The One He's Been Looking For

“It’s not a big deal.” Jordan brushed off the question before she responded to Amaya. “I don’t think I can do it. I feel like death warmed over and...”

Amaya gave her an incredulous look. “Let me get this straight. You’ve got a hot photographer wanting to pay you to take your picture, and you don’t know? Are you nuts? You’ve gotta pull it together, Jordy, and go make bank. If you don’t, you’re gonna have to take up panhandling, or even worse, go crawling back to your family. You don’t want that, do you?”

“God, no!” Jordan knew her roommate was right. She was almost broke and the last thing she wanted to do was run back to her parents for money, not with her mom’s one-woman campaign to get her to move back to Montana.

Jo continued to stare her down as Amaya took her plate to the kitchen. “What?” Jordan asked defensively.

“Why didn’t you make rent, Jordy? What happened to the money you get from Grandpa’s trust?”

“That stopped once I dropped out of graduate school. I won’t get the balance until I’m thirty.” She shook her head.

“And you couldn’t ask Mom and Dad? I know they’d help out.”

Jordan sighed in frustration. “Of course they would. But there’s always strings attached with Mom, and you know it. And for some reason, ever since...Daniel, she’s fixated on the idea of me moving back to Montana. She already has Tyler at the ranch with her—why is she hell-bent on having me there, too?”

“You’re the baby.”

“By ten minutes!” Jordan exclaimed. Her mother had had five children. Luke, the eldest son, had had an identical twin named Daniel, who had died in the Iraq war. Tyler, the middle child, was being groomed to take over Bent Tree, the family ranch, once their father retired. And then there was Josephine, and finally herself—the baby of the family.

“You know she only wants what’s best for you,” Jo said as she finished her coffee.

“I know.” Jordy agreed easily. “But she’s driving me crazy—and this time she’s just flat-out wrong.”

“Well, sis, if you’re gonna keep a roof over your head or have the occasional meal, it looks like your best bet is to take Mr. Armani Ad up on his offer.”

Jordan stared at her twin for several seconds and let her words sink in. She couldn’t deny that her levelheaded sister had a point.

“Crap.” Jordan finally dropped her head into her hands yet again. She had no doubt this was going to shape up to be a horrifying day.

* * *

Jordan arrived at the Samuel Fox Lofts at 12:30 p.m. She made certain that she parked legally before heading up to the third floor. She pulled Ian’s business card from the back pocket of her skintight black jeans and looked for the apartment number. At the end of the hall, she found the loft door adorned with a small plaque that read Sterling & Axel Photography.

Jordan opened the door and stepped into a small reception area decorated with high-fashion photographs featuring models and actresses alike. There wasn’t a receptionist sitting at the desk, so she walked over to the next door and opened it slowly. She poked her head in and was greeted by a long, narrow room with high ceilings. The floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with closed plantation shutters, the concrete floors were stained and polished, and exposed-brick structural columns separated the open space into two halves. Just to the left of the door was a large sitting area with a modern, black leather, U-shaped couch. Two leggy females, models, presumably, were sprawled out on it. Both couch loungers inspected her with unsmiling, sullen faces.

“Are you Jordan?”

She was startled by the sound of another female’s voice. Jordan swiveled her head and looked down at a petite, curvy Latina who had just walked up behind her carrying a cup of coffee.

Jordan had to step into the loft in order to make room for the woman. “Yes.”

“I’m Violet Rios, Ian’s makeup artist.” She brushed past Jordan and then stopped. “Dios mío, you’re late! I didn’t think you were gonna show, and Ian’s pissed. Close the door and come with me. I doubt that he’s gonna want to shoot you today. If a model’s late, he never uses them.”

Jordan followed her into the loft, thinking she wouldn’t mind a bit if he changed his mind about photographing her. Her head was pounding and she had an acrid taste in her mouth that no amount of gargling had been able to combat. The sound of the rapid-fire clicking of Violet’s heels on the concrete floor bounced off the high ceilings and only intensified her headache. Those multiple glasses of pink champagne were hanging on for dear life. What a mistake!

Violet led her to a small room near the kitchen. “Wait in here.”

The woman took a quick sip of her coffee before she put the cup down on her makeup table, dropped her large red hobo bag on the floor and disappeared.

Jordan sighed heavily as she slouched into the director’s chair, which faced a brightly illuminated oval mirror, and stared at her reflection. Her coloring was sallow, her eyes were bloodshot and there was no mistaking that she was hungover. She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. She could only pray that Ian was so fed up with her that he booted her out of his studio. Of course, that would leave her without her share of the rent for the month. It was a lose-lose situation.

She didn’t lift her head up when she heard the annoying clack of Violet’s heels and the deep, silky baritone of Ian’s voice just outside the door. Like a child, she was hoping that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

“You’re late.” She could feel the heat of the photographer’s body on her arm. She breathed in and caught the spicy scent that could only be coming from his warm, tan skin.

Slowly she lifted her head and squinted at him through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Instead of apologizing, which she knew she should do, because that was what she was raised to do, she defaulted to sarcasm. He made her nervous, and when she was nervous, the sarcasm flowed unchecked.

“Would you mind keeping it down? My head is killing me.”

“I’ll bet.” Ian didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.

He was standing directly in front of her, arms crossed over his defined chest. He was dressed more casually today in a fitted T-shirt and jeans, which only seemed to add to his appeal. Her heart picked up its pace when she looked up into his face. How could a real live human actually be that good-looking? Yes, the angles of his face were more defined, his hair was cut close to his scalp and there were lines etched in his forehead and around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. But there was no mistaking that Ian was the man she’d had hanging on her wall in high school. The man she’d fantasized about for years. He unnerved her now, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her feel that way.

His eyes swept her face in that clinical manner of his. He knew she was hungover; she waited for him to say the magic words: get lost. But they never came. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.

Instead of giving her the boot, Ian ignored her and addressed Violet, who was standing to his left with the corners of her glossy, full lips pressed down into a frown. “Give her a nude mouth, emphasize the eyes, but don’t overdo it.... I want her to look fresh. Natural. And for God’s sake, try to do something with the dark circles and the bloodshot eyes. She looks like she’s been up for a week.”

“What about the hair?”

Jordan didn’t appreciate them speaking over her head as if she was an oversize stuffed doll they were dressing up.

“Twist it back off her face. I don’t want anything to detract from her face. Keep the jeans, but lose the combat boots and the T-shirt. Put her in a white tank.” Ian turned to her and asked, “Do you have on a bra?”

“Excuse me?” Was the Armani guy from her high school wet dreams asking her about foundation garments?

“Do you have on a bra?”

Jordan glanced down at her barely there bust and shook her head. “Lifting and separating has never been a concern.”

“Get her a bra if she wants one. And have her fill out the release form before you bring her in.” Ian said to Violet before he exited the room without glancing Jordan’s way again.

Violet worked quickly and silently, and within in a short time Jordan had been transformed, much to her surprise, into a woman who actually resembled a model. She leaned forward and examined her reflection.

“That’s cra-zy,” she exclaimed. “How’d you do that?”

Even to her own critical eye, she looked like a solid eight on a ten-point scale.

Violet ignored her question and held out her hands for the filled-out release forms. “Come on,” she said in her bored, bossy tone. “He’s waited long enough for you today.”

Jordan followed her to the back of the studio, to a small area surrounded by reflectors and tall, bright lights. Ian was setting up one of his cameras.

“She’s all yours,” Violet said before she turned on her heel and headed back to her room.

Ian spun around and strode over to where Jordan was standing; he examined her hair and makeup. She stood perfectly still and held her breath for some ridiculous reason. Why should she care if he approved? But she did.

His eyes finally stopped and locked onto hers. “You clean up well.”

Typically, she would have a snappy comeback, but at the moment her mind was a blank. She felt as if her legs had turned to cement, and she was feeling a bit nauseous again. She was completely out of her element.

This wasn’t a seedy, dark artist’s dungeon filled with disenfranchised, unemployed kindred spirits. This was frickin’ ridiculously handsome Armani-model photographer-to-the-stars Ian Sterling’s studio. She didn’t fit in here. What had she been thinking?

“Blink if you can hear me,” Ian said in a lowered voice that was meant for her ears only.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” The honesty bubbled out unchecked. She must be more freaked out than she’d thought.

He reached out and placed his palms on her bare shoulders. His large, warm hands engulfed them as he moved his mouth closer to her ear. “You’re here for the money.”

The sensation of his breath on her skin released a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. She nodded her head slightly and tightened her abdominal muscles in an attempt to get the stupid things under control. This was the wrong time to get all stirred up. She needed to focus on what the man was saying, not the sensation his breath was creating as he was saying it.

Focus, Jordy! Focus!

After a moment, she was able to refocus her brain on Ian’s words. The man had made perfect sense and his point was undeniably valid. She was here for the money. She didn’t understand why she was being such a chicken, but the thought of not being able to make rent snapped her out of it. With a renewed sense of purpose, she squared her shoulders, rolled them out from underneath Ian’s hands and elevated her chin.

“What now?” she asked.

“Now? You pose, I shoot. Simple.” He walked over to a table and reached for one of the cameras placed there. “Are you ready?”

“Sure.” She said it with a bravado she didn’t really feel.

The minute Ian picked up the camera, she saw him transform. He had the same look on his face that she imagined she had on hers when she set up a brand-new canvas and opened up a fresh tube of paint. Holding the camera in his hand seemed to electrify him. It was strange, but this was first time he’d actually seemed truly alive. The man obviously loved his job.

“I want to be flexible today, but I definitely want to get a beauty shot of you. Do you know what that is?”

“I’ve watched modeling shows on television before.”

Ian smiled at her. “So you’re practically a pro.”

For the next several seconds all she could do was stare mindlessly at his perfectly straight, perfectly formed white teeth.

“Those have to be veneers.” She heard herself speaking her thoughts aloud like a freak. Was she still drunk? Had she developed sudden-onset Tourette’s? What was she talking about?

“What?” he asked.

“What?” She answered his question with a question, and pretended that she hadn’t said a word. She forced herself to drag her eyes away from his mouth.

For an awkward minute, they looked at each other curiously before Ian moved on from her odd comment and explained, “A beauty shot simply means that I’ll be focusing on your face. But don’t let your body get stiff—relax and move.”

“Relax and move,” Jordan repeated.

“And the most important thing for you to remember is to keep the intensity in your eyes,” Ian continued. “The eyes sell the shot...which is why a beauty shot can be one of the hardest for a model to master.”

“Shouldn’t you let me ride with the training wheels on first?” she asked. They had drawn a crowd. Everyone in the loft, including the two famished models from the couch, were standing at the edge of the set.

Ian gestured for her to move over until she was standing in front of a large white screen. “You ride a Ducati, so you don’t need training wheels,” he said as he aimed his camera at her.

Standing in front of Ian now, Jordan felt completely vulnerable and exposed in the filmy white tank top. She made a good show of being a rebel with a cause, but underneath it all, she was just a conservative girl from Montana.

“Okay.” He seemed oblivious to her discomfort. “Let’s get started.”

He took a couple more shots to test the lighting. He checked the computer monitor and then nodded. “Lighting’s good.... Now focus on me, Jordan. Forget everything else.” The gravelly quality of his voice as he said her name sent a shiver racing right up her spine.

Jordan breathed in deeply and tried to put the audience out of her mind, but she could see the praying mantis twins burning holes into her flesh from the corner of her eye. Another flash popped.

“Look straight into the camera. Chin up just a little bit. Relax your mouth. Good, Jordan. Very nice.”

She tried to relax, but instead just felt stupid and awkward.

“Look at me through the lens. Nice. I like it, Jordan. Hold that, please.”

The flashbulb popping drew her attention back to Ian again and again. But no matter how hard she tried to follow his direction, the crowd in her peripheral vision was a major distraction. She just couldn’t focus. Not like this.

Ian must have realized from her frozen expression and her stiff limbs that she wasn’t able to overcome the prying eyes. He turned away from her and waved his hand at their audience.

“Clear the studio,” he said to the spectators. But because Ian never asked for privacy, no one moved.

“Now!” he barked loudly.

Jordan watched, relieved, as the crowd disappeared behind the divider. Violet emerged from her room with a curious look on her face.

“Take the rest of the day,” Ian said when he noticed her standing at the edge of the set.

“For real?” Violet asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Do me a favor. Make sure everyone leaves. I want it quiet and private. Got it?”

“Got it.” Violet slid one last suspicious, slit-eyed look at Jordan before she spun on her spiked heels and disappeared.

Ian waited until he heard Violet’s echoing heels reach the door. When it shut behind her, he turned his attention back to Jordan.

“Now,” he said as he walked toward her. “No more excuses.”

“Thanks for that.” She felt herself immediately relax. She would’ve thought that having others around would make her feel less nervous around Ian, but now that they were alone together, she felt more at ease.

“I take it you don’t do that very often,” she added.

“I’ve never done that,” Ian said as he scanned through the photographs he had already taken of her. “Not for anyone.”

“Then why’d you do it for me?”

He walked over to where she was standing, and she liked his natural, long-legged swagger.

“I’m going to be blunt so we can move this along, okay?”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug.

“You interest me. Individually, your features are...ordinary, but together...” He paused as he studied her face. “But together, they are extraordinary. And I feel compelled to capture that in a photograph. Fair enough?”

Jordan wrinkled her brow and gave a small shake of her head. “Was there a compliment in there somewhere? ’Cause it sure didn’t sound like it...”

“You seemed like someone who’d rather get it straight. Was I wrong about that?”

“No. You’re right. I’d rather get it straight.”

“So...is there a problem?”

Jordan put one hand on her hip and felt her proverbial hackles rise. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Good.” Ian nodded his head. “I’m glad to hear it. Time is money and I’d like to get back to work.”

“Sure.” She frowned at him. “Why not? It’s your time to waste. Good luck with getting a usable shot....”

“When it comes to getting the shot,” he replied with the confidence of a man who didn’t often fail. “I don’t need luck.”

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