"Spare me the talk show psychology. I have a life to get back to and so do you."
"You're making a mistake, Nick."
His hand was on the knob. “Wouldn't be the first honey. And I'm sure it won't be the last."
He slammed it behind him, making sure she knew just how serious he was and just how far gone. Morgan wished she could have held onto anger, but the bastard had drained the last of her defensive emotions. All she could do now was cry, loudly and copiously into the pillow.
I just want him to be all right, she thought. I just want him happy, even if he has to be a million miles away from me.
Chapter Seven
Nick received Carmen's letter of resignation two days later. Typical for the young woman, she'd drafted a letter, crisply folded, which he found in a white envelope on his desk as soon as he came in around ten.
She was in the break room when he found her, making coffee. Two young photographers were sitting at the table, laughing and flirting with her.
"Get the hell out,” said Nick, causing them to choke on their frivolity.
"Yes, Mr. Tremaine,” said the one, the other being occupied gathering up their mugs and danishes for a hasty escape.
"Carmen, what is the meaning of this?” He held out the letter, refolded.
"I'm sorry your coffee wasn't ready, Mr. Tremaine,” she sidestepped the intended confrontation. “I didn't know when you'd be in. I called but you didn't pick up on your cell phone. You haven't been, sir, not much lately."
It was true. He'd been sullen, out of touch and far more difficult than usual to work with.
"I know I can be a jerk,” he cut to the chase. “But I need you. I'll double your salary, I don't care."
She shook her head, her pretty face sporting that perpetually sad little smile of hers. Sometimes he called her his Mona Carmen for just this reason. “I don't want more money, and it's not the work. You're not so bad as all that. You're fair and decent. That has never been an issue."
Nick frowned. It was dawning on him what this was really about. He'd seen Carmen meeting her yesterday, she and Merilee both, all three hugging each other on the sidewalk out front, headed for happy hour probably.
"Carmen, I'm going to be straightforward with you, because that's how we've always been with each other. I know that you and Merilee helped Morgan to get that job as a dancer at the banquet. I have contacts on the committee, too, remember, and they told me everything. But I'm not upset at either of you. You did what you thought was right. If anything, I wager you're mad at me, because of how I ran out on Morgan. Women talk, I have no illusions about that."
"I won't try to defend my actions with Morgan, either. I'm not a relationship man, that's the long and short of it. I did the best I could with her, though I'm sure she's still mad. But that isn't something that's fair for you to hold against me. I'll answer to you as your boss, but I shouldn't have to suffer here for what I do in my private life."
Carmen sniffled, looking as bedraggled as he'd ever seen her in her beige dress. “It isn't that, Mr. Tremaine. I know there are two sides to everything. It's just that..."
She trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Nick took the coffee and set it on the counter behind her. “Talk to me, Carmen."
She heaved a sigh, steeling herself. “I can't work for you, Mr. Tremaine ... because I'm in love with you."
Nick pursed his lips. Okay, that wasn't what he'd expected, not even close. Still, there was no reason it couldn't be dealt with. “I'm flattered, Carmen. You are about the most fantastic, together woman I've ever met in my life."
"But you don't love me.... “she said softly. “I know that. It's okay. Really, it is."
"Carmen, I will never love anyone. You know that about me."
She dared to touch his cheek. “You know how that breaks my heart, Mr. Tremaine? I don't care if you ever love me. But you should love someone. You should love ... her."
Nick felt the familiar chill down his spine, a discomfiting tingle that had been ravishing him ever since he walked out—slammed out—of Morgan's life. Yes, he understood Carmen well. He too, wanted love for a third party, in this case for Morgan.
"I told you not to mention her name."
Carmen laughed lightly. “It doesn't matter if you fire me, Mr. Tremaine. I just quit."
See, this was why Nick would not be able to stand a relationship for five minutes. Women argued back, constantly, and they always won. At least up front. A man's only hope was to be sneaky.
"Will you at least stay till I find a suitable replacement?"
She considered for a moment, her brow indicating genuine torment over the matter.
"Please, Carmen, you know how dependent I am on you?"
"All right,” she said at last. “But only until you find a replacement."
"A suitable replacement, yes,” he agreed, knowing such a thing didn't exist and that the woman had just bound herself to his service for the next hundred years. “And in the mean time you will take twice your salary. No arguments."
"If it makes you feel better."
"It's the least I can do, since apparently I've been such a prick to everyone."
She took his hand for a friendly squeeze. “No, Mr. Tremaine, you mustn't say that. You are just a man who is hurting. A man doing his best with a wounded heart."
He gathered her for a hug, platonic but genuine nonetheless. “I don't deserve you, Carmen."
She held him a moment, but then began to shake very slightly. It occurred to him that since she loved him romantically, as she'd said, that such an embrace might be frustrating, almost painful.
"I'm sorry,” he released her.
"It's okay,” she forced a smile. “I need to get back to work."
He let her go, allowing her to run from the room.
It wasn't fun to be the one left behind, he thought somberly. He could only imagine how Morgan had felt that night, especially with all she'd revealed about feelings, even those of love.
Exactly why had he run off so quickly on her, anyway? Carmen had just done so because it was too hard to be in the company of an unrequited love with so much emotion on display. It was passion itself made her run. She'd wanted to avoid a certain bloodletting of her own tender feelings.
But he had no strong feelings. No blood to bleed. Morgan was wonderful and beautiful, in an objective sort of way, and he thought of her almost constantly, but that didn't mean anything emotion-wise. There was the sex, too, the ever-present need to have her again, to be inside her, to suckle her breasts, to feel the smooth skin of her hips and belly, to spank that supple behind, but who could blame him, hot as she was?
It added up to nothing. He left that night because he was ready to go. I am not a man in love, he told himself. I am nothing like Carmen, nothing at all.
* * * *
Carmen made her mind up by the end of the day. She was going to take Nick's pictures to Morgan. If anyone could do something with them now, it would be her. In the back of her mind, Carmen had always dreamed it would be she herself using them as a means to show her love and win his heart, but now she knew that was not ever going to happen.
She had looked in her boss’ eyes and deeper in his heart before and she knew the truth without question. Nick Tremaine would never love her. He would never feel the affection she had for him, he would never burn in his heart or toss and turn in his sleep. In short, he would never give back what she longed to give him.
For his heart already belonged to another. To Morgan, though he was far too stubborn a man to admit that. The more he argued, of course, the more obvious it was. At least it was abundantly obvious to her. How to make him see, that was the question.
That's when she thought of the photos. She had them in her desk, in a secret envelope, along with the negatives. Nick didn't know she'd been saving them. They were rejects to him. Idle uses of his cameras he'd made to kill time. Never satisfied with the results, he'd given them to Carmen to throw away.
She
hadn't. In direct disobedience she'd saved them all. Every last one of them. She tried to tell him she liked them, but he told her politely but firmly that she was no expert in this area.
"They're nothing, Carmen. Except reminders why I make my living making sex photographs, where you can't go wrong no matter what,” he'd told her.
But she knew better. She was no expert, but she knew beauty when she saw it. His photos of the butterfly on the windowsill had looked more real than the creature itself. And the rose he'd captured, from a vase on his desk—that was so perfect it had made her weep. Or the way he'd captured the lips of one of his models, just her lips as she put on her makeup.
Nick Tremaine was an artist. His tool might be a camera and not a brush and canvas, but he was every bit the creator as any painter. Someone would see that. Someone would give him a chance to show his talents. He'd been born for this—to capture and convey beauty.
Morgan would see to it that he had his chance. Because she, too, knew art. And she loved him on top of that.
The pair met at a small cafe near the medical school.
"Carmen,” Morgan embraced her. “It's so good to see you again. I've missed not seeing you every day since our little banquet conspiracy ended. So how are you?"
Carmen told her about quitting and about how she'd dared to share her feelings with Nick.
"You poor thing. I suppose he just stood, there, too,” she criticized. “Giving you no validation at all."
"He did quite well, considering he doesn't love me back, Morgan. What could he do except try and be sympathetic?"
"From what I know of him, I am quite sure he could have done better,” she said, sounding very much like a woman in love herself. “If I were there I would have made him."
"You are a kind woman. Thank you. But I did not come here for pity.” She took out the manila envelope and set it on the small, round glass table. “I have something to show you. I want your honest opinion."
Morgan took the envelope and opened it. “I'm not an expert,” she warned, pulling out the glossy photos, a mix of color and black and white, 8 by 11. “I can only give you a lay person's opinion."
"That's all I want,” Carmen assured her. “Just tell me how they strike you."
Carmen watched, her heart thumping in her chest as the beautiful Anglo woman examined Nick Tremaine's work. She looked so good today; her hair tied back, in a clean white t-shirt and khaki shorts. They would be a perfect couple.
Maybe Carmen herself would go back to Mexico, to the old village of her grandparents. To follow the old ways, to forget the pains of the north and of the modern world. Her old abuelita, her father's mother, had warned her son of traveling north of the border.
"You will only find dolor among the Norte Americanos. Sadness and misery. They are not a people of happiness; no peace in their souls, only gold, and much restlessness,” she had said, stopping only briefly from the rolling of her corn meal, shoulders stooped in the way of the ancient ones, making tortillas as had the women from time immemorial.
Her father had done well, making a nice little business. He heard the sound of the dollars and followed. He had done well. Who could criticize him for making a better life for his own ninos? But perhaps granny was right about some things, too.
Morgan studied them carefully. Twice, she went back through, the second time pausing to look more closely at the butterfly. At last she looked at Carmen and shook her head.
"You hate them,” Carmen said.
Morgan's eyes widened. “Hate them, oh my goodness, no. They are incredible. I'm just shaking my head because here is all this talent, right under our noses ... undiscovered."
Carmen exclaimed in joy. “So you do like them?"
"Like them? I love them. They are incredible. I had no idea you could take pictures like this. Why do you waste your time working for Nick?"
"Me?” She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no, Morgan, did you think...? Oh, my goodness, no. The real photographer is Nick Tremaine."
"Nick took these?"
"Yes, Nick. There are many more. Look at the negatives. He only ever developed a few."
"Amazing.” She reviewed them again. “He'll do well, that's all I can say. The man should have his own exhibition or something. I assume that's what he's doing?"
Carmen cleared her throat. “Well, truthfully, Mr. Tremaine intended to do nothing. He does not actually know I have these at all."
"You little devil,” Morgan grinned. “You mean to say you stole them?"
"He wanted me to throw them out, but I say they are too beautiful to throw away. Is that a crime, do you suppose?"
"The only real crime, Carmen, would be not giving people a chance to see these."
"This is Mr. Tremaine's soul Morgan. It's the part he lets no one see. I ... I think they belong to you."
Morgan frowned. “Me?"
"Yes, I believe God is telling me to do this. I think you will know what to do."
"But I can't take on that responsibility,” she shook her head. “That's not fair. If he can't take of his own gifts in life, that isn't my concern."
"Morgan, you don't mean that. Look in your heart; tell me you don't yearn to help him, to bring out his best. I would do this, I would give my life to make it happen, but it's not my place. I am not the one he's chosen ... not the one fate has called."
"I was rejected,” she said flatly. “Ask him yourself. He'd be furious if I got involved with his art."
"I know he would, and I have thought about it,” she said enthusiastically. “I have a plan. You must set up a show of his work. You're studying to be a doctor; you have contacts. You can arrange the whole thing. If you do that, get all the people to be there from the art world, I will get him to come. You could make it a secret unveiling of a local talent. A mystery show. He'd gripe about it, but I'd get him there. Then he'd see what you and I see, how good he is. He wouldn't be able to fight it anymore. He'd have to become the artist he wants to be deep inside. We'll make him believe in himself."
Morgan put her hands on top of Carmen's on the surface of the table. “Sweetie, that's very laudable, but awfully ambitious, too. Even if we could pull it off..."
"We can, I just know it."
"Okay, fine, let's say we do. Won't he just be mad?"
Carmen lifted a challenging brow. “And since when has that stopped you? I thought you like making him mad, actually."
"Well, it is fun,” she admittedly impishly. “Can I help it if I'm so good at it?"
"That's the spirit,” Carmen coached.
Morgan's brow was pressed thoughtfully. “The university has a gallery. They are always looking for exhibitions. Local works by local artists. I have friends in the art department, too, that couldn't hurt, but it's still a long shot."
"I don't care,” Carmen insisted. “We can do it, I know we can."
Morgan took a deep breath. “I'll give it my best shot, on one condition."
"What's that?” Carmen asked making sure not to agree to anything in advance.
"No more matchmaking stuff. I'm not reaching out to the man personally anymore. This is for his career and that's all. More than anything, it's a favor to you, cause you tried so hard for me."
Carmen had expected something like this. She was ready, too. “I promise I will not do anything to directly connect the two of you."
"Good, let's shake on it."
Carmen did so willingly, knowing she had a nice loophole left. For while she'd agreed not to do anything direct, she'd nothing about not taking indirect action. In this case, her plan was to make Nick jealous and get them fighting again so as to cause a secondary reaction, a meltdown, which, if her hunches were right, would bring the two of them together once and for all.
* * * *
Morgan sat at the table a while after Carmen had left. Was she really going to go through with it? Was she going to try and organize an exhibition for a man who'd not just broken her heart but torn it out stomped on it and ripped it to sh
reds for good measure? It would take her months, hell, maybe the rest of her life to get over him. She'd loved him, goddamn it, and he'd cheated her, cheated both of them of the experience of getting to know each other, of feeling the joys and sorrows of a shared lifetime. Of course it was an impractical union, an erotic photographer and a globetrotting do-gooder doctor, but that's what made life, and love, interesting.
Look at all the places they could meet in the middle, anyway. She liked modeling for him, and he clearly had the knack to find beauty in the humble things of life. He could travel with her; they could make a whole world out of their dreams.
And the sex; think of all that incredible sex in exotic locales. But that couldn't be. You could only give a man so many chances. He'd fucked her over too much and she wouldn't go back. Not even if he begged her.
Still, the photos were good. Really good. Not the kind of generic stuff from his regular erotic work, but something unique. The product of his inner eye. His one of a kind view of the world. Nick had taken these pictures the way he made love. To her.
She brushed away a teardrop. Stubborn, stubborn man. To kill such happiness. Then again artists were supposed to be unhappy, weren't they? Might as well not waste all that effort he made to insure we both spent our lives apart in misery. Yes, she would find a way to show his photos. And on top of that, she'd make sure he ended up a serious, famous artist, a true exponent of beauty for his adoring fans.
Then she'd go to Africa. And never show her fucking face back in America again.
* * * *
Nick thought Merilee was doing an especially good job modeling today. Either that or he was just getting back in the swing of things now that he was doing so much more hands on work.
"I'm not any better,” said the rope-bound woman in the raunchy cheerleader outfit when he asked her about it. “I'm just real mad at you; maybe that's what you're picking up on."
He paused to adjust the rope under her bosom, exaggerating even further her generous chest. This particular series of photos was a special order. The storyline, such as it was, involved a cheerleader from a rival of his old alma mater being kidnapped and tied in a skimpy costume, with lots of struggling and a couple of big dildos.
Getting Naked: A Romance of Bondage and Discipline Page 10
