“Holy cow,” she breathed, stricken. “Holy . . . holy . . . cow.” The face seemed too perfect to be flesh, the hair too disorderly to be accidental, the eyes so warm they seemed to reflect the change beneath the light from the table lamp. The nose was straight, with gorgeous nostrils. He had long cheeks and a strong jaw. And the mouth—ah, what a mouth. She studied it as an artist, but reacted as a woman.
The upper lip was utter perfection, its outline crisp, bowed with two peaks into perfect symmetry—a rare thing, no matter what the untutored layman might think. The lower lip was fuller than the upper, and the half smile seemed to hint at amusing things on his mind. Flat ears, strong neck—but not too thick—good shoulders, one leaning at an angle into the picture. He wore what appeared to be a wrinkled dress shirt with its collar askew, not the customary satin showman’s costume, nor what Allison had come to think of as the “Tom Jones Look”—open-necked shirt plunging low underneath a body-hugging, open suit jacket. Still, she smiled.
I’ll bet any money there’ll be hair on his chest, she thought.
Allison flipped the picture over.
Richard Lang . . . 4-11-57 . . . blond . . . blue.
She read the words again, and somehow they didn’t seem enough. Richard Lang . . . 4-11-57 . . . blond . . . blue. God, was that all they had to say about a face like this? Who was he? Why hadn’t she ever seen his photo in the North Star files before? He had the kind of features photographers dream of. Bone structure that created angles and hollows, beautiful for shadowing. The jaw and chin seemed to be living, the mouth made for mobility. She imagined it scowling, smiling, scolding. She wondered if it were as mobile in real life as it seemed on paper. Something said “dimples” when there actually were none, only attractive smile lines on either side of his mouth, as if smiling came easily.
Richard Lang.
Twenty-five years old, blond hair, blue eyes, face as captivating as . . . but Allison stopped herself just short of finishing, “Jason’s.”
Richard Lang, you’re the one!
She leaned the eight-by-ten glossy against the base of a table lamp and backed off, studying it while she unbuttoned her cuffs, then the buttons up the front of her shirt. She reached for her cup, took it a reasonable distance away while blowing and sipping, and studied the face, already posing him, figuring the camera angles, the lighting, the background, which could not be too involved lest it detract from that face.
There wasn’t a girl in the lot pretty enough for him. The girl, she could see, was going to give her trouble. It had been made clear to Allison that in the photograph the hero must appear to be overcome by the heroine, yet that was going to be hard to do with a face like his! It would overshadow any other within a country mile!
Allison, you’re getting carried away.
To bring Richard Lang back into perspective, Allison deposited her empty cup in the sink, clumped into the bedroom, flung off her shirt, squirmed out of her jeans, and snuggled into a blue, fleecy robe, thinking all the while that when she returned to the living room she’d find the flaw she must have overlooked.
But he leaned there against the base of the lamp, more handsome than she’d remembered, making her hand move in slow motion as she zipped up the front of her robe.
She wished the photo was in color. Maybe his skin wasn’t as clear as the black and white made it appear. Maybe he had freckles, ruddiness, sallow coloring. But she somehow knew his skin would be as smooth and healthy as a lifeguard’s. Still searching for flaws, she thought maybe he has a horrible temper. Catching herself, she scolded, well, what does that matter, Allison Scott! You’re taking his photo, not his name. If he has the temperament of a weasel, it’s no affair of yours!
Nevertheless, it was hard to sleep that night. She hadn’t been this exhilarated about her work since Jason had left.
The following morning she called Mattie to request more glossies of girls, and the two agreed to meet for lunch. Over steaming bowls of chicken-and-dumpling soup at Peter’s Grill, Allison found herself hungry—actually hungry!—for the first time in weeks.
When Mattie asked which male model she’d chosen, Allison produced the photo of Richard Lang and laid it on the table between them.
“Him!” Mattie pointed a stubby finger. “I knew it! I knew he was the one you’d pick. All I had to hear was blond and blue, and I had him pegged in a second. He’s just the type you can do wonders with on film.”
“I’m sure as hell going to try, Mattie,” Allison said thoughtfully. Then, studying the photo, struck again by his perfection, she asked, “What do you know about him?”
“Not much. He doesn’t seem to give a fig leaf for what he wears. The times I’ve seen him he’s been in battered-up tennies, washed out blue jeans, and wrinkled shirts that look like no woman ever touched an iron to them. Kind of strange, since most of our clients tend to overdo it when they dress for a booking.”
“Mmm . . . so I noticed. His shirt looks like it’s been through the Hundred Years War, and his hair . . . lord, Mattie, would you look at that hair! It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Natural,” Mattie finished.
“Yeah.” Allison cocked her head and eyed the photo. “Natural, just like the rest of him. I wonder what the giant flaw is going to be when I get a look at him in person.”
“Probably ego, like most of the pretty boys we handle.”
The thought was depressing. “Probably,” Allison agreed, stuffing the picture away again. “You don’t have to teach me about ego in male models. Not after Jason Ederlie.”
“I’m sorry I brought him up yes—”
“No, Mattie, it’s okay.” Allison held up her palms. “If I can’t be adult enough to accept his being gone, I shouldn’t have invited him to move in in the first place without any commitments on either side. It was . . . it was an idyll, a dream. But it’s over, and I’m done licking my wounds. I’m going to throw myself into my work and make a name for myself, and when it’s made I’ll choose the man I want to live with, he won’t choose me.”
“Well, when you do, honey, why don’t you make him a nice, stable plumber or grocer or accountant? Somebody who smiles at more than just himself in the mirror.”
“Don’t worry, Mattie. I’ve learned my lesson. When I find him, he’ll be generous, humble, and honorable, and he’ll dote upon my every desire.”
Mattie laughed. “Hey, wherever you find him, could you pick up two—one for me?”
They laughed together, Mattie in her size sixteen slacks and Allison with her shattered illusions. But in the end Allison wondered if such men existed.
Chapter
TWO
THE old Genesis Building had two elevators, one for passengers and one for freight. Naturally the old relics were both out of order when Allison got there, so she was totally out of breath as she unlocked the studio door after climbing six flights of stairs.
The phone was shrilling, and she tore across the room to grab it, puffing breathlessly as she answered, “Ph . . . Photo Images.”
“Hello, this is Rick Lang. I was told to call this number, that you may possibly have a booking for me over there.”
“Rick . . . L . . .” Suddenly the light dawned. “Oh! Richard Lang! The one in the photo from North Star’s files.”
“Right, but I go by Rick.”
Allison was caught off guard by the pleasant, unaffected voice on the other end. It was deep, masculine, and easy. If she was looking for shortcomings in the man, his voice wasn’t offering any clues.
“Rick . . . all right. Listen, I never make decisions from photos alone. I’d like to see you before we sign any contracts, okay?”
“Sure, that’s understandable.”
The image of his face came back to Allison, suddenly making her feel like a damn fool for insisting. What could she possibly find wrong with a face like that?
“Please understand, I’ll be relying heavily on this job to bring in other similar work. If there’s anything about you that??
?”
“Hey, sure, I understand. Sometimes black-and-whites can be misleading.”
Of all things, Allison felt herself blushing. Blushing! Talking on the phone clear across a city where he couldn’t even see her, she was stammering and blushing while he maintained perfect poise.
“When are you free?”
“I’m my own man. When would you like to see me?”
“How about tomorrow at one o’clock?”
“Fine.”
“Can you come up to my studio?”
“Sure, if you tell me how to get there.” She gave him instructions on where to park and what to do if the creaking old elevator was still balking, and more careful instructions on what to do if it wasn’t. She heard his laughter then for the first time, a light, mirthful enjoyment in deep tones, before he ended, “I’ll see you at one o’clock, then.”
When she’d wished him good-bye, she fell back into her swivel chair, linked her fingers and hung her palms on the top of her head. This was ridiculous. She was becoming paranoid, looking for faults in him even before she met him, hoping to hear an effeminate tone in his voice, poor grammar, a lisp . . . something!
Scott, get your ass going! she chided, and jumped to her feet. He’s not Jason, and he’s not going to move in with you, so call a sand-and-gravel company and get a promise of free sand in exchange for free publicity shots of their operation or free photos of the owner’s grandchildren or whatever it takes to get that sand up here. But get your mind off Rick Lang!
THE following afternoon, Rick Lang entered the door of Photo Images to find a woman with her back to him, talking on the phone. She was tilted far back in an ancient oak swivel chair, the high heel of one brown leather boot propped high onto a frame of a huge wall of windows, the other ankle crossed over her knee. Spicy brown hair hung to her shoulder blades, held behind her ears by a pair of oversized sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head. His eyes followed the taut blue jeans on the outstretched leg, took in a bulky gray sweater and a coordinated woolen scarf wrapped twice around her neck. Suddenly she gestured at the ceiling like an Italian fruit vendor haggling over the price of an apple.
“But what if I sign up and get the bends or something, can I get my money back?” She gestured again, more exasperatedly, and the foot that rested on the knee started tapping the air sideways. Rick stood there, smiling, listening. The foot stopped tapping, the chin came down. “Oh, you can’t?” she asked. “Not in a swimming pool?” She lowered the sunglasses to their proper place, and her voice turned innocent. “Well, to tell the truth, I really don’t want to learn to scuba.” She scratched the blue denim on her knee, nervously. “I just needed to use the gear for a couple of days for a photo project I’m planning and—”
She yanked the phone away from her ear, while across the room Rick heard snatches of a man’s angry reply. “Lady . . . every curious . . . try diving . . . out of business . . . no time . . . want lessons.”
The chair rocked forward, and her boots hit the floor with a slap. “Well, you don’t have to get so—” She stopped, cut off, listened a moment longer, then spit, “Mister, I’m not after free—” Again she listened, then abruptly slammed the receiver onto the cradle in her lap, made a most obscene gesture at it, crossed her arms belligerently, and hissed, “That’s for you, sweetheart!”
Rick Lang smiled widely, carefully wiped the expression from his face, and quietly said, “Excuse me.”
The chair whirled around so fast, her sunglasses slipped down her nose, and the receiver flew off its cradle. She caught it by the cord, set the whole thing on her desk, and came to her feet, blushing a deep crimson.
“How long have you been standing there?” she snapped.
“A while.” He watched the color flood her face, her lips compress, and studied the oversized lenses that hid her eyes. “Sorry, I got here a little early.” He smiled as he came forward, hand extended. “Rick Lang,” he greeted simply.
“Allison Scott,” she returned as his warm palm enfolded hers, pumped once, then disappeared into the pocket of a misshapen garment that had once been a letter jacket.
“You wanted to look me over.” He stood back, absolutely at ease, weight on one foot, not so much as a hint of nervousness while that easy smile turned his mouth to magic and Allison had the distinct impression that if anyone was being looked over, it was she.
“Yes . . . I . . .” Her cheeks were positively hot. “Listen, I . . . I’m not a dishonest person.” She gestured toward the phone, certain he’d seen her rude, unladylike gesture at the end of the conversation. “You heard me tell him I didn’t really want to take scuba lessons, didn’t you? I don’t con people out of things, it’s just that it’s kind of tough to come up with props for pictures sometimes, and I need scuba gear for a project I’m planning, so I . . . I thought I just might give scuba diving a try if it’d get me the gear and they’d let me have my money back after lesson number one, but the guy got nasty and I . . . I . . .” She suddenly realized she was blubbering to hide her embarrassment, so fell silent. Being at a disadvantage was something new to Allison Scott, and letting it show was even rarer.
Rick laughed engagingly, managing at the same time to admire her upbeat look, the sleek jeans and body sweater ending nearly at her knees, and her face, now pink and flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m not here to judge you, you’re here to judge me, so forget I even heard it.”
She told herself to cool down, that he was just another handsome face, another ego, another Jason. Yet even at first glance she sensed a difference. The cocky self-assurance was absent. Even his clothes were unsensational. He was dressed as Mattie had warned he might be—that seen-better-days jacket with the collar worn absolutely threadbare; faded jeans; a pair of scuffed, well-traveled almost-cowboy boots. The jacket was partly unsnapped. Beneath it she saw a purple sweatshirt bearing a white number 12. Her eyes moved from it to his face, which again affected her like a 110-volt shock.
Ruddy skin, bitten to a becoming pink by the wind outside, but smooth and unblemished; nose straight and shining from the cold. His hair had been styled by the feckless whims and guileless artistry of the January winds. That hair was, indeed, blond, a rich color that seemed a gift in the middle of this snowbound January, when most people bundled beneath warm caps. The lightly curled strands of hair were blown about his ears, temples, and forehead in engaging disarray. To comb it would be folly, she thought.
She suddenly realized she’d been staring, and looked away. He was, beyond a doubt, even better than his pictures.
“Did the agency tell you what this assignment is?” she asked.
“No, just that I should contact you to find out.” He glanced across the studio—full gunnysacks resting against the front of an old, beaten desk; an ancient refrigerator; rolls of backdrop paper hanging from between the pipes on the ceiling; an assortment of chairs, stools, artificial plants, pillows, and cream cans in one corner; cameras on tripods, umbrella reflectors, strobes, a variety of photographic equipment. But mostly space—lots of space—and bright afternoon light flooding the place through the frost-laced windows. The corner where her desk stood was her “office,” separated by two metal file cabinets against the wall, to one side. A nearby door led to a windowless room, but it was dark inside, and he couldn’t tell what it was used for.
While he studied the studio, she studied him, wishing he were wearing a deep-necked shirt so she could see if there was hair on his chest. She wasn’t quite sure how to ask him if there was. His eyes wandered back to hers, and she felt the color rise along her neck again.
“It’s a book cover, and they need two poses, one for the front, one for the back.”
“What kind of book?”
“A romance.”
His eyebrows rose briefly, speculatively, then he shrugged and nodded.
“Have you ever posed with another model?”
“A few times.”
“A woman?”
“Once.”<
br />
“What was the ad for?”
“His and hers jogging suits or something like that.”
She’d guessed right when studying the black-and-white glossy. He had the most utterly mobile mouth she’d ever seen and brows that expressed his mood almost before the words were out of his mouth.
“Will you do something for me?” Allison asked.
“If you’ll do something for me.” His eyes stopped roving and stared at his own reflection in her sunglasses. “Take off the glasses so I can see you.”
“Oh!” She pushed the glasses up to rest on her hair. “I didn’t realize.”
“Better. Now where were we?”
“You were going to do something for me.”
His hands came out of those drooping pockets, palms up. “Name it.”
She moved from behind the desk to stand several feet before him, her hands slipped into the tight front pockets of her jeans, her shoulders hunched while she assessed him.
“Look angry,” she ordered.
Again came the magic. In a split second his brows lowered, curling just enough to gain a viewer’s sympathy yet not enough to make him look mean.
“Wily,” she shot at him.
“What?”
“Look wily,” she demanded, pointing a finger at his nose.
Immediately his gaze shifted until he peered from the corner of his eye at the refrigerator, as if it were there to thwart him but he had the goods on it.
Allison smiled, clapped her hands once in delight, then ordered, “Tired!”
His lips fell open slightly, a droop tugged the corners of his mouth down, and the sparkle disappeared from his spiky-lashed eyes, which he cast disconsolately at the floor between them. . . . Perfect, she thought.
Her heart went tripping over itself in delight. He was a natural! She went into a semi-crouch, hands grasping knees as if she were a lineman on a football team.
“Give me belligerent!” she threw at him.
The beautiful lips puckered up like a drawstring bag. The eyes scowled. The skin seemed to stretch tight over the sculptured cheekbones. She forgot his name, age, coloring, handsomeness, and saw only magic happening before her eyes. And while she was intensely captivated, caught up in discovering him, she didn’t realize how her own eyes danced, how her face took on life, mirroring the responses he effortlessly brought forth with each new order she issued. No matter what it was, his face changed with each brusque command. “Threatened . . . amused . . . puzzled . . . pleased. . . .” As fast as she snapped out the words, he expressed them.