Only Love
Linda Wisdom
A Linda Wisdom Classic Romance from Joyride Books
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Joyride Books on Smashwords
Only Love
Copyright © 2013 by Linda Wisdom
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Chapter 1
“Travis? Travis Yates, don’t you dare hide from me again, you overgrown cowboy!” A woman’s irritated voice rang out through the large photography studio. She hurried across the room, her high heels clicking on the hard linoleum floor, black waist-length hair swaying against trim leather pants with each movement. “Whether you like it or not, I have to talk to you!”
“Give me a break, hoss.” Travis groaned, halting at the door to the darkroom. A couple inches over six feet tall, the dark-haired man was an imposingly masculine figure, with black eyes that shone with amusement, and a full mustache dusted with the same silver that tipped his thick, dark hair. His well-worn jeans and chambray work shirt, the sleeves rolled back from his forearms, certainly were not the uniform of a successful businessman, but they suited his rangy looks to a tee. “Can’t you see I have important work to do?”
Jenny Chen glared at hearing the nickname she had been trying to break her boss of since the first day she’d come to work for him. She brushed her hair away from her face, now shadowed with displeasure.
“You want to talk about work, fine, we’ll talk about work,” she insisted, waving a sheaf of pink paper slips in front of his face. “Do you see these?”
“Yep.”
“Then you know what they mean?”
“Yep.”
Jenny inhaled deeply and counted to ten under her breath. “You have a total of twenty-seven—count them, twenty-seven—messages on your desk, and you took care of only one.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “Tracy has more to do with her time than field calls from your women. Monica Lambert almost had her in tears!”
Travis sighed, knowing full well that the young receptionist wasn’t strong enough to battle some of the women determined to speak to Travis during his workday. “Jenny, I swear to you, I tell everyone not to call me at the studio.”
She smiled sweetly. “And where would they call you? You’re never home, and when you are, you refuse to answer your phone!”
He stared at his assistant, a lovely Eurasian woman in her mid-thirties who looked as if she belonged in front of the camera instead of working so hard behind it. He really didn’t understand why all those women pestered him. He wasn’t vain about his sex appeal; it completely baffled him. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a man whose face was all rough angles and planes, balanced by a heavy mustache and brows and dark eyes that could turn ice-cold with anger or warm with amusement, depending on his mood. He wasn’t even conventionally handsome; the photographer in him saw that, yet there was something about him that attracted the women. Funny thing was, he wasn’t the playboy many people thought him to be. He was much too busy with his work to party every night and indulge in meaningless affairs. At the ripe old age of forty-one, Travis was looking for more than a roll in the sack, anyway. The trouble was, he hadn’t met that special woman yet, and sometimes he wondered if she was even out there. Correction; once he believed he had met her, but the lady had already been taken.
He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do, I promise.”
“Deke called. He said you told him you’d take his new publicity photos. He’s going to stop by this morning and talk to you about when you’ll be able to shoot them.”
Travis frowned. “I told him I’d take his photos?” He shook his head, not remembering such a promise.
“It appears this vow was made at that beer bash you went to three weeks ago,” she reminded him with a smug smile. “The one that lasted four days?”
He winced at the reminder of one very nasty hangover. He’d given up the heavy beer-drinking parties years ago, and after this last bash he remembered why. The aching head and cottony mouth the morning after weren’t worth the alcoholic euphoria he enjoyed in the beginning. Yeah, he was definitely getting too old for that kind of “fun.”
“If he comes in here drunk, he’s getting thrown out immediately,” Jenny said, a warning note in her voice.
Travis sighed wearily. He knew exactly who would be chosen for that task too.
He took Jenny’s arm and guided her back to the office area. Then he sauntered back to his own office, stopping long enough to pour himself a large mug of strong coffee.
He glanced at the oak desk, covered with glossy black-and-white contact sheets waiting for his approval, more pink message slips, and stacks of paper filled with his scribbling. The large studio, expensive furnishings, and blown-up photographs of motorcycles hung on the walls were minor trappings of his success. Little had he known fifteen years ago, when he barely made a living photographing motorcycles and their riders, that he would achieve such popularity with the coffee-table photograph books that came out every two years around the holiday season, and trade-size photo books that came out once a year.
The man whose photographs brought lesser-known motorcycle gangs to attention and showed they were more than unkempt men and women who boozed it up and carried knives and guns in anticipation of a brawl, brought that same special touch to his present-day photographs.
In the beginning Travis had saved every penny he could in order to buy better camera equipment. His first book, portraits of hands, was self-published with the assistance of a popular photographer who was also a motorcycle enthusiast. The book turned out to be an instant success. Who would have imagined that pictures of hands—some working at various crafts and skilled labor, others knobby with arthritis and old age, and even those of small children playing— would become so popular. He immediately sank his profits into his next book on endangered species, and from there he never looked back. He started out using the bathroom in his apartment for a darkroom. When the time came, he took the plunge and leased the building he now used for his studio and darkroom. Even though many of Travis’s pictures were taken in the field, he still used his studio for special shots.
He settled behind his desk in a deep leather chair and propped his booted feet on top of the desk, scanning the message slips Jenny had handed him.
“Don’t you think it’s time you shaved again?” she asked, resting her hip on the edge of the desk as she caught the message slips he crumpled up and threw her way. “You look as if you’d recently escaped from the city zoo.”
“I shaved Saturday night and I won’t ask what section of the zoo you’re referring to.”
“Today is Tuesday.”
Travis ran his hand over his stubbly chin. “You’re a regular nag, hoss. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”
“You put up with me because no one else would put up with your insane way of working,” she retorted.
“If I talk nice to you, would you take pity on a starving man and go out and get me some breakfast?” he asked with the broad grin that made most women go weak at the knees. Jenny had been immune to his charm from day one, which was another reason why he’d hired her. He could work without the worry of his assistant hoping for more than just a fairly normal working day. Going through the record number of six a
ssistants in the same number of weeks had almost convinced him that he was better off with a male assistant when Jenny walked in the door. Within two days she had Travis in hand, and the office running more smoothly than it had in years. He freely admitted he’d be lost without her, and she always agreed with him wholeheartedly.
While Jenny was gone, Travis attempted to clear some of the clutter from the top of his desk. For the past few weeks he had been mulling over an idea for his next book, but nothing came to mind. At least nothing he would care to put his name to.
Deciding another cup of coffee might help stimulate his brain cells, Travis wandered into the outer office to the coffee maker. As he passed Jenny’s desk he noticed a stack of typed sheets of paper set to one side and halted to read the title page. His curiosity aroused by the title, he picked up the pile of paper and carried it into his office. By the time he’d finished the second page, he was totally involved in the story. He quickly glanced through the pages but couldn’t find the author’s name written anywhere.
When Jenny returned later with his breakfast, he put the stack of paper to one side, deciding not to ask her about the story until he’d finished reading it. Smiling his thanks at her, he asked not to be disturbed until Deke arrived. Jenny nodded and closed the door on her way out.
Absently forking scrambled eggs and honey-topped biscuits into his mouth, he continued reading.
Each page of the manuscript sent his thought processes clicking madly.
Written in first person, it was the story of a woman battling a hostile and obviously insecure husband, fighting to keep her individuality and, ultimately, her sanity. It wasn’t a particularly new idea, but the way it was told caught him square in the gut. It spoke of a woman who acknowledged her weak points but still fought to overcome them, no matter how much her husband berated her. The story described the woman vividly, depicting an inner strength that finally surfaced when she needed it most in her struggle for self esteem. The more Travis thought about it, the more he knew what his next book project would be. He wanted to photograph women with unusual strength and determination. And his first model had to be the author of this story. There was no doubt in his mind that the author was a woman, and he didn’t care what she looked like. All he knew was that he had to photograph her. The more he thought about the idea, the more excited he got.
When Jenny announced Deke’s arrival, it took every ounce of self control for him to contain his impatience at the interruption. He decided he would talk to her after his meeting and ask her the identity of the author.
“Hey, man.” Deke, a massive, bald-headed man with a large tattoo of a grinning skull on his bare chest, entered the office and settled into the chair across from Travis. Dressed in a black leather vest, frayed jeans, and worn boots, he looked every inch the ex-Hells Angel he was. Now he preferred making films, thanks to Travis’s help, and was enjoying his new status as a cult hero of motorcycle movies. “We gonna talk pictures or broads?”
“Pictures,” Travis said firmly. “You can concentrate on the other when I’ve finished the former. I suppose you want these taken in the desert like last time?”
“Damn right I do,” Deke said emphatically. “Hell, Travis, I’m not going to sit around in some sissy studio with makeup all over my puss while you pose me one way and another. These ain’t for Vogue magazine, you know.”
Travis shook his head. “Believe me, I’m not going to make you sit around in some sissy studio because I’d have to beat the hell out of you if you tried to fool around with any of my models again.” He sighed, remembering the stiff muscles and bruises he’d suffered from a previous battle with Deke. The motorcyclist had come into the studio and promptly hit on one of Travis’s models. The woman became hysterical, and Travis felt obligated to show Deke just who was boss in his studio. Now, however, he felt a little too old to be trading punches with this behemoth just to prove who was the better man. No wonder he preferred his present work; it was much calmer.
After talking about the old days when they’d ridden together, they settled on a date for the photo session. After Deke left the office, Travis settled back to finish reading the manuscript, “Human Frailties.” He was more determined than ever to photograph the author. It was fast becoming an obsession with him.
“Travis—” Jenny walked into the office and stopped short, blanching when she saw the typed pages in front of him.
“Jenny, I’ve finally come up with an idea for my next book.” He leaned forward in excitement. “You have to tell me who wrote this because I want to photograph the author.”
“No,” she replied in a low voice, reaching out to gather up the pages. His hand grasped her wrist to stop her.
He misunderstood her meaning. “Jenny, I don’t care what she looks like. She must have incredible inner strength to write something this forceful, and I want to capture it.”
“Forget about the author, Travis,” she advised firmly.
Travis was intrigued. Jenny wasn’t so much angry as she was upset over his wanting to know the identity of the author. She normally wouldn’t have acted so disturbed over a minor matter; he knew her too well.
“There’s a good reason for secrecy,” Jenny went on. “She doesn’t care to have this published.”
“You’re making a federal case out of my learning a simple name.”
“Maybe so, but I have good reason where she’s concerned. I’m sorry, Travis. I have nothing more to say about this. If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll be going.”
He nodded, allowing her to pick up the pages from his desk. He wasn’t going to give up his quest this easily, but he’d let it rest for another day. “See you in the morning.”
Jenny nodded, her face still taut with tension, and quickly left the office. Travis heard the sound of desk drawers opening and closing, then silence, indicating that he was alone. After checking his calendar for the following day, he left the office as well.
After picking up dinner at a local fast-food restaurant, Travis headed for home.
Having grown up in farm country, Travis had built a ranch-style house in Rolling Hills. The property boasted a small barn where he kept three horses, and a garage that housed his four-wheel-drive truck, a classic fire-engine-red Corvette, and a motorcycle for the rebel in him.
The first thing Travis did when he walked inside the house was to check the answering machine in his office. Replaying the messages, he listened to the women who had called, but was scarcely interested. He didn’t care to be disturbed by anyone that evening. After grabbing a can of beer from the refrigerator, he carried his dinner into the den, plopped himself down on the couch by the fireplace, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He ate absentmindedly as he thought about the story. Pretty soon he was hunting for a pad of paper and making notes on his ideas for some photographs. As he worked, he lost all track of time, something that wasn’t unusual for him, since his work was his life. It wasn’t until his sore eyes reminded him that it was early morning that he thought about getting some rest.
What kind of person could write something so powerful? he asked himself as he headed for the bedroom. It was purely conjecture on his part, but he’d bet his last dollar that this story was written as some kind of catharsis for the author. He couldn’t imagine anyone just sitting down and writing such a moving, emotional story unless a painful episode in the past had prompted it. Sure, it was considered fiction, but there still had to be some kind of background story to it.
He knew he’d have to get some sleep if he intended to persuade Jenny to part with the author’s name. He wasn’t too worried about her giving him any real trouble, though; his old-fashioned Southern charm hadn’t let him down yet.
“Travis, you’re beginning to give me a headache. I’ve told you no a million times before, and I won’t discuss this again,” Jenny said wearily, two days later. Since Travis hadn’t said anything so far that day, she’d assumed the subject was forgotten. How wrong she was.
“Is it so awful to want to talk to this person?” he demanded, stalking her. “You know I can keep a secret as well as anyone else. In fact, you can be the one to contact the author and let her decide what to do. Doesn’t that sound fair?”
Jenny sighed. She knew very well that the author would turn Travis down. She just wished she could convince him of that. “Oh, Travis, you don’t understand.” She fervently wished she’d never left the story out where he could find it.
“Then make me understand. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t meet with this person.”
Jenny closed her eyes in exasperation. Travis waited patiently as she silently debated with herself on what to tell him and what not to.
“This is very difficult to explain. It was written by a friend of mine,” she began haltingly. “In fact, it was written at my suggestion. She went through a bad marriage—one that almost broke her physically and mentally—and I thought writing about it might drive the poison from her system. It took her a little over a year and a half to write it, and this was the final product. She sent it to me to read and asked that I not show it to anyone else.”
“She honestly didn’t want this published?” Travis was surprised by the admission. “Doesn’t she realize this kind of story might help women in the same situation?”
Jenny’s eyes pleaded with him to understand. “It was written to help her keep her sanity, not to head the best-seller lists.”
“Fine, I don’t intend to use anything from her book. All it did was give me the idea of photographing women who’ve displayed great inner strength through the years. What would be so wrong in her being one of my subjects?”
“She would never agree.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Oh, but I do.”
Travis’s eyes narrowed to black slits. “You wouldn’t know unless you’re trying to say the author is you.”
Jenny smiled and shook her head. “No, I’m not the author. And I’m certainly not a good enough liar to make you believe I did write it if I thought it would get you off the scent once and for all.”
Only Love Page 1
