“I’m willing to pay you well for this.”
“It’s not really about price.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Syria gripped the phone. “Wh—what?”
“Is that sufficient for the shoot? I am willing to pay much more for the images.”
Syria hesitated. That much money meant a plane ticket to Seattle to see Tyson. And maybe even one to India, if she got the chance.
“So I have your attention. How about I send you ten thousand now, and another five thousand on the day of the shoot, as a deposit for the prints?” His voice was still smooth, with not trace of smugness or anything but a business transaction taking place.
“When were you thinking of coming in?”
“My associate will be with me two more weeks.”
“So nights, weekend? Week day?”
“I think we can accommodate most times.”
Syria grabbed her schedule from beneath a pile of print outs. “So, next Thursday, maybe?”
“Certainly. Midafternoon?”
“Three o’clock. That works. Should I send you directions?”
“I know where you are, Syria.”
Her belly quivered. Who was this man? “Should we do a consultation? What sort of clothing? Style? Backgrounds?”
“I leave it all in your very capable hands. The girls will bring a sufficient wardrobe for contingencies, plus a stylist. We will make it come together.”
“All right,” Syria said. “I’ll set up something classic.”
“Perfect. See you in a few days. A courier will arrive in a few hours with the fee.”
The line went dead.
Syria stared at the phone. She knew the men at that exhibition had to be powerful and wealthy. She was about to find out exactly how much.
7: The Shoot
Tyson had been impressed when she told him about the shoot. Syria sent him a snapshot of the cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars. She didn’t mention that she’d met the man before, just that he’d been referred. This small deceit settled like a black space beneath her heart. Somehow, she knew there was more to this than just photography.
She fretted over every detail the day of the shoot, straightening her shelves, shoving the boxes of prints and proofs into another room. With the extra money, she’d splurged on a rush job for a hand-painted backdrop that suggested a French bordello, just enough sexy to set your mind the right direction if the subjects where posed for it, but also very classic if the shoot was more traditional. She’d wanted a drop like this for a long time, but couldn’t justify the expense.
When the doorbell chimed, Syria nearly jumped out of her skin. Her belly fluttered with nerves. In addition to the drop, she’d bought the most amazing pair of distressed leather ballerina slippers that felt like she was wearing nothing at all, so that she wouldn’t feel the urge to shoot barefoot as she normally did. It seemed too informal for a session like this.
She opened the door and suppressed sucking in a breath at Erik, dressed as perfectly as he had been at the exhibition, a three-piece suit immaculately tailored and fitted to his broad shoulders and tall frame.
Syria swallowed. “Hello, Mr. Andrada.” Behind him were several women, all stunningly beautiful, one blonde and two with dark, exotic features.
He took her hand. “Erik, please. It is such a pleasure to see you again.” He lifted the back of her hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he kissed it as if meeting her was the most treasured moment of his life.
Syria’s heart beat faster. Everything about this man was geared toward trusting him, falling under his spell.
She stepped aside to let the group in. A young man came up the sidewalk, pushing a rolling wardrobe box. The blond woman paused to make sure he made it up the stairs. “We brought plenty of options,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Elise, the stylist. I prepared their hair and makeup in advance, but we wanted to see your vision before choosing outfits.”
“Okay.” Syria didn’t know what else to say. She felt like she should have assistants, a team maybe, for a shoot like this. Lots of photographers charged fees like the one Erik had offered, but they usually had some staff. At least this group had brought some of their people along. She didn’t know who was the associate she was photographing. The two dark-haired women had the same slightly aloof demeanor, the way she imagined models to be.
Syria moved along the hallway. “This way.” Erik followed her, and she now saw her rented house through his eyes, banged-up wallpaper, scratched wood floors, inexpensive strip lighting for the images. He must wonder why he’d made such a leap of faith.
He paused of the image of a woman in white lingerie on a motorcycle, the same one that got Tyson’s attention weeks ago. “Stunning. So you will shoot on location?”