Each had submitted a portfolio through her agent, and he'd spent hours poring over every photograph. He had one slot left in the show. The centerpiece. The lynchpin. A single woman that would anchor all of his carefully staged and shot photos with a series of erotic images that he could already see clearly in his mind. A confluence of lighting and staging, of body and attitude. Sensuality coupled with innocence and underscored with daring.
He knew what he wanted. More than that, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he even knew who he wanted.
So far, she hadn't wandered into his studio.
But she was out there, whoever she was; he was certain of it.
Too bad he only had twenty-seven days to find her.
Which was why he'd stooped to scouring modeling agencies, even though his vision for this show had always been to use amateur models. Women whose features or attitude caught his attention on the beach, in the grocery store, wherever he might be. Women from his past. Women from his work. But always women who didn't make a living with their bodies. That had been his promise to himself from the beginning.
And yet here he was, begging agents to send their most sensual girls to him. Breaking his own damn rule because he was desperate to find her. That elusive girl who was hiding in his mind, and who maybe-just maybe-had an agent and a modeling contract.
But he knew she wouldn't. Not that girl.
No, the girl he wanted would be a virgin with the camera, and he'd be the one who would first capture that innocence. That was his vision. The plan he'd stuck to for eighteen long months of squeezing in sessions between his regular commercial photography gigs. Almost two years of all-nighters in the dark room and surviving on coffee and protein bars because there wasn't time to order take-out, much less cook.
Months of planning and worrying and slaving toward a goal. And those sweet, precious moments when he knew-really knew-that he was on the verge of creating something truly spectacular.
He was exhausted, yes. But he was almost done.
So far, he had forty-one final images chosen for the show, each and every one perfect as far as he was concerned.
He just needed the final nine. That last set of photos of his one perfect woman. Photos that would finally seal his vision-both of the girl in his mind and of what he wanted to accomplish with this solo exhibition.
He'd sacrificed so much, and he was finally close. So damn close . . . and yet here he was, spinning his wheels with models who weren't what he wanted or needed.
Fuck.
With a sigh of frustration, Wyatt dragged his fingers through his thick, short hair. "Actually, ladies, I think we're done here. I appreciate your time and your interest in the project, and I'll review your portfolios and be in touch with your agent if you're selected. You're free to get dressed and go."
The girls glanced at each other, bewildered. For that matter, JP looked equally puzzled as he returned to the studio with Wyatt's Leica slung over his shoulder and a tall, familiar redhead at his side.
"Siobhan," Wyatt said, ignoring the trepidation building in his gut. "I didn't realize we had a meeting scheduled."
"I thought you were going to shoot a roll of black and white," JP said at the same time, holding up the Leica in the manner of a third grader at Show-and-Tell.
In front of Wyatt, the girls paused in the act of pulling on their robes, obviously uncertain.
"We're done," Wyatt said to them before turning his attention to his assistant. "I have everything I need to make a decision."
"Right. Sure. You're the boss." But as JP spoke, he looked sideways at Siobhan, whose arms were now crossed over her chest, her brow furrowed with either confusion or annoyance. Quite probably both.
But Wyatt had to hand it to her; she held in her questions until the last model had entered the hallway that led to the dressing room, and the door had clicked shut behind her.
"You got what you needed?" she asked, cutting straight to the chase. "Does that mean one of those models is the girl you've been looking for?"
"Is that why you're here? Checking my progress?" Shit. He sounded like a guilty little boy standing in front of the principal.
Siobhan, thank God, just laughed. "One, I'm going to assume from the defensive tone that the answer is no. And two, I'm the director of your show first and foremost because we're friends. So take this in the spirit of friendship when I ask, what the hell are you doing? We have less than a month to pull all of this together. So if none of those girls is the one you need, then tell me what I can do to help. Because this is on me, too, remember? This show flops, and we both lose."