Man of Fantasy. Rochelle Alers
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seen the apartment first, she would’ve paid whatever he’d asked. High ceilings with recessed lighting, exquisite wood floors and natural light coming through the tall windows.
Ivan reached for her hand, cradling it gently in his protective grasp. “The half bath is off the kitchen, and the bedrooms are over here,” he said, leading her across the living room.
Nayo entered the master bedroom with its en suite bath. The bath had a freestanding shower and a Jacuzzi garden bathtub. The smaller bedroom, although spacious, lacked an adjoining bath. Solar shades that let light in without sacrificing privacy covered all the windows, and the bedroom floors were covered in carpeting in an oatmeal shade.
“Now the top floor.”
Ivan led Nayo up the staircase to the fourth floor. He’d thought of putting in an elevator, but changed his mind, because he wasn’t certain what he wanted to do with the top floor. Carved double mahogany doors opened to a yawning space with brick walls, cherry-wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows and a coffered ceiling.
“What do you plan to put up here?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Nayo tried analyzing the man standing less than a foot away. It was only their second encounter, yet she felt very comfortable with him. It’d been that way when she’d met Geoffrey Magnus for the first time. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, with the exception of an intense summer romance the year she graduated from high school. She’d dated, although casually, but had yet to experience a passionate affair.
She knew her reluctance to get involved with a man stemmed from her desire to focus on establishing a career as a professional photographer. Taking pictures wasn’t a frivolous hobby or a passing fancy, but a passion. From the first time she held a camera she was hooked, and the obsession continued unabated.
“What I’ve seen is incredible. I see why a magazine would want to do a photo spread of your home.”
“I owe it all to a very talented architect and interior designer.”
Nayo gave Ivan a sidelong glance. “Don’t be so modest, Ivan. After all, you did have to approve the plans and the furnishings.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” she countered. “It’s the same when I take a shot. I know within seconds whether I’ve captured the image I want or I have to reshoot it.”
Resting his hand at the small of Nayo’s back, Ivan steered her toward the staircase. “How many pictures did you take to come up with the 120 in your bridge collection?”
“I have more than 120 photographs in my bridge collection.”
Ivan stopped before stepping off at the second floor landing. “I thought you said the exhibition was a limited collection.”
“I said the photographs in that collection will not be reprinted. I have others that I’ll show probably in a couple of years. If I decide never to exhibit them, then I’ll include them in a coffee-table book.”
“Do you have photos of any of the New York City bridges?”
Nayo nodded. “I have several of the Brooklyn Bridge at different times of the day.”
“Hot damn!” he said under his breath.
The skin around Nayo’s eyes crinkled when she laughed, the soft, sensual sound bubbling up from her throat. Ivan’s deep, rumbling laugh joined hers, and they were still laughing when he opened the door to his apartment to give her a tour of what had become a designer’s show house.
Chapter 3
Reaching into her jacket pocket, Nayo removed a small, handheld video recorder. She hadn’t realized her hand was shaking until she tried to take off her jacket. The rumors she’d heard about Carla Harris’s meteoric rise in the world of interior design were true, as evidenced by the blending of textures and colors. The interior of Ivan Campbell’s duplex was breathtakingly beautiful.
“I’ll take that,” Ivan said, reaching for Nayo’s jacket. “You can either start here or downstairs.”
Nayo stared at the area off the entryway, which contained a leather grouping in front of a minimalist-designed fireplace. “I’d like to see the rooms alone.” Her gaze shifted to Ivan, seeing an expression of confusion on his handsome face. “I like to feel the space, and I can’t do that if there’s someone else there with me. Rooms, if they aren’t empty, are like people, Ivan,” she explained softly. “Each one has a personality based on the color of the walls, flooring, the window treatments and the furnishings. It’s the same when I study a subject or object I plan to photograph. It’s not about looking through a camera lens and snapping the image. It’s seeing beyond that. That’s the difference between an amateur and professional photographer.”
Ivan inclined his head in agreement. He’d had a patient who was an artist, and he was more than familiar with his quirky personality. Despite having a successful career, he never believed in himself. After being commissioned to paint a mural for the lobby of a major corporation, he’d spend months procrastinating. Fear and self-doubt brought on a paralyzing anxiety that made it almost impossible for him to pick up a brush. Following a series of intense therapy sessions, he worked nonstop to make the deadline. If Nayo needed solitude, he’d comply with her request.
“Take your time.”
Nayo exhaled inaudibly. She thought Ivan wouldn’t agree to her going through his home unaccompanied, because the first time she’d made a similar request to a potential client, she’d found herself ushered out of the woman’s Sutton Place penthouse—but not before Nayo told her there wasn’t anything in her apartment worth stealing and going to jail for.
Smiling, she winked at Ivan. “I’ll be back.”
“Would you like a café latte or cappuccino?”
“I’d love a latte, thank you.”
“Would you like it now or when you’re finished?”
“I’ll have it when I’m finished.”
Nayo was anxious to tour the house so she could recommend photographs that would be suitable for the magazine spread. Ivan hadn’t mentioned the name of the magazine, but she knew it was Architectural Digest. When Carla Harris attended the preview showing, she’d babbled incessantly about how the preeminent interior-design magazine wanted to photograph the home of one of her clients.
Switching on the tape recorder, she spoke quietly into the speaker. “I’ve just passed an alcove with a leather grouping in butter-yellow designed for small, intimate gatherings in front of a minimalist fireplace. There is no fireplace mantel, but a grouping of shadow boxes would break up the starkness of the oyster-white wall.”
She continued into the living room, where a neutral palette of white, cream and tan provided an elegant backdrop for comfort and elegance. Nayo felt the room was a little too formal with a tufted, brown-leather sofa, chairs and doubled-tiered, beveled-glass coffee table positioned at an angle on the cream-colored plush rug.
Switching on the recorder again, she said, “There are books, a chess set with full-leaded crystal pieces on the coffee table. There’s a Waterford lamp on a side table, along with a Waterford Crystal 2000 World Series Home Plate New York City Subway Series collectible. Dr. Ivan Campbell likes music, sports and chess.”
Nayo lost track of time as she entered and left rooms that bore the designer’s distinctive mark. Carla Harris had made her reputation by incorporating the personality of the owner within the space’s function. Unlike Ivan, she wasn’t a psychologist, but what Nayo saw spoke volumes. He was a chameleon, switching flawlessly from formal to informal with a change of attire.
Friday night he was Dr. Campbell. She’d found him somewhat passive-aggressive when he’d tried to talk her into duplicating the prints he wanted. It was only when she stood her ground