Focus of Desire Read online

  Isabel Sterling plaited her long honey blond hair into a loose braid and tucked it under her pink knit hat. She owned hats, scarves, and mittens in all colors and patterns, too many to be able to wear, so she stuck to the ones that her current crop of swimming students had given her for Christmas. Pink wasn’t her favorite color, but tonight’s chapeau and matching accessories had been hand made by Mrs. Eldrid, who never missed a class or a chance to complain about how her arthritis made knitting so much harder these days.

  The community center had an Olympic-sized pool but a Little League–sized locker room, which felt cramped with her fifteen students. Nearly all were widows, the youngest fifty-five. Her Thursday senior swim class contained more of the same.

  Isabel’s hair was still damp but she didn’t want to take time to dry it because Gillian would already be waiting outside, and temperatures this early March evening were only in the teens. After she wrapped her matching pink scarf around her neck, she stuffed her hands into pink gloves at least two sizes too large. She’d exchange them for her favorite fleece ones as soon as she got in her truck.

  Nearly all the mittens and gloves her students knitted for her were too large. Though of rather average height and weight—five foot five and 118 pounds—Isabel’s body was anything but average, honed by swimming laps in the closest pool for more years than she could remember. She was secretly proud of her woman’s rounded curves, enhanced by the soft musculature built by her athletic endeavors.

  A rotund woman wearing a bright orange one-piece, a Chicago Bulls towel, and a flowery swim cap appeared at her elbow. “Isabel, honey, aren’t you the cutest thing. You coming with us to the Country Kitchen? It’s all-you-can-eat cod and haddock night.”

  “Our treat,” another of the women chimed in.

  “Oh yes, Isabel, do!”

  “Ordinarily, ladies, I’d love to,” Isabel said agreeably. “But I’m meeting a friend, and I’m already late. Can I beg a rain check? Good night.”

  A chorus of good-byes and pleas to drive safely heralded her departure.

  Her battered red pickup, a college graduation gift from her parents, really needed new tires, she noticed for the umpteenth time. And the driver’s side door was frozen shut again, so she crawled in through the passenger side. A little WD-40 on that when I get home. She reached the music store where Gillian worked ten minutes after it closed. Her upstairs neighbor and best friend sat on a bench outside.

  “Sorry, I got here as fast as I could,” she said as Gillian got in. “You freezing?”

  Gillian Menard, auburn-haired, chic, and lithely tall, was appropriately dressed for the weather in a long wool coat, hat, and gloves. But her nose was bright red and her eyes were watering. “That’s safe to assume unless the calendar is somewhere between May and September,” she replied, twisting the nearest vents to direct the warm air toward her face. “Want to do Chinese back at my place? We can watch a film.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” The truck fishtailed as Isabel took a right, a slight detour from their usual route home, to stop by their favorite take-out place.

  Twenty minutes later, armed with a sack of fragrant paper cartons, they were checking the mailboxes in the lobby of their apartment building. Isabel had two bills, an advertising flyer, and an envelope that proclaimed her the Grand Prize Winner of some contest.

  It didn’t look like the typical gaudy come-on. They’re sure making these things more convincing all the time. High-quality envelope, and even sent priority mail, not bulk. Studying it closer, she saw that the return address was Sophisticated Women magazine. She’d heard of it, seen it on newsstands. She was curious enough to open it.

  The notification inside appeared even more authentic than the outside. Written on embossed Sophisticated Women stationery, it was addressed to her personally and was purportedly from the publisher of the magazine, Miranda Claridge. It didn’t seem mass-produced. In fact, she could have sworn the signature was freshly penned. It read:

  Congratulations Ms. Isabel Sterling,

  I am pleased to inform you that you have won the grand prize in our Make Your Dreams Come True contest! Your entry was selected from more than four million, three hundred thousand submitted by mail and through our Web site. So get ready to pack your bags—you and a guest are about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime—three weeks, all expenses paid, to some of the hottest destinations on three continents. Renowned photographer Kash will accompany you to document your trip for Sophisticated Women, and one of her photos of you will appear on the cover of our October issue.

  The letter certainly looked authentic, but Isabel still didn’t believe it was for real.

  “Coming?”

  Gillian was holding the elevator, so Isabel slammed the mailbox shut and hurried to join her. Once inside, she continued reading the letter.

  And that’s not all.

  You’ve also won ten thousand dollars in cash…a makeover by Clifton, stylist to the stars…and a new designer wardrobe selected by the fashion editors of Sophisticated Women.

  “Whatcha got?” Gillian asked, peering over her shoulder.

  “I won a trip, ten thousand dollars, and a makeover,” Isabel said without enthusiasm. “To go with the laptop I supposedly won last week by being the ten-millionth person to visit whatever Web site I clicked on.”

  “It sure seems…well, classier than most…” Gillian touched the paper, felt the weight of it between her fingers. “Let me see that, huh?”

  “Oh, sure.” Isabel handed it over as they reached her floor. “I was pretty well done with it anyway…just hadn’t gotten to the disclaimers yet.” She stepped out of the elevator. “Be right up.”

  After a quick change into sweats, she grabbed a couple of bags of microwave popcorn and headed up the stairs to the apartment directly above hers. She let herself in and spotted Gillian sitting statuelike on the couch, still in her coat, staring in disbelief at the contest letter clutched in her hand.

  “Gill? What is it?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Izzy. It’s true!” Gillian sprang to her feet and waved the letter as she hurried toward her. “This is for real. You’ve actually won this trip. Well, I hope we have, ’cause you damn well better take me since I entered you in the first place. Three continents…and ten grand. Though you certainly don’t have to split that with me—”

  “Slow down.” Isabel snatched the letter from her. “What the hell are you talking about? You entered me?”

  Gillian nodded her head so vigorously it looked like it might fly off.

  Isabel knew her friend was contest crazy, entering every sweepstakes and free offer and lottery she came across. But this was the first time she’d ever heard that Gillian had been putting her name on any of the forms.

  “I enter us both in anything that allows only one entry per person, if the prize is a trip for two,” Gillian explained. “I mean, you always say you want to travel, and I figure I’m doubling my odds of winning since I know you’ll take me.” She batted her eyelashes playfully at Isabel.

  “It’s for real? You’re sure?” Isabel held the letter up to read it again.

  “Absolutely,” Gillian enthused as she finally shed her coat. “I remember this trip because they’re keeping the destinations secret until they announce the winner.”

  “Golly.” She dropped into the nearest chair, realization finally sinking in. An all-expense-paid trip to three continents. Her mind raced, considering the possible destinations. She’d be happy with most anywhere. Somewhere in Europe, I bet. Oh, how great is this. “And ten thousand dollars, Gill!”

  “And don’t forget the new wardrobe,” Gillian pointed out. “Man, I hope you get some things I can fit into, because I bet you get a lot of designer clothes.”

  “Well, that’s more your thing than mine, and where would I wear that kind of stuff?” Excitement bubbled over, and Isabel scanned the letter again for details of when she’d collect her winnings. Then she seriously noted what else she�
��d won.

  “Okay, so the trip and the money are unbelievably cool,” she said. “But the rest of this…getting a makeover and appearing on the cover of Sophisticated Women? I mean, come on, that is so not me. I like how I am. And I’ve never even picked up the magazine.”

  “So you get a great new haircut, which you desperately need, and your picture taken by a hot celebrity photographer. No heavy lifting there, Izzy. I’m sure you can stand it. Now come on, grab your coat. We have some serious celebrating to do.”

  New York

  Three and a half months later

  Kash was in absolutely no mood for that day’s shoot, whatever it was. The miserable hangover was bad enough, but she particularly hated that she had awakened in a stranger’s bed and had to face that awkward morning-after scenario with no time to go home for a proper shower and change of clothes.

  When she stumbled in, yawning like a fiend, and headed straight for the espresso machine, her jack-of-all-trades assistant, Ramona Dean, was setting lights.

  Ramona, a five-foot-ten skeleton with purple hair and piercings in nearly every body part, glanced up from what she was doing and studied Kash for several seconds before she spoke. “Has it ever occurred to you to keep a change of clothes here?”

  It was a brilliant blue-sky day outside—bright enough in the airy studio that Kash kept her sunglasses on. She glanced down at herself and frowned. Okay, so there were a few wrinkles now in what had been a crisp white button-down, and being the neat freak she was, they displeased her no small amount. But she also knew the average person probably wouldn’t have cared or noticed. “What’s the problem?”

  Ramona’s twice-pierced lip curled upward in a smirk. “I’m trying to picture how the hell you got that stain on the back of your shirt, and exactly what it is.”

  “Stain?” Kash hurriedly unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off, examining the oily patch the size of a fist in the middle of it. Sniffed. Wild cherry. The flavor of the lube that her companion for the night had produced from her bedside drawer. Great. She wasn’t quite sure exactly how it had gotten there, but she knew the shirt had ended up on the bed because that’s where she had discovered it this morning. And they had used a good bit of the bottle of lube while on that bed, too, so the stain was no real surprise.

  “Christ. Say, I’ll finish setting up. Go get me something to wear, will you? Plain black T-shirt or something.” She fished a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet. “You know what I like. What the hell do we have today, anyway? I haven’t seen the schedule.”

  “The Montrose Agency is sending models over for publicity shots this morning.” Ramona glanced at her watch. “They’re due any minute. The usual portfolio stuff. And then nothing after that till four, when you’re shooting Ellen Degeneres for the next cover of Animal Advocates magazine.”

  “That’s today?” Kash’s mood brightened considerably, though her head still ached from too much vodka. “Then get going and hurry back. I want to get through the publicity stuff fast so I have time to go home for a shower and change in between.”

  “Okay, I’m gone.” Between Kash’s studio and the elevators was an exterior office and reception area that contained Ramona’s desk and comfortable seating for a dozen people. Various examples of Kash’s work were displayed around the walls, and her name was emblazoned over the desk as an artistic logo recognized worldwide.

  As Ramona passed through the outer office, she met three women, all with the tall, thin silhouettes and practiced poses of runway wannabes. “Hello, ladies. From Montrose?” When they nodded, she gestured toward the door to the studio. “Go ahead, she’s expecting you.”

  Four more women were getting off the elevator when it stopped to let her on. It was a safe bet they were there for the same reason, since it was Saturday and all the other tenants of the twenty-ninth floor were closed. “If you’re here to see Kash, it’s that way.” She pointed, stepping past them. “Go right on through reception—she’s in the studio.”

  As Ramona hit the button to the lobby and waited for the doors to close, she studied the latest group of women. Three were more of the typical runway fare, all starvation-framed and unaffected expressions. The fourth stuck out. She was at least three or four inches shorter. Nice body, but not right for a runway girl—too athletic. And obviously expecting star treatment because she wasn’t even in makeup yet and was dressed way too casual for publicity photos. Hadn’t the agency briefed her or what? Kash will not be pleased.

  *

  Isabel followed the other women into the reception area and lingered to marvel at the display of Kash’s work that covered every wall. Most were celebrity portraits, taken for interviews, magazine covers, book jackets, or publicity purposes. Routine photographs, usually, but Kash’s stood out from others of their ilk, which was why she was in such demand. With her novel settings and precise attention to mood, light, framing, pose, and expression, not only could Kash make anyone look good, but she allowed the viewer to glimpse some aspect of her subject’s life or personality.

  Kash was best known for these types of photographs and had built her reputation on them, but some of her ad-campaign shots, all instantly recognizable, were also displayed. And here and there were pictures of Kash’s travels: dramatic photos taken on safari in Kenya, high in the Himalayas, at a street market in Brazil.

  Isabel was eager to meet the woman who could create such images. She must be a very sensitive person. What wonderful artistry and insight she brings to her work.

  Glancing around at the other women who had paused to admire the display, Isabel realized they were all at least a half-head taller than she. They had obviously spent hours on their hair and makeup, some of them achieving garishly weird results. One’s elaborate spiky hair reminded her of the Statue of Liberty. Another had applied so much eyeliner and rouge she resembled an escapee from Cirque du Soleil.

  It was kind of creepy, like she’d stepped into a modern-day Stepford Models episode and didn’t belong there. She had never quite understood the allure that cosmetics held for most women. Other than some lip gloss now and then, she never touched the stuff.

  They all headed into the studio, Isabel following last. The spacious rectangular loft with its polished wood floor, enormous windows, and terra-cotta brickwork walls seemed clean and organized, except for the slight disarray on the desk to her immediate right. On one side, in a casual seating area, perched three women much like those she’d come in with—lithe teenagers with vacant expressions, all with that same exaggerated devotion to developing a “look” that would get them stared at on the street.

  On the other side of the studio, where a backdrop and lights had been set up for a photo shoot, a woman knelt over a large silver suitcase whose foam interior had been custom cut to accept a variety of lenses and attachments for the camera she held in her hand.

  Kash. The one name was sufficient, like Madonna, or Cher, or Beyoncé, and Isabel recognized her immediately. Celebrity TV shows did stories on her all the time, and Kash’s image appeared at least monthly on the cover of one of those tabloid rags at the grocery store because in addition to her talents as a photographer, she had gained widespread notoriety for her partying lifestyle and the women she purportedly bedded.

  Isabel didn’t believe most of the stuff that appeared in those publications had any merit. Still, she had to wonder when Kash was photographed so regularly at one trendy hot spot or another with a drink in one hand and her other around the waist or on the ass of some hot young actress or model.

  The famed photographer stood and glanced toward them as they joined the other models. It was hard to see exactly where her attention was because she wore dark glasses, but when she faced Isabel, she froze briefly, apparently studying her. Her serious expression didn’t change, but furrows of confusion or bewilderment appeared in her forehead.

  The woman herself appeared…different than Isabel expected. A handsome face, yes, but even more so in person than in photos because she had a softness t
hat pictures couldn’t capture. A reflection of the artist inside, she guessed.

  Kash was more diminutive than she had imagined, too, only an inch or two taller than she was. And she certainly had a nice body when viewed three-dimensionally, with narrow hips and a tight ass, small breasts and a lean frame. In other words, exactly Isabel’s type physically. No problem hanging around her for the next three weeks, that’s for sure.

  Yes, indeed, she was certainly anxious to spend some time getting to know Kash. She wished she would take her sunglasses off. It was impossible to tell where her attention was focused or what she was thinking.

  Isabel had arrived in New York a couple of days early to sightsee and dropped by Kash’s studio on impulse, intending to introduce herself away from the glare of media attention that she feared would accompany their official meeting at the press conference at the Sophisticated Women offices on Monday. She saw her chance and approached Kash as she was fixing a camera to her tripod.

  “Hi, Kash,” she began. “I have to tell you how much I enjoy your work. It really moves me—you have such a great eye for composition, and a special talent for capturing the essence of your subjects.”

  “That’s nice of you to say,” Kash replied, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. But she forestalled Isabel’s effort to introduce herself when she added, “but I’m on a very tight schedule today, and we need to get started. No time for chitchat.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  Kash pointed to the redhead with the spiky hairdo. “You first. Over here on the stool.” As the model moved into position, Kash addressed the others. “Let’s keep chatter to a minimum and pay close attention so we can get this done fast. You each get ten minutes. If you follow directions and give me something good to work with, these photos will say star quality. If you sit there like a stick or want to chat your time away, don’t expect art. The first eight minutes are beauty shots. Face and neck only, where it’s all about your eyes. Pretty eyes, soft expressions. Then you get two minutes off the stool to move, pose. Be you, and show me what you’ve got. Are we clear?”