by Ember Dante
“I thought your name was Ian?”
“It is. Well, it’s actually Cillian, but I go by Ian.”
“Who the hell is Miles Shaw? Why did you lie to me?”
The accusation questioned my integrity, and it pissed me off. I could count on one hand the number of lies I’d told in my life, and none of them had been for personal gain. I took a deep breath and let it out before responding. “I didn’t. I told you I’m a photographer. I just didn’t recite my resume.”
“Omission is still a lie.”
“So we’re going there, are we.” My eyes flicked to the calendar displayed on the monitor in front of me. “Flemming?”
She gaped at my temerity and then slammed her mouth shut, clicking her teeth in the process. She pursed her lips and gave a subtle nod.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “That was my mother’s maiden name. I’ve been called Emmy as long as I can remember. I only use my given name for the byline.”
“Fair enough.” Reclining in my chair, I swiveled to the side and propped an ankle on the opposite knee. “Shaw is my mother’s maiden name, and Miles is my middle name. The majority of my work is freelance for mainstream magazines like Southern Living and Architectural Digest. My agent felt—and I agreed—that in order to keep them happy, I should use a pseudonym for my erotic work to prevent any negative impact on the magazines’ reputations. Many authors and celebrities use different professional names. This is no different.”
“Why didn’t you mention this the other night?”
“Why would I have? I could ask you the same question.” I shrugged, my irritation rising anew. “I’m not in the habit of explaining my business decisions to someone I just met.”
“But it’s okay to fuck someone you just met?” she demanded, her volume rising with each word.
“I gave you several opportunities to back out.” I laughed. “If I remember correctly, I asked you three times. You never backed down. You wanted me as much as I wanted you.”
Piqued by my laughter, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared. That glare was enough to drop the room’s temperature several degrees, and I needed to salvage the situation if I expected to get anywhere with her. The funny thing was, I wouldn’t have hesitated to boot any other woman out the door for accusing me of lying. But there was something about Emmy, and fate had seen fit to give me another shot with her. I intended to make the most of it.
“Look, I didn’t intentionally deceive you,” I sighed. “The subject just never came up. If either you or your friends had mentioned the name Miles Shaw or Exposure, I would have said something.” I tilted my head. “Maybe not in front of your friends, but I would have said something to you privately.”
Her tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip. I met her stare and tried to dig my way out of the hole I’d found myself in.
“Regardless of whatever you may think, I don’t troll bars to pick up random women for sex. I pursued you because after our initial meeting—if you can call it that—I knew I had to get to know you. It was a case of being in the right place at the right time, and I’m glad you were pushed into my life.” I took another deep breath and let it out. “It was a great night, and I’ll admit I was disappointed you wouldn’t give me your number. I hoped we’d meet again, I just never expected it would be like this. This is serendipity.”
The corners of her mouth twitched, and her eyes fluttered closed as she lowered her chin and gave a resigned sigh. After several moments that seemed to last an eternity, she lifted her chin and relaxed into her chair. The change in her demeanor was astonishing.
“I suppose I understand why you wouldn’t divulge that information immediately, but I hope you can understand that seeing you like this is quite a shock. I’d done some preliminary research, and I guess I'm more upset with myself for not putting two and two together. I feel like I should have suspected the connection.”
“I can understand that, and I’m just as surprised as you are.” I uncrossed my legs and turned to face her, resting both arms on the desk. “What do you say we start over?”
The smile was small at first but grew until it reached her eyes and lit up her face. A man would be hard-pressed to find anything in this world as beautiful as Emmy when she smiled.
“Okay,” she agreed.
I returned her smile and took advantage of the chance for a little levity. “Since you didn’t come here to see me, should we get started with the interview?”
Her lips curved into another smile. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not at all.”
She placed a small recorder on the edge of the desk and flipped open the notebook resting on her lap. When she looked up, the playfulness was gone. Confidence replaced the awkwardness she displayed Friday night, and damned if that wasn’t sexy as fuck. Her voice was sweet and almost a little breathy, and it reminded me of the noises she’d made when I had her naked and writhing beneath me. Damn. That image sent all the blood rushing south, and I was having difficulty concentrating on her questions. Somehow I managed to answer on auto pilot, but then again, all she’d asked was the typical opening bullshit: why photography, why that genre, blah, blah, blah—the exact reasons I wished I’d refused to handle publicity for my event. That was supposed to be the benefit of being behind the camera, rather than in front of it.
It must have been obvious that I wasn’t paying strict attention because her head tilted to one side and there was an expectant look on her face. Uh oh. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question, please?”
Her lips twisted into a smirk and she stared at me for several seconds before relenting. “What I asked was why do you work in black and white specifically? The quality of digital cameras and color printing methods has increased dramatically in recent years, so why work strictly in black and white?”
Okay. That was a decent question. I needed to start paying attention. “You could ask a hundred photographers the same question and get as many different answers. My opinion is that black and white forces a photographer to focus on composition rather than the superficial beauty of the scene. Color holds too much influence over how a person perceives the image. Black and white allow stronger control over the mood of the piece. It’s almost like being able to see into someone’s soul, rather than focusing on his or her external appearance.”
Reclining into her chair, she rested heavily on one elbow and drummed her fingers against her lips, bemused. She considered me for several moments, apparently contemplating my answer.
“That’s … deep.” She straightened, dropping both hands in her lap, elbows on each armrest, her fingers fiddling with her pen. “I’ve never heard anyone describe photography—actually, anything—like that before. You sound—”
“Yeah, I sound like a pussy.”
Mom would kick my ass for saying that to a woman, but Emmy didn’t bat an eye.
“No, I was going to say passionate.” She laughed.
“Now you’re just being nice. It’s okay. You can say it—it wasn’t the profound answer you were hoping for.”
“Actually, I thought it was very profound.” She giggled. “I’m curious to see if you can top it with my next question.”
I liked playful Emmy. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Why fetish erotica? How do you wake up one morning and decide to get into that? Are you—” she sucked in a breath as a crimson flush spread across her cheeks—“into that sort of thing?”
If the fact she asked the question wasn’t so fucking hilarious, I might have been offended. I released a burst of laughter, and her eyes widened.
“No, I’m not into that sort of thing,” I said, continuing to chuckle. “To answer your question, I met the owner of a local fetish club through a mutual acquaintance. A few of her clients expressed interest in having photos done in a similar fashion to what they’d seen in Skin Two. When she discovered it was my work, she asked if I’d be willing to do it.”
“Do you photogr
aph all of her clients?”
“No. Only the ones who request it.”
“You said the owner is a woman.”
“I’m sorry, was that a question?” My response earned a glower, and I had to admit she was a little scary with that look on her face. “Yes, the owner is a woman. Do you find that odd?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I guess I just imagined that would be a business a man would own.”
“Would that be considered reverse sexism?” I teased.
She frowned but otherwise didn’t acknowledge my comment, making me wonder if I’d pissed her off.
“I just have one more question, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Shoot.”
“Who would you cite as your primary influence? Who or what inspired you to become a photographer in the first place?”
“The short answer is Ansel Adams and Alfred Stieglitz. I would imagine most photographers would say the same. The longer answer includes several names you’re probably familiar with: Richard Avedon, Herb Ritts, Annie Leibovitz, Helmut Newton, Robert Mapplethorpe, Andreas Gursky, and Mario Testino, among others.”
“Wasn’t Gursky best known for landscapes and architectural work?”
“Very good.” I was impressed. She did her homework. “Of course, so was Ansel Adams.” I paused, trying to decide how much to reveal. “I was on the track to a very different career path, but my mother always encouraged me to do something I love. Of course, she also insisted I finish my education, so I do have an MBA. All the photographers I mentioned are—or were—artists. That appealed to me—the ability to create something beautiful and give it to the world.”
“That sounds like another profound answer. Well done.”
She turned off the recorder and began gathering her things. Even though we’d gotten off to a somewhat rocky start, we managed to get back to the easy familiarity we shared Friday. This second meeting was a gift, and I didn’t want to waste it. Regardless of her excuses on the previous Saturday, I needed to think of a way to see her again. We shared a connection, and although I wasn’t a mind reader, I had to believe she felt it too.
“Emmy, would you go to the opening with me?”
Her head jerked up in surprise. “You mean like a ... date?”
“Yeah, a date. We could stay about an hour or so and then go have dinner.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be professional. I shouldn’t fraternize with an interview subject.”
“Isn’t that like closing the barn door after the horse escapes? We’ve already fraternized—several times, in fact.” I laughed.
Her mouth compressed into a thin line. Great. I managed to make her mad. “I take my job seriously, and I don’t want anything to jeopardize it.”
“Jesus, Emmy, I’m just asking you to go to my exhibit opening. Surely your employer won’t be upset about that.”
“You also mentioned dinner. That has certain ... implications.”
“Implications? It’s just dinner, Emmy.”
Of course, I neglected to mention that I would indeed like to get her naked between the sheets again. Just the thought of being between her thighs was enough to wake up my dick.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she bristled.
“All right. Think about it and give me a call. You know how to reach me now.”
“I guess I have everything I need.” Flustered, she stood and turned to leave. “Thank you for your time.”
I stepped around the desk to escort her out. “Anything for you.”
“I think I can find my own way out, Mr. Shaw.” She scowled as we walked through the studio.
“Is that how we’re going to play this?”
Troy looked up as we approached, his eyes lingering just a bit longer than necessary on Emmy. That kid was hopeless.
“Are you making any progress on those images?” I asked, diverting his attention away from her.
“Um, yeah. I’m almost finished with them. They’ll be ready for you to review in about thirty minutes,” said Troy.
“Great.” I winked at Emmy and opened the door.
She rolled her eyes. “I think I can handle the elevator by myself. Don’t you have work to do?”
Leaning against the wall, I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Nope. I don’t have anything pressing at the moment. Besides, I’m the boss. I can do whatever I want.”
“Are there just the two units on this floor?” she asked, her eyes darting about, seemingly desperate to look anywhere except at me. “Who has that apartment?”
I arched a brow and remained silent, waiting until she returned her attention to me.
“Sorry. I was just curious.” She shrugged. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“Not a problem. I have the entire floor. It’s convenient if I have to work late.” I smiled, hoping to diffuse the tension that had built between us. “Would you like a tour? I can show you the place.”
“No,” she blurted. “Thank you, but that would be inappropriate.”
I knew it would be pressing my luck, but I moved closer and took her hand in mine. Her fingers trembled, and she finally made eye contact for longer than two seconds. “I meant it when I said I was disappointed you didn’t give me your number.” My thumb rubbed the back of her hand, the same way I touched her Friday. “I would like to see you again. Please say you’ll consider going with me.”
The pulse in her neck was erratic, matching the continued tremors in her fingers. She tried to free her hand, but I resisted. I still wasn’t ready to let her go.
Her lips parted and then closed again, before she released an exasperated sigh. “I said I’d think about it. I’ll call and let you know.”
I tried to calculate my chances if I pressed her further, but the elevator doors opened and the moment was gone. She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby.
“I look forward to hearing from you, Emmy.”
“Goodbye, Ian.”
Invigorated from seeing Emmy again, I walked back into the studio wearing a goofy ass smile.
Troy didn’t look up from his monitor. “She was smoking hot. I wonder if she’s a natural redhead.”
“What the fuck did you just say?”
His eyes went wide, eyebrows suspended in surprise. “What? Like you didn’t wonder the same thing.” He shifted in his chair, leaning away from me. “Hell, I don’t care if she is or not. I’d still tap that.”
An odd feeling of protectiveness swept through me. “Don’t ever fucking say that about her again.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, irritated for taking Troy’s comments to heart. He was just a fucking kid.
“Damn, man, what’s gotten into you?” Realization dawned in his eyes. “Oh, shit. Do you know her?”
“Yeah, I know her,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“Does she know you as Miles or Ian?”
“Both ... now.” A dull throb settled behind my eyes, signaling the beginning of a migraine. It was going to be a long fucking day. “I’ll be in the darkroom. I need to process the film from the Gaylord.”
“I still can’t believe you went old school on that shoot because these digital images are awesome.” He scratched his chin. “Oh, I almost forgot. Blaire called while you were with Little Miss Hottie.”
My response was sharper than intended. “Her name is Emmy.”
“Wow. You’ve got it bad.” Troy glanced up, a knowing expression on his face. “You banged her, didn’t you? That’s why she acted so pissed when she left.” He leaned forward and arched a brow. “She’s a hell-cat in the sack, isn’t she?”
“What the fuck did I just say? Shut up and do your damn job. I’m going to call Blaire and then I’ll be in the darkroom the rest of the day.” I forced myself to breathe. I was being ridiculous. “As soon as you’ve finished with those, send them to my office and I’ll do the final cull. I need to s
end them today.”
“Damn, Ian, chill the fuck out. I’m just fucking around. Sorry, I won’t say anything else about Emmy."
It was insane how she had gotten under my skin so quickly. “I’m not trying to be a dick. Just ... drop it, okay?”
“No problem.”
I started toward my office, then turned back. “Those lenses I ordered came in. Would you mind picking them up for me?”
Troy’s irritation vanished. Funny how that worked. “Sure thing! Can I test drive them?”
“Yeah. Just have them here in the morning. I want to use them tomorrow.”
Blaire Fraser was one of the few sexual encounters I wished I could erase from my history. Unfortunately, she also owned the popular fetish club Release, which made her a semi-permanent fixture in my life. At least until I could cut ties with her. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, I was never prepared to talk to her, but dealing with her over the phone was much easier than in person. There were times I had wondered why I’d allowed myself to get involved with Blaire. A drunken night of sex was easy to move past, but our situation had become much more complicated. Dreading what was sure to be a tense conversation, I dialed her number. She answered on the first ring, and as usual, her voice was filled with a fake cheerfulness that reminded me of nails on a chalkboard.
“Ian. It’s so nice to hear from you.’
I wasn’t in the mood for her shit, and there was no way I was going to make it easy on her. “Cut the crap, Blaire. What did you need?”
“That hurts, Ian. Maybe I just wanted to talk to you. You do sound absolutely yummy today.”
“Not interested. Why did you call?”
“Fine,” she huffed. “I have a client who would like a session tomorrow night. No sex—they just want posed scenes. But they are into some kinky shit.”
“All of your clients are into kinky shit.”
“It’s a married couple, and the gentleman has an interesting fetish.”
“Like what?” I asked, knowing I was going to regret it.
