Hidden Pearl (2 page)

His black hair, dark skin, rugged Athabascan features hadn't made his life any easier, that is until he'd come into his full height and breadth of shoulder; then at least, when he'd narrowed a threatening gaze on them, the boys had stepped back. As for the girls, they'd been all too willing to forget he was of mixed blood, at least until it came time to meet their parents.

S.T. dressed quickly, anxious to get to work, get to the building site where he could forget anything but the problems of S.T. Construction, a more successful endeavor than his personal life had ever been.

#

S.T. glanced up from the table and the blueprints strewn across it to see his secretary at the door. "Ms. Johnson is here," Helen said smiling.

"Who?"

"The photographer." Helen's smile disappeared with his frown.

He tried to remember asking a photographer to take photos of one of the projects. He hadn’t.

"I can start anywhere."  The voice was a smooth contralto and one he'd never heard before.  S.T. looked past Helen to see a tall woman, blond hair pulled into a tight braid that began at the crown and ended somewhere down her back, dressed in a tan cotton suit, a camera around her neck, a large, leather bag slung over one shoulder, and a smile on a beautiful face.

"Start what?" he asked, reaching for his day-timer. It was the only thing that kept him anywhere near where he was supposed to be. Glancing down the page, there was no reference to a photographer.

He glanced up. "What's your name again?" he asked, irritated by the flash from her camera as she snapped a picture of him.

"Sorry for that but it was a perfect shot. I’ll try to resist not warning you in the future, but… I’m Christine Johnson." She reached out her hand. When he didn't immediately take it, she smiled more broadly. "Would you like my ID?" She raised well-shaped eyebrows.

"It wouldn’t change anything.”

"You'll hardly know I'm around," she said, glancing around the room, her gaze obviously missing nothing as they swung from the model of the high-rise he was currently building, to the bookcase, the computers, printers, the large, old oak desk, a long wooden table, then back to him.

"Mainly because you won't be," he said with a cold smile. "What is this about?"

"The photo essay, of course. You don't mean you've forgotten?" she asked, moving around the room and again looking at him through the camera lens.

He was now vaguely remembering something about photographs, about a piece on himself, followed with his refusal. "I said no." He thought he had sent back that reply.

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a stern expression he vaguely remembered seeing on disapproving school teachers a time or two. "I've come a long way," she said crisply, her steady gaze meeting his.

For Christine Johnson, seeing S.T. Taggert came as a complete shock. If she'd expected anything it would have been a crisply suited businessman, someone who looked the part of a multimillionaire, who fit her working title for the new piece--young power brokers of the Northwest. Instead she saw a tall man, muscles not hidden by the plain T-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders, long black hair tied at the back of his neck by some kind of leather thong, ethnically interesting features that were handsome enough to land him on the cover of a magazine, any magazine.

Photographing this man would be a joy, something she would do for nothing, something that would win her prizes if she managed to capture half the animal magnetism she was seeing. The challenge was like a shot of adrenaline. She felt hungry for the photos she already could see in her mind’s eye.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, not looking the least bit sorry, "but even if I wanted to oblige you, this would be a bad time."

"When would be better?" she asked, hoping she wasn't staring at him like a cat at a mouse. She was mentally deciding which f stop would best accent the interesting shadows cast by those high cheekbones. Sometimes she used digital but for this, she wanted film where she could develop it herself, back to what she used to do when the film was a tactile part of her life, more real than the sometimes easier digital but also more soul satisfying.

"No time is a good time."

"Publicity of the right sort is good for business.” She squinted a little, cutting away the background and concentrating on the angle she wanted. Trying not to be obvious, she shifted a little to her left to get a different perspective. Lower would be good if she knelt.

"No photographs while we are talking, honey,” he said, “or you’re out the door.”

She decided to ignore the honey at least once. She wasn’t out to annoy him. She set the camera down. “Any photos I take will always be subject to approval, of course.”

“Which will be easy to arrange as there aren’t going to be any.”

“You said we could talk about it.”

He looked down at his watch. “Five minutes. Talk.” His expression as he looked back at her was hard, no weaknesses showing. Easy to see this man as a part of nature, raw animal power. As if he was reading her mind, she now saw the expression that would scare off anyone with a weak constitution. Fortunately, Christine thought, shifting into fighting mode, that didn't cover her.

"This will be a positive article for promoting business and not just yours. In our economy and with the mixed feelings people have about business, this is a big plus. You will have full approval of the photos. It will encompass your work, your projects and stay out of your personal life.” The Spartan table in front of him would be a perfect counterpoint to his lean frame. “I see the artist as visible through the work and will use my photos to prove that point.”

"Sorry, but I don't like having my picture taken as you doubtless know by the fact that there aren’t many if any out there."

“I could understand that for someone less photogenic than you but...” With his bronzed skin, chiseled features, full lower lip, wide mouth, all those lines and angles, he was a dream come true for a camera. So far as she could tell, he didn't have a bad angle. She wondered if she could talk him into loosening his hair.

"Adding to that I don't like publicity."

"Is there a reason for that? Like something you want to hide?”

He snorted with disgust. “Reporters,” he said. “They’re always the same.”

“It’s our job to tell the truth, to tell stories to inform the public. I though am more photojournalist than reporter as such.

“Tell someone else’s story, honey.” S.T. wasn't about to tell her how vulnerable being pushed out into the limelight always made him feel. He knew his Native American background would be on display even if not mentioned. No photo essay piece would ignore his dual heritages. He had consented to an interview once, hated the printed article, and vowed to not repeat the mistake. If had decided if his work couldn’t stand on its own without a need for publicity agents, too bad. So far he had been proven right.

“The little I have read about you seems to be positive.”

He bent back over his blueprints. "You’ve had your five minutes," he said through his teeth. "It's my face, my business, and I don't want it plastered across any magazine. Making her mad was probably his best shot at getting her out of his office without bodily picking her up and carrying her. "I don't think much of your tabloid rag anyway."

She laughed, the sound full and hearty. "A lot of people don't. I happen to disagree with you. I think we've come a long ways and are doing serious pieces that help people live their lives with more choices, more understanding for the options out there, but you're entitled to your opinion. What if I take the photographs and the risk by letting you kill the whole piece if you don't like the slant it takes?"

"No."

"No?" she repeated, feeling a surge of irritation.

"At least you have good hearing," he retorted, his gaze steady. She was beautiful with those big blue eyes, thick lashes and full, now pouting mouth. If he'd met her another way, if she'd been anybody but who she was, he might have considered doing something about that, but as it was, a photographer was the next to last thing he wanted following him around, complicating his life even further than his mother's phone call had already done.

She sat down. You will hardly know I am here.”

"Shall I call the cops to get you evicted?”

She considered that a moment. "You have a reputation as a man who pulled himself up from the bootstraps, went to college on scholarships based on ability, not need or ethnicity, graduated with honors, began your own business, and with talent and hard work built it into a small empire. That means you probably respect people who are working hard for what they believe," she said." I don't think you'd call the cops on somebody just trying to do their job."

She added, "There's another angle you might consider. Strictly speaking, I'd say you were a celebrity, at least on a certain level. That means you are wrong.  I wouldn't have to get your permission to take or print photographs of you." She lifted her chin challengingly. "You might prefer to control my options to do so, rather than having me follow you with a telephoto places you'd just as soon I didn't go."

"Paparazzi?”

“Could be.” She knew she wouldn’t really go that far. He didn’t though.

“I could throw you out bodily," he said, obviously considering the idea with a certain glint of pleasure in his dark eyes.

"Which might afford you some satisfaction... for a day or two," she said, smiling, "until I sued, maybe brought charges against you for great bodily harm. Possibly I might even add sexual harassment, since how can you throw me out without bodily contact? Then you’d really get your photograph taken.” Her smile was catlike.

He felt irritated at himself knowing by now he was feeling more amusement than anger at her persistence. He did admire grit. Dredging up some anger was his best protection against making a mistake with her. She represented everything in a woman he knew he should avoid.

"You're a stubborn woman."

She nodded. "I did a series once on the leader of a Middle Eastern country which shall remain nameless. He threatened to put me in prison which he could have done, but it didn't cause me to quit."

"What does?"

"Not much. Of course, he did confiscate my film before he'd let me leave the country." She grinned more broadly. "Most of it."

Restraining an answering smile, S.T. shook his head. "I’ll give you one day," he grated out finally, knowing he was making a mistake.

"That should be enough." She smiled again. "You'll hardly even know I'm around."

Oh he doubted that. He doubted it very much, but he had said he would let her follow him around, and he wouldn’t go back on his word, even if he knew he would regret it.

#

Returning to S.T.'s office, Christine sunk into a chair. She'd followed around a lot of people as a photographer, but none had a more exhausting schedule than he. If he was a successful, it was definitely from hard work, not luck. She tiredly reached into her bag for a fresh roll of film.

He entered the room, his stride seemingly no less long nor one whit slower than at the beginning of the day. "What's that for?" he asked, pointing to the film she was fitting into the camera.

"You've seen a lot of it today. Do you really have to ask?"

"You've taken the last picture you're getting." She smiled sweetly up at him. He glared back at her. "You can't need more."

"Any chance I could photograph your home."

He snorted. "You can’t be for real. No way are you getting near my personal life."