Closely Guarded Secret (8 page)

T
he Cliff House perches on a cliff, with a terrific view overlooking the Pacific coastline. It’s one of those places I’ve heard about, but have never been to, not even for photo ops. As we’re led to the Sutro Wing, I notice women glancing at us as we walk by, doing that little nod of the head thing to get the attention of their dining partners. Some of the men notice him too. I know Bryce is good-looking, but by the furtive, hushed conversations going on, I wonder if they recognize him. The Maître’d pulls out a chair for me beside one of the floor to ceiling windows with a breathtaking view. No matter where I look, I see the ocean.

“What type of wine do you prefer?” Bryce is perusing the wine list.

“Pinot Grigio, is my favorite,” I answer with confidence.

He orders a bottle of MacMurray Ranch from Sonoma Coast. The waiter shows Bryce the label then uncorks and pours a drop of wine in his glass for him to taste. Lucky wine. He nods his head in approval. The waiter fills my glass, and then finishes pouring for Bryce.

He lifts his glass and I mirror his action. “Here’s to you.” He says. I smile slightly, as we clink glasses and I take a long drink.

The menu looks fabulous with entrees that sound so rich and decadent I’ll have a hard time deciding what to order. Steven and Sampson told me to keep my wits about me, and to order what I would if I were out with them. They don’t want me to be one of “those women” who only orders a salad and water. Okay, easy enough, and we both make our selections.

“This is a beautiful location. The view is absolutely amazing,” I say watching the rolling waves as they crash against the rocks below.

“I have to agree with you. The view is amazing,” he agrees, looking directly at me. “You have the most interesting color eyes, I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s been a long debate between my mom and me. She says aquamarine, I say blue.” Picking up my wine glass I take a purposefully long drink.

“Stunning but I have to agree with your mother.” His piercing stare is so intense, it pins me to my spot. I’m drawn into a trance.

I force myself to break our non-verbal exchange and change the subject. “This is one of those locations and moments when I wish I had brought my camera.”

“Having seen your work, and the way you work, I’m sure you would capture something unique. Something the rest of us couldn’t easily see.”

“When I look through the lens, I try to capture that quality that makes a person who they are. Some people don’t understand what I mean when I say that.” I pause, “ It’s hard for me to articulate so others understand.”

“Everyone has gifts, Ali, but sometimes people aren’t aware of the talents they possess. There are those who try hard to be like others, wishing for their talents rather than looking inward and cultivating their own. You have a natural gift, a unique style. You’re a true artist.” His admiration takes me by surprise. I’m flattered by his confidence in me.

“The only thing I can do is to try my best. That’s all any of us can do,” I say, trying not to blush.

His eyes light up as he continues, “I like your modesty. It’s honest and refreshing. I must admit I was greatly impressed with the way you took command of the session in New York. You exuded confidence. Among all of us there, you were the main source of power.” I’ve never had anyone say this to me before about my work. Jodi’s praised my work before but not this much detail.

He continues, “You forgot yourself and became this artist who knew what she wanted and knew how to get others to give it to her. In fact, watching you work made me want to get to know you much better. It’s one of the many things that attracted me, and still draws me, to you.”

There’s nothing like getting straight to the point, but is his praise sincere, or just for show?

“Thank you.” My smile widens and I continue. “In my line of work, rarely are there do-overs. There’s no time to second-guess myself, and my clients don’t have time for that either. I have to be in control and make sure my clients give me their full attention.” I take another long sip of wine. “I love being behind the camera. Sure, the hours are long and everything has to be well timed and perfect but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Just as I said, honest and refreshing: two qualities I admire in a woman.” He pauses and gives a slight sigh. “It’s a quality I’ve been missing, and searching for, for a while now.” There’s a distant look in his eyes and I wonder what he’s thinking.

This is getting too deep for me. “What?” A woman who doesn’t drop her panties and swoon at your feet the minute you look at her?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood,

“Exactly,” he chuckles. “The fundraiser wasn’t the first time I noticed you. I’ve seen you around at other events over the past year. I only agreed to the session in New York when I found out you’d be the photographer.”

Stay poised Ali. “Really?” His confession renders me speechless. How can this man sitting before me want me? I’m nothing like his usual women, all socialites or supermodels. It doesn’t add up.

“Yes,” he answers in a low and sultry voice. His pupils grow larger, erasing all trace of color. Our eyes lock and I feel unnerved. He has some kind of hold on me, which draws me back into a trance.

His penetrating gaze and husky tone make me instinctively push my thighs together. Heat is pulsing through my body firing off sparks and twinges. I need to get a handle on my reaction to him. I excuse myself and make a hasty retreat in search of the restroom. Once in the stall, I see the evidence from my arousal glistening in my underwear. After a few deep breaths, hands washed and a lip-gloss touchup, I return to our table.

The waiter brings appetizers and refills our empty wineglasses, then disappears. Have I already drunk a full glass of wine? Wanting to distract him from the topics of our previous of conversation, I decide to ask him about his creation: The Raindrop.

Before I can say anything, he asks, “How did you become interested in photography?” I’m thankful he changed the subject, and I know the question he asked is inevitable, but now I’ll have to revisit memories I’ve long tried to bury.

“I was the photographer for my high school paper. It blossomed after that,” I blurt out. I quickly change the subject, “How did you come up with The Raindrop?” I ask, trying to take the spotlight off me.

“Oh? Where was that? Here in San Francisco?” he asks, deflecting my question, putting me back under the light.

He would be a good detective. Okay, I can, and will, handle this. I am strong. I’m not that girl anymore.

“No, in Texas.” I don’t elaborate further.

“Texas? I never would have thought. You don’t have an accent.”

“Oh, so all people who come from Texas must have a drawl?” I counter, using the most country accent I can muster.

He laughs, “That’s pretty good, but I don’t know how authentic it is. Where in Texas? How did you end up in San Francisco?” His curiosity is definitely piqued.

“Houston,” I say without further explanation. He cocks his head slightly and his right eyebrow forms a perfect arch. I continue in a fast, clipped voice, “I graduated from The Art Institute of Seattle with a BFA in Photography. Shortly after graduation, Steven landed an apprenticeship job here, so I moved with him. He said he wasn’t leaving me behind and he was definitely moving. My chances for a career would be better here. It was hard to move away from Mom, but she understood.”

“You two met in college?”

“Yes, he was a year older and we graduated at the same time. I took on more classes and summer school and graduated in three years,” I reply answering what I think would have been his next question.

“Even back then you were determined, weren’t you?” He asks.

“I knew the direction I wanted my career to go, so I made that my priority and found the best way to get there was through persistence. Hard work really does pay off and has gotten me where I am today.”

“What about you? Your determination must have contributed to your success. Are you always in control?”

“I am. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I learned early on to shut out certain distractions to achieve my goals. As the saying goes, ‘always keep your eye on the prize.’” The way he looks straight at me as he says this makes me shift in my seat. I mentally slap my senses back into place.

“It sounds like a lonely existence,” I reply softly, understanding that profound statement more than he knows. “However, I believe you’ve more than made up for it,” I add with a smile, attempting to lighten the conversation. I’m sure he knows exactly what I’m referring to.

“People have layers, some more than others and I think you have many.” He touches the charm on my bracelet, “that’s unusual.”

“It’s a phoenix. My mom gave it to me.” I don’t elaborate and he doesn’t push for an explanation.

His touch sets my skin ablaze as his fingers trail down my thumb, intertwining our fingers together. His warm hand moves circles on my palm. “As I said, you have many layers. A favorite past-time of mine is peeling things.” I need to take my panties off and throw them away at this point. If he keeps talking like this, I’ll throw myself on the table and offer myself up as his dessert. The wine definitely has gone to my head.

“What brought you to The Bridge?” He asks. My eyes are drawn to his mouth as his luscious lips touch the rim of his glass to take a sip of wine. He’s stirring feelings in me that I’ve cut myself off from, avoiding emotional entanglements for many years. I force myself to look away from his mouth and to concentrate on the conversation.

“I was out celebrating my twenty-third birthday with a couple of co-workers and we were talking about our dream jobs. Mine was to be a professional photographer. Jodi was sitting at the table next to us and heard our conversation. Next thing I know, I was scheduled for an interview the following day.”

As she was going over my portfolio, Jodi looked at me and said, ‘Kid, there’s something about your photos and the way you capture them that makes me think you belong here.’ I’ll remember that conversation with her for the rest of my life. “I was so excited, I don’t remember if she told me what my salary would be before I accepted her offer. As they say, the rest is history.”

He treats me to his million-dollar smile and winks as he says, “There’s something to be said for being in the right place at the right time.” As the appetizer dishes are cleared, and our waiter brings the entrees, Bryce says, “Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?”

“I had an older brother who was killed a few years before I was born.”

“He was killed?” His voice is filled with sympathy.

“A drunk driver. My mom was on her way to the grocery store.”

As if by instinct, immediately, his hand covers mine. “I’m sorry. What a horrible tragedy for your parents, for you.” He says in a soft and understanding tone.

“It was a long time ago but thank you.”

“What about your parents?”

“They divorced when I was eight. My mom’s in Seattle and I think my father lives on the West coast somewhere.”

“Have you ever wanted to find your dad?”

“No, I haven’t.” This isn’t what I want to talk about. “So, tell me about your family.”

“My mother’s a Professor at Stanford and my father’s an executive at a computer company.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“A sister. Raleigh. She’s two years older than I am. She moved to L.A. a year ago.” His eyes light up as he talks about his sister, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness at the same time.

“Are you two close?” I ask.

“Yes. Well, we were before she moved. It was a great opportunity for her.”

“Would you ever move from San Francisco or California?”

“I’ve never thought about moving. My company is here. My parents still live in San Mateo. I couldn’t pick up and move from everything and everyone I know.”

If you had to you would.

He continues, “After you graduated, you didn’t want to go back to Texas? What about your family and friends?”

“There was no reason to. My mom is the only family I have left. As far as friends, we all had different goals and paths to follow.”

“How did your Mom end up in Seattle?”

“Once I picked The Art Institute of Seattle, or should I say, once The Art Institute chose me, Mom sold the house, packed up and moved. She never looked back. Neither did I.” Even then, it wasn’t far enough away.

“Hmm, another layer,” he says, “I have a strong feeling there’s more to this part of your life than you’re sharing.” By the expression in his eyes, it’s like he’s trying to climb inside my mind.

“I could say the same thing about you . . .”

Before I can continue, the waiter provides a welcome interruption. “May I bring you the dessert menu?”

“Not for me, thanks,” I answer.

“Just the bill please,” Bryce replies.

The blended conversations surrounding us make the room seem extremely loud. Maybe I should have laid off the wine two glasses ago. As we wait for the bill in companionable silence, he blurts out his next revelation. “I’ve had a few sleepless nights since I met you, Ali. I can’t get you out of my mind.” His tone is more serious and I shift in my seat.