Butterfly Summer

“If anyone needs me,” she said, breezing past Brenda’s desk, “tell them to ring my cell.”

“Better turn it on then,” Brenda called as Heather hurried away, mentally smacking herself in the forehead. Of course she’d turned off the phone while she was the hospital, and of course she’d forgotten to turn it back on again.

She dug in her bag on the way to the elevator and had the thing operational by the time she started her descent. It was ringing before she reached the street, and kept ringing for almost the entire next hour as she drove her deep blue Saab into Nashville and the Opryland complex.

After parking in the surprisingly crowded back lot, she made her way toward the side of the performance hall. To her surprise, Ethan was waiting for her outside the building, one scuffed brown loafer, worn sans sock, propping open a heavy metal door.

Tall and lean with that thick, black-brown hair falling rakishly across his brow, he wore not one but two cameras dangling around his neck on nylon straps. A third hung from his belt, a disreputable strip of cracked brown leather slung low around his lean hips.

As was often the case, he needed a shave. Yet even in comfy jeans and a snug black T-shirt worn beneath an open chambray shirt with the cuffs rolled back and the tail hanging out, he looked more like a model than a photographer. Dark almost to the point of black, his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he smiled a stark white welcome at her, displaying killer dimples that cut long grooves in the square-jawed rectangle of his face.

“You’d better get in there,” he told her with a jerk of his head. “Ellen’s been snarling and howling since we got here. I’m surprised they haven’t tossed us out already.”

Heather glanced at her simple, utilitarian wristwatch as she moved past him into the shadowed interior of the building. “They can’t toss us. We’ve still got nearly three hours.”

“Fat lot of good that’s going to do us if we can’t find a makeover candidate and get her here ASAP,” Ethan said, following swiftly behind her.

“We’ll find one. We have to. We’ve already spent a small fortune on this shoot.”

“Not to mention the makeup artist, hairdresser and wardrobe shopper cooling their heels backstage,” Ethan added drily. “End of the hall and up the steps.”

Heather moved in the direction that he indicated, listening to the quick patter of their footsteps and the gentle clunking of his cameras as they bumped together. The half flight of stairs was surprisingly dark and narrow, which no doubt prompted Ethan to stay close and place a hand on her shoulder.

“Left,” he prompted at the top of the steps.

Heather quickly found herself in a back hallway onto which a number of dressing rooms opened. The strident sound of Ellen’s voice pulled her forward from there.

“What is it about this situation that you don’t understand?”

“Not a thing,” came a calm, masculine reply. “What you don’t seem to understand is that I need these premises vacated by 2:00 p.m.”

“I have a deadline!” Ellen shrieked. “I’ve got to have those photos!”

Heather walked into the room and straight into the conversation, her right hand extended.

“How do you do? I’m Heather Hamilton, features editor of Nashville Living.”

The poor fellow looked so relieved that Heather knew Ellen had seriously overstepped the bounds of civility. Unfortunately, the public relations manager didn’t have much to offer her.

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have another slot available within your time frame,” he said.

Heather laid a hand on his arm and walked him out into the hall and away from Ellen’s agitated mumbling, not to mention the avid interest of the makeup artist, hairdresser and wardrobe girl. As she squeezed past Ethan he grinned, though what he could find to grin about in this situation she couldn’t imagine. Then, at the last possible moment, he winked.

Heather felt color rise in her cheeks. As she took her leave of the public relations manager, she kept wondering what that wink meant. Surely Ethan wasn’t flirting with her. The instant she was free, Heather zipped back into the dressing room.

“Now what do we do?” Ellen demanded, folding her arms across the silky middle of the lilac-colored twin set that she wore with a short, straight off-white skirt and sharp-toed high-heeled mules.

“We’ve got to get another makeover candidate in here right now,” Heather stated emphatically.

Ellen threw up her pale lilac fingertips, speaking so forcefully that tendrils of her long golden hair shook free of its sophisticated up-sweep. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that? I’ve called every homely female in Nashville!”

“There has to be someone,” Heather argued desperately.

“On such short notice?” Ellen began to pace, throwing out her hands in every direction as she spoke. “I don’t think so! I’ve called every name on my list. I’ve called women we haven’t even screened. I’ve called my neighbors, for pity’s sake!” She spun on one heel, and the instant that her gaze dropped onto Heather’s face, her blue gaze lit. “Wait a minute. You! You can do it! You’re our makeover candidate!” As Heather’s jaw dropped, Ellen clapped her hands together in a self-congratulatory manner.

“Me?” Heather squeaked, inwardly cringing. Okay, she was no beauty, but she wasn’t homely. Was she?

“Oh, honey,” drawled Sheryl, the makeup artist, one hand flopping out in Ellen’s direction. “You are brilliant. She so needs a makeover.” This from a female with orange spiked hair and multiple piercings.

Ellen turned to the balding, ponytailed hairdresser. “What do you think, Fox?”

He sauntered forward, comb in hand, to slide his stubby fingers through Heather’s hair. “Hmm. Well, if we have time for a coloring and Sheryl can pull off her end, I can hold up mine.”

“You’ll have to work at the same time,” Ellen decreed, turning to Gayla, the wardrobe mistress. “Can we make it happen?”

The cadaverous woman tapped a finger against her protruding front teeth speculatively.

“It won’t be what we planned. She’s smaller than the other one, but I’ve got a few size sixes we can use.”

“Six!” Heather protested. “I wear a ten.”

“That doesn’t mean you are a ten,” Gayla told her.

Ellen clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s get to work, everyone!”

Heather backed up a step. “Wait a minute! I haven’t—”

A pair of large, strong hands closed around her shoulders and literally spun her.

Suddenly she was looking up into the dangerously attractive face of Ethan Danes.

“This can work!” he told her, his dark eyes burning with unusual intensity. “Think about it.” He lifted one of his cameras. “I’ll take some unflattering photos.” He shrugged. “Trick of lighting, you’ll see.” He waved a hand, setting the scene like a movie director. “The genius squad here will do their thing. I’ll do what I do best.” He grinned. “The ‘after’ photos will be smashing. Trust me.” He stepped closer. “I know you try to play it down—the boss lady and all that—but you’re really very pretty. It can’t fail.”

Heather could feel her jaw descending again, but all she could think was that he’d called her pretty—and how very tall he was, taller than she had realized, at least a couple inches over six feet. That made him almost a foot taller than her. Well, ten inches anyway, which meant that the top of her head would reach, oh, say that finely sculpted lower lip of his. Realizing that she was staring, she jerked her gaze away—and found herself swept summarily behind a dressing screen.

“Wait!” Ethan exclaimed, snapping on harsh florescent lights overhead. He appeared behind the screen, clicking away with the camera attached to his belt. Tugging and pushing, he moved her into the position that he wanted, then crouched and aimed the camera at her. “Tuck your chin.”

“What? L-like this?” She tilted her head down until it seemed to her that he was looking straight up her nostrils, and that’s precisely when he took the photos.

“Okay. That’ll do.”

Ethan disappeared with another wink. Gayla stepped up again and stripped Heather to her skin with a few swift movements. After hustling her into undergarments, Gayla handed her a simple cotton robe. As Heather shrugged it on and belted it, Gayla shook out the flowered dress that Heather considered her favorite summer outfit for the office. Holding it out at arm’s length, Gayla dropped the dress on a chair in the corner.

“Say goodbye to the 1980s and get ready to meet the new century.” With that she pulled Heather from behind the screen and pushed her into the tall chair stationed in front of a narrow counter and lighted mirror.

While Sheryl slapped gunk on her face and wiped it off again, muttering that if she wasn’t going to wear foundation she ought to at least use sunscreen, Fox began spritzing her hair with water, then sectioning and cutting it. Heather cringed and bit her lip, hoping she’d have hair left when the stylist was done.

Then Sheryl attacked her with a pair of tweezers. When her eyebrows had been shaped to the makeup artist’s apparently exacting standards, Heather’s hair was tossed forward into her face.