Photo Play
Pam McKenna
Originally published by Ellora’s Cave.
Copyright 2009 Pam McKenna. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
Second Edition
Published by Pam McKenna, 2012
Cover by Patricia Ryan
Digital design by
A Thirsty Mind
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to places, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
60 Minutes
: CBS Inc.
Green Giant: General Mills Marketing, Inc.
Victoria’s Secret: V Secret Catalogue, Inc.
Darla looked again at the number on the door, a simple 83 in peeling gold foil. Yep, this was the place. Shabbier than she’d expected, at least from the outside—a dilapidated three-story walk-up in the artsy part of the city, flanked by a tattoo parlor and a pottery studio.
Well, no worries. This guy was supposed to be the best in the business. It was probably gorgeous inside.
It was hideous inside, a long climb up creaky steps to a hallway with a painted tin ceiling high overhead and plank floorboards underfoot. Shorter corridors branched off from the main one, creating a bewildering rabbit warren. Darla shifted her purse and tote bag from one shoulder to the other.
She wandered past heavy wooden doors that offered no clue to what was behind them, aside from suite numbers and the occasional cryptic hint scrawled on taped cardboard or on the door itself. “L.N.R.” “Karma, Inc.” “NO ADMITTANCE, THIS MEANS YOU!!!” Her nose wrinkled at the mingled aromas of incense, pizza, disinfectant, and, yes, stale pee. Some kind of New Age music emanated from an unseen location.
Had Konrad Drummond even mentioned the suite number when she’d called to schedule her appointment? She couldn’t recall, had assumed she’d have no trouble locating the studio of one of the country’s premier figure photographers.
Darla wandered the jumble of hallways, feeling her blood pressure surge with every step. She was in the wrong building—she had to be. Finally she happened on an open doorway. Green and mustard yellow paint had been splashed around the doorframe. Deliberately, it would seem. It looked like the Jolly Green Giant had upchucked a batch of bad peas.
She poked her head in. Here was the source of the incense and the New Age music. A zaftig woman sporting strawberry-blonde cornrows and a dashiki perched on a lawn chair before an eight-by-four slab of plywood, flinging green and yellow paint two-handed from plastic squirt bottles.
“Excuse me?” Darla said.
“Third door on your left.” The woman never broke stride.
“Uh...”
“Kon Drummond, right?” The woman glanced her way at last and paused to size Darla up. “Lonely housewife’s last hope. Third door on the left.”
“Thanks. I’ll... Third door on the left. Okay, thanks.”
Darla counted doors. One. Two.
Lonely housewife?
That was so insulting. To her and to Konrad Drummond. The man was an artist. A genius behind the lens. He’d been featured in major magazines and newspapers.
60 Minutes
had done a segment on him last fall.
Three. She peered closely at the teeny label-maker strip slapped under the doorbell. “Photography.”
Photography?
In itty-bitty ten-point type? That was how the preeminent photographic artist in the Northeast announced himself to the general public? No wonder Darla had missed it on the first go-around.
She 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.”
The front end of the room, however, was all business. Stands supported lights and reflective white umbrellas. A stiff white paper backdrop draped the wall and floor.
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?
“Good,” Kon said, clicking the shutter. “Good. Now toss your hair back.”
“What?” Her head snapped up.
“Excellent. That’s it.” He peeked from behind the camera with such a sexy, teasing smile, she almost forgot she was mad as hell at him. “You look really hot.”
Now she did forget she was mad. She also forgot to breathe. Nobody had ever called her hot. “Pretty” on a handful of occasions when someone—usually her mother—felt like throwing her a bone, but never hot.
Darla’s voice trembled. “You’re a real prick, you know that?” Alarmingly, her eyes stung.
Kon’s smile faded.
Her hand had grasped the doorknob before she remembered her purse and tote bag. She swung back into the room, praying she could keep the tears at bay until she was well away from this hateful man.
