Intimate Portraits

by Cheryl B. Dale

  The sight of her, one slender leg bent as she pulled ineffectively at the towel caught under her foot, kept running through his mind. He kept seeing the way the tiny waist flared into the smooth butt and how the nipple on one small cone-shaped breast jutted straight out as if shocked at his intrusion.

  She had been all big eyes and long legs and alabaster flesh.

  He’d wanted to run over and throw her down and spread her out and lose himself in that sweet area between her thighs. And that was a hell of a way to be thinking of Autumn.

  Autumn!

  He put Laney and John’s bag in the trunk of the Lexus.

  She was like his kid sister. Not to mention a part of Atlanta’s top circles, a past debutante, the kind of girl meant for the boy most likely to succeed. A clean-cut old money Ivy Leaguer who’d give her towheaded, blue-eyed children and a columned two-story white house for living happily ever after. A man who’d take her to the opera and the ballet, who’d buy her porcelain and caviar and diamonds.

  Not a Degardovera. She would never have a Degardovera. She would never eat sandwiches off paper towels or visit relatives who lived in Mexican shacks with dirt floors.

  He swallowed, mouth dry from remembering the soft shoulders, the inviting thighs.

  This wouldn’t do. He couldn’t think about Autumn naked.

  Had Fran seen her that way?

  Hell.

  * * *

  Sam Bogatti had hung around Helen all afternoon.

  A nice little tourist trap. After locating the pizza place, he’d wandered along the streets and browsed in the shops where he bought his wife a candle and enjoyed a cappuccino. Then he’d wandered some more. When he figured it was time for the photographer to put in an appearance, he’d found a cold bench near the rest rooms and the pizza place.

  There he waited.

  And waited some more.

  It was after seven before his target walked by. A tall dark man trailed her, caught her elbow when she stumbled on a rough sidewalk. She looked up at him and said something with a smile.

  Pretty woman. Prettier than the brochure picture.

  Sam took his time getting up, and then followed them into the building and down a corridor to the door of the restaurant. When he entered, a gust of warm air blasted past him, air redolent with marinara, sausage, beer, pine boughs, and wood ashes uncomfortably reminiscent of the fire the night before. Country music moaned over the babble of excited and inebriated hilarity.

  He shouldered his way inside, but couldn’t get anybody to seat him for fifteen minutes. What was up with that? He hadn’t noticed a crowd coming this way. The line in front of him wasn’t that long. He was a customer; they ought to be jumping to seat him.

  Forget it. You don’t need the stress.

  These things happened, and he was patient. He’d learned at the start you couldn’t be in this business and not be patient.

  As he waited, he chewed his gum and looked over the restaurant. No, there weren’t that many customers but the place was small. A male cashier did nothing but sit at the door and answer the phone while a lone waitress in blue jeans and red-checkered shirt rushed back and forth to the kitchen.

  The harried woman did seating as well as serving. When at last she motioned him toward a table between a fireplace large enough to burn a small tree and the noisy party including Autumn Merriwell, he didn’t hesitate.

  What the shit. He hadn’t expected the place to be full, and he certainly hadn’t expected to have to wait this long to get inside, but here he was and he’d make do. Even if it did mean sitting at a table where his back was against that of his target.

  What frigging luck. A single man at a table for four. His leather jacket and jeans might not stand out, but someone could remember him.

  His heart rate rose. Time for a few mental stress exercises. Breathe, breathe. In, out.

  Didn’t matter. Nobody’d connect him to the people at the next table. He hadn’t spoken to them. They hadn’t spoken to him.

  Still, maybe he should change the plan.

  He chewed on his gum.

  Nah, no need. He’d watch his step, make sure he gave none of her group a reason to notice him.

  He was good at fading into the woodwork. Average height, average looks. His grasp of anonymity was one of the skills that made him invaluable for these kinds of jobs. And when all was said and done, this was one more routine assignment to wrap up before heading home.

  Sarita, now. That wasn’t routine. That woman hadn’t been anything close to ordinary.

  He should’ve turned down the contract.

  But Bernie had given him plenty of plum jobs in the past. He owed his old pal. Thanks to Bernie, he had enough money stashed away for a comfortable retirement, and that day wasn’t so far away. Another eight years—maybe ten; that would see his youngest kid out of high school and through college—and he could swing it.

  Sam took off his overcoat and spat out his gum in the inevitable wrapper. This one went in his pocket.

  No need to leave any of his DNA floating around.

  He kept his head averted as he ordered but picked up scraps of their conversations.

  “—revved up by what the polls said—”

  “—so glad Mom decided to get away—”

  “—happy you’re home. Athens isn’t that far—”

  “—can’t believe it’s been two years since—”

  “—know television is a hard field to break into—”

  “—notice Rennie’s car? Big brother’s in the money—”

  “—idea for a news story. I know this man who—”

  Huh. Sam almost snorted. These people were too wrapped up in themselves to pick up on a stranger at the next table.

  Coffee came in a foam cup. Pizza was served on its pan with a deli sheet slapped down in lieu of a plate.

  Jeez. He wasn’t fussy, but not even a paper plate?

  The pizza was okay, but it wasn’t like Leo’s at home.

  He ate methodically and rapidly.

  This might turn out pretty good. The Ruger wouldn’t do in a crowd, but he’d expected as much and left it in the van. The knife would work. He bent his knee, touched the smooth handle in its usual place on his ankle.

  Yeah, okay, he’d use the blade. If things worked out, if she gave him the slightest opening, he would slip in and take her from the rear. One quick thrust into the little place beside the small of the back, and the last loose end would be tied up.

  Any luck at all, he could be miles away before anyone realized she’d been stabbed.

  And man, he thought as sudden nostalgia for his wife yelling in the stands and his oldest kid racing toward the puck hit him, was he ready to go home. A week was too frigging long to be away.

  He risked a glance toward his target. She looked like a nice dame. Too bad she was an incriminating one.

  You shouldn’t have taken up photography, lady. You shoulda been a stewardess or something.

  Chapter 9

  The noise and bustle and pizza smell that smacked them in the face didn’t help Rennie’s frame of mind. Too bad he and Autumn couldn’t have stayed at the cottage, read the paper or played a game of cards, had a quiet evening to themselves.

  Sure. Right.

  After that stunt he’d pulled, barging in and gawking like a horny teenager, it was a wonder Autumn was speaking to him.

  Come on, you’re making too much of it. These things happen.

  He nudged her into an empty seat across from Francisco. Then, before his brother, caught between Victoria and an older woman, could rearrange the table, he slid in beside her.

  Francisco, flirting with both women, didn’t catch the strategic maneuvering till it was too late. His face darkened, but he didn’t say anything before turning back to Victoria.

  Looked like Francisco had toned down his personality. But not a lot.

  “Rennie, Autumn, this is Dani and Gus Huertole,” Laney said gleefully. “Did you see what they gave John and
me for our anniversary?”

  The Huertoles. Georgia’s would-be first couple. It seemed they had taken time from their busy schedules to attend the party, and had brought John and Elena an elaborate Christmas tree ornament as a gift.

  Autumn exclaimed when Laney passed the ornament to her. “It’s the state capitol, with gilt on the dome for the gold plate. It’s beautiful, Laney.”

  “Are you spending the night?” Rennie asked Danielle Huertole on the other side of Francisco.

  “I wish. It’s so lovely up here.” Her languid wave revealed a plain wedding band. Stylish in a red and green scarf draped over a black sweater, she sported small wreath earrings to match the brooch pinning the scarf. Her smooth pageboy glistened in the light. “Sadly, we have to go back tonight. I have last-minute things to do for the jewelry exhibit opening Sunday.”

  Victoria leaned across toward Francisco, elbow on table, chin resting in her hand, fascinated by whatever he was saying. At her shriek of laughter, Danielle turned that way indulgently.

  Women usually were indulgent when it came to Fran.

  “The gilt’s from Dahlonega gold,” Laney said. “It says so in the brochure. There were only a few made.”

  “Look at the details.” Autumn passed the ornament to Rennie carefully. “Such craftsmanship.”

  “Beautiful.” He took it gingerly. Looked like a regular ornament to him. “The state capitol. A symbol of what’s to come, eh?”

  Gus Huertole heard and let out a booming laugh. “We can hope. But yes, things are promising. Dani and I are optimistic.” He didn’t look at his wife, which was fine because Dani’s attention was on Fran.

  Only it wasn’t. When Rennie passed the ornament back to Laney, he realized Dani had tuned out his brother along with her husband.

  Her eyes looked weak, remote, as she slumped on the other bench. Maybe she was fighting off a cold or migraine. She sure didn’t look like the persuasive businesswoman Victoria had proclaimed her.

  But that might be her style.

  After giving orders for beer and pizza, Gus Huertole turned to Autumn and waggled his brows. “So you’re the woman I’ve heard so much about. The one who takes such, um, interesting photographs. I’ve been told your pictures are works of art.”

  He was a personable man in his fifties, handsome with a dark mustache and graying sideburns. His distinguished appearance didn’t quite agree with a robust figure that looked more like that of a prizefighter.

  Autumn’s blush in the bathroom flashed through Rennie’s mind, but she showed no discomfiture at Huertole’s irreverence. “Hmm. I wonder who told you that? Fran, I bet.”

  “I’m sure I never used the word interesting,” Rennie’s brother protested from across the bare wooden table. “I distinctly recall using the words sensual genius.”

  Huertole agreed with mock humility that further recall did bring the word genius to mind. “Perhaps I got it wrong, Fran. I beg your pardon, Autumn.”

  “Don’t say things like that.” Francisco clapped his hands over Victoria’s ears. “We have a news reporter in our midst, Gus. Never admit you’re in the wrong, at least not in front of Vicky.”

  “Fran,” his sisters shrieked. “Leave Victoria alone.”

  “Vicky knows I was joking.” Francisco made a face. “Don’t you, Vicky?”

  Giggling, Victoria used her hands to remove his. “Hmmm. Sounds like you’ve got something to hide.”

  “Oh, grow up, Fran,” Laney said. “And stop manhandling Victoria.”

  Rennie, fully aware that Laney and Norma had marked Victoria for him and not his brother, and completely indifferent—he’d long been inured to their machinations—shut out the controversy and concentrated on his pizza.

  While Huertole and Autumn fell into a conversation about photography, Dani was talking across the table, discussing some kind of ad layout with John Kinsellen.

  “—sure you’re right. The sports shirt will doubtless go over better.” A slight accent betrayed her South American origins. While Agustin Huertole had been born in Texas, his Argentine wife had come in on a student visa to attend Vassar. They had met and married in New York, moving to Atlanta when Huertole’s company had transferred him south. After twenty-odd years in the state, most people considered them Georgians.

  Rennie knew from his mother and sisters that Huertole had begun his political career as state representative and gone on to become state senator. Now Huertole and Georgia’s entire Hispanic community hoped he would be governor-elect.

  Dani Huertole, as chic and sophisticated with her Spanish grandee bone structure and svelte figure as Autumn was with her cool blonde elegance, belonged to the wave of political wives who balanced their careers with their family life.

  Francisco had said she would soon take a leave of absence from her job as assistant director of Atlanta’s High Museum of Arts to help with the campaign. But whether her husband was elected or not, Dani Huertole planned to keep working.

  That might be what was wrong. The stress of her job and the campaign might have put the pallor in the thin face.

  As Victoria had said the day before, Danielle Huertole was a savvy woman despite her lackluster appearance. She showed a quick comprehension of John’s explanations as to why they would have to postpone a fund raising drive planned for January, and at Victoria’s casually worded insinuation about drug money in the Huertole campaign, dismissed the rumors with a waggle of her manicured fingers. “I assure you, the one drug my poor husband is familiar with is the one made from the coffee bean. That, I must admit, he is completely hooked on.”

  Huertole was fortunate in his wife. The candidate himself might be too imperious to handle the business end of an election campaign but maybe under Dani Huertole’s supervision, he would come across in his ads better than he did in person.

  When Dani overheard Huertole talking to Autumn about the studio, she transferred her attention to them. Her eyes, Rennie noticed, were not brown as he had assumed, but were rather a series of dark spots on a gray-green background, striking despite their weariness.

  “My husband is fascinated with photography.” The brunette hair in its modish bob swung back as she gave Autumn a smile that would have seemed natural had it not been for those glassy eyes. “I admit, I’ve heard so much about you, Autumn, that I’m fascinated, too. However did you hit upon such an unusual vocation?”

  “My grandfather started the studio, and then brought my uncle in.” Autumn summarized the studio’s past history and her own involvement, ending, “I didn’t set out to do erotica, but it seemed women were excited to find someone they could trust to take their pictures in professional poses like the centerfolds in magazines. The ones their husbands and boyfriends buy for the informative articles.”

  The people around her laughed, but Dani didn’t. “You aren’t what I expected, but I suppose you hear that all the time.”

  “Occasionally.”

  “I would love to see some of your work.”

  Autumn shook her head, smiling slightly. “I don’t have many examples, I’m afraid. Most of the women I photograph prefer to keep their prints private.”

  “Naturally,” Gus Huertole put in. “I can’t imagine any respectable woman having such pictures taken and permitting them to be displayed for purely salacious interest. You shouldn’t expect it, my darling.”

  The way Dani held up her chin at her husband was the tiniest bit challenging. The curl of her upper lip was the tiniest bit caustic.

  Here was a surprise.

  Rennie glanced around. There were some deep undercurrents between husband and wife, but no one else seemed to notice. Perhaps he was imagining them.

  Gus Huertole moved a millimeter away from his wife. Like he didn’t want to hear what she was about to say.

  Interesting.

  “I’m sure, my dear,” Dani Huertole, despite her low voice, held her husband’s attention with a steely gaze, “that Autumn is most circumspect and trustworthy, and that her clients have
every reason to feel their photographs are secure with her.”

  Autumn shifted on the bench uneasily so her shoulder pushed against Rennie’s. “I hope so. I try to give my clients what they pay for.”

  Danielle stared at her husband but spoke to Autumn. “Perhaps after the campaign, I can come by and talk with you about some photography for myself. I’m sure Gus would love a sensual photo of me. He complains my pictures make me look too cold.”

  Her husband could not control his start. “I hardly think it wise to—”

  “You’ll be governor, my dear.” His wife turned away from him. “Not me. Your reputation will be quite safe since no one can blame you for my peccadilloes.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  Danielle shrugged.

  Huertole flushed and pressed his lips together. A tiny muscle moved in his jaw, his lips drooped. Despair? Fatigue?

  The conversation moved to the chances for snow.

  What was that all about?

  Autumn had noticed Gus’s reaction, too, and cast a worried glance at Rennie. He winked at her. She went back to her pizza.

  Francisco was busy captivating Victoria while occasionally throwing a word to Autumn to ensure she wasn’t neglected. Except for his brief abortive affair with Sarita, Fran had a knack for handling women.

  Rennie had never once begrudged that knack. Until now. When Autumn was one of the women being handled by his brother, he didn’t like it one bit.

  As soon as the group finished eating, the Huertoles pled the long trip back to Atlanta and their opportunity to get a full night’s sleep for the first time in three weeks. They made quick farewells and swept out.

  Once they’d gone, the atmosphere lightened. The others lingered over coffee, chitchatting until the impatient Laney urged them up. “Come on, people, there are lots of things to do. Why sit around on a hard bench when we can go outside and hear caroling, maybe take a trolley ride?”

  “Or a carriage ride,” Norma said.

  “A carriage ride! That’s even better.” Laney agreed with her sister too quickly.

  Rennie hid a groan.

  They’d obviously planned the stratagem beforehand, but Laney looked at Autumn as if the idea had just occurred. “It’ll be so romantic, clopping along at night with the holiday lights twinkling everywhere. Let’s take one.”