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Photo Play Darla raised her fist to knock as the door swung open. She jumped. “My two-o’clock, I presume.” Konrad Drummond jerked his head, wordlessly ordering her inside. “Uh, yes, I—” “Take off your clothes.” He stalked back inside, ignoring her proffered hand. “Toss ’em anywhere.” The studio was, very simply, a holy mess. Tables heaped with photos and fast-food wrappers. Books and papers stacked on the floor. Supplies spilling from open cabinets. A stack of cardboard cartons teetered in a corner, each bearing a scrawled label: “Assorted Props.” “Filters.” “Reflectors.” “Costume Jewelry.” |
Darla stepped tentatively inside. The heavy door slammed shut on its own, startling her. “Umm…I want to thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule, Mr. Drummond.”
His back was to her as he attached a camera to a tripod. He said nothing.
“I mean, I’ve seen your work. It’s, well, it’s incredible. I want you to know what an honor it is to pose for you.”
Drummond glanced over his shoulder at her and frowned. His look asked, What are you waiting for?
“Uh…” Darla indicated her tote bag. “Where can I change?”
He responded with an impatient little smirk. Darla had been in this man’s presence less than a minute and somehow she’d already managed to disappoint him. That had to be a record, even for her.
Konrad Drummond had a head of unruly dark curls and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Stubble highlighted his firm jaw and the strong lines of his face, but it was his eyes that commanded her attention, ice blue with thick black lashes and devilishly peaked brows. Those startling eyes came this close to rolling back in his head.
“Okay, let’s get the basics out of the way, Mrs…” He leaned toward the nearest table and flipped pages in an appointment book.
“Carmody. And it’s Miss, I mean Ms., I guess. Anyway, I’m not married.” She resisted the urge to add, I’m not one of your lonely housewives.
Not yet.
“And please,” she added, “call me Darla.”
“Boyfriend?” He was fiddling with his camera again. “Girlfriend?”
“What?”
“Who are the dirty pictures for, Darla? Who are we trying to get all…” He gave a lecherous pump of the hips.
“Oh. My, um, fiancé.” Darla looked down at herself, at her neat white crop pants and pink, awning-striped blouse, trying to see herself as this stranger saw her. Girlfriend?
“And before we go any further…” She waited for him to turn his attention to her. He didn’t. “I would never call your photographs dirty, Mr. Drummond. I’ve seen your work. It’s sensual but dignified. Sophisticated. You’re…well, you truly are an artist. That’s what I’m looking for.”
“Art.”
“Right.” She nodded. “Artistic photographs.”
“Of you.”
“Yes.”
“Naked.”
“Well, no.” She held out a palm, a traffic cop redirecting the flow of conversation. “Not totally naked.”
“Of course not.” He directed a weary sigh to her tote bag. “You brought along a selection of lingerie.”
She brightened. “Yes.”
“A matching push-up bra and panties. Make that a thong. Black lace.”
“That’s right.”
“And another set in red, because you couldn’t make up your mind.”
Darla’s fingers tightened on the handle of her monogrammed canvas tote. She didn’t care for this man’s tone, not one bit.
“Plus matching garter belts and stockings,” he added, “a sheer nightie, and an absolutely adorable teddy your BFF plucked from the Victoria’s Secret clearance rack.”
Darla’s jaw worked. She took a deep breath. “Are you having fun, Mr. Drummond?”
“It’s Kon.” He fired up the lights and adjusted the placement of the reflective umbrellas. He was barefoot, his tall frame encased in baggy cargo shorts and a thin gray T-shirt that sported the logo of a local brew pub. “And since you ask,” he said, “it’s never fun snapping pictures of repressed suburban hausfraus in their underpants.”
Darla’s jaw sagged. “I am not a— Who do you think you are, speaking to me that way?” She barely noticed him taking her by the shoulders and steering her onto the white paper under the glare of the lights. He set aside her purse and tote bag, then held a light meter near her face. She said, “You think you can treat people that way just because you’re some big, famous, egomaniacal…shutterbug?”
That elicited a bark of laughter as Kon took up position behind the lens.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me!” Darla’s eyes bulged. Heat flooded her chest and face.
Flashes punctuated each snap of the shutter.
“Don’t do that.” Darla raised her palms. “I’m calling this whole thing off. I want my deposit back.”
Click. “Undo a couple of buttons for me.”
She crossed her arms. “I am not leaving here without my money.”
“Uh-huh.” Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
She sighed in exasperation. “Uh-huh what? Uh-huh you’ll give me my money back? I’m waiting.”
“Can’t.” Click. “Spent it. Just one button, okay? Let’s start with one button.”
“What do you mean you spent it? That’s— For heaven’s sake, just write me a check so I can get out of here.”
“It’d bounce.”
She gaped. “Your check would bounce?”
“Why do you think I’ve been reduced to taking pictures of repressed suburb—”
“Don’t say it again!”
He shrugged, still clicking off frames. “Three ex-wives with expensive lawyers. What can I tell you? What color bra are you wearing?”
Darla dropped her head into her hands. All she’d wanted was a few sexy pictures to jump-start her love life. How had a simple thing like that gone so off the rails?
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