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He escorted her into a building several blocks from the hotel and directed her toward the elevator. As the car rose, Sammi’s nerves begin to buzz like an angry hive of wasps. By the time the doors opened on the eighth floor, anxiety had completely overwhelmed the feverish attraction that had compelled her to accompany Oliver Lowell to his SoHo loft. What was she doing here? Yet she didn’t flee as he unlocked a door and gestured her inside. Instead, she hid her uneasiness behind a polite, practice smile, and entered the space.
Fifteen hundred square feet of open loft greeted her, looking similar to every photography studio she’d ever worked in. She surveyed the industrial vibe of the place, gaze roaming over brick walls interspersed with large windows, bleached-white walls and gleaming wood floors. The only furnishings were a couple of couches and some worktables. She spied computers, lighting equipment and a white screen.
Sammi exhaled, releasing the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. “This is your studio,” she said, surprise in her voice even as disappointment hung like a stone in her chest.
“Were you expecting something else?” He arched that sexy split eyebrow and made her heart flutter.
“When we first entered the building, I thought maybe you lived here.”
“I do. Upstairs.” He indicated an open staircase off to the left. “Do you want a tour?”
The offer astounded her. Given how little was known of his private life, she guessed he guarded his privacy zealously. Should she feel honored that he’d offered her a glimpse? But at what price?
“Maybe later.”
Turning her back to him, she set her portfolio and purse on a nearby table and stripped off her jacket while she sorted through her conflicting moods. What had seemed like a daring lark at the Soho Grand Hotel no longer felt inconsequential.
“Although I’m sure your mind is racing,” Oliver said, “I can’t for the life of me tell what you’re thinking.”
That I’m completely out of my depth with you.
Sammi trembled as he strolled toward the worktable that held the cameras. What would he see? What would she betray of herself? Her inner turmoil? Her failures? All her life she’d taken for granted that she was beautiful. When he cracked her psyche and exposed her soul, would she be ugly? What could possibly be more terrifying? She wondered how many of his photographs existed. How many people were strong enough to keep a visual representation of their greatest failures and most shameful secrets?
It was a struggle to keep from rubbing at the goose bumps on her arms. “Where do you want me?” she asked, needing to get this over before her courage failed.
“Where would you feel most comfortable?”
She didn’t hesitate before striding toward the white screen. After twenty-five years there was nowhere she
felt more at home than on set. Here, she became a girl next door, a seductress, a woman in love, a rag doll, a warrior, a free spirit, a crusader. Or any one of a thousand other incarnations. Finding the center of the backdrop, she turned to face Oliver and found him watching her, his right hand resting on a camera, as if halted amid the act of picking it up.
“How do you get people to open up so that you can photograph them stripped down to their essence?”
“It’s different for every person. The key is to find the trigger that allows their guard to fall.”
“How do you make that happen?” While Sammi never hesitated when asked to pose in the nude, contemplating the exposure of her inner landscape made her woozy with anxiety. “How do you break down their walls?”
“Before the subject comes in to be photographed, I do a significant amount of research on them.”
“What sort of research?”
“Background on their personal and professional lives.”
Sammi shivered as she considered what her complicated relationship with her mother revealed about her. “I imagine you know exactly what to say to bring up all sorts of negative feelings.”
The way his expression hardened to stone at her remark told her she’d made a misstep.
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” he said at last, his flat tone not quite hiding his strong emotions. “The photoshoot isn’t successful if the client is unhappy.”
“That makes sense,” Sammi murmured. “So how do you use the information you gather?”
“I ask questions, get them to talk about pivotal moments in their lives.”
“What would you ask me?”
To her surprise he came away empty-handed from the table of camera equipment. “Why do you want to do this?”
“I want to see what you see when you look at me.”
