“Aren’t you going to make a cup for yourself?”
“No. I’ve already had three cups today, and that’s my limit.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That’s a lot of coffee.”
Ivan nodded. “I’m down from six cups a day. Why do you want to photograph me?” he asked again.
“I like your face.”
“It’s interesting,” he teased.
Nayo winked at him. “Very. Your features are very symmetrical, and you have what I think of as a beguiling smile. It’s warm, inviting and as a woman I find it quite sensual. You also have beautiful hands.”
“Stop it, Nayo. I thank you for your glowing assessment, but I can’t.”
“I’ll pay you, Ivan.”
“It’s not about money.”
“What is it about, then?”
“I don’t want or need my face on display at some gallery. I’m a therapist and teacher, not some celebrity.”
“But you are a celebrity, Dr. Campbell,” Nayo argued softly. “Are you aware of how many sites come up when your name is searched on Google? Thirty-eight,” she said when he gave her an impassive stare. “Don’t worry, Ivan, I won’t sell your photograph.”
“What do you plan to do with it?”
“Use it in a retrospective.”
“That’s it?”
She smiled. “That’s it, Ivan. And I would stipulate this when you sign a release.”
Ivan shook his head. “I don’t know, Nayo. I have to think about it.”
She wanted to ask him what there was to think about. Most people she knew would jump at the opportunity to have their photographs taken by a professional photographer. She’d spent four years photographing bridges, and now her focus had become people—people from every race, ethnic group and every walk of life. The world was her canvas and she planned to fill every inch of it.
She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “At least you didn’t say no.”
“But I could,” Ivan countered.
A shiver of annoyance shook her. It was the second time in two days that Ivan Campbell had her close to losing her temper. “Either it’s yes or no, Ivan, because I’m not into playing games.”
Ivan bared his beautiful white teeth. “I told you I have to think about it.”
“Dial down the bully-boy attitude. You don’t frighten me.”
A slow smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “It wasn’t my intent to frighten you.”
Nayo drew the back of her hand over her forehead, mimicking a gesture of relief. “Whew! For a moment I thought you were going to put me under the bright lights and pull out the rubber hose.”
Throwing back his head, Ivan laughed loudly. “Either you’re overly dramatic or you’ve been watching too many old police-procedural movies.”
She gave him a bright smile. “I’ve always had a secret desire to act.”
Ivan sobered. “You’d be a very beautiful actress.”
Two pairs of dark eyes met and fused as a beat passed. Nayo broke the visual impasse when she picked up her cup, staring at Ivan over the rim, and took a sip of lukewarm coffee.
“What’s the matter, Nayo? Cat got your tongue?”
She dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “No,” she answered softly.
“I just paid you a compliment.”
“Was it a compliment, or are you flirting with me?”
“Both.”
Nayo recoiled visibly. It wasn’t often she met someone as honest and in-your-face as Ivan Campbell, and she wondered if it was because of his profession. “Do you flirt with every woman you meet?”
“No.”
“You are flirting, yet you know nothing about me. I could be married.”
“But you’re not married, Nayo.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?”
A mysterious smile played at the corners of Ivan’s mouth. “You’re not the only one who’s Internet savvy. It was after I went through the catalog of your work at the gallery that I came home and searched your name. I seriously doubt any normal man would permit his wife to be away from him for four years while she indulged in her obsession to photograph every conceivable natural or manmade bridge.”
“You think of photography as an obsession?”
“Not the profession in and of itself. But to be away from home and all that’s familiar for years doesn’t quite fall within the normal range.”
Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, Nayo smiled at Ivan. “Are you attempting to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Campbell?”
He leaned closer and the fragrance of his cologne on warmed flesh tantalized her olfactory sense. The man in whose kitchen she sat claimed the winning combination of looks, brains and professional success. If she’d been interested in looking for someone with whom to have a relationship, Ivan would’ve been the perfect candidate. However, she didn’t need or want a man, because any emotional entanglement would conflict with her career. She was only thirty-one, her biological clock wasn’t ticking and she had a lot of time ahead of her for love, marriage and children.
Ivan ran a finger down the length of her short, delicate nose. “No. I don’t want to know that much about you. I find it more intriguing to find out things over time.”
“How much time are you talking about?”
“That depends on the woman.”
“Why,” Nayo whispered, “are you being so evasive?”
Ivan winked. “I thought I was being miss-steery-ous,” he drawled in what sounded to Nayo like an Eastern European accent.
“You are so silly,” Nayo countered. “You need to have your head examined.” She sobered quickly. “Now, back to why I’m here. I have a collection of photographs you can use for your living room, master bedroom, bath, living and dining rooms. I’m not so certain about the guest bedrooms. You may have to look elsewhere for something that will conform to the decor.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“I’d like to see ferns, flowers and birds reminiscent of Audubon prints, in keeping with the tropical theme.”
“Where would I find them?”
“I’ll get them for you. Chances are I’ll be able to come up with some quicker than you can, and probably at a better price. And if it’s all right with you, I’ll buy the prints and mats and frame them myself. That also will lower the cost considerably.”
Ivan waved a hand. “Don’t worry about how much they cost. If you’ll give me an approximate amount of what you think they’ll come to, I’ll write you a check.”
Nayo shook her head. “That’s not necessary. The people I deal with will bill me.”
“What about your commission?”
“What about it, Ivan?”
“How much commission do you want?”
Unconsciously Nayo furrowed her brow. She’d put herself into the position of becoming his agent or representative. “Five percent.” It was the first figure to come to mind. She would sell him her photographs, but there was no way she was going to rip him off when she negotiated for the prints for