Secrets: The Complete Collection Read online

  H.M. Ward

  www.SexyAwesomeBooks.com

  Laree Bailey Press

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by H.M. Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  Laree Bailey Press

  First Edition: Dec 2013

  SECRETS

  Volume 1

  PROLOGUE

  Everyone has a secret.

  Some people will do anything to protect it.

  ______

  I’m practically giddy with excitement as that dream is within grasp. I’m sitting across from Sophia Sottero. She’s an amazing wedding photographer for the affluent families of New York. In a nutshell, she is everything I want to be, and meeting her in the flesh is so overwhelming I can barely contain myself. I try not to squirm in my seat as her gaze slides over my resume.

  Sophia is in her early forties with jet-black hair that is smoothed into a neat chignon at the base of her neck. A slender, black suit showcases her figure perfectly and makes her look regal at the same time. I hold my hands in my lap, trying hard not to fidget. The smile that lines my lips is making my face hurt, but I can’t stop. A tiny voice inside my mind squeals with excitement.

  Sophia glances up at me, “Tell me, Miss Lamore, why do you want to work at Sottero?”

  Beaming, I reply, “Sottero is the most prestigious photography studio in New York City. The style your shooters attain is breathtaking.” My hand clutches my racing heart. It’s true. And with every fiber of my being I want to learn what she knows. “Everything about your studio makes me want to be a part of it. It’s not only the soaring reputation, but also what you do for each and every bride who comes here.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You make them feel like the most beautiful woman alive. For that entire day, each bride knows she’s flawless. You don’t just give them photographs, Ms. Sottero, you capture their dreams and freeze them in time. It takes heart and skill to do something like that, which is why I would love to have my internship here.”

  Sophia’s gaze lowers to my resume as I’m speaking. When I’m done talking, her dark eyes lift to meet mine, “May I ask where else you applied?”

  Normally I would figure out a way to dodge that question, but I want this job so much. I smile calmly and tell the truth, “Couture and Le Femme.”

  A dark brow lifts when I say Le Femme. She places my papers on her desk and leans forward, “Le Femme? Really? What on earth made you apply there?”

  “The University requires a minimum of three interviews, and we are supposed to diversify the positions we are looking at. They think it gives us a better footing post-graduation.” I practiced this response before I came. Anyone who finds out that I have an interview at Le Femme won’t take me seriously. It’s a blight on a pristine resume and an excellent grade point average.

  Sophia tilts her head, like that is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. She points a perfectly manicured nail on the shiny desktop. “Listen, Anna. Let me do you a favor. I realize the kind of hoops you have to jump through to get your diploma, and the interview at Le Femme is just a waste of time. Cole Stevens is blight on the industry. His work is trash, and any aspiring young photographer should steer clear of him. I know it’s a necessary evil, so I’ll tell you how to end the interview quick and easy. Go in there and act confident to the point of cocky. Wear something that you should never wear to an interview and they’ll show you the door before you even sit down… Unless?” She lets the question hang in the air.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you want to work for Cole Stevens,” Sophia says with distaste, as she leans back in her chair. Although she’s trying to hide it, Sophia’s become tense since we started talking about Le Femme. I can’t tell if she just hates what the studio does, or if it’s more personal than that. She watches me for a moment, taking in my reaction.

  I visibly shudder when she suggests such a thing. “I have no intention of working for Cole Stevens, Ms. Sottero. That interview is a means to an end. I want the internship here with Sottero. I’ll be the best intern you’ve ever had because I want to be here.”

  “It’s a dream?”

  “It’s more than a dream,” I say leaning forward in my chair. “Sottero is the place where dreams and reality collide. And somehow you figured out how to capture those moments in photographs that are too stunning for words. Forgive me for being blunt, Ms. Sottero, but I admire your work, your studio, and everything you stand for. If I was given the opportunity to learn from you I know it would give me a secure footing in a difficult industry.”

  We speak for a little longer. I don’t fumble anything. Sophia appears to genuinely like me. As she walks me out, the older woman shakes my hand and says, “I think you’ll do well here, Miss Lamore. Contact me after your interview with Le Femme and we’ll see what we can work out.”

  A grin spreads across my face. I shake her hand too long and too hard, but I don’t care. My dream job is sitting in the palm of my hand. The only thing left to do is finish up with Le Femme to satisfy the University’s requirements and then I’ll have an internship at Sottero!

  CHAPTER 1

  Sunlight pours through the slats in the blinds, forming narrow bars of light. I blink once, clearing the sleep from my eyes. Nerves don’t slither through my body the way they had yesterday. Today is different. Butterflies don’t erupt in my stomach and threaten to fly out my nose. My tongue isn’t dry and tangled. There is no frantic pounding in my chest. Not today. A slow grin spreads across my face as I stretch. Today is a means to an end.

  After showering quickly, I slap on the outfit I selected the night before. Without glancing in the mirror, I head into the kitchen. The apartment is quiet. It’s Saturday and Emma is still asleep. At least I thought she was.

  “Anna, what the hell are you wearing?” she asks groggily. My roommate is in the hallway, halfway into the bathroom. She stops and stares at me. A tattered robe clings to her narrow figure. Black hair is frizzed around her face, completely flat on one side. In a few hours, she’ll look like a model. It’s been like that since we started college. Emma is the hot one, and I’m “the hot girl’s friend.” Emma blinks several times, like her big blue eyes are broken. “Don’t you have an interview?”

  I nod, grabbing an apple from the kitchen counter. As I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and head toward the door, “All part of the plan.”

  She doesn’t have time to respond before I’m out the front door, which is good because I would have lost my nerve. The entire time I’ve known Emma she has never let me escape unquestioned. I know she’ll pelt me with questions as soon as I get home. It makes sense that she’s a mass communication major. When she gets a job as a reporter, I know she’ll be good at it. Questioning people is in her DNA, and my outfit was sure to raise questions.

  Sophia mentioned that she worked with Cole Stevens at one point and divulged some pet-peeves of his that will promptly end my interview. After the third interview is complete, only then can I get hired. University requirements.

  I run down the stairs toward the street. Our apartment is a fourth floor walk-up, standard shoe-box-sized so that no one in their right mind would want to stay any longer than necessary. Emma and I rented it two years ago when we started graduate school.

  Breakfast on the go isn’t a part of my ideal morn
ing. Actually, getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday isn’t even sane, but this is the time slot I needed, the one where the interviewer is so tired that she needs to prop her head up with coffee mugs. Besides, who puts business meetings on Saturday morning at 7:00am? That makes this the worst interview time possible.

  It’s just a formality, Anna, I tell myself. The past week has made me a jittery mess. The internship matters. The placements can mean getting a good job after college, and I need to be the best in my field to get anywhere in this field. Choosing the arts was insane enough, but being a photographer was even crazier. Everyone and their dog own a camera and claim to be awesome. Botching the internships could mean I’ll have to be some schlep trying to find work on Craig’s List, and I have sworn that won’t be me. Photography is art and I’m an artist.

  Ambition got me this far. The rest of was guts.

  My position with Sottero is cinched. I just have to finish this last task before I can take it. I stare straight ahead as I round the corner and descend underground to the subway. The air smells like burnt pretzels and blows my hair gently. I breathe deeply, relaxed—confident. When I went to my interview with Sophia Sottero, I was a mess. My palms were sweaty and I could barely stand still as the train clunked along the tracks. The same scenario occurred for my interview with Couture. Both are outstanding studios run by women that I admire. I want the internship with Sottero so badly. Couture is my fallback, and Le Femme—I can’t imagine the person who wants an internship at Le Femme. Probably some perv-with-a-camera like the infamous owner, Cole Stevens. Now, that isn’t totally accurate. The man has to have some talent to shoot high-end lingerie on nearly naked models. One of those barely-there panties costs more than my grocery bill. It isn’t my thing, but like I said—three is the magic number and this is my third interview—the one I don’t care about.

  Glancing around, I notice that the subway is relatively empty, which is normal for New York on a Saturday morning. That’s the only bonus to the early interview time—I didn’t have to get up at 5:00am. I switch trains a few times and walk up into the sunlight. Structures of glass and steel tower above my head, but I don’t look up. New Yorkers never look up.

  Checking my watch, I hasten my pace. Although I don’t want this job, the University still checks to make sure I apply myself, which means at least showing up on time. I find the building and exit the elevator onto the seventieth floor. A silver plaque hangs on a dark door: LE FEMME STUDIOS.

  CHAPTER 2

  I push through the door and step into a quiet office. I stop in my tracks. There is no one here. No receptionist. No employees. Turning, I look around the room slowly. Large portraits of Stevens’ work line the pale blue walls. All the surfaces—the desk and coffee tables—are pale blue glass. A to-die-for view of the Manhattan skyline fills the windows that line one wall. It’s a sight that costs a fortune, a clear status symbol to anyone who walks through the door.

  I step further into the room, “Hello?” My voice doesn’t really come out. Why am I whispering? “Is anyone here?” I pad across to the window after looking over my shoulder. Convinced I am alone for the moment, I scan the city far below, and rest my fingers against the pane. “This must look amazing at night,” I mumble to myself.

  “It does.” Startled by the male voice, I jump. My heart ratchets up a notch when I see that Cole Stevens is the one standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. He smiles down at me like my reaction was funny. He is older, close to forty, but you’d never think it by looking at him. Everything from his bone structure to his stance screams model. He has the kind of confidence that comes from a lifetime supply of money, and the designer clothes to match. Dark jeans cling to his narrow hips, topped by a white linen shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows. The top button is undone. Cole’s dark hair has that carefully messy look.

  The man is famous, sexy, powerful—he’s also everything I detest. He spent the last fifteen years of his life making his name, but he did it on the back of his father’s fortune. I pay for college myself. There is a permanent rift between me and people like him, people who have had everything handed to them. That’s part of the reason I don’t want to work for Le Femme. Aspirations of being a wedding photographer for the affluent have been running through my veins for years. The idea of capturing a woman on the most important day of her life appeals to me much more than this fettishography kind of stuff that Cole shoots.

  Cole’s hands are in his pockets, his blue eyes assessing me and my outfit. He seems like he’s been up for hours. He must be a morning person. That would make working with him even worse. People who thrive at 5:00am are freaks. Unlike me, dressed to impress.

  Pressing my lips together, I peel my hand off my blouse and act like I was just brushing off a speck of lint. Confused, I look past him. I thought his assistant was doing the interviews. People like Cole don’t bother with college interns. Shaking off the shock of seeing him in the flesh, I introduce myself. “I’m Anna Lamore. I have an internship interview at seven.”

  He pulls a hand out of his pocket, extending it to me. His shake is confident, his hand warm. “Cole Stevens. No one is here this early since its Saturday.”

  His smile is kind, and it isn’t until now that I really look at his face. There are tiny wrinkles that line the corners of his mouth, like he smiles often. Taking his hand, I shake it and nod. His grip is gentle, but firm. Something about him sets me off kilter. Butterflies erupt in my stomach and I don’t know why. When he ends the handshake, Cole glances at me once more and turns away—gesturing for me to follow. I take in the posh offices as we walk down a long hall.

  “Welcome to Le Femme,” he says. The casual tone of his voice makes me think his head isn’t as big as the media says. “As you know we are the world’s premiere boudoir studio, predominately shooting lingerie accounts for swank designers. We do everything in-house, from selecting models to make-up and postproduction. Nothing is out-sourced,” he stops and holds open a glass door. His hand flicks on the lights and we sit at a huge wooden conference table. This room has a much warmer feel than the waiting area at the front. Walking past him, I catch his scent. It’s a light clean fragrance. His eyes are on me as I pass, no doubt studying my absurd outfit.

  I slide into a seat and lean back, steepling my fingers like I’m plotting to take over the world and smile at him. Cole tells me more about the company he created as I tap my fingertips together, trying to muster the guts to finish doing the things Sophia suggested so I can put this interview to rest quickly.

  “The internship is a prestigious position, Miss Lamore. Many students compete to get it, and there is only one position. An internship here gives you access to employment with the company when you’re done. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re at the top of your class.”

  His fingers tap the top of the table as he stops speaking. Cole’s gaze slides over my face, the slouch of my shoulders, and then drifts to my jeans that are rolled up to my knees, showcasing striped rainbow knee-highs. Sparkling yellow Chucks are on my feet. They match the tutu around my waist. His eyebrows creep up his face before he looks back up at me. I’m not certain if he’s questioning the data or stating that he can’t believe it from the sight of me. I should have been dressed in a suit. If I was brave and wanted this internship, I would have worn some fashionable business attire with a snazzy flare. But I’m dressed like a bedazzled circus clown. I had to make sure I don’t have any chance of getting this job, and showing up dressed like this would ensure it even if I did take Sophia’s suggestion a little too far.

  Smiling, I nod, “Yeah,” my fingers tap on the table top, strumming like his. He notices the mirrored movement, and his eyes flick to my hand before returning to my face. “I’m the top in my class.” Silence fills the air before Cole finally speaks again. My manners are intentionally horrible. He notices my lack of proper decorum, my utter indifference. It’s screaming through my body language even when I’m not speaking.

  Cole’s gaz
e narrows. The look he gives me is irritating. It’s smug, like he knows what I’m up to. Leaning back in his chair, he folds his arms over his chest. For an old guy, he’s pretty chiseled. “Let’s cut to the chase, Miss Lamore. I don’t normally do the intern interviews. Your resume looks the same as a hundred others. Your work demonstrates potential, but it’s nothing phenomenal.” He pauses, taking in my reaction.

  I’m surprised at his candor, but don’t react. I don’t want this job, I remind myself. I have nothing to prove to him. I don’t care if he thinks I suck. I know better. I know Sophia Sottero was excited when she met me. I know I want that internship and not this one.

  Cole leans forward, “The reason I wanted to meet you, the reason you caught my attention, was because you chose the worst interview time we offer... ” He grins at me, and leans back into his chair again. “It implies that you wanted this position very much.”

  I shrug, folding my arms, mirroring him again, “It was the only slot left.” The lie slips easily off my tongue.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he replies, leaning forward, calling me on the lie. There’s a gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before, like hot curiosity igniting a match-tip. His gaze is intense, and I can’t help but squirm when he looks at me like that. “You were the first person to sign up. So tell me something, Anna, if you would—“ he looks down at the ring on his index finger and then back up at me, “why did you wake up at the crack of dawn to come to see me? Why do you want to work for Le Femme?”

  His words say one thing, but his tone says something else. It’s a dare, a challenge almost, to continue with my plan. My pulse is racing. I march ahead with my idea, muttering things that Sophia assured would get me tossed out. Ignoring that gaze of his, I lower my eyes and pick at my nail polish while I speak, “Well, Le Femme has been around for a while. I mean, the company itself was formed nearly two decades ago. I mean, you’re not a fly-by-night studio, so that’s appealing. But, you’re not ridiculously old, either.” I flick my nail and a piece of red polish flutters to the carpet. I continue speaking, watching it fall, “It’s not like you’ve never seen a digital camera and insist on using an ancient Brownie or something crazy like that.” Immediately, I want to laugh and shirk off the nerves that are spilling down my spine like ice water, but I can’t.