Falling for Mr. December (5 page)

‘Sure.' He viewed them in silence, then nodded with what she was pretty sure was relief. ‘You were very discreet. Thank you.'

‘The point is to raise money, not to embarrass people,' she said softly. ‘And it's meant to be fun, so I think we should discount this one, this one and this one—' she pointed to them on the screen ‘—as you look very slightly uptight in them.'

‘Agreed,' he said. ‘I have to admit, picking out your own photographs is a bit...' He grimaced.

‘It makes everyone squirm. It's much, much easier to look at someone else's photographs and choose the best ones in a set than it is to choose your own,' she said.

‘Which ones would you choose?' he asked.

‘Honestly? This, this and this.' She pointed them out. ‘Mainly because of the expression on your face. You look more relaxed here.' And really, really sexy, which was the whole point of the calendar. Selling pictures of hot men to make money for the ward. Not that she was going to say it; she knew it would make him uncomfortable.

‘OK. I'm happy with those ones,' he said.

‘Great.' She took the model release form from her bag. ‘So we'll put the shot numbers in here.' She wrote them down. ‘Would you like to check that you agree with the numbers before you sign?'

He smiled. ‘You sound like a lawyer.'

‘I sound like a professional photographer who likes to get things right,' she corrected.

He checked the numbers on the form against the numbers on her laptop, then signed the form. ‘I'm impressed with what you did. Can I see any of the other calendar shots?'

Sammy shook her head. ‘Sorry. Only the Chair of the Friends and the committee members she chooses to work with her on the project can see them until the proofs are printed,' she said.

‘Fair enough. I was just curious.'

‘About the other models?' she asked.

‘About your work,' he said, ‘given the way you reacted to that picture of the British Museum's roof.'

‘Ah. If you want to see my portfolio, that's a different matter entirely.' She pulled up a different file for him. ‘Knock yourself out.'

He looked through them. ‘You've got a real mixture here—lots of people and a few landscapes.'

‘They tend to go with profiles of people in magazines and Sunday supplements,' she said. ‘That's my bread-and-butter work. So if the profile is of someone who's set up an English vineyard, I'd take a portrait of that person and then whatever else is needed to illustrate the interview or article. Say, the vineyard itself, or a close-up of a bunch of grapes, or the area where the wine's produced or bottled.'

‘What about the photographs you take for you?'

‘What makes you think I don't take these ones for me?' she parried.

‘Apart from the fact that you admitted that they were work, it was the look on your face when you saw the house—as if you were dying to grab your camera and focus in on little details. Particularly the fanlight window.'

‘Busted,' she said with a rueful smile. ‘Architecture's my big love—I never wanted to be an architect and create the buildings myself, but what I like is to make people focus in on a feature and see the building in a different light instead of just taking it for granted or ignoring it entirely.' And, although she'd never normally show her private shots to someone she barely knew, something about the way Nick looked at her made her want to open up. She went into another file. ‘Like these ones.'

‘They're stunning,' Nick said as he scrolled through them. ‘And I mean it—I'm not just being polite. I'd be more than happy to have any of these blown up, framed and hung on my walls.'

She could see in his face that he meant it. And it made her feel warm inside. Some of her exes had scoffed at her private photography, calling her nerdy and not understanding at all what she loved about the architecture. And others had wanted her to give it all up so they could look after her—because a cancer survivor shouldn't be pushing herself to take photographs from difficult positions. Hanging off a balcony to get a better angle for her shot really wasn't the sort of thing a delicate little flower should do.

She'd wanted a relationship, not a straightjacket. And being protected in such a smothering way had made her feel stifled and miserable, even more than when the men she'd dated had backed off at the very first mention of the word ‘cancer'.

‘So when do you take this kind of shot?' Nick asked.

‘When I get a day off, I walk round London and find interesting things. And sometimes I go to the coast—I love seascapes. Especially if a lighthouse or a pier's involved.'

‘And you put your pictures on the internet?'

‘I have a blog for my favourite shots,' she admitted.

‘So did you always know you wanted to be a photographer?' he asked.

‘Like most kids, I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do when I grew up,' Sammy said. ‘Then, one summer, my uncle—who was a press photographer before he retired—taught me how to use a proper SLR camera.' Nick didn't need to know that it was because she'd been cooped up in one place, the summer when she'd had treatment for osteosarcoma; she'd been bored and miserable, unable to go out with her friends because she had been forced to wait for the surgical wounds to heal and to do her physiotherapy. Uncle Julian had shown her how she could get a different perspective on her surroundings and encouraged her to experiment with shots from her chair. ‘I loved every second of it. And I ended up doing my degree in photography and following in his footsteps.'

‘A press photographer? So you started out working for a magazine?'

‘For the first couple of years after I graduated, I did; and then the publication I worked for was restructured and quite a few of the staff were made redundant, including me. That's when I decided to take the leap and go freelance,' she explained. ‘Though that also means I don't tend to turn work down. You never know when you're going to have a dry spell, and I like to have at least three months' money sitting in the bank so I can always pay my rent.'

‘And you do weddings as well?' He pointed to one of the other photographs.

‘Only for people close to me. That one's Ashleigh, one of my best friends, on Capri last year.'

‘It's a beautiful setting.'

‘Really romantic,' she agreed. ‘The bridesmaid is my other best friend, Claire. She and I went to the Blue Grotto, the next day. It was for a commission, I admit, but I would've gone anyway because the place is so gorgeous. You had to lie down in the boat to get through the entrance, but it was worth the effort. The light was really something else.' She flicked into another file and showed him some of the photographs. ‘Look.'

‘I like that—it's another of the sort of scenes I'd like to have on my wall,' he said.

She nodded. ‘Like that misty seascape in your living room. That's the kind of thing I like to shoot at dawn or dusk. If you do it with a long exposure, the waves swirl about and look like mist.'

‘That's clever,' he said.

She smiled. ‘No. That's technique. Anyone can do it when they know how.'

When their food arrived, Sammy put her laptop away while Nick brought out plates and cutlery.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?' he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I'm driving so I'd rather not. A glass of water's fine, thanks.'

He poured them both a glass of water from a jug in the fridge—filtered water, she thought. Nick Kennedy clearly dotted all his I's and crossed every T.

‘Help yourself,' he said, gesturing to the various dishes in the centre of the table.

‘Thank you.' She noticed that he eyed her plate when she'd finished heaping it. ‘What?'

‘It's refreshing, eating with someone who actually enjoys food.'

‘That sounds as if you've been eating dinner with the wrong kind of person,' she said dryly. ‘Most people I know enjoy food.'

‘Hmm.'

She finished stuffing one of the pancakes with shredded duck and cucumber, added some hoi sin sauce and took a taste. ‘And this is seriously good. I haven't had crispy duck this excellent before. Nice choice, Mr Kennedy.' She paused. ‘As we're going halves on this, how much do I owe you?'

‘My house, my hospitality, my bill,' he said. ‘No arguments.'

‘Thank you.' Though there was more than one way to win an argument. Maybe she could print one of her seascapes for him, the one he'd really liked, to say thank you for the meal. ‘So you like modern art rather than, say, reproductions?' she asked.

‘Some. I'm not so keen on abstract art, which probably makes me a bit of a philistine,' he admitted.

‘No, you like what you like, and that doesn't make you a philistine—it makes you honest,' she said. ‘And your taste is quite diverse. I'm assuming they're original artworks, given that one of them is acrylics?'

He nodded. ‘I like to support local artists where I can. There's a gallery not far from my chambers. The gallery owner gives me a call if something comes in that she thinks I'll like.'

‘That's fabulous. It means both the artist and the art-lover win. Well, obviously, and the gallery owner, because she gets her commission.'

‘Something like that.' He paused. ‘Can I ask you something personal?'

Her heart skipped a beat. From his body language and the way he'd relaxed with her, she had a feeling that the attraction was mutual. Was he going to ask her out?

And, if he did, would she have the courage to act on that attraction and say yes?

‘Sure,' she said, affecting coolness.

‘Your hair,' he said. ‘What you said about me being in the military—is that why your hair's so short, too? You spent time in the Forces?'

The question was so unexpected that she answered it honestly before she realised what she was saying. ‘No. I have a crop like this every two years.'

He blinked. ‘Why two years?'

She could try and flannel him and say that it was a fashion statement, but he was observant. She was pretty sure he would've picked up the cues. ‘Because it takes that long for my hair to grow twelve inches.'

He looked puzzled. ‘Why do you need to grow your hair twelve inches?'

‘Because seven to twelve inches is what they need for wigs,' she said softly.

The penny dropped immediately. ‘You donate your hair?'

She nodded. ‘There's a charity that makes wigs for kids who've lost their hair after chemotherapy. My sister Jenny and I have our hair cut together every two years. We normally get people to sponsor us as well, and the money goes to the ward so they can buy things for the kids. You know, things to keep them occupied and cheer them up, because being stuck in hospital isn't much fun—especially when you're a kid.' The hair cut before last had been on the actual day of Sammy's test results. She and Jenny had celebrated the news with a hair cut and a bottle of champagne.

‘That's a really nice thing to do. I take it your sister's your connection to the ward?'

‘Uh-huh,' Sammy said. It wasn't a total fib. Her sister was one of the connections. Just Sammy herself happened to be the main one. Not that Nick needed to know that.

‘So that's why you're taking the photographs.'

She nodded. ‘I take photographs for the ward every Christmas—so the families do at least get to have some Christmas pics together with their children, and with Santa for the younger ones. That's why Ayesha knew I was up to the job and would waive my fee, because I always do where the ward's concerned.'

‘I assumed you were a photographic student who wanted to do it for his portfolio, and you'd been interviewed with half a dozen others.'

‘No,' she said. ‘Though you have a point about the portfolio. Maybe I should've given someone else the chance to work with me.'

‘But then your styles would've been different,' he said.

‘I guess. But I ought to think about that in future.'

* * *

When they'd finished their meal, Sammy refused the offer of more coffee. ‘I'd better let you get on.'

Which Nick guessed was a polite way of saying that she needed to get on. And now, he thought, this was where she left and they'd say a polite goodbye, and they'd never see each other again.

Except his head and his mouth were clearly working to different scripts, because he found himself asking, ‘When's your next day off?'

‘I'm actually on holiday at the moment,' she said. ‘I'm doing the last four shoots for the calendar tomorrow and the day after, but other than that my time's my own.'

‘You're using your holiday to shoot the calendar?' And yet she'd said she was a freelance who never turned work down. Her time off must be precious.

She shrugged. ‘It's not a big deal.'

But she wouldn't meet his eye. And she'd said that her sister was her connection to the ward. So maybe she'd made the same kind of silent bargain with Fate that he had, Nick thought—do the job and it'd keep her loved one safely in remission.

‘So, thanks for dinner. And for being patient at the shoot,' she said. ‘I know it can be a bit wearing, being told exactly how to stand and moving your head or your shoulders just a fraction.'

‘You were very professional and made it easy,' he said, meaning it.

This was his cue to say goodbye. But his mouth had gone into reckless mode. ‘Would you spend the day with me on Sunday?' he asked. ‘Maybe we could have lunch, and you could show me some of the places you really like in London.'

‘Urban hiking, one of my American friends calls it.' She smiled. ‘I'd like that. OK. But there's a string attached.'

He frowned. ‘What?'

‘You bought dinner tonight, so I'm buying lunch on Sunday. No arguments.'