structural columns separated the open space into two halves. Just to the left of the door was a large sitting area with a modern, black leather, U-shaped couch. Two leggy females, models, presumably, were sprawled out on it. Both couch loungers inspected her with unsmiling, sullen faces.
“Are you Jordan?”
She was startled by the sound of another female’s voice. Jordan swiveled her head and looked down at a petite, curvy Latina who had just walked up behind her carrying a cup of coffee.
Jordan had to step into the loft in order to make room for the woman. “Yes.”
“I’m Violet Rios, Ian’s makeup artist.” She brushed past Jordan and then stopped. “Dios mío, you’re late! I didn’t think you were gonna show, and Ian’s pissed. Close the door and come with me. I doubt that he’s gonna want to shoot you today. If a model’s late, he never uses them.”
Jordan followed her into the loft, thinking she wouldn’t mind a bit if he changed his mind about photographing her. Her head was pounding and she had an acrid taste in her mouth that no amount of gargling had been able to combat. The sound of the rapid-fire clicking of Violet’s heels on the concrete floor bounced off the high ceilings and only intensified her headache. Those multiple glasses of pink champagne were hanging on for dear life. What a mistake!
Violet led her to a small room near the kitchen. “Wait in here.”
The woman took a quick sip of her coffee before she put the cup down on her makeup table, dropped her large red hobo bag on the floor and disappeared.
Jordan sighed heavily as she slouched into the director’s chair, which faced a brightly illuminated oval mirror, and stared at her reflection. Her coloring was sallow, her eyes were bloodshot and there was no mistaking that she was hungover. She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. She could only pray that Ian was so fed up with her that he booted her out of his studio. Of course, that would leave her without her share of the rent for the month. It was a lose-lose situation.
She didn’t lift her head up when she heard the annoying clack of Violet’s heels and the deep, silky baritone of Ian’s voice just outside the door. Like a child, she was hoping that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.
“You’re late.” She could feel the heat of the photographer’s body on her arm. She breathed in and caught the spicy scent that could only be coming from his warm, tan skin.
Slowly she lifted her head and squinted at him through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Instead of apologizing, which she knew she should do, because that was what she was raised to do, she defaulted to sarcasm. He made her nervous, and when she was nervous, the sarcasm flowed unchecked.
“Would you mind keeping it down? My head is killing me.”
“I’ll bet.” Ian didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.
He was standing directly in front of her, arms crossed over his defined chest. He was dressed more casually today in a fitted T-shirt and jeans, which only seemed to add to his appeal. Her heart picked up its pace when she looked up into his face. How could a real live human actually be that good-looking? Yes, the angles of his face were more defined, his hair was cut close to his scalp and there were lines etched in his forehead and around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. But there was no mistaking that Ian was the man she’d had hanging on her wall in high school. The man she’d fantasized about for years. He unnerved her now, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her feel that way.
His eyes swept her face in that clinical manner of his. He knew she was hungover; she waited for him to say the magic words: get lost. But they never came. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.
Instead of giving her the boot, Ian ignored her and addressed Violet, who was standing to his left with the corners of her glossy, full lips pressed down into a frown. “Give her a nude mouth, emphasize the eyes, but don’t overdo it.... I want her to look fresh. Natural. And for God’s sake, try to do something with the dark circles and the bloodshot eyes. She looks like she’s been up for a week.”
“What about the hair?”
Jordan didn’t appreciate them speaking over her head as if she was an oversize stuffed doll they were dressing up.
“Twist it back off her face. I don’t want anything to detract from her face. Keep the jeans, but lose the combat boots and the T-shirt. Put her in a white tank.” Ian turned to her and asked, “Do you have on a bra?”
“Excuse me?” Was the Armani guy from her high school wet dreams asking her about foundation garments?
“Do you have on a bra?”
Jordan glanced down at her barely there bust and shook her head. “Lifting and separating has never been a concern.”
“Get her a bra if she wants one. And have her fill out the release form before you bring her in.” Ian said to Violet before he exited the room without glancing Jordan’s way again.
Violet worked quickly and silently, and within in a short time Jordan had been transformed, much to her surprise, into a woman who actually resembled a model. She leaned forward and examined her reflection.
“That’s cra-zy,” she exclaimed. “How’d you do that?”
Even to her own critical eye, she looked like a solid eight on a ten-point scale.
Violet ignored her question and held out her hands for the filled-out release forms. “Come on,” she said in her bored, bossy tone. “He’s waited long enough for you today.”
Jordan followed her to the back of the studio, to a small area surrounded by reflectors and tall, bright lights. Ian was setting up one of his cameras.
“She’s all yours,” Violet said before she turned on her heel and headed back to her room.
Ian spun around and strode over to where Jordan was standing; he examined her hair and makeup. She stood perfectly still and held her breath for some ridiculous reason. Why should she care if he approved? But she did.
His eyes finally stopped and locked onto hers. “You clean up well.”
Typically, she would have a snappy comeback, but at the moment her mind was a blank. She felt as if her legs had turned to cement, and she was feeling a bit nauseous again. She was completely out of her element.
This wasn’t a seedy, dark artist’s dungeon filled with disenfranchised, unemployed kindred spirits. This was frickin’ ridiculously handsome Armani-model photographer-to-the-stars Ian Sterling’s studio. She didn’t fit in here. What had she been thinking?
“Blink if you can hear me,” Ian said in a lowered voice that was meant for her ears only.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” The honesty bubbled out unchecked. She must be more freaked out than she’d thought.
He reached out and placed his palms on her bare shoulders. His large, warm hands engulfed them as he moved his mouth closer to her ear. “You’re here for the money.”
The sensation of his breath on her skin released a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. She nodded her head slightly and tightened her abdominal muscles in an attempt to get the stupid things under control. This was the wrong time to get all stirred up. She needed to focus on what the man was saying, not the sensation his breath was creating as he was saying it.
Focus, Jordy! Focus!
After a moment, she was able to refocus her brain on Ian’s words. The man had made perfect sense and his point was undeniably valid. She was here for the money. She didn’t understand why she was being such a chicken, but the thought of not being able to make rent snapped her out of it. With a renewed sense of purpose, she squared her shoulders, rolled them out from underneath Ian’s hands and elevated her chin.
“What now?” she asked.
“Now? You pose, I shoot. Simple.” He walked