“Peter Miller.” He stepped back. “Thanks for taking the time to see me. It’s pretty thrilling, actually, to finally be here.” He glanced around the room at the high ceilings, oak-paneled walls, and antique light fixtures.
“Thrilling?” Gwen replied.
“Yes. To see the town and house where Scarlett Fontaine grew up. It’s like stepping into the past.”
“I suppose it is. Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the wing chair that faced her desk and sat down as well.
Peter set his laptop case on the floor and made himself comfortable.
“I’m eager to hear about the book you’re working on,” Gwen said, taking charge of the meeting. “But I should be up front and warn you that I’m very protective about Scarlett’s memory. She was a private person at heart, and the last thing she would have wanted was a trashy tell-all about her personal life.”
Peter inclined his head. “Is that what you think I’m writing?”
She leaned back in her chair, realizing she’d probably just insulted him by calling his work trash. But wasn’t that the most accurate word for the sorts of pictures he took?
“Well, I’m not sure,” Gwen said. “In your email, you called it a biography, but I did google you. You’ve never written a book before. Your publishing credits include much ... let’s just call themshorterworks. And just so you know, I’m not a fan of the paparazzi.”
“I prefer the term freelance photojournalist,” he told her, then carefully studied her eyes for a moment. “But what matters here is that you don’t seem to have faith in my credentials.”
“Unless it’s just a picture book you’re working on?” Gwen asked, hitting below the belt.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s a real book with real words, correct grammar, and a table of contents. It will even have an index.” He held up a hand. “But don’t worry. No offense taken.”
Gwen rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound patronizing.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it. I get it all the time.”
“Do you?” she asked. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
He glanced out the window and shrugged. “I try not to worry about what other people think of me.”
“Well, that’s obvious,” Gwen replied. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t point your telephoto lens into their backyards.”
He met her gaze, and his eyes turned cool. “Touché.”
They were quiet for a moment, and Gwen felt like they were sizing each other up. Peter sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together.
“I think we might be getting off on the wrong foot here,” he said, after a pause. “It’s obvious that you care about this museum and Scarlett’s memory or reputation—whatever you want to call it. I get that. You have a vested interest, and I know why, because I googled you as well.”
Gwen folded her hands across her lap and watched him sit back in his chair. “Did you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. I know that you’re related to Ms.Fontaine and you’re the sole heir to her enormous fortune, which is currently in the hands of your parents.”
Gwen hated it when people thought they knew everything about her just because of something they’d read on the internet.
“That’s true,” she told him, choosing not to reveal her more personal kinship with Scarlett, her first cousin once removed, whom she had never even met because Scarlett had died before Gwen was born.But Scarlett’s music had gotten Gwen through some of the worst times in her life. Especially over the last two years.
“But let me assure you,” Peter continued, “I’m not out to write anything salacious or trashy. I’m just hoping to do some good, solid research here and get permission to include some of the photographs from the museum’s collection. Pictures from Scarlett’s early life. Images that haven’t been published before.”
“I see,” Gwen said.
“If it helps you to know my background,” he went on, seeming determined to win her over, “I have a master’s degree in twentieth-century history from Stanford, and during my undergrad, I minored in American lit.”
Gwen’s head drew back slightly. “I have to admit—that’s a surprise. How in the world did you end up as a tabloid photographer?”
He glanced out the window. “I needed to make a living somehow. But enough about me.” He looked at her. “What matters is that I have a book deal that requires me to put my research skills to good use, finally, which is why I’m sitting in your office right now, Ms.Hollingsworth, pleading for mercy.” He grinned boyishly, and Gwen sensed he was a charmer who usually got what he wanted from women.
“Call me Gwen,” she said coolly.
