I got some excellent shots of you,” she assured him, although her smile seemed less certain than her words. She returned her gaze to her tote, denying him the chance to peer into her eyes. “You’ll definitely have some good ones to work with.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll let Janet know when the proofs are ready. It should be within the week.” She extended her hand to him.

  He took it and held on for a moment. He felt overwhelmed by questions: How sexy do you think I am? How colorful should my ties be? Did you mean anything you said in the past fifteen minutes, or was it all just a game to trick me into looking human for your camera? Why should I care if it was?

  But she was already sliding her hand from his grip and starting for the door. “Thanks again,” he said.

  With a wave and a nod, she was gone.

  * * *

  He really did have sexy eyes.

  Sharon’s taste had never run to buttoned-down executive types, but Brett Stockton lingered in her mind long after she’d left his office. He was a man of intriguing contradictions: those soft blue eyes se
t in a face of hard angles, a face that radiated enormous warmth when he smiled and biting frost when he didn’t. He wore an obviously expensive suit tailored to his trim body, but his apparel seemed to fit him better once he’d loosened his tie and opened his collar button. Maybe he’d looked more together when he’d been less buttoned down because by the time he’d tugged his tie loose she was finished taking pictures of him.

  That, of course, was his biggest contradiction: that a man as successful as Brett Stockton, the president of a billion dollar investment firm, a power-broker in Arlington, a lord of the realm, could be so intimidated by a camera.

  She would have liked to spend longer with him. Actually, she would have liked to take him out of his office and someplace where the light would be smoother and warmer, someplace where he could have focused on something other than her and her camera. A profile shot would not have been appropriate for his company’s annual report, but she could have done wonders with one, capturing the hard lines of his nose and chin, the sheer plane of his cheek, the dark waves of hair liberating themselves from the dictates of his comb. She would have kept his tie loose, the sign of a man who worked so hard he couldn’t be bothered with impeccable grooming.

  After assuring his secretary that the proofs would be ready in about a week, Sharon left the suite of offices that housed Arlington Financial Services, one of several companies that filled the floors of a swanky brick office building in downtown Arlington. Waiting for the elevator to arrive, she wondered whether she should distribute her business card to the other companies—a market research firm, a consulting firm, a law firm identified by a high-powered string of partner names. Maybe they published annual reports, too. Maybe creating those annual reports would require the services of a diligent, talented photographer with a small studio and a large pile of bills.

  She decided to wait until the photos for Stockton Financial Services were ready, and then hand out her card. If the photos came out well, she could suggest Brett Stockton as a reference when she tried to drum up business elsewhere.

  Winning this job had been a coup. She’d never been good at marketing her services. She’d always preferred to concentrate on the artistic side of photography: getting the lighting right, composing the photos well, playing with color, capturing scenes at their most telling moments, making people look better than they expected. Advertising, promoting, billing and balancing the books—those were the aspects of her job that she hated. Angie took care of the bookkeeping for her and kept her ads up to date in the local circulars. But the most important selling tools Sharon had were the quality of the photos she took, and herself. She was getting better at pressing her cards into the hands of people who might hire her, but it still wasn’t easy for her.