He had a good feeling about this whole thing.
Bree stood in front of the mirror in the powder room on the pretext of rearranging her hair. Really she just wanted to see what exactly Gavin Spencer was looking at with that gleam of interest in his eyes.
People always told her she had pretty eyes. Rather an odd observation, since she wore glasses. She lowered the frames—the nice, low-profile ones she saved for special occasions—and peered into her own eyes. They didn’t look all that special to her. Maybe that’s what people said when they couldn’t think of something else to compliment. She pushed the frames back up her nose where they settled comfortably into place. People said she should wear contacts but they were far too much hassle for her taste.
Her hair was a disaster, as usual. Unmanageable, frizzy and fighting her every step of the way. She never should have taken out the hairsticks she’d managed to jam in earlier. With a struggle, she poked them back in and secured a messy bun.
There wasn’t a lick of makeup on her face, but then she never wore it. She wasn’t skilled at applying lipstick, blush and eyeliner, so on the rare occasions she’d attempted to use them, she ended up looking like a clown.
And the dress was awful. Her Aunt Freda had assured her it “hid her figure flaws.” It could also hide an international terrorist organization and several cases of contraband whiskey in its crispy folds. The boat neck turned her somewhat decent cleavage into an intimidating mountain range.
She didn’t look any better than usual. If anything, she looked worse.
So why did Gavin seem so…entranced by her? Like he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d guided her around the room since the moment they were introduced. She kept expecting him to spot someone else and bid her adieu, but he didn’t.
In fact, she half suspected he was standing right outside the ladies room waiting for her.
She blew out hard. Bright patches of color illuminated her cheeks in a way that wasn’t entirely charming. Her eyes were certainly shining, though.
As well they might be. She’d never danced like that. Even in her imagination! How could she not feel like Cinderella at the ball?
Which was funny, really, considering she was one of the richest women in San Francisco. Of course she’d come by that money the old fashioned way—by inheriting it—so she wasn’t proud of her wealth. Quite the opposite, in fact. She often imagined people clucking and muttering, “All that money, and look how little she’s accomplished.”
Her father certainly felt that way. Even said it once or twice.
She sucked in a long, deep breath and tucked a stray lock of wild hair behind her ear.
Bree Kincannon, you are a desirable and enticing woman.
Nope. Not convincing.
Bree Kincannon, you are a damned good photographer and a fantastic cat mom.
Better.
She half-smiled at her reflection, then wiped her smile away when she realized the sylph-like blonde beside her was staring. She quickly patted her hair and turned to the exit.
Outside there was no sign of Gavin. The little shock of disappointment surprised her. Then she chastised herself. Did she really expect a man like that to wait around for her like a faithful dog?
He was probably already dancing with someone else.
Surreptitiously she scanned the dance floor. Past midnight, so the crowd was thinning. All the men were dressed alike in black tie, but she knew she’d spot Gavin immediately. He had that kind of presence.
A tiny shimmer of relief trickled through her when she didn’t see him.
But did that mean he’d left without saying goodbye? She’d probably never see him again. Why would he call her, of all people?
She lifted her chin and started to weave through the tables to where she’d sat with some of her father’s duller business associates, which wasn’t a very charitable way to think of them since they’d all been nice enough to pony up a thousand dollars per seat. She was relieved to see that they’d all left, and she lifted her beaded bag off the back of her chair and slung it over her taffeta-clad shoulder.
Another quick glance revealed no sign of Gavin. Cold settled in her stomach. So that was it. A lovely evening. A fantastic time.
Possibly the best night of her life.
She swallowed. No doubt everyone who’d stared at her on Gavin’s arm was looking at her now, the same way they always did. Poor old Bree. Perennial wallflower.
She shuffled toward the exit. She usually got a cab home from these things as her father often stayed late to schmooze into the wee hours. Of course it was kind of pathetic that she still lived in the family mansion. But she loved Russian Hill, and the big attic studio she’d turned into her private apartment was filled with special memories of the happy years before her mom died. She used to paint there every afternoon, while Bree played on the floor near her easel.
Bree bit her lip. She was happy with her life. Really! She didn’t need some tall, dark, handsome charmer to waltz in and stir up trouble.
She retrieved her coat from the cloakroom and slid it over her shoulders. She was just about to walk across the marble foyer toward the exit when her heart slammed to a halt.
Gavin. Tall and proud as a ship’s mast, an earnest look on his chiseled features.
And he was talking to her father.
Bree frowned. How did they know each other so well? Her father usually bothered only with mega-wealthy entrepreneurs who could make him a fast and large buck. If Gavin was just an advertising executive—a challenging and interesting job, but still a job—why was her father leaning in to speak with him as if he was Bill Gates?
She pulled her coat about herself and started slowly toward them. They both looked up fast when they noticed her, which made a weird knot of anxiety form in her belly.
“Bree, darling!” Her father extended an arm. “Gavin and I were just talking about what a wonderful evening this was. And I have you to thank for forcing me to buy a ticket.” He turned to Gavin. “Bree has a soft spot for animals.”
Bree managed a polite smile.
“It was a great pleasure to meet you, Bree.” Gavin’s eyes met hers.
Instantly a flare of heat rushed to her face and her heart began to pound like a jackhammer. “Likewise,” she stammered.
“Are you free on Friday? The firm is having a cocktail party at the Rosa Lounge to celebrate a new campaign. I’d love you to come.”
Bree’s mind spun. Friday night? That was a serious dating night. And he wanted her to meet all his business associates? Her mouth dried.
“Uh, sure. That would be nice.” She blinked rapidly.
“I’ll pick you up at your house, if that’s okay.”
“That would be great.” She smiled as calmly as she could. “I’ll see you then.”
“See you later, darling.” Her father shot her a tight smile. “I have some friends to catch up with.”
“Sure, I’ll get a cab.”
Gavin stepped toward her. “I’ll drive you home. Then I’ll know where to come find you on Friday.”
He summoned a porter to tell valet parking before Bree could protest.
She inhaled deeply, took his offered arm and walked outside. The light mist of rain that had followed her to the Four Seasons earlier had evaporated, leaving a clear moonlit night that illuminated the sturdy bank buildings across Market Street and gave them the grandeur of real Roman temples. Stars glimmered overhead as Gavin helped her into the passenger seat of his low-slung sports car.
They chatted about the new Louise Bourgeois exhibit at the Modern on the short drive home. Gavin admitted he went often to keep on top of emerging trends so he could impress clients. He was embarrassingly gorgeous and he knew about art?
She leaped out of the car in front of her house, heart pounding. Would he try to kiss her?
Impossible.
Or was it?
Terror streaked along her veins as he rounded the car toward her. He took her hand, which was sweating sli
ghtly. A shiver of heat shot right up her arm.
“Good night, Bree.” He clasped her hand in both of his, warm and firm. Their gazes held and her lips quivered with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.
Then he tilted his head. “I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday, if that’s okay.”
“Perfect. See you then.” She flashed a smile, then turned and scurried for the door.
Once inside she literally collapsed against it. And a big, wide, goofy smile spread across her face.
She had a Friday-night date with the most handsome man in San Francisco.
And if she weren’t so freaked out, she’d be pretty darn thrilled about it.
Two
“Gavin, sweetie, how are you?” Marissa Curtis assaulted him as he entered the Rosa Lounge with Bree on his arm. She wrapped her skinny arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks, overwhelming him with that eye-watering fragrance she always wore. “I’ve missed you this week. Were you in Cannes?”
“Yes. Had some meetings.” He’d had a really good time at the film festival, and it had given him a chance to plan his campaign to win Bree Kincannon, who stood rather patiently beside him.
“Marissa, this is Bree. Bree, Marissa.”
“Oh, lovely to meet you.” The blonde smiled, revealing frighteningly white teeth. “Are you Gavin’s sister?”
Gavin exploded into a laugh. “My sister? I don’t even have a sister.”
“Oh.” Marissa tipped her silly head to the side, so her silky hair cascaded artfully over her shoulder. “I just thought…” She looked mischievously at Bree.
“That Bree and I look so alike we must be twins?” Gavin wrapped his arm around Bree. She was stiff as a board.
Catty Marissa was no doubt trying to imply that Bree couldn’t possibly be his date. After all, she wasn’t built like a twig and dressed in Prada.
“Bree’s my date.”
“Oh.” Marissa’s grimace widened. “How charming.” She widened her eyes rudely. “Must dash. I see Jake. He said he’d bring me something nice back from Cannes.”
Gavin turned to Bree. “Don’t mind her. She’s just insane.”
Bree’s sweet smile reappeared, giving him a warm feeling in his chest. He liked her smile.
“And you know, we do kind of look alike.” He rubbed her shoulder. “We’ve both got dark hair and gray eyes. Or wait, are yours green?” On closer inspection, the irises hiding behind her metal-framed glasses looked like pale jade. “I couldn’t see you properly the other night. It was so dark at the gala.” They were close enough for him to enjoy her scent—subtle and fresh, like the rest of her.
“They’re probably more gray than green.” Bree shrugged. “Doesn’t make much difference to me. I just use them for looking out of.”
“And taking pictures. I looked up your Black Book photos. Those were some amazing portraits.”
“Interesting faces.” She smiled shyly, her lips rosy and inviting. “Made my job easy.”
“Who were they?” Her crisp black-and-white image of the older couple, standing outside on a city street, their bold, cheerful countenances sunlit and their happy union obvious, rather haunted him since he’d seen it. Something about the photo made it hard to forget.
“I don’t even know. Isn’t that embarrassing? I’ll be exposed as a fraud.” She bit her lip. “They were just standing there outside the library, waiting for someone, I think. I asked if I could take their picture.”
“I’d never guess you hadn’t known them for decades.”
“That’s what everyone says.” She shrugged. “It’s a little weird, I guess.”
“It’s art.” He grinned. She was starting to relax. Good. “Hey, Elle. Come meet Bree.” He beckoned to Brock Maddox’s assistant. The slim brunette pushed past two art directors to join them. “Bree’s a photographer.”
“Are you really?”
“Award winning,” pronounced Gavin. “Can I leave Bree in your capable hands for a moment, Elle? I need to chat with Brock.”
“Sure. First we’ll get her a drink. Follow me to the bar.” Elle led Bree off into the thickening crowd.
Gavin scanned the room for Brock. He’d had a great meeting in Cannes with a hot new Czech director who might be willing to shoot a campaign for the right price. Gavin wasn’t sure Brock would go for Tomas Kozinski’s “right price,” but it was worth a try. He had a unique, hand-held style that made even the scenery come alive.
“Hey, Gavin, how’s it going? Still getting cozy with the Rialto yacht people?” Logan Emerson materialized in front of him, wine glass raised.
Irritation prickled Gavin’s neck. “Trying to.”
“That account would be a really big score. I can already see those Rialtos sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge at halftime on Super Bowl night.”
“That might be a tad predictable.”
“I guess that’s why I’m an account exec and not a copywriter.” Logan chuckled and slapped him on the back.
Gavin inhaled. Something about this guy really bothered him, and it wasn’t just his bad jokes. Logan Emerson had only been at the company a few weeks, but already he seemed to be underfoot all day long: in every meeting; loitering by the espresso machine; he even wandered into the damned men’s room whenever Gavin entered. Sometimes, like now, he’d be all smiles and jollities, but most of the time he just stood there. Watching.
Maybe he was trying to soak up the Maddox modus operandi so he could beat the other account executives at their own game. Which wasn’t such a bad thing. At least then Gavin wouldn’t feel too bad about leaving Brock in the lurch when he quit to start his own company.
Hopefully soon.
He cast his eyes around the room and was relieved and pleased to see Bree, wine glass in hand, chatting with Elle.
So far, so good.
“Actually my undergrad major was English.” Bree took a sip from her delicate glass. Elle had snagged some white wine, then ushered her into a relatively quiet corner of the sleek bar, where they could talk. Bree felt a bit intimidated by her at first. Elle was so polished and put together in a tailored suit that showed off her slim figure. Her brown hair was sleek as sable and her blue eyes shone with intelligence and good humor.
After a few minutes, though, she started to relax, answering questions that Elle seemed to have asked with genuine interest. “At the time I thought I might even pursue a PhD in English, but I took some time off to travel and changed my mind. Flaky, I guess.”
Elle smiled. “Not flaky, thoughtful. A lot of people rush ahead with some big plan they’ve had in their mind for years, and end up painted into a corner doing something that isn’t their passion. I have to admit, I’ve always been mad about photography. I took a lot of classes in high school and college, but I guess I’ve never been daring enough to try to publish or exhibit my pictures. What got you started in photography?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit this, but it was a total accident. My dad gave me a camera for my birthday four years ago. I actually think a client gave it to him as a gift, as he doesn’t know anything about them, but it was a top of the line Nikon, with a set of extra lenses. The kind of thing even a professional photographer would salivate over. I started fooling around with it—taking pictures of old oak trees in the park, and interesting buildings around Russian Hill and the Marina District.”
Elle nodded, her blue eyes alight with interest. Bree felt a warm connection to her, even though they’d just met.
“One day I was taking a picture of St. Francis of Assisi on Vallejo Street.”
“Oh, yes. The one with all the doorways.”
“You know how that woman in the blue coat is often there?”
“Feeding the pigeons. Yes, totally!” Elle smiled.
“Something about her intrigued me. She has such a sense of purpose. I have no idea why she’s there and I’d never ask. I’m far too shy.” She pushed a stray hair off her cheek. Somehow Elle had put her so at ease that she didn’t feel shy at
all. “But I wanted to see if I could take a picture of that quiet dignity she exudes.”
“What did you say?”
“I just asked if I could take her picture.” Bree grinned. “I know now that I should have offered her two dollars and a model release form, but I was clueless at the time.”
“And she said yes.”
Bree nodded. “So I took the picture. Took only a few seconds—just her, standing there in front of the smallest door, her coat buttoned up to her neck like always, with that flock of pigeons at her feet. The shots came out pretty well, so I printed one and entered it in a small show at the local library. My image won, and people started making a fuss, so I figured I’d keep snapping away.”
“I’d love to see that picture.”
“You’re welcome to come up to my studio any time.”
“Really?” Elle’s eyes lit up. “I’d love to! I’ve never been in a real photographer’s studio.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that.” Bree blushed. “But it does have a lovely view out over the rooftops. I’m around tomorrow, if you’d like to come by.”
“Can I? I don’t have to be anywhere until five. It would be so nice to see some photographs that aren’t glossy product shots for a change.” She winked conspiratorially. “If I come in the morning, I could bring some pastries and coffee from Stella’s.”
“You’re on. I can never say no to their bear claws. The address is 200 Talbot Street. The limestone behemoth with the wrought-iron gates. If you come around the right-hand side there’s a separate entrance up to my studio.”
“Planning a secret tryst?” Gavin’s deep voice made her spin around. His gray eyes looked at her with amusement.
“Absolutely.” Elle grinned. “I want to see Bree’s work before she gets too famous to talk to me. Did you know she’s been asked to shoot a portrait for San Francisco Magazine?”
“Is that true?” Gavin tilted his head.
“It is.” Bree blushed again, wishing she were actually as cool as everyone seemed to think she was. “I’m shooting Robert Pattison. They had a tough time deciding between Annie Leibowitz and me. I suspect I was cheaper.” Gavin’s dimples appeared. “They just called me out of the blue. Saw my pictures in Black Book.”
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