by Malone, Nana
“I do more than that, Simon. I’m responsible for the art direction. I’m responsible for the mood, finding the stellar picture, looking into the soul of the subject.” If he has a soul, she thought bitterly.
He didn’t speak for several beats. Frowning, he asked, “Is it the subject you don’t want to deal with? I caught some of the tension there. If it is the subject, I’ll tell them it’s a definite no and line something else up for you, but Sports Illustrated is a huge step in getting you where you’re supposed to be. I don’t want to tell them there are artistic differences if I can help it.”
She bit back the bitter bile at his artistic differences retort. “I know how important SI can be. I’m not crazy about shooting the athletes and actors and stuff, but I can do it. I have done it.”
“So it is the subject you object to.”
Shit. If she said yes, he’d want an explanation, not only as her manager, but as her boyfriend. She wasn’t ready to give explanations. If she said no, he’d think she was a difficult artist type, and she hated it when he made those kinds of references. She was a professional.
“No, it’s not the subject.”
“Good. Then there’s no problem. You’ll do the shoot.” He took her hand and pulled her out from around the light table. He encircled her waist with his hands. “I’ll make this as easy on you as possible. Anything you need, you just tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”
She leaned back from him. Knowing she couldn’t ask him to make Jason Cartwright disappear without a trace, she opted for something in the realm of possibility. “How about less pieces in the gallery opening?”
“Well, how about we try something smaller. Besides, you know forty will give the critics a good range of your work and your talent. Anything else you want? How about I come to the set and make sure everything goes smoothly?”
Izzy hated having him on set. He always got in the way, tried to give direction. She’d have to babysit him to make sure he didn’t waste SI’s money. “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I know how bored you get at shoots. It’s a lot of sitting around. How about more time in my day?”
“Your wish is my command. I’ll cancel the publisher this afternoon. Give you more time to work. But I think coming to the set will be fun. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my lady work.”
He seemed so pleased with himself, she didn’t bother to tell him he’d make her job harder, not easier, and by going to the meeting in her place he’d only be giving her back the time he stole from his interruption. “That would be great, Simon. But honestly, don’t feel obligated to come babysit me. Jessica will be on hand to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
His jaw clenched at the mention of Jessica’s name, then slowly unclenched before he spoke. “I’m not there to babysit you. I’m there to be your right hand. Jessica’s capable enough I’m sure, but she’s not me.” He grinned and pulled her tighter. “Anything else milady wants?”
She screwed her face up, body tightening at the contact. “That you can provide me? Not that I can think of right now, but I’ll take a rain check.”
He smiled as he dipped his head. “Where’s your sense of imagination,” he mumbled against her mouth before nipping her lower lip.
In what could only be a practiced move, he shifted to pin her against her light table with his hips while both hands went to her face in what might have been an attempt at an achingly tender kiss. But it wasn’t. Firm, coaxing lips slid over hers and demanded a response. He left her nowhere to run.
When in Rome. He wouldn’t let her wheedle out, so she threw everything she could into the kiss and waited for the tingle of arousal to slide up her spine. Waited for the quickening and thrumming of heady heartbeat. Waited for the dizzying ladder of lust and longing. Hoped to replace the memories of Jason.
Traitorously, her heart and body sighed in resignation to a kiss from the wrong man. Not Jason.
The moment the image of Jason’s handsome face peeked into her consciousness, she felt the sparks of telltale arousal. She remembered his clean, crisp scent and the way his arms slid around her in familiarity and sexually heated tension. Using her imagination, she molded herself against the lengthening heat of Simon’s arousal. And wished for several moments that Jason’s hands slid down her form in desperate need. That Jason’s tongue slid in and out of her mouth, coaxing her tongue to dance with his. That Jason’s erection pressed into her, insistent and aching for relief.
Jason, not Simon. Jason. Desperate to shake off the fog of her fantasy, she tore her lips from Simon’s. The sounds of labored panting filled the air as they both tried to catch their breath. Though, her pants came with a healthy dose of self-loathing and remorse. Simon was finally treating her like a desirable woman, and the only way she could get turned on was to think about Jason? She needed therapy. And a drink. A drink and therapy. Maybe an exorcism too just for good measure. She’d try anything to wipe thoughts of Jason Cartwright from her head.
“Damn, Izzy, if I’d have known that was going to happen, I would have suggested we go up to the house.” His lazy smile told her just what he wanted to do up at the house.
Feeling like a first class bitch, she disengaged from him. “I still have work to do.”
He gave her a disappointed smile, but released her. “You’re right. We can finish this later.” He must have seen some of the panic flit across her face because he amended the statement immediately. “I’m not going to move too fast, Izzy. I want this to be perfect.”
She listened to him walk out and murmur brief apologies to Jessica. Fantasies were normal she told herself. Healthy even. Many a woman had fantasized about George Clooney or Brad Pitt, or Jason Cartwright for that matter, while with their boyfriends.
Then why did she feel so guilty?
It took her almost an hour after Simon left to accept the realization that he had manipulated her into staying on the SI job. Not only that, but he’d also manipulated her into inviting him to the set. She was no better than she’d started off. She still had to deal with Jason, but now she’d have the added pleasure of Simon’s company on the shoots.
Chapter Eight
Jason waited for Izzy, every nerve coiled in anticipation. The tension, his constant companion since the day in her studio, ebbed out of Jason’s shoulders at the sight of her. Izzy. Not for the first time in fifteen years, she’d occupied more of his mind than he wanted to admit.
He shrugged into the suit jacket the stylist handed him and watched her set up. Her linen cargo pants fit her so well they showed her every curve and accentuated her long legs. Though, he had a feeling she wore them more for their utility than for fashion. The faded green t-shirt that clung to her breasts looked well-worn and lived in. An expensive-looking Canon camera hung from around her neck. He watched as she turned each knob, depressed each button. Her every gesture, efficient and erotic.
Stomach tight, he took a sip of coffee, grabbed one for Izzy, and headed across the tennis court toward her. He ignored the twinge of pain in his knee when he put weight on it.
Before he could reach her, a gangly blond teenager set down a tripod behind her and said something that put a genuine smile on Izzy’s lips showcasing her dimples. Jason stopped mid-step, and stared as her eyes lit up and lips, full and wide, revealed that beautiful smile he remembered.
She used to smile at him like that. Damn, I’ve got it bad.
Behind the gangly kid, he caught sight of her manager and swallowed a curse. He hadn’t anticipated trying to get close to her with the ever watchful eyes of her jailer on him. He considered his options and shrugged. Fuck it. What was the worst that could happen? He knew what he wanted, and the pencil pusher wasn’t going to stop him.
He watched the boy saunter off before he approached. He offered the coffee and hoped he looked nonchalant. She took the cup with a grateful smile. But even though she smiled, he didn’t miss the fact that she avoided looking him in the eyes.
“Good morning. Thanks.” She took a
sip of the dark liquid and moaned her pleasure as she gave him a quizzical look. “You remembered how I like it.”
“Not hard. I’ve never met anyone who takes their coffee with equal parts sugar and coffee grounds.”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but then they snapped shut. She indicated the Canon around her neck. “You ready to get started?”
Okay—all business and no chit chat. He’d expected that.
“Uh, yeah I’m ready when you are. You do these early morning shoots often?” He resisted the urge to hang his head in his hands, knowing he sounded like an idiot. His critics would guffaw if they heard his bombing pick-up lines.
She gave him a smile, a genuine one. Maybe all they needed was a little warming up period. Maybe he could remind her they’d been friends once. More than friends.
“Early mornings are a photographer’s paradise.” She noted his confused look and added, “It’s the best light.”
He nodded. “I know I said this already, but, it really is great to see you. I’m excited to work with you. You already know I’m a huge fan of your work.”
She pulled a lens out of a camera bag and attached it to the camera. “You’re right. You did say that already.”
Fair enough, she wouldn’t give him any wiggle room. With every one of her efficient movements, he caught a whiff of jasmine and vanilla. “It’s true.” When she merely fiddled with the camera, he added softly, “I’ve missed you. I don’t think I realized how much until I saw you again.”
She gave him a long measured look, eyes boring into his soul. He returned her stare and stubbornly refused to break the connection. Midnight eyes drew him in, and he took an involuntary step into her space.
Her eyes widened and pupils dilated. When her lips parted slightly to reveal the tip of a pink tongue, he couldn’t drown out the blood rushing in his head.
“That charm of yours get you far?”
Before he could respond, a voice behind him broke the connection. “Mom, I put the film cameras in the red bag, and the lenses for them are in the blue one. The rest of the digital lenses are—” The gangly teenager Jason had seen carrying her equipment stopped and stared at him.
Mom? His mind struggled to process the single word. His body still staggered from his response to her as he wondered if he had heard right. The boy was blond and far from biracial. Adopted? But she’d always said she didn’t want kids.
The boy continued to stare at him agog until Izzy poked him in the ribs, and he finally spoke, blurting out, “Holy shit, you’re Jason Cartwright.” Eyes wide, he turned to Izzy and added, “Mom, you didn’t tell me you were shooting Jason Cartwright.”
With a bemused look, Izzy made introductions, but not before she corrected him. “Watch your language. Nick, meet Jason. Jason, this is my son Nick.”
There was that word again, Mom along with son. Unable to immediately find his tongue, Jason smiled and held out his hand clasping the teenager’s hand, scrutinizing, looking for any signs of Izzy. After a moment, he gave Nick a smile he usually reserved for the red carpets. “Nice to meet you, Nick. You’re a tennis fan?”
There was something familiar about the boy around the eyes, but he couldn’t place what it was. He couldn’t picture Izzy as a mother. Granted, he didn’t put much stock on motherhood or parenting for that matter, his own parents screwed up bad enough to make him never want children. Parenthood was an important job. One most people weren’t suited to. Absently, he wondered what kind of mother Izzy was.
Nick sputtered and rambled a stream of consciousness. “Am I a fan? Gosh, yeah. I watch every match you play. It totally sucked about your knee. Coach says I play my forehand just like you do. None of the guys are gonna believe this. God, if you could—”
“Nick,” Izzy interrupted him, a bemused smile played across her lips. “Slow down. Jason and I have to get to work.” She cast a glance in Jason’s direction. “But maybe if Jason has some time, he could talk to you between shots and after.”
He wanted to laugh at the exchange, especially when the kid realized he’d sworn within earshot of Izzy. “Yeah sure, we can chat all you like.”
When Nick beamed at him, Jason realized how misleading his height was. He stood about five feet eleven inches, but Nick couldn’t have been older than thirteen, maybe fourteen. If he was Izzy’s, that meant she gave birth when she was sixteen or so. Jason had known her when she was sixteen. She must have adopted the kid.
Izzy pulled a racket out of one of the tennis equipment bags and indicated the other court. “I figured you could take some swings while we got to work.”
Nick looked uneasy, shifting glances toward Jason, like he didn’t want to leave. “Are you sure?”
Izzy brushed hair out of her face. “Well, it’s either that or you can hang out with Simon.”
They both looked toward her manager, out of place in his Brooks Brothers three-piece suit and tie, yapping away on his phone. Photo shoots as a rule were informal places due to long hours. He wore a suit, but he was talent. What was Simon’s excuse? The stylist had paired the suit with stark white tennis shoes and a skinny tie, making him just this side of dressy casual and uber-fashionable. Nick made a face. “I thought maybe I could help. Carry your bags, set up the lighting and stuff.”
Amused, Izzy said, “But you hate to play assistant. Is this how you want to spend your midterm day off? You never—” She stopped talking at Nick’s desperate look.
“I can do it. I’ll stay out of your way. I swear.”
Izzy blinked at him and shrugged. “Jessica should be in the back with the assistant art director. Go tell her you want to be a gofer for the shoot. She’ll get you working.”
“Really, Mom?” Pure joy lit up Nick’s face with a thousand watt smile.
She nodded and grinned. “Yeah, really. I would have asked, but you usually don’t want to do this kind of stuff.”
Nick blushed. “Course I want to help. I also don’t want to get stuck with Simp—erm, Simon.” With a grin, he headed off across the green, but not before stopping to say, “I’ll see you later, Mr. Cartwright.”
Mr. Cartwright? He wasn’t that old was he? “You can call me Jason.”
Nick shook his head and cast Izzy a look. “If it’s all the same, I’ll keep calling you Mr. Cartwright.”
Jason glanced between Izzy and Nick. “Okay. Whatever works. I’m flexible.”
“This is so dope.”
Izzy shook her head as she watched Nick run off. “When did kids start using dope again? I’m cutting off that kid’s BET.” Giving Nick another dubious look, she added, “His MTV too, for good measure.”
Jason barked out a laugh as they watched Nick bounce away.
“Thanks for being so nice to him. He sometimes has a confidence problem. Could you tell?”
Jason scanned the courts. Several assistants carted camera bags to the shooting area on the court.
He laughed and added. “I noticed he lacks for things to say, too.” Suddenly sober, he added, “He seems like a great kid.” He meant it. The gangly teen had Izzy stamped all over him—in spirit if not genetically.
Izzy nodded. “Thanks. You’re pretty much his idol.”
Instead of asking if she watched matches along with him, he said, “I wish I’d known. I’d have gotten you tickets to an open or something.”
She halted and took a light reading of his face. “Oh, we’ve been. We were at the US Open last year.”
His stomach flipped. She’d seen him win, then she’d seen him lose that crushing defeat to Nadal. “Why didn’t you come through to see me after the matches? We could have had dinner. I could have shown off for the kid. We could have—reconnected.” I could have told you the truth.
****
What lie would he accept? Izzy squirmed under the scrutiny of his gaze. Not knowing where to look, she looked where was most comfortable, at her camera. She fiddled with the knobs to appear busy.
“I figured you probably didn’t
remember me or were too busy with reporters.” She prayed that didn’t sound desperate or worse, pathetic. In truth, it had been more along the lines of she couldn’t face him, couldn’t relive the memory of the last time she’d seen him.
He stared at her, whiskey eyes probed hers. “We both know that’s a lie.”
Unable to take the truth in his eyes, she looked away and set up the first round of shots. Why was he looking at her like that? It made her uncomfortable and heated enough to sweat.
Izzy positioned him and snapped away, while she attempted to lose herself in the cool methodical process of the photos. He wasn’t a difficult subject to shoot, with the angles of his jaw, aquiline nose and full lips. The camera loved him, especially in shadows.
Most photographers cherished the creation of a photo, the art and the passion. Not her. What she prized the most was the truth in it. The camera held the inherent truth about life. Photoshop might spin a brilliant tale, but raw film was pure and honest. It was impossible to hide in black and white.
Izzy snapped another few images before stopping to switch lenses. As she moved, she could feel his eyes on her. She didn’t dare meet the stare, because every time she did, she saw interest. Keen interest. But she knew better. He’d built a social career on being the good looking, womanizing, paparazzi darling.
As they moved to the next set of shots, Izzy tried to ignore Jason’s intent looks as best she could. But he made it increasingly more difficult with each shot. The intensity was perfect for black and white, but not perfect for her. Why does he always do this to me?
He’d turned her down, hadn’t he? The way she figured it, she’d gotten off lucky when he walked away from her. Or not gotten off at all to be honest. Jason wouldn’t turn her world inside out again. She stole another glance at him and sighed. She had her pride.
As if trying to fill the silence, he tried small talk. Asking about other photo shoots, her clients, how her parents were. When she mentioned her father had passed away, he looked genuinely sad. For the most part, he kept things light and impersonal, which suited her fine.
