She’d signed the contract, which meant she had to have read the letter he’d sent along with the contract and knew he wasn’t his father—and it had to mean she was cool with modeling for a guy who’d given her the worst lay in the history of lays, but still…he wanted to be certain.
He leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on his battered roll-top desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and anchoring the telephone against his ear and shoulder. Bob, oblivious to Mac’s mounting tension, continued on with how Fluffy hated flash photography, would only eat vegan doggie treats, and required bottled water, not tap. Mac squeezed a hand-sized orange foam football in his hand.
His office, in the spacious former servant’s quarters out behind his father’s house, was small but comfortable, its whitewashed wooden planked walls covered with miscellaneous photographs Mac had taken—and one large basketball hoop. Stressed, Mac shot the foam ball at a basketless hoop screwed into the plaster wall facing him
He missed.
Bob kept on talking.
Mac spread his fingers wide and massaged his temples, mentally berating himself for taking on this job. A few months ago, while on a photo shoot of four-month-old twins out at a swimming hole along the Maidu River, a man with an elaborately groomed Standard Poodle had approached Mac and asked him if he photographed pets as well as children. Mac had been about to say no when the dog looked at him with an expression of what Mac thought was either desperation or disgust, and it had intrigued him.
He’d looked at the dog more closely. It didn’t take long to realize that, irrespective of the girlish name and fluffy pompoms covering its tush and tail, the dog was in actuality a male. A thoroughly humiliated male, in Mac’s opinion.
Too much money and not enough other extracurricular activities had sent the man a little over the edge about his dog. Taking pity on Fluffy, and impressed with the dollar amount Bob Keenley had offered, Mac agreed to a photo shoot. Perhaps he could arrange the scenes in the photo shoot to give the dog back some of its masculinity—and self-respect, at that.
Bob droned on and Mac zoned out, images of a radiant Trudy filling his mind.
The buzz of the girls’ voices grew louder. Mac caught sight of Trudy outside his window and time seemed to slow. She was tottering down the sodden path on high heels, her head tilted upward, her gaze on the budding branches above, a robe slung over her arm.
A broad grin spread across his face and excitement charged through his veins. She was going to do it! Trudy was going to be his nude model for Warrior Woman. He had his muse—finally!
He leaned forward to rap on the window, call their attention to his office, but then Doe said something, making Trudy laugh. Trudy elbowed Doe, who grinned wide. Mac’s heart surged.
After Doe’s (now former) boyfriend Buck found out his teenaged girlfriend was pregnant, he’d run away from Meadowview and all his responsibilities, stranding a devastated Doe, still reeling from the after-effects of her mother’s death a few years before. Mac could rouse her into laughter, but he rarely saw Doe soften around anyone else. And yet, somehow Trudy seemed to bring out his sister’s happier side.
The sun spilled into his office, warming him. Or maybe it had been Trudy who’d warmed him with her effortless way with Doe, he couldn’t be sure.
He could hear bustling on the other side of the wall. Doe had brought Trudy into the changing room, which puzzled him. He thought he’d left instructions to bring Trudy to his office first. Oh well, he could go over the poses with her after she’d changed into her robe. Like a kid counting down the minutes until the school bell rang for summer vacation, he impatiently rapped his pencil against the desk. If Bob didn’t select a photo shoot date soon, he’d just about explode. He needed to get off the damned phone and go meet with Trudy.
He did his best to redirect his new client, but it still took several minutes to pin down a photo shoot date. Fluffy had a full schedule, so the photo shoot had to be worked in between doggie massages, doggie manicures (didn’t Bob mean “pedicures”?), doggie playdates, and the one appointment that Mac almost snorted coffee out of his nose over: doggie therapy. Apparently Fluffy was a bit depressed (with a name like Fluffy and butt pompoms, who wouldn’t be?).
Mac fought back the urge to point out why Fluffy needed a therapist and penciled Fluffy in on his calendar for the following month, thinking the conversation was over. And yet Bob continued on. Mac rolled his head from side to side, working to loosen the tension building in his neck. Although being a wedding and portrait photographer paid exceptionally well, it did nothing for his ego. He needed desperately to reinvent himself as an artistic photographer: he needed the success of Warrior Woman. And for that, he needed Trudy.
He ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep breath. Time to get Bob off the phone and go capture brilliance. And after the photo shoot, he’d see if Trudy would agree to date him after the three month job was complete. He grinned. Might as well go for everything he wanted, right?
But first, he and Trudy would make artistic photography history.
If only Bob would get off the damned phone.
* * *
Once inside the building Doe had referred to as the old servant’s quarters, sun spilled through the glass panes, warming the room and Trudy’s skin. Still, she shuddered as she removed her designer outfit, then slung a white waffle-weave robe over her naked form. Doe had taken off, instructing her on where to go after she disrobed—something about a dais out back that she said she was pretty sure Nanny hadn’t jumped on yet—and had grudgingly told her she looked amazing.
Good, because Trudy’s nerves were kicking up again. She loved working with artists, seeing their visions come alive under their very hands, but not all artists meshed well with their live models.
At least Gregor wanted her to start right off with posing. Some artist insisted on meeting her before they started in on a project, intent on getting to know her. She liked the artists who didn’t engage in chitchat—the ones who only wanted her form, not her personality. Revealing something personal about herself to someone who was sketching her nude form was the only time she ever felt truly naked.
Gregor, apparently, felt the same way as she, wanting to keep a reserved distance between himself and his muse.
She tugged the sash tight around her waist, then stepped back outside. The bright sun caused her to squint, and the buzz and hum of insects filled the air, along with a light floral scent. She carefully picked her way through the almost knee-high grass and nodding purple flowers to where Doe stood squinting at the notebook she’d been holding earlier.
The girl flipped through the pages, pointing out scribbled notes. “He has the images he’d like to capture written down. Warrior…something. I can’t for the life of me read his handwriting. That man should have paid more attention in school to his teachers and less time wondering how he was going to get a peek under Ms. Livery’s skirts. Who knew a fourth-grade teacher could be considered that sexy? Here, can you read this?”
Doe’s rather irreverent tone surprised Trudy. The relationship between Doe and her employer seemed rather informal. “How long have you worked for Mr. Johansson?” she asked.
“Mr. Johansson?” Doe wrinkled her forehead.
“Do you call him Gregor?” Trudy asked, wanting to call the world-renown sculptor by his preferred method of address. No sense in starting off on the wrong foot with her new boss.
Doe stood in silence for a moment, staring at her. “You mean you still don’t know?”
“Know what?” Trudy asked, growing puzzled.
“That a certain person is a complete and utter idiot. Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough. Not my job.” A loud squawk, coming from the vicinity of Doe’s hip, filled the air. “Baby monitor,” she explained, then sighed heavily. “Thought he’d sleep longer, he was up all night. Sorry, I only have another minute or two before he begins yodeling my name.”
“If you need to leave…”
“Soon
,” Doe said. “Just let me know if you can read the idiot’s handwriting.” She thrust the notebook at Trudy, who took it and puzzled through the text.
“These are all nude poses, that’s clear. Hmm…Warrior in Victory, Warrior in Repose, Warrior in Anguish…there are a few more poses written here, but I can’t read them, either.” Trudy handed the notebook out to Doe, rather incredulous that Doe had referred to her award-winning, world-famous boss as “the idiot.”
Doe bit the pencil between her teeth and muttered, “That little minx Ms. Livery. Did quite a number on our boy. I didn’t see anything that said he wants to meet with you first, so go ahead and drop the robe, hop up onto the dais, and Madonna the hell out of this thing.”
“Um…Madonna?”
“It appears eighties humor is lost on you.”
Frowning, Trudy noted, “Doe, you weren’t even born in the eighties. So could you please simply clarify what you mean by ‘Madonna the hell out of this thing?’”
Doe huffed a gigantic sigh. “Whatever. I mean, strike a pose. I’ll tell him you’re ready.” She took off down the pathway, leaving Trudy alone.
And this was who Trudy would have to work with, day in and day out, for the next three years? She’d better remember to load up on ibuprophen. She glanced around the open space surrounding her, and confident she was alone, she dropped the robe onto a small table near where she and Doe had stood, then stepped up onto the dais, fully in the nude.
As the sun hit her form, she saw the now-familiar shimmers of silvery-pink that crisscrossed her abdomen, and winced. Four years after the series of surgeries that had fundamentally altered her life, and still her scars were visibly noticeable. Hypertrophic scarring, her doctor had called it. Not life-threatening or even bothersome, the scars were, however, a constant reminder of who she’d once been. The dreams she’d once had. A flashing sign telling her she’d never be a mother.
But this artistic series Gregor Johansson was creating had been titled Warrior Woman, and the artist’s concepts of the poses all spoke of a strong woman. She could be that woman.
She was that woman, right?
Wasn’t that why he’d contracted her instead of the other artist’s models?
There had been several poses to choose from, and Trudy could have started off with a simpler and less taxing pose, such as Warrior Woman in Repose, but she wanted to hit Gregor with what she could do the minute he showed up. Nervous but determined, she began to prepare for Warrior in Victory—head back, arms upraised into fists, feet spread apart. She flexed her muscles, channeling her inner warrior woman. She elongated her spine, raising the notch in her collarbone up toward the sky and pressed her heels firmly into the whitewashed wood of the dais, already warmed from the sun.
She was ready.
She’d channeled her inner Warrior Woman.
The breeze floated over her, its slight chill invigorating. The creak and slam of a door told her the artist had arrived. Nerves twisted under her skin, but she held the pose. Strong. Firm. A warrior.
“Oh, wow. That’s absolutely beautiful. Keep it there—we’ll talk after I capture this image.” A man’s voice sounded loud over the drone of the insects.
She had tilted her chin back even farther, doing the best she could to mimic a woman warrior in victory, when she heard the first click. A second followed, then a series of clicks, like a volley of artillery shells going off.
A camera?
Adrenaline sent her heart pumping. She opened her eyes to stare directly at the man holding a large camera in front of his face. A young man, not the sixty-year-old she’d seen the other night. Obviously this wasn’t Gregor Johansson. Who the heck was it, then? Emotions clashed and rocketed through her—anger, betrayal, shame—as the camera continued clacking. She pulled her arms around her body, desperately covering her breasts and belly and yelled, “Stop!”
The man immediately stopped and lowered the camera.
Heat flashed over her and the sound of the insects disappeared, drowned out by the rhythmic thump of her heavily beating heart.
Mac.
What was he doing here? And why was he photographing her? Naked?
Trudy gaped at the man she’d hoped to never see again. Ever. In her entire life of living. Her breathing came out in choppy puffs. “What the heck are you doing here? Where is Gregor Johansson? And get rid of that camera. Now!”
Mac stared back at her, his shocked expression mirroring hers. “Holy hell. You mean you don’t know?”
Suddenly she became aware that she was very naked. And he was staring. She widened her hands, trying unsuccessfully to cover her hoo-ha and belly and breasts simultaneously. She looked around, desperate for the robe, but Mac stood directly in front of it. What the heck was going on? “Could you turn around?” she asked. “I’m still rather naked here.”
“Yeah, sure, sorry,” Mac said, his voice gentle as he ducked his head. He reached behind him and grabbed the robe she’d left on the table, then held it out to her without looking.
On shaky legs, she stepped forward and took the robe, then put it on.
“You covered now?” he asked.
Grudgingly, she said, “Yes. You can look.”
He raised his head and their gazes connected. Something sparked between them, like it had the first night they’d met, when he’d been up on the balcony and she’d had just eliminated a squished grape from her cleavage. She cut her gaze away, unwilling to keep the connection as that had definitely not served her well the last time.
“Now can you explain why you stalked me to my place of employment? And why you’re taking pictures? This is most definitely not the actions of a perfect gentleman, if I may be so bold as to point out.”
“I can’t believe you really didn’t know.” Mac’s voice was quiet.
“Know what?”
“That the contract is with me, not my father.”
His father? Oh, god. The pieces swirling around in her mind fell into place. “Your father’s Gregor Johansson,” she said bluntly. “Please tell me I’m having a nightmare.”
Mac swept a hand over his face, then swore quietly before looking her straight in the face. “Uh, yeah. His legal name is Macgregor, actually, but…yeah. He’s my dad. Doe’s, too. But you probably figured that part out.”
She stared at him blankly, the ability to think rationally seemingly gone straight out of her head. “You’re saying that I signed a contract with you? But how?”
He shrugged. “My father and I are both artists, and we both have the same name. Only publically he goes by Gregor Johansson and I go by Mac Johns. I’m the one who hired you.”
Her mind whirled, thoughts tumbling around like vodka and ice in a martini shaker. None of this made any sense. Gregor Johansson was a sixty-year-old sculptor, not the thirty-something photographer currently staring at her. The artist Gregor Johansson of Meadowview had been looking for a nude model. That’s who she’d been hired to work for. Right? Right?
“I’m so sorry,” he said solemnly. “I thought you knew. I mean, I knew you weren’t aware of the connection when we met, but I really believed you knew who I was before you signed the contract.”
“This cannot be happening.” All emotions emptied from her body, rendering her core limp. She’d signed a contract not with a world-famous sculptor, but with the man she’d had horrid sex with a few days before. What a colossal mistake. Maybe she could blame her agent for not knowing who the contract was with, but Lisa worked primarily with fashion models, not artists models. Lisa didn’t know the art world the way she knew the fashion world. It was only because of Trudy’s long-standing position in Lisa’s agency that the woman had kept representing her when she switched from high fashion to art and catalogue modeling.
She only had herself to blame.
“But the contract was for an artist’s model,” she said, still struggling for comprehension. “Why are you taking photographs?”
Two lines formed between his brows. “I’m an art pho
tographer. I use cameras and film as my medium.”
“Photographs aren’t art. They’re pictures,” she snapped out before realizing what she’d said.
When Mac’s expression morphed from chagrin to pain to anger, she knew she’d said the wrong thing.
The sound of bees and other insects hung in the air before a muscle pulsed in his jaw and he said slowly, “Yeah, I hear that a lot.” He looked off in the distance, the light in his bright eyes fading, then turned back to her and waved the camera in the air as he spoke. “I guess we should get you back to the dressing room and talk after.”
She stepped forward, and as he backed up a bit, a volley of clicks went off. She recoiled.
“My fault,” he said quickly, shoving the camera behind his back. “My finger slipped.”
She frowned. “I’ve heard that from you before. Not sure I believed you then, and pretty sure I don’t believe you now.”
A line around the side of his mouth tightened. “That really was an accident. You’ve got me a bit…discombobulated here. And I can’t apologize enough, Trudy, for not realizing you thought you’d contracted with my father, not me.”
“How was I supposed to know there are two of you?” she threw over her shoulder as she marched, barefoot, along the path that moments ago had inspired her but now made her stomach feel like she’d swallowed lead. Mac kept following her.
“But I did explain it all in the letter,” he said.
She kept walking. “What letter?”
“I sent a letter along with the contract, explaining how the job was with me and not my father. And how even though the other night had been a bit of a bomb, I’d hoped you’d want to work with me. How I thought this was a great opportunity for both of us.”
“There was no letter. Just the contract and really poorly written instructions on how to get here,” she said numbly.
“I promise, Trudy, I really thought you’d read the letter. I wouldn’t have led you on.”
With shaking hands she pulled open the door to the cottage and stumbled inside. She leaned against the closed door and squeezed her eyes shut tight.
Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) Page 8