Molly had hung back during the conversation. As soon as Chaz and Emmylou were off bickering in Emmylou’s studio, she approached Amery.
“That isn’t all of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you did mention how fantastic Master Black looked a couple of times. But beyond that you didn’t talk about him at all, and that is not normal for you . . . so what gives?”
Amery recalled that during her years spent as the bookworm in the corner, she’d honed her ability to read people since none of them talked to her. It shouldn’t have surprised her that Molly was so intuitive—they were a lot alike. “Ronin and I had a big fight. I’ll spare you the details, but we’re in a cooling-off period for a week.”
Molly rubbed her arm. “I’m sorry. I know you really like him.”
Like. Not liked, past tense. That’s when Amery realized she didn’t want to think of Ronin in the past tense either. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You’re doing it.”
“I imagine you’re not coming to class with me this week?”
That was another wrinkle; he’d hired her and she hadn’t completed the last phase of the project—she’d been dragging it out as another way to keep in touch with him. After their conversation about Brazilian jujitsu, she’d designed new graphics to promote the newest discipline offered at Black Arts, that is, if Ronin ever followed through with it and hired an instructor. She’d enjoyed the challenge, but the bottom line was she needed the work and she couldn’t quit just because there were issues in their personal relationship. In the last year many of her clients had started bringing design work in-house. If business didn’t pick up soon . . . She didn’t even want to think about having to let Molly go. She worked more hours than she got paid. Plus, she excelled at creating Web sites, animated banners, and ads where as Amery preferred to work with text, images, and personalized photography—which was why they made such a good team.
“Amery?”
She glanced up. “Sorry. I guess we’ll see. Can you help me today? I’ve got a bunch of shots to do for the Wicksburg Farm flyers.”
“Sure. What props are they sending this time?”
A large portion of Amery’s clients catered to organic food consumers, so she’d carved out a niche in the natural food market crafting unique ad campaigns. She had a different approach and it was the one aspect of her business that was easily recognizable in her design work. “They’re sending a bunch of different kinds of mushrooms and they want them photographed in a natural environment, so . . . they’re delivering dirt today.”
“I’ll get the vacuum. What else?”
“I just hope they’re not bringing the beehives for the honeycomb photos.”
Molly grinned. “Funny. But I have my EpiPen just in case.”
Later, after she’d sent Molly home for the day and she’d sorted photos into folders, her e-mail dinged. An unfamiliar name on the subject line. Hopefully it was someone looking for graphic design work. She opened the e-mail.
Hardwick Designs,
I was browsing on your Web site and saw that you do custom photographic work. I love the perspectives on inanimate objects as well as how you’re framing them. I’m an author and I’m looking for a unique—not stock photo!—image for my next book cover. Is that something you’d be interested in giving me a quote on?
Thanks for your time and hope to hear from you soon.
Cherry Starr~
She knew a few freelancers who’d jumped on the digital book bandwagon and offered design services from covers to formatting for authors trying their hand at publishing their own work.
While she was interested, she wasn’t sure of the industry standard pricing structure for custom photography versus revamping stock photos to suit the client’s needs.
She headed to Cherry Starr’s Web site to see what types of books she wrote. Oh, wow. She wrote naughty books. The stuff Amery’s mother would’ve called filthy p**n . Then again, her mother hadn’t balked at all when it came to sneaking True Confessions magazine.
The world was full of judgmental hypocrites.
The title His Whip-smart Mistress had an intriguing cover. A half-naked woman in knee-high leather boots, a miniskirt, and a bustier, wielding a whip over a man on his knees, his arms tied behind his back with rope, his head bowed.
That’s when the first warning bell chimed.
Amery clicked on the next title Hog-tied and Whip-kissed. That cover featured a bare-chested man holding the end of a whip to the woman’s bright red lips. Her torso was completely wrapped in rope and she was bent at such an angle that part of her butt cheek showed—a butt cheek that the guy had his hand on.
So today, of all days, she would get contacted by an author who writes books about . . . the type of tying-up things that Amery was dealing with understanding about Ronin?
Bullshit. She did not believe in coincidences. Ronin had to have given this woman her contact information. Projects of this nature did not just fall in her lap. Amery hit REPLY.
Cherry Starr,
Before we get into the quote stage, may I ask how you got my name?
Best, Amery Hardwick ~ Hardwick Designs
Rather than fuming about Ronin’s stealthy approach—throwing her a new business bone in the hopes it’d spur her to contact him sooner—she closed up shop for the day.
Needing fresh air, she strolled down to the Sixteenth Street mall. The Greek place still ran a four-dollar gyro special on Mondays, so she took her sandwich and salad outside beneath the umbrella and people-watched, hoping it’d clear her mind.
Fat lot of good that did. She saw scarves hanging in the windows and thought of Ronin. She saw candles in the window and thought of Ronin. She saw a display of men’s ties and thought of Ronin. The Japanese takeout place reminded her of Ronin.
That’s because this issue isn’t going away. You can’t ignore it. And your biggest problem is that part of Ronin intrigues and excites you as much as it scares you.
That stopped her in the middle of the sidewalk.
She had liked it when Ronin used scarves or even her own clothing to tie her up during foreplay and sex. She’d found an odd kind of freedom in knowing it pleased him.
Didn’t that make her subservient? Putting his needs above her own?
But Amery couldn’t come up with a single instance where Ronin hadn’t seen to her needs first. Every. Single. Time.