Hidden Darkness (Hidden Saga Book 4) (2 page)

How exactly was I supposed to “be a watch?”

              We were on the set of a men’s wrist watch shoot, and I was trying to follow the photographer’s instructions. Really, I was. But some of these guys were just a little too far out there.
Be the watch
—are you kidding me?

              The funny thing was, the watch was barely showing in any of the shots Guillermo had taken so far. It was wrapped around the wrist of Culley Rune, and when he was on a set, the only thing
anyone—
men, women, and photographic equipment included—wanted
to focus on was his face.

              Yes, he was
that
good-looking. He was also
well
aware of it.

              “Come on, Ava,” he whispered close to my ear, his light Australian accent a knowing tease. “You’re acting like I smell bad or something—when I know for a fact I don’t.” Culley arched one perfect eyebrow at me, daring me to contradict him. Daring me to resist him.

              I inched a bit closer to his six-foot-three frame, and no, he did not smell bad. He smelled pretty amazing, actually. It was his ego that repulsed me. Maybe I should have been more understanding. When people worshipped you and treated you as if you were some sort of god, you probably couldn’t help but believe it after a while.

              Culley Rune was the hottest male model working in the fashion industry. He charged exorbitant fees to walk the runway during Fashion Week, and his check for today’s shoot would no doubt quadruple mine.

              I was basically there as his prop anyway. He was supposed to project all his adoration and desire for this ten thousand dollar timepiece on me. And I was apparently supposed to embody a gaudy hunk of metal.

              “You
are
the watch, Ava. You’re gorgeous, desirable. Everybody wants you,” the photographer encouraged, moving around us and clicking steadily.

              “I know
this
body does,” Culley purred. His hot breath fanned my neck, making goosebumps rise on my flesh. Real pretty. 

              “Shut up,” I muttered, trying to hold onto my fierce-and-desirable expression. “You’re not helping.”

              He laughed, his white teeth flashing under the hot studio lights. “You’re going to have to get used to me, you know. We’re about to be spending a
lot
of time together.”

              I tried to ignore him and focus on
being the watch
, but his extreme nearness—and extreme cockiness—was making this the most difficult shoot I’d done since I was a fledgling model just getting my start in L.A. at seventeen years old.

              If I didn’t need this job so much, I’d just walk out of here right now and get in my car, drive to the beach—or better yet, up the coast to Ventura County to one of those farms where you could wander the dusty crop rows and gather ripe raspberries and heirloom tomatoes and black-eyed peas, where the air smelled like freshly turned dirt and ripening peaches and you heard birds and honeybees and you felt like the city didn’t even exist.

              “Excuse me.” An imperious female voice interjected, and my stomach sank to my toes.
Great.
“Excuse me. May I have a word with my daughter please? Ava. Ava dear,” she called.

              Guillermo wore an incredulous expression as he turned to see the tall red-haired bombshell clicking into the room on her stiletto heels, white designer suit hugging her slim curves, icy blue eyes boring into me.

              She spoke again, exerting her full regal presence and a hefty dose of Sway. “It will only take a moment—and it will help. I assure you.”

              The photographer’s expression changed instantly. His tone was deferential. “Of course. No problem. Take all the time you like.” To me, he said, “I can see which end of the gene pool
you
came from.”

              Little did he know, my father had been just as tall and physically attractive as my mother. It was an Elven thing. That was why so many of us dominated the television and movie screens—and especially the magazine ads like the one we were shooting today.

              Mother beckoned me with her manicured fingers. I extricated myself from Culley’s arms, crossing the bright studio to where she stood, my throat growing tighter with each step in her direction.

              “How’s it going, darling?” she asked aloud. Inside my brain she hissed.
What do you think you are doing? I’ve never seen you do such a lackluster job. It’s almost as if you’re trying not to work well with him. Do I have to remind you? We
need
this, Ava.

             
Well I’m sorry,
I said, not sounding very sorry at all.
But it’s awkward. If you wanted me to be comfortable, maybe you should have given me a little more warning. Or maybe introduced us before throwing us together like this.

             
For the sake of the humans in the room, I answered her first question. “Oh, it’s great. We’re just getting warmed up.”

              “Lovely. I’ll just stay and watch if you don’t mind.” She gave me a saccharine smile, which I returned with equal insincerity. Working with her helicoptering over me was like trying to win a swim meet with a backpack full of bricks. At gunpoint.

              “Great,” I said.

             
He’s just arrived in the States. You should make him feel welcome—not antagonize him,
she continued.
And be charming.
You’re perfect for each other, you’ll see.
And you don’t want to displease Audun. You have a job to do.

              Well then let me do my job.

             
I spun away from her toward the refuge of the set and slammed directly into the intern who’d been sent out for sandwiches. Brown take-out boxes flew in every direction. The drink tray she’d been balancing crashed to the floor, sending a flood of tea and soda and ice cubes over her shoes and mine.

              Her face went purple. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” She grabbed a stack of napkins and started frantically dabbing at my toes.

              “Please don’t worry about it—it was my fault.” I squatted, grabbing a handful of napkins myself and swiping the floor, trying to help contain the disaster.

              The intern—Claire, she’d said earlier—gasped. “Oh no, let me get it. You don’t need to do this.”

              “Really, Claire. I’m fine. Looks like you got the worst of it,” I said, eyeing her wet pants legs and Chuck Taylors, which had been a light blue but were now a sickly brownish color.

              “Ava—you are
not
a janitor.” Mother sniffed. “Get off the floor right now—you’ll make yourself even more disheveled. Let the girl clean it up. Wardrobe! Makeup! See to your model—she’ll be ruined.”

              I did stand but not because I was worried over my appearance. Crossing the room to my purse, I dug out my wallet and went back to Claire, who was nearly in tears now, trying to gather the tumbled catering boxes.

              Having just bought a pair of Chucks for myself, I knew how pricey they were. I also knew Claire couldn’t afford to replace hers—she was still in college, and her internship with Guillermo was unpaid.

              “Here.” I pulled five twenties out of my wallet and pressed them into Claire’s hand. “This is for your shoes.” When she just stared dumbfounded at the cash in her hand, I added, “They’re really cute, and they look new. That tea and stuff is never going to wash out right—get some new ones.” Just to make sure she wouldn’t argue, I used a little Sway in my suggestion.

              “Uh… thanks a lot,” she finally said. “These are my favorites.”

              “Okay then.” I smiled at her.

              “Okay,” she said, sounding a little dazed, and carried the rescued boxes to a table along one wall of the studio.

              Taking care to avoid the sticky area on the floor, Mother rushed to my side and gripped my upper arm. She shot a worried glance over at Culley. “Was it really necessary for you to grovel on the floor with the help? And give her
our
money?” She wasn’t a fan of any humans, but she held particular disdain for those without power and influence. She probably assumed Culley felt the same. Which he probably did.

              I yanked my arm out of her grasp. “Yes, Mother. It was necessary. I have to get back to work now.”

              Struggling to tamp down my annoyance and calm my raging pulse, I walked back toward Culley, passing the makeup artist and the photographer’s assistant on the way. I caught a snatch of their whispered conversation.

              “… stage mother… nightmare.”

              I pretended not to hear them, but what they said was true. Thora Morten had earned quite a reputation for herself around the L.A. fashion scene. If I’d been human, I would probably be considered un-hire-able by this point.

              I was a passably good model, and I worked hard, but pretty girls out here were a dime-a dozen. If you got a reputation for being difficult in any way, you didn’t get many bookings. My reputation was that I had the stage-mom-from-Hell. It was only thanks to her Sway and my own glamour smoothing things over that the jobs kept coming, including this one with Culley.

              “How nice that your mum came for a visit,” he said when I reached him, his voice tinged with wicked amusement.

              “Oh yes,” I muttered under my breath. “It’s
wonderful
to have her around when I’m trying to work.”

              He chuckled darkly. “At least she cares enough to be on the same continent with you.” All sarcasm was gone, replaced by a sullen tone that surprised me.

              For the first time since meeting him, I was interested in what Culley had to say. I met his eyes directly. “You don’t see your mother much?”

              From what I knew of him, he had grown up in Melbourne with his mom Falene. She’d been sent there by his father Audun Rune, presumably to supervise the Australian clans, and the spouses rarely saw each other, though they remained married, of course.

              “If you consider once or twice a year a lot then, yes, I see her quite often.” His ultra-blue eyes met mine. “I came here straight from Eton. Falene thought England would be the best place for me to spend the majority of my time since I was thirteen.”

              “Wow—you moved away from home at thirteen?” That seemed kind of young to be on your own. As annoying as Mother could be, as much as I despised some of the things she pushed me to do, I couldn’t imagine being sent away to fend for myself when I was barely out of my tweens.

              Perhaps detecting a note of sympathy in my voice, Culley straightened, his I-don’t-give-a-shit demeanor snapping back into place. “And why not? It’s a great school. I got the finest education money can buy, rubbed elbows with the future leaders of the world. And I learned the greatest lesson of all.”

              “What’s that?” I asked as we moved back into our positions so Guillermo could resume the session.

              Culley gazed at me, his expression exuding heat and desire and longing—all for the sake of the camera.

              “To look out for myself. If you want something in this life, Angel, you’d better take it—because
no one
is going to give you what you need.”

             
How sad. And how true.

              I must have been frowning, because Guillermo spoke up. “Hey guys—let’s focus now. A few more good shots and we’ll be out of here.”

              I once again did my best to be a watch, but Culley’s words continued to spin through my brain. Maybe we
were
perfect for each other. My new fiancé was as jaded as I was.

*     *     *

Finally finished with the shoot, I headed off-set, beyond ready to change into my own clothes and remove the four pounds of makeup caked on my skin.

              “Oh my God—look at his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so green.”

              Before stepping into the dressing room, I glanced to the side of the studio where the photographer’s assistant was crowded around a monitor with several other people, pouring over the photo files from our shoot.

              “What are you talking about? They’re violet,” the guy next to her said. He was in charge of lighting, which meant he’d been up close and personal with both me and Culley throughout the day. 

              “Excuse me, but I’ve worked with him five times now,” argued the makeup artist. “He’s got the deepest
brown
eyes I’ve ever seen. And that mocha skin—mmm—if he isn’t God’s gift, I don’t know who is.”

              I had no idea what any of them were talking about. I’d just spent the better part of four hours inches away from his face, and Culley’s eyes were sky blue. I was sure of it because I remembered thinking I’d never seen anyone with eyes quite that shade—or quite that lovely—before. And mocha skin? His complexion was pale perfection.