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Ana sat back on the sofa. “I’ve never heard of him, so he must have begun designing shoes recently. Perhaps he believes his approach was a polite way to introduce himself.”
“It helps to be positive,” the detective agreed.
“But it isn’t often wise,” Fatima countered.
Ana feared Fatima was right.
Chapter Four
Wednesday afternoon, Ana flew to Mallorca with Galen Salazar. The designer was always in a rush, and his long, sandy hair continually blew into his face, while his dark drooping eyebrows made him appear perpetually morose even when he laughed. Ana knew the other two models. Valeria had flaming red hair and alabaster skin that gave her an ethereal glow, while Lourdes had a Gypsy’s dark beauty. Along with the crew who’d work the shoot, there were seven of them altogether.
Galen had made arrangements to shoot in the Palau de l’Almudaina in Palma. The Moorish palace was the perfect backdrop for his fashions, but they had to begin early Thursday morning to be finished before the museum opened to tourists. After they’d checked into the Hotel Feliz, Leticia, who handled Galen’s fashions, immediately set to work steaming them to perfection.
Valeria went for a nap to the room she’d share with Lourdes, while Lourdes was insulted she hadn’t been given her own room and headed for the bar. “Will you keep an eye on her?” Galen asked.
Ana grabbed her carry-on bag. “Sorry, I’m dropping this in my room and going out for a walk. You’re not paying for my time until tomorrow.”
At five-eight, he was used to looking up at his models, but he shook his head sadly. “You always behave in a professional manner, but if my clothes didn’t look so good on Lourdes, I’d never hire her again. I’ll h
ave to watch her myself. We’ll all meet later for dinner.”
“I’ll see you then.” Ana shared a room with Mimi, a makeup artist devoted to Galen who never caused anyone a particle of worry. Ana left her carry-on bag on the bed by the windows, pulled on her hat and dark glasses and went out to find a tourist shop with postcards so she could mail one to Alejandro and her mother and stepfather. She also looked forward to taking some photos of her own.
She walked down Avinguda D’Antoni Maura, found postcards, and entered a café for tea and an ensaimada, a delicious local pastry spiral sprinkled with powdered sugar. She shuffled through the half-dozen cards she’d bought, looking for the perfect one for Alejandro. She’d made a mental note of his address when they’d entered his building on Sunday and wrote it on a photo card of the Moorish palace where they’d be shooting tomorrow. Her message was a simple one about the beauty of the island. It probably wouldn’t reach him before she got home, but she’d send it anyway.
She couldn’t confide any worries to her mother because the dear woman would simply remind her of how hard they’d worked to give her such a lucrative career. As Ana saw it, she’d been the one who’d done the work. She wrote only that she was on Mallorca for a fashion shoot. It was a blessing her mother was so happy with Andre, and Ana was thankful for it every day.
Still hungry, she bought an orange and peeled it slowly. When she noticed a couple staring at her, she nodded. The woman came to her table. “You look so much like Ana Santillan, you ought to be modeling too.”
“Thank you. That’s very flattering.” She wondered how long it would take Alejandro to recognize her. Men noticed the sexy models on billboards even if they never saw a fashion magazine, but she didn’t want to push her luck any further. It would be easier to call him tonight and tell him who she was while she didn’t have to face him, but it would also up the risk he’d quit seeing her before they really got to know each other.
The waiter put her empty teacup on his tray. “You are too pretty to look so sad. I could show you around Palma and give you a very good time.”
She picked up her bag. “Thank you, but I’ve other plans.” She mailed the postcards and had started back to the hotel when their photographer, Jaime Campos, overtook her.
“I’m glad I found you so we can talk privately. Let’s stop here.”
Ana didn’t want another cup of tea, but sat with him in the outdoor café. He ordered a beer and leaned back to enjoy it. “How many times have we worked together, Ana?”
Jaime had the haggard look of a photo-journalist, and she’d heard he’d worked in Iraq. He always wore baggy khaki shirts and pants and dusty boots as though he’d be ready if a war broke out that afternoon. He was a fine fashion photographer, however, and she enjoyed working with him. “Half a dozen times, I suppose.”
He nodded. “You’re one of my favorites, and I’d like to work with you on some art photography for a gallery show.”
Ana raised a brow. “Are you talking about nudes?”
“A woman’s figure is a glorious subject, and with your long hair, you’d never look completely undressed.”
She glanced away. It was such a beautiful afternoon, but she wasn’t in a warm mood. “Jaime, you do excellent work, but I don’t do nudes, ever.”
“Has anyone else asked it of you?”
“Not since I let it be known that I’d not consider it. I do fashion, not so-called ‘art photography’.”
“But I plan a serious study of the female figure—everything elegant with artistic backgrounds. Nothing tacky like a cheap girly calendar.”
Growing more emphatic, Ana rested her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. She kept her voice low. “I wish you good luck with the project, but I won’t be part of it.”
His lower lip bulged in disappointment. “I’ve always made you look as beautiful as you are, but if I let a shadow fall across your face each time you pose tomorrow, you might be cut from the final ad.”
