Rochelle Alers - Man of Fantasy

“What if I come to the gallery on Friday?”

Ivan had made it a practice not to schedule patients on Friday. The only exception was an emergency, and thankfully he hadn’t had too many of those. He lectured Monday and Wednesday morning, then saw patients in the afternoon and evening. He was available all day Tuesday and Thursday for scheduled appointments and walk-ins, and had set aside Thursdays as his late night.

“I’m sorry, but the gallery is closed on Friday, unless there is a showing.”

He exhaled. “I teach and see patients every day of the week except Friday.”

Nayo pondered Ivan’s scheduling dilemma. She worked Monday, Wednesday and Friday at the auction house and toured the different neighborhoods on Tuesday looking for subjects to photograph. Her Thursdays were spent cleaning her apartment, shopping for food and dropping off and picking up laundry.

“I can see you on Friday, but it will have to be after six,” she said, knowing she had to compromise to give Ivan what he needed for the magazine layout.

“So I’ll meet you at the gallery?” Ivan asked.

A beat passed. “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

Nayo knew if she couldn’t convince Geoff to open the gallery for her to use for a few hours on Friday, then Ivan would have to come to her apartment. No male, other than her father and brother, had crossed the threshold to what she’d come to think of as her sanctuary. It was there where she went to eat, sleep, relax and examine the shots she’d taken during her block-by-block walking expedition, and not entertain men.

She and Geoff had an explosive interchange when he’d called out of the blue, asking to drop by. She’d tried explaining that she was raised never to drop in on someone without an invitation, but Geoff was quite vocal when he said her protocol was not only rigid, but archaic. His reference to her upstate roots was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and several weeks passed before she would take his calls. He apologized profusely and never broached the subject again.

“What if we meet over dinner?” Ivan asked.

“Are you cooking?” she teased.

Straightening, Ivan angled his head. “You really want me to cook?”

Pushing to her feet, Nayo waved her hands. “Why do you sound so surprised? You have a kitchen to die for with all the accoutrements, and you have the audacity to ask me whether I want you to cook. Of course I do,” she said, enunciating each word.

Ivan made a face. “I’m really not that good.”

Suddenly Ivan recalled the spaghetti carbonara he’d prepared. “I’ll cook,” he said, smiling. “Do you like Italian?”

Her expression brightened. “I love it.”

“Are you lactose-intolerant?”

Nayo shook her head. “No. Do you mind if I bring dessert?” Ivan flashed the smile she wanted to capture for posterity. Somehow she had to get him to agree to sit for her.

“Of course not. Call me and let me know what time you want me to pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I live practically around the corner.”

“Even if you lived next door I’d still come and pick you up. The days are getting shorter and by six it’s starting to get dark.”

Nayo knew she had to play nice with Ivan, because she wanted to shoot him. “Okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can come and get me. Thank you for the latte.”

There was just enough sarcasm in her tone to make Ivan give her a pointed look. Pretending she didn’t notice it, she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, Ivan following. He picked up her jacket off the chair in the alcove, holding it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Don’t leave yet,” Ivan warned as he opened the door to a closet off the entryway. Reaching for a lightweight windbreaker, he put it on, then opened the drawer in the credence table and took out a set of keys. “Now I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To walk you home.”

Nayo gave the man with the superinflated ego a baleful look that spoke volumes. Yes, he was gorgeous, educated, owned a beautiful home and apparently was solvent, but that didn’t translate into her gushing over him as if he were the last man on the face of the earth.

She knew her youthful appearance shocked a lot of people, but she wasn’t a girl. She’d had a long-term relationship that ended in a broken engagement; she’d spent several summers in Europe, avoiding the advances of men who saw her as easy prey; and she’d put more than one hundred thousand miles on her car when she’d crisscrossed the continental United States shooting more than a thousand pictures.

Ivan had admitted he’d been flirting with her, but Nayo Cassandra Goddard wasn’t biting. Growing her career, not becoming involved with a man, had become her priority.

“I’m not going home. I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She’d made plans to meet Geoff at a seafood restaurant on the Upper East Side. “I’ll call you,” she said cheerfully.

Ivan nodded numbly like a bobble-head doll. Nayo was there and then she wasn’t as the door closed quietly behind her departing figure. He’d detected a subtle defiance in the photographer, defiance he saw as a challenge.

Many of the women he’d dated failed to hold his interest for more than a few weeks, but there was something about the petite photographer that intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to see her again.

He hadn’t realized that until he’d opened the door to find her standing there. Ivan knew he could’ve asked Carla to purchase or rent the requisite art, but after seeing Nayo’s photos and meeting her, he realized he didn’t want or need Carla’s involvement.

He liked Nayo, but what he had to uncover was why.

What was it about her that made her different from other women?

And how had a little slip of a woman managed to get to the man who’d earned the reputation of “love them and leave them”?

Nayo hadn’t outright rejected his advances, but Ivan knew she wasn’t going to be easy. And that was the difference between her and other women—they’d been too easy.

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