by Greta Milán
Julie stopped applying her mascara. “We happened to run into each other on the way home.”
“There’s no such thing as coincidence, honey.”
Julie found Isabelle’s grin hard to bear. “He stopped to help with a little incident and that was it. He was off again right after that.”
“What do you mean incident?”
Julie shoved the mascara back in her makeup bag more vigorously than she intended. “Oh, nothing. On the way home, I ran into one of those drunks to whom no means yes. When he got insistent, Bastian suddenly appeared out of nowhere.”
“Did they get in a fight?” Isabelle asked breathlessly. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Of course not.”
Isabelle looked disappointed. “Pity.”
“He got hurt all the same. He could have stood up for himself, but he didn’t. He merely walked me home.”
“Did you give the hero a farewell kiss as a reward?”
Julie shook her head despondently. She sensed Isabelle’s impatience.
“For God’s sake,” Isabelle exclaimed. “I don’t know anyone who makes life as difficult for themselves as you do.”
Before Julie could attempt any further explanation, Isabelle leapt up and hurried into the living room. She whipped her cell phone out of her purse and tapped in a number. After a moment, she broke into a smile. “Elena?”
Julie winced. She could guess at her friend’s intentions, but it was too late to intervene.
Isabelle fell back onto the sofa. “Yeah, amazing evening. I wanted to thank you again.”
Julie anxiously watched Isabelle’s expression since she couldn’t hear Elena’s side of the conversation. They were discussing various dates, and Isabelle’s tone became unusually businesslike. Finally, she grinned at Julie with a wink.
“Just one more thing, Elena. That Adonis with the black gloves; he’s not married, is he?” Isabelle frowned contemplatively. “Ah,” she said. “And how can I get ahold of him?” She gave a shrill laugh. “No, of course not. He’s not my type at all. I just want to talk to him about something.” She paused, then looked annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Isabelle’s face went scarlet with anger. “Well, I suggest you persuade him to make an exception for your favorite artist,” she snarled and hung up with a curse.
Isabelle turned to Julie. “That’s totally unbelievable. Elena won’t give me his number without asking him first. I guess I should take it that he’s not interested where I’m concerned.”
Julie sighed, ignoring her inner turmoil. “Do you have to stick your nose into everything? You’re as bad as my mother.”
“But I’m the only one who really has your interests at heart,” she replied, clearly put out.
“Then let it be,” insisted Julie. “Call Elena and tell her not to worry about it.”
Isabelle looked sulky, but Julie ignored her friend’s sudden change of mood. She sat down next to Isabelle on the sofa and affectionately put her arms around her.
“Please,” Julie said gently. “I know you’ve got the best of intentions, but it’s really nothing to get upset about.”
“Very well,” sighed Isabelle. “I’m meeting Elena tomorrow for brunch. I’ll let her know then.” She stretched and got up. “Now let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I need a decent cup of coffee, and then I intend to blow my newly acquired wealth in town.” She gave a shameless, self-satisfied smile. “And you’re coming with me.”
Since Julie still had some time before her appointment at the warehouse, she accompanied Isabelle on her shopping spree. The retail therapy provided just the distraction she’d hoped it would. After wandering through the boutiques downtown, Isabelle invited her to lunch, where she enjoyed an excellent salad. It wasn’t until they were in the middle of dessert that she noticed the time. Isabelle’s constant chatter had caused her to completely forget the appointment with the photographer. She hastily excused herself and took a taxi to the warehouse.
She arrived fifteen minutes late and looked around. She was standing in front of a stark two-story building surrounded by a chain-link fence. No one was in sight, so she rooted around for the key in her purse and opened the door.
Beyond the entrance stretched a narrow corridor illuminated by harsh ceiling lights and lined with doors, each of which was labeled with a storeroom number. She walked down the hall, searching for the right one.
After opening the inner door, she looked curiously around the room. To the right was a vast open area that she assumed would be used for taking photographs. She spotted a small table and two chairs in front of a safety glass window where she thought she might be able to get some work done. In her haste, she had forgotten to bring her laptop, and she hoped Mr. Colbert might be able to help her out with that.
The left side of the room was lined with stacked boxes labeled “Hoffmann.” Julie took a horrified breath when she realized that there must be more than sixty boxes. They’d never get through them all in a single afternoon, especially if the esteemed photographer didn’t honor her with his presence soon. Julie fervently hoped that he hadn’t given up waiting and left before she arrived. She decided to wait a few minutes before doing anything.
She went over to the window, set her purse on the table, and looked out into the deserted yard. She tried to estimate how much time each item would take. The problem was not so much the photography itself, but the unpacking, naming, classifying, numbering, and repacking. Even if each one only took ten minutes, that would still mean ten hours of work. And that rough calculation didn’t even include setting up the equipment or breaks or the fact that some boxes likely contained several items.
She heard a light cough behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. The photographer had arrived. They could get to work.
She turned and gave a start when she found herself looking into Bastian’s cool eyes.
CHAPTER 6
The way her heart leapt confirmed that her imagination was not playing nasty tricks on her.
He really was standing there.
Tall, attractive, and completely impassive.
Dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and jeans, he looked like a student. His dark hair was disheveled, his eyes looked more gray than green in the artificial lighting, and a dark shadow around his chin revealed that he had not shaved that morning. Despite that, he looked entrancing as he leaned casually against the door frame, a mug of coffee in hand, silently observing her.
“Mr. Colbert?” asked Julie uncertainly.
He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. Julie immediately noticed his black gloves. How unusual that he wore them to work again.
But that didn’t matter just then. Under other circumstances, she would have been delighted at this unexpected encounter. But as it was, her stomach tensed when she recalled his last words.
“Did you know last night that we’d be seeing each other today?” she asked, embarrassed.
“Of course not.”
Given his defensive tone, Julie was clearly not the only one who felt like running away. Incredible that for once they agreed on something. Jutting her chin out defiantly, she vowed to get through the day without giving him the satisfaction of seeing his presence trouble her even in the slightest.
“You’re late,” she said, to her great surprise imitating her mother’s condescending demeanor perfectly.
He slowly pushed himself away from the wall. “Actually, you’re the one who was late.”
“As I understand it, I’m the client here, and you’re the employee, which allows me a certain amount of leeway. Yes, I was held up by prior commitments, but I don’t consider my delay to be beyond the bounds of what’s reasonable.”
Bastian raised an eyebrow. “I don’t recall seeing approximately in front of the agreed-upon time.”
“Perhaps you should look a bit more closely next time.”
“I certainly will.”
Something in his voice sent a shiver down Julie’s spine. Disconcertingly, it was a pleasant shiver.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. “I suggest you set up your equipment while I sort through things so we can get started.”
“As the lady wishes,” he said calmly, then turned and left the room.
Julie slunk shakily toward the shelves. How would she be able to keep up this performance for the rest of the day? She could hardly spend five minutes in a room with him without her feelings going haywire. Her palms were sweaty, her body had broken out in goose bumps, and her heart was hammering in her chest.
She wondered what it was about this man that caused such an intense reaction in her. She had never considered herself superficial, but apart from his attractive appearance, she didn’t know the first thing about him.
And he certainly had no interest in getting to know her.
So why wouldn’t her heart accept this simple fact? What was wrong with her?
As she heard his footsteps approaching in the hall, she grabbed the first box and carefully unpacked it. As she did so, Bastian conjured up metal scaffolding, seemingly from nothing, over which he hung a white canvas screen. He set up some lights, a clean white folding table, a flash, a tripod, and a laptop, then pulled his camera from his camera bag. After connecting everything and checking his settings, he turned expectantly to Julie.
She placed an antique vase on the stand he’d provided. It was handmade, with a Greek mythology motif.
Bastian centered the vase in his viewfinder, double-checked his camera settings, and began to photograph it.
Julie cleared her throat uneasily. “You don’t happen to have a notepad with you, do you?”
He gave her a questioning look from behind his camera. “Were your commitments so absorbing that you forgot your documents?” he asked, clearly amused.
“You could say that.”
He went over to his bag, took out a notebook, and handed it to her.
She took it and rummaged through her purse for a pen. After a fruitless search, she turned back to him. He was already holding one out for her.
“Thanks,” she said lamely.
“I could let you use my laptop.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She’d rather bite her own tongue off than accept his offer, even if it meant spending the evening typing her notes into her own laptop. She hastily sketched out a grid and numbered them. She designated a column for the description of each object and another for notes, which the agency could use later when drafting the captions.
She studied the vase on the table, trying to think of something noteworthy about it. Her gaze slid to Bastian, who was busy turning the vase to shoot the reverse side.
“How’s your arm?” she asked, immediately regretting her solicitous tone.
“Better.”
He left no doubt about his lack of interest in conversation. She turned to the next box and began unpacking it.
The bright lights soon made the room so hot that Julie removed her wool sweater. The dark-green T-shirt she wore beneath it was plain and figure-hugging, and it looked good with her blue jeans. It seemed that Bastian wasn’t completely indifferent to how she looked. Though he said nothing, she sensed his gaze on her back.
They both went about their own tasks with quiet efficiency, hoping to get the job—and their unexpected reunion—behind them as quickly as possible.
Beep. Beep. Click.
Beep. Beep. Click.
A brief pause to turn the item.
Beep. Beep. Click.
Beep. Beep. Click.
Julie could hardly bear the silence, but it was better than being confronted once again by his rejection. At times, he was so withdrawn that she hardly knew he was there. He only moved to change the position of his subjects. Otherwise, he stayed behind his tripod, giving Julie the impression that he didn’t want to get any closer to her than absolutely necessary. Whenever she approached the table, he sauntered with exaggerated calm back behind his camera. His face was as impenetrable as a mask. Only when they met hers by chance did his eyes flash with some indefinable emotion.
While Julie was jotting down a few notes about a silver tray and packing it back up, she heard a soft buzzing. Bastian pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket.
“Hello?” He suddenly grew animated. “Hi, Elena.”
The blood froze in Julie’s veins. Isabelle had promised she’d talk to Elena. But she wasn’t going to see her until the next day. That meant that Elena could easily be calling on Isabelle’s behalf. Murmuring something unintelligible, Bastian turned his back to her, and hung up shortly thereafter.
Julie waited tensely for his reaction, but he betrayed nothing. He continued working away nonchalantly in the silence she’d grown used to.
Sixteen items later, Julie realized that dusk was already falling outside and they were nowhere near done. It struck her as paradoxical that time seemed to creep by so slowly in the heavy silence, yet the clock hands ticked forward ever faster. It looked like she’d be lucky to be finished by the weekend.
With a frustrated shake of her head, she pulled a precious Ming vase from its packaging. She couldn’t help but notice that her mother’s art collection was remarkable in its variety. The decorative pieces that had filled her home when Julie was growing up represented a surprising array of different designs and periods. But that was typical of her mother. If Louisa wanted something, she didn’t care one bit whether it matched anything else in the house. Besides, her purchasing decisions were rarely based on her own personal taste but rather acquired with the intention of impressing her friends, who were themselves clueless. Julie had observed the ritual often enough. It was dismaying to think how many women placed the way they were regarded by others before anything else.
“Thai or Italian?” asked Bastian suddenly.
Julie paused, confused. “Are you inviting me to dinner?”
“I’m hungry,” he said with a shrug.
“But we’re not even a quarter of the way through,” she objected. “I’d rather keep on working.”
“Think of it as a business dinner,” he replied undeterred as he pulled out his cell phone. “The agency’s paying the expenses anyway.”
“I don’t want anything.”
Bastian called the Thai restaurant and ordered glass noodle soup, vegetarian spring rolls, chicken in peanut sauce, beef in coconut milk, egg noodles with pork and vegetables, and, for dessert, two baked bananas. Then he added soda, sparkling apple juice, and two coffees to the list.
When he hung up, he looked at Julie with a satisfied expression.
“But I told you I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what I meant,” she protested, realizing indignantly that his order sounded incredibly appetizing. She hadn’t eaten for hours, and that had only been a salad and a little dessert. The battle of nerves that constantly waged in his presence was gradually claiming its victory.
A delivery boy soon arrived with the order in a large heatproof container. Bastian set out all the cartons on the table and arranged the drinks next to them, together with several pairs of chopsticks the restaurant had provided in the mistaken belief that the meal was intended for a group.
“You’ll never eat all that by yourself,” remarked Julie, scanning the array of boxes.
“Don’t bet on it.”
He sat down, picked up two chopsticks, and began to heap food onto his plate from the various cartons. Despite his dexterous handling of the chopsticks, they looked absurd in his gloved hands. Julie asked herself once more why he didn’t simply take them off.
As he devoured a spring
roll, he glanced up at Julie, who was hovering indecisively by the table. He raised a provocative eyebrow.
Her nostrils filled with the appetizing aromas. Berating herself for her weakness, she finally sank down on the other chair and grabbed a pair of chopsticks and the carton of noodles. Bastian passed her the sparkling apple juice.
“The opening went well last night,” Bastian said.
Julie was surprised that he had opened the conversation. Shutting out the memory of her personal defeats, she nodded. “Isabelle told me she sold lots of paintings.”
“Have you known each other long?”
“We’ve been pretty much inseparable since grade school.”
He dunked a spring roll in sauce. “She wants to talk to me,” said Bastian.
Julie struggled to swallow the noodles that were suddenly stuck in her throat. “Really?” she answered, feigning surprise.
“You don’t happen to know what she wants?” he persisted.
Julie shuffled anxiously on her chair. “No idea. Perhaps she’s in need of your services.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes sparkled as he said it.
“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” said Julie, ignoring his obvious teasing. “Perhaps she wants some new portrait shots and Elena recommended you.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I generally only shoot still lifes as a freelancer. Last night’s opening was an exception; I was doing Elena a favor. She wouldn’t recommend me for portraits.”
“Why not? Do you only work for one agency?”
“No. I freelance for several agencies.” He reached for the chicken. “Regardless, your friend’s interest seems to be of a personal nature.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she stressed it explicitly.”
“You know, Isabelle’s really fickle. By tomorrow she’ll probably have forgotten what she wanted and moved on to something else.”
“Is that how you see her?”
Julie smiled stoically. “It certainly is.”