Читать книгу Man of Fantasy - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 9

Reaching into her jacket pocket, Nayo removed a small, handheld video recorder. She hadn’t realized her hand was shaking until she tried to take off her jacket. The rumors she’d heard about Carla Harris’s meteoric rise in the world of interior design were true, as evidenced by the blending of textures and colors. The interior of Ivan Campbell’s duplex was breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’ll take that,” Ivan said, reaching for Nayo’s jacket. “You can either start here or downstairs.”

Nayo stared at the area off the entryway, which contained a leather grouping in front of a minimalist-designed fireplace. “I’d like to see the rooms alone.” Her gaze shifted to Ivan, seeing an expression of confusion on his handsome face. “I like to feel the space, and I can’t do that if there’s someone else there with me. Rooms, if they aren’t empty, are like people, Ivan,” she explained softly. “Each one has a personality based on the color of the walls, flooring, the window treatments and the furnishings. It’s the same when I study a subject or object I plan to photograph. It’s not about looking through a camera lens and snapping the image. It’s seeing beyond that. That’s the difference between an amateur and professional photographer.”

Ivan inclined his head in agreement. He’d had a patient who was an artist, and he was more than familiar with his quirky personality. Despite having a successful career, he never believed in himself. After being commissioned to paint a mural for the lobby of a major corporation, he’d spend months procrastinating. Fear and self-doubt brought on a paralyzing anxiety that made it almost impossible for him to pick up a brush. Following a series of intense therapy sessions, he worked nonstop to make the deadline. If Nayo needed solitude, he’d comply with her request.

“Take your time.”

Nayo exhaled inaudibly. She thought Ivan wouldn’t agree to her going through his home unaccompanied, because the first time she’d made a similar request to a potential client, she’d found herself ushered out of the woman’s Sutton Place penthouse—but not before Nayo told her there wasn’t anything in her apartment worth stealing and going to jail for.

Smiling, she winked at Ivan. “I’ll be back.”

“Would you like a café latte or cappuccino?”

“I’d love a latte, thank you.”

“Would you like it now or when you’re finished?”

“I’ll have it when I’m finished.”

Nayo was anxious to tour the house so she could recommend photographs that would be suitable for the magazine spread. Ivan hadn’t mentioned the name of the magazine, but she knew it was Architectural Digest. When Carla Harris attended the preview showing, she’d babbled incessantly about how the preeminent interior-design magazine wanted to photograph the home of one of her clients.

Switching on the tape recorder, she spoke quietly into the speaker. “I’ve just passed an alcove with a leather grouping in butter-yellow designed for small, intimate gatherings in front of a minimalist fireplace. There is no fireplace mantel, but a grouping of shadow boxes would break up the starkness of the oyster-white wall.”

She continued into the living room, where a neutral palette of white, cream and tan provided an elegant backdrop for comfort and elegance. Nayo felt the room was a little too formal with a tufted, brown-leather sofa, chairs and doubled-tiered, beveled-glass coffee table positioned at an angle on the cream-colored plush rug.

Switching on the recorder again, she said, “There are books, a chess set with full-leaded crystal pieces on the coffee table. There’s a Waterford lamp on a side table, along with a Waterford Crystal 2000 World Series Home Plate New York City Subway Series collectible. Dr. Ivan Campbell likes music, sports and chess.”

Nayo lost track of time as she entered and left rooms that bore the designer’s distinctive mark. Carla Harris had made her reputation by incorporating the personality of the owner within the space’s function. Unlike Ivan, she wasn’t a psychologist, but what Nayo saw spoke volumes. He was a chameleon, switching flawlessly from formal to informal with a change of attire.

Friday night he was Dr. Campbell. She’d found him somewhat passive-aggressive when he’d tried to talk her into duplicating the prints he wanted. It was only when she stood her ground that he backed off. Sunday afternoon he was Ivan, welcoming, cooperative and amenable to her suggestions.

It took Nayo less than half an hour to ascertain that Ivan wasn’t married. Everything in his house was as masculine as he, and nowhere was there anything feminine—no intimate products, hairdressing, perfume or deodorant on the dressing tables in any of the bathrooms. His home was the proverbial bachelor pad.

The master bedroom projected a Zen quality: platform bed with gray, black and white accessories. The minimalist Asian decor was carried over into the bath with two large, pale green bowls doubling as basins and a matching garden tub with enough space for four adults.

The furnishings in the three guest bedrooms were reminiscent of Caribbean plantation homes under British Colonial rule. The mosquito netting draping the four-poster beds reminded Nayo of her own bed, with its mosquito netting embroidered with tiny yellow pineapples.

Walking through the formal dining room with a magnificent crystal chandelier over a table with seating for ten, she found herself in a state-of-the-art, gourmet kitchen. Pots, pans and utensils were suspended from a rack over a cooking island. Her gaze swept over a subzero refrigerator, wine cellar and a collection of cookbooks on a shelf near an espresso machine.

Nayo walked through the kitchen into a well-stocked pantry, then a laundry room, then down a flight of stairs to the street level. She pushed a button on the recorder. “Framed movie prints would work well on the walls of the home theater. I’m leaving the home theater and walking into a home office. There are two photographs of Malcolm X, the only photos in the entire apartment. One is a candid shot and the other a framed print issued by the U.S. Postal Service. Black-and-white landscapes will work well in the home office.” She turned off the recorder.

The utility kitchen, with its stainless-steel appliances, and a glass-and-porcelain bathroom needed no additional adornment. Nayo smiled when she walked into the gym. Ivan’s toned body was a testament to the fact that he made good use of the workout bench and assorted weights, a rowing machine and a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling by a chain.

She crossed the room and opened the door to a steam room. It was apparent Ivan Campbell had everything he needed to make his life as stress-free as possible. She retreated up the staircase to the gourmet kitchen at the same time Ivan walked in.

“Are you ready for your latte?”

Nayo nodded as she sat on a tall stool at a counter adjacent to the cooking island. “Yes, please.”

His eyebrows lifted in question. “What do you think of the apartment?” he asked as he filled a grinder with coffee beans.

“I love it,” she replied truthfully, “and it’s certainly worthy of a magazine layout.”

“I have Carla to thank for that.”

“Don’t be so modest, Ivan. I’m sure you had some input.”

“A little,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

“It was more than a little,” Nayo admonished in a soft tone. “I know you like movies, working out, playing the piano, chess, baseball and cooking.”

Ivan made a face. “You’re right about everything but the cooking.”

“What’s up with the cookbooks?”

“I’m trying to teach myself to cook.”

“Why don’t you take a few classes?”

“I would,” he said, “but I don’t have the time. I have my private practice and I teach classes two days a week.”

Ivan decided to experiment with cooking after his best friends refused to eat his food. He’d accepted that his grilling methods were less than stellar, but he hadn’t done too badly on the stove top or baking. The night before, he’d made spaghetti carbonara, following the recipe to the letter, and the result was amazing. He wanted to wait until he’d perfected a few more dishes, then invite Kyle, Duncan and their respective fiancées for dinner.

He couldn’t believe that his best friends’ summer romances hadn’t ended with the end of the season, but would continue beyond the time when they exchanged vows. He’d be best man at both their weddings.

Despite setting up their respective businesses in the same building, they got together less often than when they were employees of other companies. Even when he lived and worked in D.C., Ivan would drive up to New York several times a month to reconnect with his childhood friends.

He, Duncan and Kyle had vowed years ago they would always remain connected even if separated by thousands of miles. And although they did not share DNA, they were brothers in the truest sense of the word.

“What are your favorite movies?” Nayo asked, breaking into his reverie.

Ivan’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have at least three or four favorites you’ve seen more than once?”

He pushed a button and the fragrant aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. “I’m somewhat partial to Glory, Witness, The Godfather and The Departed. Why do you want to know?”

Nayo smiled. Ivan had named two of her favorite films. He liked heavy drama. “I’d like to order archival movie posters for the walls of your home theater. Now if you have a few black-and-white favorites, I’ll see if they, too, can be ordered. The contrast between the classic movies and what will become new classics will bring a nice touch to the room. If you decide you don’t want them matted and framed, they can be bonded to a board using a thermal heating process. Another option is to set them up on easels. Either way the posters will add warmth and personality to the space.”

Talented, intelligent and beautiful, Ivan mused. “Are you certain you’ll be able to get those?”

Resting her elbows on the marble-topped counter, Nayo leaned forward. “I know someone in the business.”

“I guess it all goes back to who you know, not what you know,” he quipped.

“Sometimes it’s both. I went to college with a guy whose father is a Hollywood still photographer.”

Ivan emptied the finely ground coffee into the well of the coffee machine, added water and then pushed a button for the brewing cycle. “Which college did you attend?”

“The School of Visual Arts.”

“When did you graduate?”

A knowing smile softened Nayo’s features. “Are you asking because you want to know how much experience I have in the field, or are you asking because you want to know how old I am?”

Ivan went completely still. It was apparent Nayo saw through his ruse. Not many people could read him that well. “Okay, you got me. How old are you, Nayo?”

Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, she made a sensual moue, bringing his gaze to linger on her mouth. “I’m thirty-one.”

“You had me fooled,” Ivan admitted. “I thought you were at least ten years younger.”

“I guess there’s some truth in the saying ‘Black don’t crack.’”

Ivan assumed a similar pose when he rested his elbows inches from hers. “I’d attribute it more to a good gene pool.”

Nayo lifted her shoulders. “It could be a combination of the two. Since you’ve asked me a very personal question, I’m going to return the favor. How old are you?”

Attractive lines fanned out around his eyes when he smiled, a smile she yearned to capture for posterity. “I’m thirty-nine.” He’d celebrated a birthday earlier that spring.

“You don’t look that old.”

“How old do I look?”

“Younger than thirty-nine,” Nayo said.

“How many thirty-nine-year-old men have you known?”

“I haven’t known as many as I’ve seen. I’m a photographer, Ivan, so whenever I meet someone, my first instinct is to study their face. And yours is a very interesting face.”

Ivan gave Nayo a long, penetrating stare. He’d been called a lot of things, but he couldn’t remember anyone referring to him as interesting. The seconds ticked off as they stared at each other.

“Did I embarrass you, Dr. Campbell?”

“No,” he countered. “And please don’t call me Dr. Campbell. You’re not my student or my patient.”

Nayo nodded, but didn’t drop her gaze. “Point taken,” she said. “I think the coffee’s ready for my latte.”

Ivan leaned closer. “To be continued.”

His comment told Nayo more than she wanted to know about the psychotherapist. He didn’t like conceding. She stared at the breadth of his shoulders under the cotton pullover. “Will you allow me to photograph you?” It was a question that had nagged at her since she’d come face-to-face with Ivan at the gallery.

Ivan’s hand didn’t waver as he poured a small amount of steaming, frothy milk into a cup of black coffee.

Carrying the cup and napkin, he placed them on the counter in front of her. “Why do want to photograph me?”

“Aren’t you going to make a cup for yourself?”

“No. I’ve already had three cups today, and that’s my limit.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That’s a lot of coffee.”

Ivan nodded. “I’m down from six cups a day. Why do you want to photograph me?” he asked again.

“I like your face.”

“It’s interesting,” he teased.

Nayo winked at him. “Very. Your features are very symmetrical, and you have what I think of as a beguiling smile. It’s warm, inviting and as a woman I find it quite sensual. You also have beautiful hands.”

“Stop it, Nayo. I thank you for your glowing assessment, but I can’t.”

“I’ll pay you, Ivan.”

“It’s not about money.”

“What is it about, then?”

“I don’t want or need my face on display at some gallery. I’m a therapist and teacher, not some celebrity.”

“But you are a celebrity, Dr. Campbell,” Nayo argued softly. “Are you aware of how many sites come up when your name is searched on Google? Thirty-eight,” she said when he gave her an impassive stare. “Don’t worry, Ivan, I won’t sell your photograph.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“Use it in a retrospective.”

“That’s it?”

She smiled. “That’s it, Ivan. And I would stipulate this when you sign a release.”

Ivan shook his head. “I don’t know, Nayo. I have to think about it.”

She wanted to ask him what there was to think about. Most people she knew would jump at the opportunity to have their photographs taken by a professional photographer. She’d spent four years photographing bridges, and now her focus had become people—people from every race, ethnic group and every walk of life. The world was her canvas and she planned to fill every inch of it.

She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “At least you didn’t say no.”

“But I could,” Ivan countered.

A shiver of annoyance shook her. It was the second time in two days that Ivan Campbell had her close to losing her temper. “Either it’s yes or no, Ivan, because I’m not into playing games.”

Ivan bared his beautiful white teeth. “I told you I have to think about it.”

“Dial down the bully-boy attitude. You don’t frighten me.”

A slow smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “It wasn’t my intent to frighten you.”

Nayo drew the back of her hand over her forehead, mimicking a gesture of relief. “Whew! For a moment I thought you were going to put me under the bright lights and pull out the rubber hose.”

Throwing back his head, Ivan laughed loudly. “Either you’re overly dramatic or you’ve been watching too many old police-procedural movies.”

She gave him a bright smile. “I’ve always had a secret desire to act.”

Ivan sobered. “You’d be a very beautiful actress.”

Two pairs of dark eyes met and fused as a beat passed. Nayo broke the visual impasse when she picked up her cup, staring at Ivan over the rim, and took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

“What’s the matter, Nayo? Cat got your tongue?”

She dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “No,” she answered softly.

“I just paid you a compliment.”

“Was it a compliment, or are you flirting with me?”

“Both.”

Nayo recoiled visibly. It wasn’t often she met someone as honest and in-your-face as Ivan Campbell, and she wondered if it was because of his profession. “Do you flirt with every woman you meet?”

“No.”

“You are flirting, yet you know nothing about me. I could be married.”

“But you’re not married, Nayo.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?”

A mysterious smile played at the corners of Ivan’s mouth. “You’re not the only one who’s Internet savvy. It was after I went through the catalog of your work at the gallery that I came home and searched your name. I seriously doubt any normal man would permit his wife to be away from him for four years while she indulged in her obsession to photograph every conceivable natural or manmade bridge.”

“You think of photography as an obsession?”

“Not the profession in and of itself. But to be away from home and all that’s familiar for years doesn’t quite fall within the normal range.”

Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, Nayo smiled at Ivan. “Are you attempting to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Campbell?”

He leaned closer and the fragrance of his cologne on warmed flesh tantalized her olfactory sense. The man in whose kitchen she sat claimed the winning combination of looks, brains and professional success. If she’d been interested in looking for someone with whom to have a relationship, Ivan would’ve been the perfect candidate. However, she didn’t need or want a man, because any emotional entanglement would conflict with her career. She was only thirty-one, her biological clock wasn’t ticking and she had a lot of time ahead of her for love, marriage and children.

Ivan ran a finger down the length of her short, delicate nose. “No. I don’t want to know that much about you. I find it more intriguing to find out things over time.”

“How much time are you talking about?”

“That depends on the woman.”

“Why,” Nayo whispered, “are you being so evasive?”

Ivan winked. “I thought I was being miss-steery-ous,” he drawled in what sounded to Nayo like an Eastern European accent.

“You are so silly,” Nayo countered. “You need to have your head examined.” She sobered quickly. “Now, back to why I’m here. I have a collection of photographs you can use for your living room, master bedroom, bath, living and dining rooms. I’m not so certain about the guest bedrooms. You may have to look elsewhere for something that will conform to the decor.”

“What are you thinking of?”

“I’d like to see ferns, flowers and birds reminiscent of Audubon prints, in keeping with the tropical theme.”

“Where would I find them?”

“I’ll get them for you. Chances are I’ll be able to come up with some quicker than you can, and probably at a better price. And if it’s all right with you, I’ll buy the prints and mats and frame them myself. That also will lower the cost considerably.”

Ivan waved a hand. “Don’t worry about how much they cost. If you’ll give me an approximate amount of what you think they’ll come to, I’ll write you a check.”

Nayo shook her head. “That’s not necessary. The people I deal with will bill me.”

“What about your commission?”

“What about it, Ivan?”

“How much commission do you want?”

Unconsciously Nayo furrowed her brow. She’d put herself into the position of becoming his agent or representative. “Five percent.” It was the first figure to come to mind. She would sell him her photographs, but there was no way she was going to rip him off when she negotiated for the prints for the bedrooms.

“Aren’t the prevailing rates for agents between fifteen and twenty-five percent?”

“Don’t forget I’m going to charge you for the photos, matting and framing.”

“When do you want me to look at the photos?”

“That’s up to you,” Nayo said.

“What if I come to the gallery on Friday?”

Ivan had made it a practice not to schedule patients on Friday. The only exception was an emergency, and thankfully he hadn’t had too many of those. He lectured Monday and Wednesday morning, then saw patients in the afternoon and evening. He was available all day Tuesday and Thursday for scheduled appointments and walk-ins, and had set aside Thursdays as his late night.

“I’m sorry, but the gallery is closed on Friday, unless there is a showing.”

He exhaled. “I teach and see patients every day of the week except Friday.”

Nayo pondered Ivan’s scheduling dilemma. She worked Monday, Wednesday and Friday at the auction house and toured the different neighborhoods on Tuesday looking for subjects to photograph. Her Thursdays were spent cleaning her apartment, shopping for food and dropping off and picking up laundry.

“I can see you on Friday, but it will have to be after six,” she said, knowing she had to compromise to give Ivan what he needed for the magazine layout.

“So I’ll meet you at the gallery?” Ivan asked.

A beat passed. “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

Nayo knew if she couldn’t convince Geoff to open the gallery for her to use for a few hours on Friday, then Ivan would have to come to her apartment. No male, other than her father and brother, had crossed the threshold to what she’d come to think of as her sanctuary. It was there where she went to eat, sleep, relax and examine the shots she’d taken during her block-by-block walking expedition, and not entertain men.

She and Geoff had an explosive interchange when he’d called out of the blue, asking to drop by. She’d tried explaining that she was raised never to drop in on someone without an invitation, but Geoff was quite vocal when he said her protocol was not only rigid, but archaic. His reference to her upstate roots was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and several weeks passed before she would take his calls. He apologized profusely and never broached the subject again.

“What if we meet over dinner?” Ivan asked.

“Are you cooking?” she teased.

Straightening, Ivan angled his head. “You really want me to cook?”

Pushing to her feet, Nayo waved her hands. “Why do you sound so surprised? You have a kitchen to die for with all the accoutrements, and you have the audacity to ask me whether I want you to cook. Of course I do,” she said, enunciating each word.

Ivan made a face. “I’m really not that good.”

Suddenly Ivan recalled the spaghetti carbonara he’d prepared. “I’ll cook,” he said, smiling. “Do you like Italian?”

Her expression brightened. “I love it.”

“Are you lactose-intolerant?”

Nayo shook her head. “No. Do you mind if I bring dessert?” Ivan flashed the smile she wanted to capture for posterity. Somehow she had to get him to agree to sit for her.

“Of course not. Call me and let me know what time you want me to pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I live practically around the corner.”

“Even if you lived next door I’d still come and pick you up. The days are getting shorter and by six it’s starting to get dark.”

Nayo knew she had to play nice with Ivan, because she wanted to shoot him. “Okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can come and get me. Thank you for the latte.”

There was just enough sarcasm in her tone to make Ivan give her a pointed look. Pretending she didn’t notice it, she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, Ivan following. He picked up her jacket off the chair in the alcove, holding it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Don’t leave yet,” Ivan warned as he opened the door to a closet off the entryway. Reaching for a lightweight windbreaker, he put it on, then opened the drawer in the credence table and took out a set of keys. “Now I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To walk you home.”

Nayo gave the man with the superinflated ego a baleful look that spoke volumes. Yes, he was gorgeous, educated, owned a beautiful home and apparently was solvent, but that didn’t translate into her gushing over him as if he were the last man on the face of the earth.

She knew her youthful appearance shocked a lot of people, but she wasn’t a girl. She’d had a long-term relationship that ended in a broken engagement; she’d spent several summers in Europe, avoiding the advances of men who saw her as easy prey; and she’d put more than one hundred thousand miles on her car when she’d crisscrossed the continental United States shooting more than a thousand pictures.

Ivan had admitted he’d been flirting with her, but Nayo Cassandra Goddard wasn’t biting. Growing her career, not becoming involved with a man, had become her priority.

“I’m not going home. I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She’d made plans to meet Geoff at a seafood restaurant on the Upper East Side. “I’ll call you,” she said cheerfully.

Ivan nodded numbly like a bobble-head doll. Nayo was there and then she wasn’t as the door closed quietly behind her departing figure. He’d detected a subtle defiance in the photographer, defiance he saw as a challenge.

Many of the women he’d dated failed to hold his interest for more than a few weeks, but there was something about the petite photographer that intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to see her again.

He hadn’t realized that until he’d opened the door to find her standing there. Ivan knew he could’ve asked Carla to purchase or rent the requisite art, but after seeing Nayo’s photos and meeting her, he realized he didn’t want or need Carla’s involvement.

He liked Nayo, but what he had to uncover was why.

What was it about her that made her different from other women?

And how had a little slip of a woman managed to get to the man who’d earned the reputation of “love them and leave them”?

Nayo hadn’t outright rejected his advances, but Ivan knew she wasn’t going to be easy. And that was the difference between her and other women—they’d been too easy.