As quickly as they’d arrived, the French contingent of marketing geniuses disappeared, and without a word, Jean Claude went to work styling Gussie’s hair.
She’d lost the fight, so she closed her eyes and endured combing, clipping, and more hands-on attention than her hair had gotten in the fifteen years and…twenty-eight days since the accident.
Not that she was counting or anything.
She didn’t open her eyes until she heard his comb hit the counter and Alex gasped audibly. And then she had to blink to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
“Wow,” Gussie whispered. “You’re good.”
Jean Claude threw up his hands as if to say, “It’s about time you realized that.” Then he gave a sly French half grin, clearly pleased with his work. As he should be. Her hair had been cut into layers—something she’d never dared attempt—and now had a bounciness she’d never even tried to achieve. Why bother? She hated her hair because it wasn’t all there.
No, she hated her hair because it was a constant, endless reminder of the worst day of her life.
“Would you like to see the back?” he asked, holding a hand mirror.
She generally avoided that angle, but she had to look. Taking the mirror, she gasped at how beautifully he’d styled the back. The scar was visible, but somehow he’d cut and layered the hair around it so it wasn’t quite so ugly. Why couldn’t she have done that?
Because she’d never really tried. Instead, she hid her hair and scar, as if she could hide away her pain of that night.
She lowered the hand mirror and looked at the bald Frenchman beaming in front of her. “Thank you,” she mouthed, worried that if she spoke, her voice would crack, then the tears would pour and she’d wreck her makeup, and Jean Claude would kill her.
Instead, she was going to kill this photo shoot.
Chapter Eighteen
On one knee, Tom angled his lens away from the sun, checking the last set of shots after they’d dismissed Johanna.
“No one’s going to buy water from her,” he murmured to Monique, the only assistant who spoke decent English.
“Three-thousand-dollar shoes, yes,” Monique agreed. “But not water. This woman, though”—she tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention—“could sell me anything.”
Tom looked up, blinking into the sun and shadows that fell on the backstreet of Cannes.
“Whoa.” For a second, he froze the frame in his mental lens, letting the background fade away to a blur, but Gussie burned in stark clarity, taking his breath away.
“And she’s not a professional,” Monique said, unaware, like most of the freelancers in Cannes, that he and Gussie knew each other. “This is the femme ordinaire test shot.”
But, damn, there was nothing ordinary about that woman.
It wasn’t just the way her hair was styled, although it was natural and pretty, utterly pleasing to the eye. Nor was it the lacy white sundress that floated above her knees, giving her an unexpected innocence, or the subtle makeup that enhanced a face he already admired.
No, it was something inside Gussie McBain that had her striding with confidently squared shoulders and an air of authority. She tossed a comment to Alex, who laughed with a spirit he’d yet to see much of, and then the two gave each other a friendly knuckle tap and a quick hug as Alex stepped away from the set.
Tom tried to take it all in—the woman, the moment, the ease of her relationships—but instead of a single coherent thought, he stood there with his heart racing unnaturally.
Only when she gave him a nod of acknowledgment did he walk across the cobblestone street to meet her.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” she teased.
“Let me guess… ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille’?”
She laughed guiltily. “I guess you’ve heard that about a hundred times.”
“A thousand.” Suddenly, he was aware of the crew closing in, Monique close enough to overhear, and Suzette watching hawklike from twenty feet away.
“Come with me.” He took Gussie by the arm and whisked her past all the others, under an awning to talk privately.
“Okay. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“What I want you to do can’t be done here.” He lifted a lock of her hair and eased back to check her out head to toe. “But I will warn you that if I ever hear you even imply that you aren’t beautiful, I’m going to force you to look at the pictures I’m about to take.”
She smiled, her confidence unwavering. “I know, right? And look what he did.” Spinning, she showed him how the stylist had fixed her hair to almost cover the scar, cleverly cutting and combing it in a way that looked completely natural. He could still see that hair didn’t grow there, but it wasn’t unattractive, it was…Gussie. Flawed, but then, who wasn’t?
“How will I capture that in a picture?” he mused.
She turned back, frowning. “Aren’t you going to, you know, play it down?”
“Gussie, they’re trying to appeal to every woman. Every slightly imperfect, real, unvarnished woman. Our job is to convince them you are happy, healthy, glowing, and gorgeous from the inside out, thanks to the water.”
“That’s a tall order, considering I’m all those things thanks to a spunky little Frenchman named Jean Claude.” She glanced at the set behind him. “So, what do I do?”
“First and foremost”—he put both hands on her shoulders and inched her closer—“trust me. You have to completely let go and allow me to take the pictures I want from whatever angle I decide, close, far, up, or down.” Her shoulders tensed under his touch. “Trust me,” he repeated, lowering his head to place his lips right over her ear. “You are in the best possible hands.”
She shivered. And sighed. “Okay. But only because this is a test shot and a favor and a personal challenge and you promised that no one will ever see it.”
“No one will, except some marketing yahoos whose opinions will be outvoted by Suzette. So all you need to do is relax and have fun.”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me to, you know, make love to the camera or something?”
“How about this?” he asked, pressing a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the scents of the salon and sunshine. “Make love to the guy who holds the camera.”
She looked up at him, tenderness and desire making her eyes so gorgeous he wanted to take that picture right then and there. “That’s what you want me to think about?”
“That’s what I’m thinking about,” he admitted.
A few seconds passed as they stared at each other, electricity arcing and drawing them closer.
Until someone coughed loudly. And someone else dragged a spotlight into position. Tom didn’t move, but Gussie slipped out of his touch and gestured to the people watching from the set. “Um, Tom. They’re waiting.”
He shot the crew a look that got them to scatter to their various stations, then walked Gussie through the storyboard, emphasizing the breakpoints and the need for a natural look.
“Basically, you’re walking down the street,” he concluded. “You’re window shopping, talking on the phone, waiting to meet a friend, living life. But mostly, you’re enjoying your water. Really enjoying the hell out of your water.”
“Got it. So no actual posing?”
“Not for a second. What I want you to do, Gussie, is forget I’m here, forget this is a set, forget you’re being watched. Think in, not out.”
She frowned. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Just…go in there.” He tapped her heart. “Find out what makes that beat.” Because, God knew, he wanted to do exactly that.
Suzette clattered up next to him, bearing an armload of handbags. “People are already talking,” she said brightly.
“Let ’em. We don’t care. Right, Pink?”
Suzette waved off his comment. “Not about you. Me. The word on the street, as you Americans say, is that I’m a genius.”
“No surprise, since this street
is our set and everyone spreading the word is being paid by you.”
She gave a classic French shrug and held out her bags. “Final accessories, and we’re leaving it up to you. Which of these bags would la femme ordinaire choose to carry?” she asked.
Gussie glanced at the offerings. “Not Chanel or Kate Spade, lovely as they are.” Suzette removed those two bags from her collection.
“Oh, is that Portokali Sky?” Gussie reached for a bright orange baguette-style purse. “That’s my favorite”—she winked at Tom—“designer.” Slipping the bag on her shoulder, she earned a nod of approval from the client.
“Okay,” Tom said, trying to shoo Suzette without actually telling her to get the hell out of his way. “Lighting’s good. Accessory’s chosen. We’ve talked. She has this.”
“But she does not have the water, monsieur.” She snapped her fingers at a production assistant behind her.
Damn it. He’d forgotten the product. That’s what Gussie did to him.
Once Gussie had a freshly open bottle of LaVie, they started.
“Walk by the café,” Tom instructed. “Let your dress flutter in the breeze, and I’ll be right behind you.”
That got him a sharp look. “Behind me?”
“Yeah.” He reached out and arranged her hair, caressing the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Behind you, next to you, in front of you…” He purposely didn’t finish all the places he’d like to be. Like on top and underneath.
But her eyes registered the unspoken comments, darkening slightly, a Mona Lisa smile threatening.
“Walk,” he instructed, following her as he lifted the camera.
She started slowly, visibly shaking him off, taking a minute to get her head in the game. As she sauntered up the street, Tom stayed a few feet away, lining up a shot.
“You’re alone in France,” he coaxed, helping her get into the part. “You’re thinking about someone special. Who is it, Pink?” Him, he hoped.
She slid him a sideways look, and he snapped it, getting the flirt and fun, and the vaguest shadow on the back of her head.
“Now you’re shopping. Look at the shoes. Imagine wearing them.” She paused in front of a boutique, lightly placing the fingertips of one hand on the glass, using the other to take a sip of water. All the while, she peered at a pair of Louboutins with a look of longing that reminded him of Alex and croissants. He captured raw desire and a hint of regret, which he loved because, of course, la femme ordinaire couldn’t afford those shoes. But LaVie could quench her thirst for luxury.
And, to please Suzette, he also captured the perfect angle of her fingers wrapped around the bottle.
“Keep going, Gussie. To the flower stand.”
In the distance, he could hear Suzette natter on in French, her excitement for the shoot building.
A few feet ahead, a flower vendor—actually an actor with props—waited with baskets overloaded with lilacs, daisies, and bright purple jacaranda flowers. They didn’t exchange a word, but Gussie rounded the stand, fingered the flowers, and accepted a bouquet with a toast of her bottle of LaVie.
In his lens, Tom managed three different angles, each one a study of joy and inner serenity as she examined the flowers.
“You’re killing it, Gus,” he said, but she was so into the moment, she didn’t break character at all. Instead, she reached a hand to the old flower vendor, and they shared a casual touch, and Tom caught the millisecond of connection between the two.
“Now I need pensive, not so happy,” he said. “You’ve been waiting for someone, and he’s late. Maybe not showing. You’ve been waiting a long time.”
She played the game with him, her expression perfectly depicting expectation, longing, and a little disappointment as she peered down the street.
“Perfect,” he assured her. “Now, wait here at the planter.”
She reached a brick and stone street decoration filled with more flowering plants. She leaned against it, sipping her water, letting her dress spread out enough to make a flowing, pretty picture.
“This is going to be our money shot, honey.” He switched to his secondary camera, wanting the optimized high-res lens. “You ready?”
She threw him a look that was out of her newly assumed character, but insanely Gussie in attitude, and he snagged it, loving the mix of uncertainty and confidence, a cocktail of sexy.
Each shot was magic. Gussie was magic.
God, he hadn’t felt like that about a woman since…a long time.
The realization hit him hard, making him stand up straight and lower the camera, looking at her with his naked eye.
“What?” she asked. “Am I doing something wrong?”
No, no. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. His gaze shifted to the words on his arm, a constant reminder, then back to the woman who’d captivated him on the most fundamental level.
He’d rather look at Gussie. He’d rather be with Gussie…than alone.
And that scared the shit out of him.
“Tom?”
What the hell was wrong with him? “Lean against the stone, Gus. And, for God’s sake, take a drink of water before Suzette births a goat.”
She laughed at the joke, and he caught that, too. So real and natural, like the stupid water.
Damn, she was good.
“Okay, I’m moving in now,” he warned. “No more body shots. I’m getting close enough to get emotion.”
She nodded, as if to say, I can do this. And she could. As well as Johanna, if not better. Without the affectation. Without the training. Just pure, raw, genuine woman.
Suzette was fricking brilliant, he had to admit it. The real-woman campaign might have been his idea, but she was smart enough to execute it, and he couldn’t say that for most marketing stiffs.
“Look at me,” he whispered, going a few steps closer. “Lift the bottle, tilt your head this way, hold it lightly, now look right at me, Gussie.”
She followed every instruction as he got closer, snapping every shot, using the light, working with the angle, adjusting everything but the one thing he couldn’t adjust. Her eyes. Her story. Her truth.
This was the moment he found the soft spot, the vulnerability that would translate into honesty and beauty, the glimmer of gold that connected with every woman who looked at this shot. The deepest, darkest, sweetest, truest Gussie.
“Honey,” he whispered, knowing no one could hear her but him.
She looked at him, waiting for his next word.
“Who are you waiting for?”
Her eyes flickered, confused at first—and he got that shot—and then she relaxed. But still, she was able to communicate a sense of waiting, of anticipation, of longing.
“Someone special, right?” he prodded.
A true professional, she turned to give him her profile, looking down the street in expectation, a hint of lift in her heels, the LaVie bottle poised a few inches from her mouth as if she couldn’t take a sip until she saw whoever she imagined she was waiting for.
But the shot was flat. He needed more emotion. Less hope and more heartache. He knew how to get that by playing a story game with her. He did it all the time, and the best models caught on. And she was clearly one of the best.
“He’s not coming, is he, Gussie?”
Her eyes nearly shuttered closed, as if he’d hit the mark, and he got the shot.
“You’re waiting and waiting, but you know he’s not on his way.”
She closed her eyes and took a tiny sip, as if the water named for life itself could ease her pain. Perfect shot. He had her now. Had her.
“Do you see him, Gussie? That person who’ll make you feel finished? Complete? Whole? Do you see him?”
Because, damn it, he is right here taking pictures of you.
A wistful look crossed her face as she tucked her lower lip under her teeth. She wasn’t acting, he realized. He’d taken her to a real place.
“Do you?” he prodded.
She shook her head infinitesimally,
enough that he knew she was trying to shake off the question and yet acknowledge that her pretend man wasn’t there.
She pushed her hair over her shoulder, and he snapped the shot.
“You want to see him, though, don’t you?”
She turned and looked directly at the camera, a stunning world of hurt shadowing her eyes. The beauty was there, along with so, so much pain. He didn’t take that shot, but slowly inched his camera down.
“Gussie?”
Still holding the bottle close to her mouth, the label perfectly readable, as it would be in the hands of a pro, she shifted her gaze down the street, an aura of anticipation, as if she were on hold for his next question.
He angled the camera, changed the aperture, checked the focus. This was it. He wanted this shot. “Who are you waiting for?” he whispered.
In partial profile, she lifted the bottle to her mouth, pressing glossy lips to the opening. All the heartbreak he wanted tinged her expression. The last rays of sun glistened over her as a sea breeze lifted her hair and fluttered a few strands, revealing her scar. He had it all, every angle and color and shadow of her.
“Who are you waiting for, Pink?”
“Luke,” she whispered. “I’m waiting for my brother.”
All the anguish, all the vulnerability, all the longing, and all the exposure he wanted filled the lens and broke his heart.
For a long time, they stared at each other, ignoring the hoots and hollers of Suzette and the crew. He lowered the camera. “That’s a wrap,” he whispered, then walked to Gussie and folded her into his arms.
Chapter Nineteen
By her second glass of champagne and a few bits of escargot so luscious it could have made a grown woman weep, Gussie had nearly forgotten her inexplicable meltdown at the end of the photo shoot.
Though maybe it wasn’t so inexplicable. Her ache for Luke, for her family, for the very essence of her childhood, was always right there beneath the surface. Maybe that whole act of facing down her insecurities—so tied up with what happened that night—had brought her pain bubbling to the surface.
Maybe the fact that for the first time in fifteen years, she forgot her scar and realized how utterly different her life would have been if she hadn’t made that stupid mistake.