Authors: H.M. Ward
Scandalous (25 page)
He nodded, “Miss Tyndale.”
I ignored his formality. Eyes wide, in shock, I asked, “Why? Why would you spend every penny you had on this?” My voice made it sound like the canvas was just a pile of paint, nothing special at all, but Jack thought otherwise.
“Some things are worth it. Sometimes I freeze, Abby. I don’t do what I should. I let precious things slip between my fingers.” The room was so silent that the only sound I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears. He was speaking of our past, of that kiss that almost happened all those years ago. He was talking about the past few weeks, how he pushed me away, growing increasingly colder. He froze me,
utterly chilled my soul, and made me think I was completely wrong about him. But this made no sense.
The longing in his eyes, the emptiness that was so visible, made me freeze in place.
My knees were stiff, my legs glued to the floor. They felt like they were made of iron and would not bend or move, no matter how much my mind screamed to run and never look back.
“I lost everything, and it was my own damn fault. I thought I was helping you, but I wasn’t. I should have seen it. I should have known,” he shook his head. His jaw was tight, his eyes filled with regret, “If this is the closest I’ll ever get to you again, it was worth it.
Every penny.”
Blinking, I stared at him, pulse pounding in my head. “Say something, Abby.”
Silence passed. It felt like hours, but it was only a matter of moments. Finally I shook my head, pressing my lips into a thin line, I said, “I have nothing to say, Jack.” He pressed his eyes closed, defeated. Slowly, he started to turn from me. Reaching for him, he stopped, blue eyes meeting mine with a soft worried expression on his face, pain in his eyes. Stepping toward him, I took his face between my hands. Our eyes locked. My body tingled as I touched him, as he gazed at me with those eyes. Our faces moved together, our lips nearly touching,
but this time I didn’t stop. I didn’t wait for Jack. I knew what I wanted and I took it. My lips pressed against his lightly at first. Jack’s shock quickly faded as he threw his arms around me, pulling me tightly against his chest. An array of flashes went off as people erupted into chatter.
CHAPTER FORTY
Several weeks later Kate walked down the aisle ahead of me in a plum colored bridesmaid dress with a mammoth bow on her butt and a matching monstrosity on the top of her head. She wore it with grace, as she floated down the aisle of the little clapboard church. I peeked between the doors, watching, my heart fluttering in my chest.
I was wearing an ivory gown adorned with white pearls and lace. It flowed around me like petals on a flower. The bodice hugged me tightly, and laced up in the back. Fabric draped across my shoulders and hundreds of tiny white flowers were woven into my hair.
Leaning back, the wedding planner fanned my train.
“Ready, Abby?”
I nodded, beaming at her. The two whitewashed wooden doors slowly opened in front of me as I walked down the aisle to the wedding march. It took
every ounce of restraint not to run. The look on Jack’s face was a combination of awe and lust. My heart raced faster and I was certain I walked too fast, nearly kicking the photographer out of the way. Smiling broadly, we said our vows, hand in hand.
The minister said, “I now present you with Mr. and Mrs. Gray.” Jack and I ran down the aisle and outside to where a car waited to take us away. We grinned, running though the paparazzi, not minding their presence. They repaired Jack’s career as fast as they destroyed it over the past few weeks. The auction transferred Jack’s entire fortune to me, demonstrating to the world how much he adored me. Since then, the stories came up over and over again—they couldn’t believe that they missed it. All those years they spent looking for dirt on Jack were wasted, because they saw that the reason for his solitude was that he was madly in love with me. I was the one that got away, and by the time he found me it was too late. I’d taken my vows and he didn’t want to make me fall. Stories appeared calling us the star-crossed lovers that we were.
I dove into the car first, my lacy dress flowing around my ankles. Jack followed, laughing, falling into me. His tuxedo fit him perfectly. The dark charcoal gray made his eyes seem impossibly blue.
Giggling, I helped him up, loving the feeling of his hands on my body.
As the driver pulled away, Jack leaned in close. Blue eyes burning, a wicked smile spread across his lips, “I have an idea for a wedding portrait, Mrs. Gray.” He kissed my neck, and I melted in his arms.
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Keep an eye out for SCANDALOUS 2
in
Spring 2013
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SECRETS
SECRETS
Vol. 1
By H.M. Ward
PROLOGUE
Everyone has a secret.
Some people will do anything to protect it.
~
I’m practically giddy with excitement as that dream is within grasp. I’m sitting across from Sophia
Sottero
. She’s an amazing wedding photographer for the affluent families of New York. In a nutshell, she is everything I want to be, and meeting her in the flesh is so overwhelming I can barely contain myself. I try not to squirm in my seat as her gaze slides over my resume.
Sophia is in her early forties with jet-black hair that is smoothed into a neat chignon at the base of her neck. A slender, black suit showcases her figure perfectly and makes her look regal at the same time. I hold my hands in my lap, trying hard not to fidget.
The smile that lines my lips is making my face hurt, but I can’t stop. A tiny voice inside my mind squeals with excitement.
Sophia glances up at me, “Tell me, Miss
Lamore
, why do you want to work at
Sottero
?”
Beaming, I reply, “
Sottero
is the most prestigious photography studio in New York City. The style your shooters attain is breathtaking.” My hand clutches my racing heart. It’s true. And with every fiber of my being I want to learn what she knows. “Everything about your studio makes me want to be a part of it. It’s not only the soaring reputation, but also what you do for each and every bride who comes here.”
“And what is that?”
“You make them feel like the most beautiful woman alive. For that entire day, each bride knows she’s flawless. You don’t just give them photographs, Ms.
Sottero
,
you capture their dreams and freeze them in time. It takes heart and skill to do something like that, which is why I would love to have my internship here.”
Sophia’s gaze lowers to my resume as I’m speaking. When I’m done talking, her dark eyes lift to meet mine, “May I ask where else you applied?”
Normally I would figure out a way to dodge that question, but I want this job so much. I smile calmly and tell the truth, “Couture and Le Femme.”
A dark brow lifts when I say Le Femme. She places my papers on her desk and leans forward, “Le Femme?
Really?
What on earth made you apply there?”
“The University requires a minimum of three interviews, and we are supposed to diversify the
positions we are looking at. They think it gives us a better footing post-graduation.” I practiced this response before I came. Anyone who finds out that I have an interview at Le Femme won’t take me seriously. It’s
a blight
on a pristine resume and an excellent grade point average.
Sophia tilts her head, like that is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. She points a perfectly manicured nail on the shiny desktop. “Listen, Anna. Let me do you a favor. I realize the kind of hoops you have to jump through to get your diploma, and the interview at Le Femme is just a waste of time. Cole Stevens is blight on the industry. His work is trash, and any aspiring young photographer should steer clear of him. I know it’s a necessary evil, so I’ll tell you how to end the interview quick and easy. Go in there and act confident to the point of cocky. Wear something that you should never wear to an interview and they’ll show you the door before you even sit down…
Unless?”
She lets the question hang in the air.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you want to work for Cole Stevens,” Sophia says with distaste, as she leans back in her chair. Although she’s trying to hide it, Sophia’s become tense since we started talking about Le Femme. I can’t tell if she just hates what the studio does, or if it’s more personal than that. She watches me for a moment, taking in my reaction.
I visibly shudder when she suggests such a thing. “I have no intention of working for Cole Stevens, Ms.
Sottero
. That interview is a means to an end. I
want the internship here with
Sottero
. I’ll be the best intern you’ve ever had because I want to be here.”
“It’s a dream?”
“It’s more than a dream,” I say leaning forward in my chair. “
Sottero
is the place where dreams and reality collide. And somehow you figured out how to capture those moments in photographs that are too stunning for words. Forgive me for being blunt, Ms.
Sottero
, but I admire your work, your studio, and everything you stand for. If I was given the opportunity to learn from you I know it would give me a secure footing in a difficult industry.”
We speak for a little longer. I don’t fumble anything. Sophia appears to genuinely like me. As she walks me out, the older woman shakes my hand and says, “I think you’ll do well here, Miss
Lamore
. Contact me after your interview with Le Femme and we’ll see what we can work out.”
A grin spreads across my face. I shake her hand too long and too hard, but I don’t care. My dream job is sitting in the palm of my hand. The only thing left to do is finish up with Le Femme to satisfy the University’s requirements and then I’ll have an internship at
Sottero
!
CHAPTER 1
Sunlight pours through the slats in the blinds, forming narrow bars of light. I blink once, clearing the sleep from my eyes. Nerves don’t slither through my body the way they had yesterday. Today is different. Butterflies don’t erupt in my stomach and threaten to fly out my nose. My tongue isn’t dry and tangled. There is no frantic pounding in my chest. Not today. A slow grin spreads across my face as I stretch. Today is a means to an end.
After showering quickly, I slap on the outfit I selected the night before. Without glancing in the mirror, I head into the kitchen. The apartment is quiet. It’s Saturday and Emma is still asleep. At least I thought she was.
“Anna, what the hell are you wearing?” she asks groggily. My roommate is in the hallway, halfway into the bathroom. She stops and stares at me. A tattered robe clings to her narrow figure. Black hair is frizzed around her face, completely flat on one side. In a few hours, she’ll look like a model. It’s been like that since we started college. Emma is the hot one, and I’m “the hot girl’s friend.” Emma blinks several times, like her big blue eyes are broken. “Don’t you have an interview?”
I nod, grabbing an apple from the kitchen counter. As I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab
my keys and head toward the door, “All part of the plan.”
She doesn’t have time to respond before I’m out the front door, which is good because I would have lost my nerve. The entire time I’ve known Emma she has never let me escape unquestioned. I know she’ll pelt me with questions as soon as I get home. It makes sense that she’s a mass communication major. When she gets a job as a reporter, I know she’ll be good at it. Questioning people is in her DNA, and my outfit was sure to raise questions.
Sophia mentioned that she worked with Cole Stevens at one point and divulged some pet-peeves of his that will promptly end my interview. After the third interview is complete, only then can I get hired.
University requirements.
I run down the stairs toward the street. Our apartment is a fourth floor walk-up, standard shoe-box-sized so that no one in their right mind would want to stay any longer than necessary. Emma and I rented it two years ago when we started graduate school.
Breakfast on the go isn’t a part of my ideal morning. Actually, getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday isn’t even sane, but this is the time slot I needed, the one where the interviewer is so tired that she needs to prop her head up with coffee mugs. Besides, who puts business meetings on Saturday morning at 7:00am? That makes this the worst interview time possible.
It’s just a formality, Anna, I tell myself. The past week has made me a jittery mess. The internship
matters. The placements can mean getting a good job after college, and I need to be the best in my field to get anywhere in this field. Choosing the arts was insane enough, but being a photographer was even crazier. Everyone and their dog own a camera and claim to be awesome. Botching the internships could mean I’ll have to be some schlep trying to find work on Craig’s List, and I have sworn that won’t be me. Photography is art and I’m an artist.
Ambition got me this far. The rest of was guts.
My position with
Sottero
is cinched. I just have to finish this last task before I can take it. I stare straight ahead as I round the corner and descend underground to the subway. The air smells like burnt pretzels and blows my hair gently. I breathe deeply, relaxed—confident. When I went to my interview with Sophia
Sottero
, I was a mess. My palms were sweaty and I could barely stand still as the train clunked along the tracks. The same scenario occurred for my interview with Couture. Both are outstanding studios run by women that I admire. I want the internship with
Sottero
so badly. Couture is my fallback, and Le Femme—I can’t imagine the person who wants an internship at Le Femme.
Probably some
perv
-with-a-camera like the infamous owner, Cole Stevens.
Now, that isn’t totally accurate. The man has to have some talent to shoot high-end lingerie on nearly naked models. One of those barely-there panties costs more than my grocery bill. It isn’t my thing, but like I said—three is the magic number and this is my third interview—the one I don’t care about.
Glancing around, I notice that the subway is relatively empty, which is normal for New York on a Saturday morning. That’s the only bonus to the early interview time—I didn’t have to get up at 5:00am. I switch trains a few times and walk up into the sunlight. Structures of glass and steel tower above my head, but I don’t look up. New Yorkers never look up.
Checking my watch, I hasten my pace. Although I don’t want this job, the University still checks to make sure I apply myself, which means at least showing up on time. I find the building and exit the elevator onto the seventieth floor. A silver plaque hangs on a dark door: LE FEMME STUDIOS.