Man of Fantasy

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 the bedrooms.

“Aren’t the prevailing rates for agents between fifteen and twenty-five percent?”

“Don’t forget I’m going to charge you for the photos, matting and framing.”

“When do you want me to look at the photos?”

“That’s up to you,” Nayo said.

“What if I come to the gallery on Friday?”

Ivan had made it a practice not to schedule patients on Friday. The only exception was an emergency, and thankfully he hadn’t had too many of those. He lectured Monday and Wednesday morning, then saw patients in the afternoon and evening. He was available all day Tuesday and Thursday for scheduled appointments and walk-ins, and had set aside Thursdays as his late night.

“I’m sorry, but the gallery is closed on Friday, unless there is a showing.”

He exhaled. “I teach and see patients every day of the week except Friday.”

Nayo pondered Ivan’s scheduling dilemma. She worked Monday, Wednesday and Friday at the auction house and toured the different neighborhoods on Tuesday looking for subjects to photograph. Her Thursdays were spent cleaning her apartment, shopping for food and dropping off and picking up laundry.

“I can see you on Friday, but it will have to be after six,” she said, knowing she had to compromise to give Ivan what he needed for the magazine layout.

“So I’ll meet you at the gallery?” Ivan asked.

A beat passed. “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

Nayo knew if she couldn’t convince Geoff to open the gallery for her to use for a few hours on Friday, then Ivan would have to come to her apartment. No male, other than her father and brother, had crossed the threshold to what she’d come to think of as her sanctuary. It was there where she went to eat, sleep, relax and examine the shots she’d taken during her block-by-block walking expedition, and not entertain men.

She and Geoff had an explosive interchange when he’d called out of the blue, asking to drop by. She’d tried explaining that she was raised never to drop in on someone without an invitation, but Geoff was quite vocal when he said her protocol was not only rigid, but archaic. His reference to her upstate roots was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and several weeks passed before she would take his calls. He apologized profusely and never broached the subject again.

“What if we meet over dinner?” Ivan asked.

“Are you cooking?” she teased.

Straightening, Ivan angled his head. “You really want me to cook?”

Pushing to her feet, Nayo waved her hands. “Why do you sound so surprised? You have a kitchen to die for with all the accoutrements, and you have the audacity to ask me whether I want you to cook. Of course I do,” she said, enunciating each word.

Ivan made a face. “I’m really not that good.”

Suddenly Ivan recalled the spaghetti carbonara he’d prepared. “I’ll cook,” he said, smiling. “Do you like Italian?”