Secrets: The Complete Collection

by H. M. Ward

  The set-up is similar to his city studio, but it’s different—smaller and more posh. The sets have more details, more color. One set is solid pink like strawberry soda. It has a lightness, and feels girlie and seductive at the same time.

  I walk through it, and touch the velvet blankets, and then the flocked paper on the walls. It makes my jaw drop. I notice things as we walk around. After seeing the shooting room, Cole shows me the office where I’ll be working and which computer is mine. Everything is pink and black. The décor doesn’t match his other studio. His branding is glaringly different, like he’s trying to do something different out here, but for the life of me, I can’t tell what.

  Finally, I ask, “So what is this place, Stevens? It has your studio’s name, but none of your branding. What gives?”

  He leans on the reception desk and folds his arms across his chest, “It’s a new division of Le Femme, a division that I’m putting you in charge of.” He watches me from under dark lashes, waiting for my reaction.

  “What?” I breathe, turning to him. Is he serious? He can’t be. I’m an intern, which makes his suggestion insane.

  “I’m trying something new. This was the reason I wanted you to take the internship with me and not Sottero. I’ve been keeping track of you for a while, watching you turn into the perfect artist to work here.”

  My eyebrow creeps up my face as he speaks. I don’t ignore the fact that he’s been watching me, but I can’t get over the obvious. “But, I’m an intern,” I sputter.

  He looks at me like I’m insane. “So?” he shrugs. “And that’s bad because—?”

  “Because I’m too young to be entrusted with something like this.”

  A dark brow lifts. He shakes his head, “Says who? You? You’re telling me that you wouldn’t want this? That you couldn’t do it?”

  My eyes narrow. I wonder what game he’s playing, if this has something to do with last night or if he just wants to make me cry. I feel too emotional today. I can’t handle his teasing, not after everything that’s happened. “Don’t jerk me around just because you can. We weren’t all born with a silver spoon in our mouths. A job like this would matter to me--”

  He cuts me off, “You don’t even know what the job is.” He’s smug, “So don’t go pulling the silver spoon crap. And for your information, this studio came from my own blood, sweat, and tears and no one else’s. Both studios did.”

  I laugh. My arms fold over my chest defensively. “Yeah, right. The trust fund baby must have had a hard time getting everything set up.” There’s a bite to my voice when I speak again. It says don’t screw with me and I know Cole senses it. “Every single thing you have was handed to you because of your name or your fortune. Don’t tell me about blood, sweat, and tears. Those are things that you don’t understand. The rich are cold conniving snakes, playing games for eternity, trying to outwit everyone around them, but in the end they lose—they always lose—because they find out they never had anyone who didn’t love them for their money.” By the time I’m done, my body is close to shaking. For some reason this feels incredibly personal. Steadying myself, I realize that it’s because of my Grandmother and the effect she’s had on my family.

  Cole’s brow inches higher and higher as I speak. “So, you think you have me all figured out?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I want to tell him that I have him figured out, that he’s just like the rest of them, but I know it’s not true. There’s a piece that doesn’t fit. Trying to figure out Cole is like having a puzzle with several pieces missing. I have an idea of what’s there, but without those pieces, I’ll never see the whole picture.

  He’s silent, watching me fume. Finally, he says, “What do you want, Anna?”

  I want you to want me. I want your arms around my waist, your hand on my cheek. I want to feel you against me. I want you… I don’t say any of it.

  I breathe hard, and look away. “Just tell me what you want from me. I’ve been jerked around enough for one lifetime.”

  He watches me like he’s assessing something. His expression is unreadable. He glances down and says, “Fair enough.” Our gazes meet when he looks up. “I want you to run this studio. My intention is to spend the summer with you, teaching you how. In the fall, I’ll return to the city and we’ll catch up a few times a year when we go over fiscal information. Like I said, I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while. You have the skills needed to do this.”

  I eye him. He keeps skipping something, a pertinent detail. I still don’t know what he’s shooting out here, so I ask, “What type of studio is this?”

  “Boudoir.”

  “Cole!” I’m yelling and I don’t know why. It’s my dream job, but instead of shooting brides, I’ll be shooting naked women. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. I turn toward him and he slides off the desk. I slam my hands into his chest. “How could you do this to me? You offered everything I want and everything I said I’d never do!” It isn’t something that should leave me in tears, but I am balling. Tears race down my cheeks and I can’t stop them.

  Cole’s fingers wrap around my hands, keeping my palms from shoving him again, “Why are you crying? I thought you’d be happy. You like it out here. Your family is nearby. You won’t be alone. And the studio…”

  I try to yank my hands away, but he doesn’t let me. I feel the rhythm of his heart beating in his chest. I look up at him, “The studio is perfect. It’s beautiful, but I want to shoot brides, not boobs. I can’t do this! I can’t!”

  I threw everything away. Ditching Sottero screwed me. I can see the beginning and end of my career in this building. Although I don’t mind shooting models, I don’t want to do this forever. Le Femme is supposed to be a stepping stone. Cole is supposed to teach me. I know he has skills that Sottero doesn’t.

  “Listen,” he snaps at me, tightening his grip on my hands. It makes my panic throttle down. “I don’t think I was wrong. You can do this. You have the skills. You just have your head stuck in this fantasy of being a wedding photographer. Why? Why does it matter so much that you shoot brides?”

  “Because it’s the most romantic moment of their lives. It’s the most important.”

  “And this isn’t?”

  “No! It’s not! These are please fuck me pictures. These aren’t even art. Cole, the fact that you—”

  He drops my hands like I’ve burnt him and shakes his head. He turns away from me and runs his hands through his hair. “Anna!” His voice booms. When he turns back his blue eyes are livid. I’ve insulted him. His jaw twitches like he wants to say things that he bites back. Finally he says, “If you can see this is art—if you see that this is romantic and important—will you do it? Will you try?”

  “There is no way that I’ll ever say that.”

  He laughs and shakes his head, “You are such a pain in the ass. Just say yes or no. If you can see that it’s art will you do it?”

  His laughter disarms me a little bit. I nod and fold my arms over my chest. “Yes. Now please prove to me that you haven’t fucked up my life beyond repair. Show me the artistic boobies so I can go beg Sottero for a second chance next year.”

  Cole growls, leaning close to my face, “The only person you’ll ever beg for anything will be me.”

  My heart is pounding. I can’t breathe. I want to punch him. I want to kiss him. This arrogant bastard thinks that I’ll believe anything he says, and he says he made this place for me. I can’t let him get under my skin like this, but he’s already there.

  I lean closer to him and breathe, “I’ll never beg you for a single thing.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Cole avoids me for the rest of the day. He probably doesn’t have any ideas on how to prove to me that this studio is artistic. I’m sitting in my new room, on my bed, with my head against the wall. It’s a little guest room off the main hall.

  A girl wraps her knuckles on my door and pushes it open. “Hello?” she says. A massive amount of red hair peers around the door w
ith a strikingly pretty pale face at the center. Impossibly green eyes blink at me. “Are you Anna?”

  I nod and scoot the edge of my bed. “Yes. Can I help you?”

  She walks into the room. “I’m Regina Davenport. I’m Mr. Stevens’ assistant. I heard you’re the new intern, well, the only intern.”

  Confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”

  She laughs, “I’m sorry. I thought it was common knowledge. Every year Le Femme takes in one intern, and every year that intern quits before it’s over. Sottero usually scoops them up and it pisses Mr. Stevens off to no end. We’ve never seen him on speaking terms with someone interning after this long.”

  My mouth is hanging open, “It’s only been a week.”

  Her eyebrows lift, “Yeah, like I said, a long time in internland.” She hesitates and then asks shyly, “Is it true? Do you really get to run this if you finish the internship? I mean, it seems like a sweet deal, assuming you can tolerate Stevens…”

  I nod slowly. “He chases off the other interns? How?”

  Regina looks back toward the door like she shouldn’t be talking, but she’s the only person I’ve seen today that is within a few years of me. I know we’ll be working together if I stay here and so does she. She grins, “He’s just difficult to get along with. He’s got his own ideas about things and if yours don’t line up, well, there’s no future for you here. But he offered you this, so he must respect you an awful lot.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I nod. She says, “He’s looking for you. He said something about some artwork to show you. I told him I’d check, that I thought you were sleeping. What would you like me to tell him?”

  She’s protecting me from him. I don’t really understand why. I don’t even know her. A thought occurs to me and I blurt out, “You’re trying to make sure that I don’t burn out?”

  She smiles like she’s guilty and nods. “A girl’s gotta make a living, Miss Lamore. And it’s so much prettier out here than in Manhattan. No commuting. Can you imagine?”

  I finally understand, “You’d be the assistant who stays out here, with me?”

  She nods, smiling, hope flowing from her eyes. “That’s the plan, Ma’am. So, what should I say?”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there. And Regina…”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t call me, Ma’am. I’m younger than you. And if you talk to me like I’m an old person, I’ll truly lose my mind.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Cole downshifts the car and accelerates hard as we enter highway traffic. Narrow headlights shoot beams into the darkness as we navigate the back roads. The drive to civilization makes me uneasy. There is nothing around for miles. It looks like an alien abduction road. Cole’s gaze keeps shifting to me, and makes me extra nervous. I can’t tell what he is thinking. The sick part of my mind wonders if he is taking me into the strawberry fields to kill me. My pinky lifts for the door handle as we slow.

  Shaking his head, he grins, “Dear God. Miss Lamore, just jump. If you really think I’m going to kill you, please jump now before I really do.”

  I scowl, “I’m not—”

  “You are so. Your entire body is wound so tight that I could… well, never mind what I could do. I can tell you don’t trust me.” His voice is cold like I’ve offended him. After a moment he asks, “Do you care to tell me why? What have I done to warrant this reaction from you?”

  Biting my bottom lip, I’m not sure if I want to answer. I’m still upset with him, but I find myself saying, “I don’t really know you and I don’t know where I am.”

  He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. His grip tightens on the steering wheel of his Porsche. “You’re north of the studio, nearing the highway, with a man who values his reputation and wouldn’t waste it on dumping your body in a farmer’s field, no matter how much you irritate him.”

  “I irritate you?” I laugh. I fold my arms over my chest to make sure I don’t flinch and reach for the door again. I mutter something about farmers and pitchforks.

  He smiles, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. After a moment he says, “So, Miss Vanilla,” my stomach drops when he calls me that. It brings back the dream and every sensation that lit my body on fire, begging for his touch. I stiffen. Cole glances at me and continues, “tell me why you so abhorrently object to fine art nudes. I find that ironic, being that you claim to be an artist and all.”

  He’s baiting me. I know it, but I answer anyway, “I’m not Miss Vanilla, smart ass, so stop calling me that.” I’m quiet for a moment, trying to put it into words. “As for the nudes, I think they belong in paintings, not photography. Nudes in photography usually equal pornography.”

  He laughs, a deep belly laugh in one short burst, “You actually believe that?” I nod with a serious expression on my face. “Then you’re a hypocrite, Lamore. You can’t be an artist and only value one medium and disregard the others.”

  “I am not,” I say calmly. I’m holding my hands in my lap, watching the world zoom by. Cole’s foot is heavy when he’s irritated. I appear to have easy access to his crazy buttons and seem to be punching them like a typewriter tonight. “It’s not the medium. It’s the content.”

  “But the same content is okay in a painting?”

  I nod, “Yes. Botticelli was an artist. Heffner is a pornographer. No one jerks off looking at Venus on a half shell.”

  His voice is charged with emotion, “Guys jerk off to all sorts of things, so that shouldn’t be your criteria for anything. As for your identifying factors of what’s art and what isn’t, tell me—what makes something art? Can you define that?”

  I think about it for a moment. In my gut I know. I know it when I see it. My lips part and I’m telling him, “It’s art when it’s evocative, when it can convey emotions and feelings to the viewer. An idea—or ideal.”

  “And sensuality doesn’t count?”

  “No. Well,” I think about it. Sensuality isn’t my issue. I’m not sure what is. I shake my head, not looking at him I say, “Yes, it counts.” Cole is silent with a surprised expression on his face. I stare out the window as lights blaze by in the darkness. We’re on the highway now, zooming closer and closer to his apartment. I’m nervous. Nervous of what I’ll say. What I’ll do.

  His voice is soft, “Why? Why does it count?”

  He’s no longer challenging me, but sounds like he genuinely wants to know what I think. This entire conversation is way outside of my comfort zone, but I don’t back down. I want him to see that I’m right and not just some crazy prude. Leaning my head back in the seat, I think. “Because it’s an emotion. Sensuality isn’t what I object to… it’s more the fact that nude photos are degrading to women.”

  Cole laughs, “Oh my god! How many crazy women are living inside your brain? How do you manage with all of them in there telling you what to say? Does one tie the others up and randomly take over?”

  “You’re such an ass,” I sigh, shaking my head at him. “You asked my opinion. Don’t ask if you don’t want to hear…”

  “No, that was not your opinion. It was what you’ve heard, what you’ve learned. It isn’t what you think. Last week I saw it on your face during those shoots. This kind of photography—this kind of work—isn’t what you thought it was.”

  I shake my head, “No it isn’t. None of this is what I thought it would be.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  CHAPTER 8

  When we arrive at a tall building, it’s late. He pulls up in front, gets out and walks around to my door. Before I can move, he has it open and pulls me up to my feet. Cole tosses the keys to a valet and we walk inside.

  The doorman nods, “Mr. Stevens.” Cole nods and passes him, his hand in mine tugging me along.

  The elevator door opens before I know it and Cole leads me inside. When the doors close, my heart is pounding. I stare at him, remembering his hands on me… remembering the dream. I swallow hard.

  Cole keeps his distance. I kno
w where we’re going even though he doesn’t tell me. I figured it out somewhere on the highway back into the city. He is taking me to see those paintings, the ones he mentioned before. My stomach twists as he gazes at me. The elevator stops and the doors open. We’re in the penthouse. His home.

  Cole steps through, but I can’t move. Fear snakes up my legs and binds me to the floor. Everything from the scent to the colors has my heart racing faster. It’s Cole. This place is his haven, his security blanket. I don’t belong here.

  Before I can do something stupid, he sighs and walks back toward me. He holds out his hand, “Come on, Anna. I won’t bite.”

  My eyes slide over his face and I put my hand in his. I don’t like this. Being in his home is demolishing the remaining ill conceptions I have of him like a buffalo in a china shop. Everything just shatters. There is no cold sterile modern furniture. Everything is plush and warm, decorated in deep blues, browns, and blacks. It’s not one of the museum homes of the wealthy, it’s Cole’s home and he lives here.

  He flips on lights as we walk through. They illuminate the walls creating a subtle golden glow. Cole stops in the kitchen and goes to the cabinets, pulling out wine glasses. I don’t say anything. I feel nervous and I don’t know why. Part of me is scared that I’ll agree with him and change my mind. The other part senses something about him, about Cole, that makes me nervous.

  He hands me a glass of wine. “I don’t know about you, but this is unusual for me.” I know what he means. This situation makes him nervous. Since I feel the same way, I take the glass.

  I follow him into a room at the back of the apartment. When I see the bed, I realize it’s his bedroom and stop. It feels like I’m being strangled. My grip on the glass is so tight it could shatter. I raise the wine to my lips and sip, hoping it will calm whatever has me on edge. I enter the room behind Cole, but I don’t see the art he wants to show me. The walls are barren like he hasn’t decorated this part of the apartment. A large poster bed made from dark wood is in the center of the room. I look at it, thinking things about Cole that I shouldn’t. Tearing my gaze away from the bed, I look down at the dark wood floor and glance around. There is a row of windows and a balcony that overlooks a perfect skyline.