Seduction and Lies

“Are you all set for your shoot tomorrow?” she asked, switching to a neutral topic.

“Yeah.” He dipped his bread in the sauce and took a bite. “I’m going to the site early to check on the final details.”

“If I can finish in time with my meeting with Michael Preston, I’ll stop by. I’m determined to get the account to photograph the ads for his new line.”

Nick chuckled. “I love when you get that little bass in your voice and that kick-ass look in your eye.”

“Very funny,” she said, failing at sounding offended.

“It’s one of the things I love about you, Dani, that fierce determination, knowing what you want and going after it.”

Her gaze dragged over the planes and valleys of his face. That determination that he spoke of was instilled in her as a child growing up in a mixed-heritage household, filling out countless applications and checking “other” for ethnicity, never wanting to negate one parent’s heritage for the other and living a life walking that fine line. All of that made her determined to be somebody on her own, independent of tags and labels.

Often she believed that stubborn streak of independence kept her from allowing anyone to get too close, beneath the surface, only to discover that she was no more than a confused girl who was searching for her identity.

She reached over and with the tip of her finger wiped a spot of sauce from the corner of Nick’s mouth.

He took her hand and kissed her fingertips, and she silently hoped that when the investigation was all over he would still want to hold her hand.

Chapter 4

If she could land the Michael Preston account, it would take her business to the next level, Danielle thought, as she entered the building on Seventh Avenue—also known as Fashion Avenue. And she was dressed for the part. Her ebony hair flowed in gentle waves around her face. Her five-foot nine-inch frame was the perfect showpiece for the body-hugging, sleeveless, black cotton T-shirt, covered with a belted, hip-length jacket in a riot of orange, gold and muted green, over skinny black jeans that hugged her hips and defined her long legs.

Danielle gripped the handle of her oversize black leather portfolio and stabbed the button for the elevator. Impatiently she tapped her foot, encased in black alligator sling backs with three-inch heels. The finishing touch was her Sean John designer shades, which gave her a hint of mystery. More times than she could count, she’d been mistaken for the songstress Alicia Keys, and although she’d had several opportunities to profit from the mistake, she never had.

The elevator bell dinged and the stainless steel doors soundlessly slid open. She stepped on with two other riders.

Preston’s offices were on the thirty-fifth floor of the glass and steel tower. She watched the numbers light up as they ascended.

“Love that jacket,” the woman standing next to her said.

Danielle turned. “Thanks.”

“Anyone ever tell you look like Alicia Keys?”

Danielle gave a slight smile. “Every now and then.”

The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “If you’re ever interested in modeling work, give me a call. I do a whole thing with celebrity look-alikes.”

Danielle took the card just as the doors opened on her floor. “Thanks.” She stepped off.

“Call me. I’d love to work with you.”

Danielle took a quick look at the woman before the doors closed. She walked away, shaking her head in amusement, and stuck the card in her jacket pocket.

She strode down the corridor toward the glass doors with the Michael Preston logo on them. She drew in a breath and pressed the buzzer.

“Yes?” came the voice through the intercom from the fashionista sitting at the desk on the other side of the glass door.

“Danielle Holloway to see Mr. Preston.”

The lock buzzed and the door slowly swooshed inward. She entered a space that could only be described as classy. Sleek elegance in simple black and white. Bursting blooms of exotic plants showcased in glass bowls sat majestically on low tables. The stark white walls were adorned with near life-size photographs of models wearing Michael’s creations. The frames matched the walls so perfectly that the images seemed to float. It was a powerful optical illusion.

A stunning young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty greeted her. She was pencil thin with startling blue eyes and a mane of strawberry-blond hair that fell straight as a board down the center of her back, held away from her heart-shaped face with a tortoiseshell headband.

“Good morning.” She stuck out her hand, which Danielle shook. Her thin lips tinged in dramatic fuchsia widened to reveal a brilliantly perfect smile. “My name is Tasha, Michael’s assistant. If you’ll follow me, we can get started.”

We?

Danielle followed Tasha and the scent of patchouli that wafted around her down a short carpeted hallway, turning right along another that was three times the length of the first. Behind either side of the glass walls, designers were busy at work, their creations in various stages of construction.

Tasha led her to the end of the hallway and opened a heavy inlaid wooden door with Conference Room etched in gold on the front. She stepped aside to let Danielle enter.

Danielle expected to see Michael sitting behind a desk, but he wasn’t.

“Please have a seat, I’m eager to see some of your work.”

Trying not to show her confusion, which bordered on annoyance, Danielle laid her portfolio on a table that could easily seat twenty, and she unzipped it.

“Uh, is Mr. Preston going to be joining us?”

Tasha gave a little laugh. “Michael is out of town. But not to worry. If I like what I see, he likes what I see.”

Danielle blew out a silent breath. This chick wasn’t old enough to know the difference between commercial photography and Photoshop.

“Actually, I’m a fan of yours,” Tasha said, as she sat down and began reviewing Danielle’s work.

“Really?” The knot in her stomach loosened.

“I’ve studied your work at Parsons and The New School for Design in my advertising and marketing classes.”

Her brows rose in surprise. “I had no idea.”

“You have a very distinct style, Ms. Holloway. I could pick your shots out from a crowd any day.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

There was that little laugh again. “I think so.”

Tasha closed the book before she was even halfway finished. Not a good sign, Danielle thought.

“I’d like to take you on a tour of the design floor—get your impressions—and then we can wrap up in my office.”

A little more than an hour and a half later, Danielle was sitting behind the wheel of her Navigator with a retainer check in her hand for ten thousand dollars.

Her head was still spinning. She’d actually landed the account. She was to be the official photographer for the Michael Preston fall collection.

Her photographs would be on his Web site, in his catalogs and all of his promotional material. They’d wind up in every fashion magazine across the country and in Europe.