She waved a hand at her own chest. "So I take it you're this Bianca?" she asked, and I realized she was referencing the tattoo she'd just been staring at for an hour.
I nodded, not really sure how to respond.
She held out a hand. "I'm Beatrice Stoker. I'm the director."
I shook her hand, and she squeezed hard, like it was some kind of a test. I gave her a half-hearted response, not interested in whatever way she thought she was testing me with such a strange action.
"Bianca," I told her, even though she obviously knew that.
"You are one lucky lady, Bianca," she said. Something a little too familiar about her tone raised my hackles just a bit.
I gave her very solid eye contact. "I'm very well aware of that. Trust me when I say that you can't even imagine how lucky."
She blinked, but didn't seem at all put off by my awkward statement. I didn't know what made me want to goad her, but more and more, I seemed to be having a hard time holding my tongue.
"Well, good for you," she finally said. "About that, with Mr. Cavendish's new tattoos being devoted to you and all, I had an idea for the shoot, if you don't object."
"Object to what?" I asked suspiciously.
She smiled that polished smile. "If you wouldn't mind going through the hassle of hair, makeup, and wardrobe, I'd love to have you involved in some of the shots. More as an accessory to James than as a focal point, if you get my meaning."
I didn't. "You want me to be in the photo?" I asked, baffled. It was something I'd never expected.
"Well, he's showing off tattoos that are obviously in your honor, so I thought it would be nice to squeeze you into a few shots. Nothing much. I'd just like to have you maybe hug him from behind, something very innocent and low-key. He's been shirtless on our covers several times, sans tats. I thought it might be nice to show the reader what's inspired his new passion for ink."
I grimaced, uncomfortable with the idea. "You'd have to ask James. This is his thing."
She nodded and strode off with a purpose, and I felt a little like I'd just thrown him to the wolves.
Sure enough, James strode out of the dressing room scant moments later, moving to me in swift strides, his brow furrowed. He was in a new mouthwatering getup with pale beige slacks, a bare golden chest, and the softest looking beige scarf I'd ever seen in my life wrapped around his neck until it formed a sort of X-rated cowl.
"What do you think of this idea?" he asked me quietly.
I shrugged, not sure what to think, and having a hard time focusing on anything but what I wanted him to do to me with that scarf.
"My first inclination was to say fuck no, I don't want you exposed like that, but my need to shelter you from the world is obviously a moot point. They've gotten a look at you, so I think we should let them look at you on our terms, if that makes sense. So I guess what I'm saying is that, yes, I would like you to be involved with the shoot, if you're comfortable with that."
He sounded almost defensive as he mapped out his reasonings to me. It was so unusual for him to be defensive that I was a little taken aback. He looked so worked up in fact, that I decided to just put him out of his misery.
"Fine, I'll do it," I said quietly. It was a fact that there were already too many horrible pictures of me out there to even keep track of, so what would one not so horrible picture hurt?
He seemed stunned, and not altogether pleased, which I found rather perverse of him, but he just nodded.
After that, it felt like a whirlwind of activity as I had my hair, makeup, and nails done.
The dressing room was a total fiasco. There was just no other way to look at it. The wardrobe people, used to working with professionals, and hardly used to dealing with unreasonably jealous boyfriends, tried to go about business as usual.
Someone started to lift my skirt up and I just sort of yelped, surprised. I turned to look at the girl behind me. She was giving me an impatient look, just doing her job. And then there was James …
"Don't touch her," he told the poor girl, his tone bordering on mean. I hadn't appreciated her familiarity, but I felt a strong stirring of pity at the crushed look on her face. He addressed the room at large. "Everyone out. She does not need an audience. Only one female dresser gets to stay."
That one lucky female dresser looked like she'd just drawn the short straw as she rifled through clothes. She was the little blonde assistant that had been helping with the shoot. She pulled out a pair of jeans and gave me a dubious look. "I don't suppose you'd agree to go topless? Everything would be covered, of course-"
"Out of the question," James said. He sounded real putout about it, too.
She sighed, no more happy than he was about the whole situation. "Maybe I should just let you choose her wardrobe. Only her hands and maybe the top of her head will be showing, so it doesn't really matter, and you're obviously going to have an opinion about it."