Damn. I'm a hypocrite. I don't like it. It feels like I've been blindsided, but Cole doesn't stop. He doesn't let me catch my breath.
Instead, he takes another canvas from its resting place and pulls the sheet off. When the drape hits the floor my toes curl inside my shoes. I can't breathe. It's another nude, another woman bathed in golden light. Long dark hair falls to her h*ps in curls. Her arms are stretched over her head, thrusting her chest out. The light catches the curve of the bottom of her breast, the softness of her jaw, the fullness of her h*ps - and there are glittering jewels hanging from her n**ples.
Staring at it, I'm hyperaware of every inch of my body. My eyes fixate on her br**sts, on those dangling jewels. It feels like someone sucked all the air out of the room. Heat engulfs me. I shouldn't be looking, but I can't stop. This kind of thing is too sensual, and it's too beautiful. I can't look away. I can't understand why I don't feel offended, and realize that it's because this is art that reflects Cole's heart. I'm seeing part of him when I look at these pieces. This woman meant something to him. She had to.
Glancing at him, I wonder who she is - this faceless woman who is concealed in shadows and hidden at the back of his closet - locked away from the world. It's part of a life he hides, a part of Cole Stevens that remains a secret.
"Who is she?" I ask finally.
Cole shakes his head once. Dark hair sways over downcast eyes. He doesn't look up. He doesn't answer. I don't know if he won't or he can't. This isn't a random model. The images feel too intense for that.
Trying to be less personal, I ask, "How did you make these? The light is so soft. So stunning. I can't figure out how you did it - "
Cole unfolds his arms, resuming the role of teacher. The softness in his eyes seeps back to the place he hides it in his heart. "It's painting with light. It uses the camera, but the exposure is much longer. The model sits in a pitch black room. I set the camera on the tripod and release the shutter. Then I literally paint the model with a colored light. I move the light over her and it's kind of like a paintbrush, highlighting the areas I want and leaving the rest in darkness. It makes a soft color-wash over her skin."
I blink twice and turn my head back toward the print. "But I don't see you in these." For that to happen, the exposure had to be pretty long - like minutes, not seconds. I'm astounded that he thought to do this. I've never seen it before. At least, I've never seen this concept with boudoir portraits. Cole is watching me as my mind races with questions. He knows I'll latch onto the technical aspect and appears eager to discuss it with me.
"How long is the exposure?"
"Several minutes," the toe of his shoe picks a spot on the floor. Arms folded over his chest, he says, "You won't see me unless I stand still for a moment, but I'm there - moving through the shadows, spilling light across her body like rain pouring from the sky."
Something occurs to me while he speaks. Turning to Cole, I say, "This is the kind of work you want me shooting, isn't it? The Le Femme studio you're putting out East isn't like the one in the city. You want it to be something else - something like this." I already know the answer, but it doesn't stop the shock from spreading across my face. When he asked me to run the Long Island studio and said it was boudoir photography, I totally freaked out thinking he wanted something else.
But this. This intimidates the crap out of me. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to make powerful images like these.
"Yes," he nods. "Or something similar. I want you shooting art. I want your images to be evocative and powerful; seductive and feminine."
I look at the canvas and don't turn my face back toward him. For a moment, I say nothing. A crazy thought is bouncing around in my mind and it won't shut up. Seeing these, seeing this part of Cole, is shocking. I don't know why, but I assumed he wasn't capable of this. I just stand there, mute until he asks again and this time I nod. At this moment, I recognize that my perception has changed. I can feel it shattering, cracking apart like shards of ice, and falling away.
His art has changed me - Cole changed me.
My mind resists accepting it. My body feels like I'm being strangled. I can't do this. I don't know how. Cole's passion spills across the canvas more powerfully than anything I've ever seen. It's feminine and beautiful and powerful. It's everything I want to do, everything I want to be. Wedding photography is something that most women will need at some point. It is a single chance to show them that they are beautiful, but this - what Cole is offering gives me the chance to do that but even more so. I see it. It's crystal clear. And I realize that I want to learn how. My mind is at war with itself. The prudent side is assaulting my rationale trying to poke holes in it. I can't tell who's winning, but my mouth shocks the hell out of both of them when I speak and say the crazy idea that's forming in my head.
Glancing at Cole, I say with complete certainty, "I want one."
"What?" Cole turns toward me. He blinks and opens his eyes wider like that might disprove what he heard me say.
That was the thought that was trapped inside my mind. As soon as I felt my previous conceptualizations crack, I knew that I'd want to learn everything about this. I'm intrigued and terrified.
My heart thumps when I say it and my palms grow hotter. "I need to know what it feels like on the other end of the lens. I can learn the practical part with models, but this - " I shake my head, "it's not about knowledge, it's about feeling. It captures the client's beauty in a powerful way. The only way for me to know how the client feels is to actually be the woman in the portrait." My gaze locks on his. His sapphire eyes search mine, his brow pinched with shock. "Shoot me, Cole."
He seems shy, like the idea hadn't crossed his mind. He doesn't look away when he says, "I don't think that's a good idea." His lips part like he wants to say more, but he doesn't.
"Cole," I don't know what I'm going to say. I just know that this is important. I can't understand this wholly if I don't. "Please. It's a shoot. We're both grown-ups here. We can manage this." Well, I was hoping we could. I shrug like it's no big deal, "Besides, you said you only do one-nighters and I'm not that kind of girl."
He works his jaw and looks up at me from under his brow. "I never said I only do one-nighters. I offered you a one-nighter."
"And I said no," I reply absently, no longer looking at him. "So there's nothing to worry about."
I'm staring at the paintings. The thought of a shoot like this has butterflies swirling in my stomach. I walk past Cole and pull out more canvases, looking at more of Cole's work. He watches me, silently. The paintings aren't what I thought they'd be. If light could be liquefied and poured into a paint can, that is what Cole made - something sensual, beautiful, and completely sexy.
"I can admit I was wrong," I say turning toward him. "This is art. I see it now. You showed me something I didn't think was possible and there's no way in hell I can shoot this kind of stuff without submerging myself in it.
"There's a reason why Sottero wanted me, Cole. There's a reason why I'm at the top of my class. I don't do things half way. If I see something I want to do, I learn everything about it, and I'm taking you up on your offer. I'll run the Long Island branch of Le Femme. I'll shoot this kind of stuff, but you have to shoot me first. It's nonnegotiable."
He blinks at me and shakes his head, "God, Anna. I - " He runs his hands through his hair and sighs. I know I've won. I know he'll do it.
Chapter 9
We stay in his apartment for the night. I sleep rather restlessly in his guest room. The place smells like Cole. I can't stop thinking about him, but I finally pass out not wanting to consider what I offered earlier in the evening. He lets me sleep late and I emerge from the shower around noon. We go into the Manhattan office and work until sunset, editing the remaining images from last week's shoot.
Neither of us says much. When we leave, he holds the door to his Porsche open and I slide in.
I feel his eyes on the side of my face as we drive back to the new studio. Cole is silent. His fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel tightly. It's like nothing happened last night, like he didn't agree to do something completely sexy with me. I lean my head back and stare out the window. I don't turn to look at him.
It's late by the time we hit the open stretch of highway back to the beach house. I wonder about him. I wonder who he really is, what he really sees. He does such a good job of hiding everything that I realize I have no clue. There's a passionate side to Cole, but there's something softer and more vulnerable, too.
"What are you thinking?" he finally asks, glancing between me and the road.
I shrug, like I'm not thinking anything, like I'm not obsessing about him and wondering about his past. "Just wondering about stuff," I mutter the half-truth to cover the lie, then add, "Nothing really."
"You have that far off look in your eyes. I've been around you long enough to figure out what that means, so spill Lamore. What has your brain in a knot?" He smiles softly at me.
I glance over at him wondering if I'm so transparent all the time, or if he just reads me better than others. I sigh and shake my head, "It's none of my business, but I saw something I wasn't supposed to see when I grabbed your bail money." I shrug like it's no big deal, and glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "It was a picture of you in an army uniform and a beat up Tiffany's box. It looked like it'd been run over." He says nothing and stares at the empty road, concentrating as if it were rush hour. I'm looking at my hands, running my thumb over the thumbnail on my other hand.