I want or I have to reshoot it.”
Resting his hand at the small of Nayo’s back, Ivan steered her toward the staircase. “How many pictures did you take to come up with the 120 in your bridge collection?”
“I have more than 120 photographs in my bridge collection.”
Ivan stopped before stepping off at the second floor landing. “I thought you said the exhibition was a limited collection.”
“I said the photographs in that collection will not be reprinted. I have others that I’ll show probably in a couple of years. If I decide never to exhibit them, then I’ll include them in a coffee-table book.”
“Do you have photos of any of the New York City bridges?”
Nayo nodded. “I have several of the Brooklyn Bridge at different times of the day.”
“Hot damn!” he said under his breath.
The skin around Nayo’s eyes crinkled when she laughed, the soft, sensual sound bubbling up from her throat. Ivan’s deep, rumbling laugh joined hers, and they were still laughing when he opened the door to his apartment to give her a tour of what had become a designer’s show house.
Chapter 3
Reaching into her jacket pocket, Nayo removed a small, handheld video recorder. She hadn’t realized her hand was shaking until she tried to take off her jacket. The rumors she’d heard about Carla Harris’s meteoric rise in the world of interior design were true, as evidenced by the blending of textures and colors. The interior of Ivan Campbell’s duplex was breathtakingly beautiful.
“I’ll take that,” Ivan said, reaching for Nayo’s jacket. “You can either start here or downstairs.”
Nayo stared at the area off the entryway, which contained a leather grouping in front of a minimalist-designed fireplace. “I’d like to see the rooms alone.” Her gaze shifted to Ivan, seeing an expression of confusion on his handsome face. “I like to feel the space, and I can’t do that if there’s someone else there with me. Rooms, if they aren’t empty, are like people, Ivan,” she explained softly. “Each one has a personality based on the color of the walls, flooring, the window treatments and the furnishings. It’s the same when I study a subject or object I plan to photograph. It’s not about looking through a camera lens and snapping the image. It’s seeing beyond that. That’s the difference between an amateur and professional photographer.”
Ivan inclined his head in agreement. He’d had a patient who was an artist, and he was more than familiar with his quirky personality. Despite having a successful career, he never believed in himself. After being commissioned to paint a mural for the lobby of a major corporation, he’d spend months procrastinating. Fear and self-doubt brought on a paralyzing anxiety that made it almost impossible for him to pick up a brush. Following a series of intense therapy sessions, he worked nonstop to make the deadline. If Nayo needed solitude, he’d comply with her request.
“Take your time.”
Nayo exhaled inaudibly. She thought Ivan wouldn’t agree to her going through his home unaccompanied, because the first time she’d made a similar request to a potential client, she’d found herself ushered out of the woman’s Sutton Place penthouse—but not before Nayo told her there wasn’t anything in her apartment worth stealing and going to jail for.
Smiling, she winked at Ivan. “I’ll be back.”
“Would you like a café latte or cappuccino?”
“I’d love a latte, thank you.”
“Would you like it now or when you’re finished?”
“I’ll have it when I’m finished.”
Nayo was anxious to tour the house so she could recommend photographs that would be suitable for the magazine spread. Ivan hadn’t mentioned the name of the magazine, but she knew it was Architectural Digest. When Carla Harris attended the preview showing, she’d babbled incessantly about how the preeminent interior-design magazine wanted to photograph the home of one of her clients.
Switching on the tape recorder, she spoke quietly into the speaker. “I’ve just passed an alcove with a leather grouping in butter-yellow designed for small, intimate gatherings in front of a minimalist fireplace. There is no fireplace mantel, but a grouping of shadow boxes would break up the starkness of the oyster-white wall.”
She continued into the living room, where a neutral palette of white, cream and tan provided an elegant backdrop for comfort and elegance. Nayo felt the room was a little too formal with a tufted, brown-leather sofa, chairs and doubled-tiered, beveled-glass coffee table positioned at an angle on the cream-colored plush rug.
Switching on the recorder again, she said, “There are books, a chess set with full-leaded crystal pieces on the coffee table. There’s a Waterford lamp on a side table, along with a Waterford Crystal 2000 World Series Home Plate New York City Subway Series collectible. Dr. Ivan Campbell likes music, sports and chess.”
Nayo lost track of time as she entered and left rooms that bore the designer’s distinctive mark. Carla Harris had made her reputation by incorporating the personality of the owner within the space’s function. Unlike Ivan, she wasn’t a psychologist, but what Nayo saw spoke volumes. He was a chameleon, switching flawlessly from formal to informal with a change of attire.
Friday night he was Dr. Campbell. She’d found him somewhat passive-aggressive when he’d tried to talk her into duplicating the prints he wanted. It was only when she stood her ground that he backed off. Sunday afternoon he was Ivan, welcoming, cooperative and amenable to her suggestions.
It took Nayo less than half an hour to ascertain that Ivan wasn’t married. Everything in his house was as masculine as he, and nowhere was there anything feminine—no intimate products, hairdressing, perfume or deodorant on the dressing tables in any of the bathrooms. His home was the proverbial bachelor pad.
The master bedroom projected a Zen quality: platform bed with gray, black and white accessories. The minimalist Asian decor was carried over into the bath with two large, pale green bowls doubling as basins and a matching garden tub with enough space for four adults.
The furnishings in the three guest bedrooms were reminiscent of Caribbean plantation homes under British Colonial rule. The mosquito netting draping the four-poster beds reminded Nayo of her own bed, with its mosquito netting embroidered with tiny yellow pineapples.
Walking through the formal dining room with a magnificent crystal chandelier over a table with seating for ten, she found herself in a state-of-the-art, gourmet kitchen. Pots, pans and utensils were suspended from a rack over a cooking island. Her gaze swept over a subzero refrigerator, wine cellar and a collection of cookbooks on a shelf near an espresso machine.
Nayo walked through the kitchen into a well-stocked pantry, then a laundry room, then down a flight of stairs to the street level. She pushed a button on the recorder. “Framed movie prints would work well on the walls of the home theater. I’m leaving the home theater and walking into a home office. There are two photographs of Malcolm X, the only photos in the entire apartment. One is a candid shot and the other a framed print issued by the U.S. Postal Service. Black-and-white landscapes will work well in the home office.” She turned off the recorder.
The utility kitchen, with its stainless-steel appliances, and a glass-and-porcelain
