Page 52 of The Client
The melancholy expression on her face in those photographs nags at me.
Her expression could be coached as part of the aesthetic, but the hollow look in her eyes and narrow set to her lips suggest she’s not comfortable. After seeing these photos, I’ve decided that I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight. Once I’m finished using my mouth and my hands to erase every touch and embrace that Izabela received during the photo shoot.
It only takes one phone call to find out where the shoot is taking place.
After telling Tamara that I’ll be gone for the rest of the day and to reschedule my afternoon meetings, I slip into my jacket and hurry out of the office. What should have been a twenty-minute drive is closer to forty with heavy traffic. By the time I reach the location, I’m tense with righteousness. How many more poses has she been subjected to in the time it took me to get here? How many ways did those other models touch her?
It’s not fucking professional, and I should have made certain she had legal counsel on set.
When I stroll into the space—a huge loft in River North—I see that the crew has moved to a different stage. This one is an over-the-top rendition of Versailles, complete with tall, gold-framed baroque mirrors, low-hanging crystal chandeliers and towers of pastel-colored cookies and cakes.
Izabela is dressed in a skimpy, ruffled pink bra with matching panties and a Marie Antoinette wig. The male model is in a curled white wig as well, and is shirtless. The only thing he wears is a pair of ludicrous baby blue velvet knee pants, unless you count the fake beauty mark on his cheek. He has his arms around her waist, his face pressed into the back of her neck, like he can’t get enough of the scent of her.
The other female model is in a lime-green bustier and ruffled bloomers. She’s holding a cupcake with a swirl of pale pink frosting on it, and I watch as the director orders her to dip a finger into the frosting and then hold it out for Izabela to suck.
Slipping out of my jacket, I loosen my tie slightly. My clothes feel too tight. My skin, too hot. An assistant sees me striding toward the set and runs over with an alarmed expression.
“Sir, you can’t be in here. Sir? You need to leave. This is a closed set.”
“And you clearly have no idea who I am,” I say.
Bypassing him, I make my way toward the young guy dressed all in black who just told the other model to feed Izabela the frosting off her cupcake. He has an imperious air, and he’s speaking into an earpiece, pointing up at one of the chandeliers and motioning for it to be lowered. I have no doubt that he’s the director of all these shenanigans.
“Are you the creative muscle behind…whatever this is?” I ask.
He looks over at me and his expression falters. “And you are?”
“Unhappy.”
He frowns. “I don’t know why I should answer to—”
“McConnell. Rhys McConnell. Should I get on the phone with Konstantin Zoric and tell him how unprofessional this set is? Because I doubt he’d agree to let his girls work under these conditions without representation.”
He glares at me and opens his mouth to argue again, but then an assistant rushes over and whispers something in his ear. Suddenly, he’s looking nervous. Good.
“Rhys?” Izabela’s surprised voice calls out to me.
I don’t respond. But I do step closer to the director as she appears at my side. Taking her arm because I need to touch her, I move her a few steps back.
“You said I could work,” she whispers. “If you interfere, KZM might not be able to book jobs for me in the future.”
“Are you comfortable with all of this?” I ask, gesturing at the set. Then I indicate her lack of clothing, resisting the urge to throw my jacket over her shoulders. “And…this wardrobe? Just because they’re paying you doesn’t mean they own you. You aren’t just a body.”
Oh, the irony. Her lips twitch because she recognizes it, too.
The director has moved closer to listen in on whether or not I’m going to demand that his model leave the shoot.
“I’m fine, Rhys,” Izabela says. “This is an opportunity for me.”
“You ought to remind your face, then,” I tell her. “Right now, you don’t look happy, and you don’t look like you’re prepared to tell them.”
The director gasps and clutches his clipboard to his chest. The room has gone still, everyone watching us.
Izabela shakes her head. “No. Iwantto do this. Nothing unprofessional is going on. I’m perfectly comfortable.” Assessing her body language, I’m not sure that I believe her.
“Right here,” I tell her. “Right now. Look me in the eyes. If you like this so much, look me in the eyes and explain to me why you’re so happy.”
“I wasn’t.” She stares at me for a moment longer. “But I feel better having you here.”
