CHAPTER 3
Grace set Brenna Rease’s open portfolio on the coffee table and stood for Sam Chisolm’s departure.
She had become so engrossed in the images that she had lost track of her boss altogether.
Brenna Rease’s reputation for excellence, at least, had not been overstated.
Her volume was filled with stories of human tragedy and triumph, each captured in the instant of her choice.
It must be true, what they said, that she worked instinctively and that her camera was an extension of herself.
After Sam closed the door on his way out, Grace stood across from her in a thick silence. Brenna was striking. A handsome woman, she exuded competence and intelligence. Except for the string of men she had been linked to in the tabloids, Grace would have pegged her as a lesbian.
Earlier, when she and Sam had entered the office, Brenna had nailed her with her astonishing eyes—green flecked with gray, like sunlight in the pines.
Normally, they were eyes that Grace could get lost in, but in Brenna Rease, they were too damned acute.
Right now, she was staring at Grace, visually dissecting her.
Grace cleared her throat. “I was looking at your portfolio,” she said. “Do you mind if I finish?”
Brenna took her seat again and crossed one lovely knee over the other.
Grace resumed her examination of the last few images, hoping she didn’t look as unnerved as she felt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brenna’s ankle tapping like a slow metronome. Even in silence, she dominated the room. Grace turned to the last page.
Brenna’s ankle froze in mid-action.
Grace had seen the Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph before, of course—variously cropped because of the soldier’s unzipped pants and partial nudity.
The subject was an Israeli Colonel, eviscerated by a car bomb, his expression a mixture of agony and surprise.
The rumor persisted that Brenna Rease had been having sex with him when he died.
Grace looked up in disbelief.
Face impassive, Brenna lifted a brow. “Question?” she asked defiantly.
Well, yes, actually. What kind of woman makes love to a man one minute, then takes a picture of him dead so she can get a prize?
She closed the portfolio and slid it across the coffee table to her, keeping aside the VHS recording that served as her demo reel.
“May I keep the tape? I’d like to look at it later.”
She nodded.
Grace leaned back. “Does the project interest you?”
“Can you afford me?” Brenna’s voice was smooth—the sort of voice that sounded good at your ear during a slow dance.
“How much are you asking?”
She named her figure.
Grace’s eyebrows shot up. “All in?”
“No. Per day. Plus expenses.”
She blew out a soundless breath. Sam’s ringer was going to cost him. “Negotiate for perks?” Maybe she could mitigate the damage.
“Like what? A limo ride to the airport? A season’s pass to the Redskins games? I’m risking my life, Alcott.”
Ignoring the impertinence, Grace went to her desk and returned with a black-and-gold onyx fountain pen and a yellow legal pad. She sat back down and jotted down the fee.
“Also,” she said. “I’ll only work three days in Kav?ak. No more.”
“But, the cost of getting overseas, alone—”
“It isn’t negotiable.”
“Other requests?” Grace forbore using the antagonistic term, demands.
“Equipment. I have my own, but if it gets damaged, you repair or replace it.”
“Anything else?”
“If something happens, EBS ships me home. I’ll leave you my brother’s contact info in New York.”
It took a second before Grace understood her meaning. In a casket, she meant. If she was killed, EBS returned her remains. It wasn’t a stipulation she’d ever contracted for before.
Brenna stretched her right leg out, apparently finished with the assault portion of the encounter. “Just out of curiosity,” she said. “Who’s doing the words?”
“A reporter named Geoff Garrett.”
Her expression froze.
“You know him?” Grace asked.
“Southeast Asia man,” she said, absently stroking the underside of her thigh. “Worked Rwanda and DR Congo during the troubles there. Used to work for the Associated Press, but freelances now.”
“That’s him.” Grace’s eye strayed to her thigh and the unconsciously sensuous way she caressed it.
“Why Garrett?” Brenna asked.
She brought her gaze up. “I know him from graduate school at Columbia.”
“I see.”
Grace furrowed her brows. Maybe Geoff and Brenna were ex-lovers. Geoff had always been popular with the women. And Brenna Rease, as everyone knew, had bedded more than her share of men—at least one, quite spectacularly.
“I wouldn’t hire him. He’s—”
“It’s already arranged,” Grace said, cutting off further discussion. Brenna Rease was not here to serve as the executive producer.
After Brenna left, Grace realized her shoulders were knotted with tension. Blast Sam’s meddling! There were a dozen DP’s who could do the job just fine, thank you, and none of them would be this unpleasant to work with.
She slipped the demo tape into the player on the wall unit and flipped on the monitor.
Stills and video were two different skills.
Just because she was good at still photography didn’t mean she could handle video.
If she couldn’t handle the medium, Sam wouldn’t argue the assignment.
She tapped the Play button on the remote control.
Four minutes of spectacular combat footage blazed across the screen.
The work was unflinching, hard-edged—and heart-rending.
On the run, Brenna was a demon, capturing impossible images through a combination of speed, courage, and talent.
When she had more time, the results were cinematic.
Notoriously two-dimensional as video was, she made digital images look like film.
When the screen faded to black, Grace sat slack-jawed on the edge of her seat.
Oh, my lord.
Brenna Rease had a visual style as distinctive as a signature.
Sam had been right. She was good, damned good.
Her pictures would transform an excellent documentary into an outstanding one.
Now that Grace had seen her work, she agreed with Sam.
She didn’t want anyone else to shoot this documentary.
She paused to consider how that could be achieved.
Brenna Rease was a difficult and high-handed prima donna with a shocking personal reputation.
She could turn the project into a living hell.
Unless. Unless Grace kept her under strict contractual control.
Define her obligations so tightly she couldn’t take a breath without EBS’ consent.
She considered the notion at length, tapping the remote control unit against her fingertips, thinking about the paperwork.
Finally, she dipped her head. It was do-able.
All she had to do was sign Brenna, send her off, and stay as far away from those shimmering green eyes and endlessly long legs as she could.