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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?”
Her expression brightened. “I love it.”
“Are you lactose-intolerant?”
Nayo shook her head. “No. Do you mind if I bring dessert?” Ivan flashed the smile she wanted to capture for posterity. Somehow she had to get him to agree to sit for her.
“Of course not. Call me and let me know what time you want me to pick you up.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I live practically around the corner.”
“Even if you lived next door I’d still come and pick you up. The days are getting shorter and by six it’s starting to get dark.”
Nayo knew she had to play nice with Ivan, because she wanted to shoot him. “Okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can come and get me. Thank you for the latte.”
There was just enough sarcasm in her tone to make Ivan give her a pointed look. Pretending she didn’t notice it, she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, Ivan following. He picked up her jacket off the chair in the alcove, holding it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.
“Don’t leave yet,” Ivan warned as he opened the door to a closet off the entryway. Reaching for a lightweight windbreaker, he put it on, then opened the drawer in the credence table and took out a set of keys. “Now I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To walk you home.”
Nayo gave the man with the superinflated ego a baleful look that spoke volumes. Yes, he was gorgeous, educated, owned a beautiful home and apparently was solvent, but that didn’t translate into her gushing over him as if he were the last man on the face of the earth.
She knew her youthful appearance shocked a lot of people, but she wasn’t a girl. She’d had a long-term relationship that ended in a broken engagement; she’d spent several summers in Europe, avoiding the advances of men who saw her as easy prey; and she’d put more than one hundred thousand miles on her car when she’d crisscrossed the continental United States shooting more than a thousand pictures.
Ivan had admitted he’d been flirting with her, but Nayo Cassandra Goddard wasn’t biting. Growing her career, not becoming involved with a man, had become her priority.
“I’m not going home. I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She’d made plans to meet Geoff at a seafood restaurant on the Upper East Side. “I’ll call you,” she said cheerfully.
Ivan nodded numbly like a bobble-head doll. Nayo was there and then she wasn’t as the door closed quietly behind her departing figure. He’d detected a subtle defiance in the photographer, defiance he saw as a challenge.
Many of the women he’d dated failed to hold his interest for more than a few weeks, but there was something about the petite photographer that intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to see her again.
He hadn’t realized that until he’d opened the door to find her standing there. Ivan knew he could’ve asked Carla to purchase or rent the requisite art, but after seeing Nayo’s photos and meeting her, he realized he didn’t want or need Carla’s involvement.
He liked Nayo, but what he had to uncover was why.
What was it about her that made her different from other women?
And how had a little slip of a woman managed to get to the man who’d earned the reputation of “love them and leave them”?
Nayo hadn’t outright rejected his advances, but Ivan knew she wasn’t going to be easy. And that was the difference between her and other women—they’d been too easy.
Chapter 4
Ivan picked up a piece of chalk and began drawing and labeling columns on the chalkboard. “Today we’re going to talk about culturally mediated belief and practices as they pertain to different racial and ethnic groups. We’re going to cover five ethnic groups—Russian, Native American, Mexican, Asian and African-Americans. Each group, although American, relates differently to birth and dying, religion, role differences and communication.”
Turning, he stared at the students staring back at him. The course was open only to juniors and seniors, and was a favorite of Ivan’s; the dozen students came to class with the intent to challenge him at every turn.
A male student who’d bleached his jet-black hair a shocking flaxen color raised his hand. “Dr. Campbell?”
Ivan turned, noticing that the young man had applied black polish to his nails. “Yes, Mr. Hernandez?”
“You have Mexicans, but you didn’t include Puerto Ricans.”
“We’ll discuss them separately. With more than four hundred ethno-cultural groups it is virtually impossible to cover every group in North America. As therapists it is incumbent on you to familiarize yourself with the customs and characteristics of most of the groups you’ll work with. Sensitivity to any customs that aren’t your own will determine how effective you’ll be with your patients. I always require an ethno-cultural assessment during the intake process.”
“What are some of the questions on the form?” asked a female student who always came to class with her head and body covered.
“Don’t be afraid to ask the patient their ethnic origin, the primary language spoken at home or if they require an interpreter. Religious beliefs, restrictions and practices are important for understanding and perception of mental-health therapy.”
“I am Muslim, so how does dying differ from someone who is African-American and Christian?”
Ivan moved over and sat on the edge of the desk. He never liked the traditional classroom seating, so he had his students rearrange their chairs in a U formation.
“Muslims believe death is God’s will,” Ivan replied. “They always turn a patient’s bed to face the East, or Mecca, and read from the Koran. There are no cremations or autopsies. The only exception would be for forensics and organ donations.
“African-Americans are reluctant to donate their organs, and family members will usually make the decision when it comes to the deceased. Their response to death is varied, so you may get a lot of different ones. Funerals and burials may take as long as five days to a week after death. It is very important to ascertain the patient’s religious affiliation during the interview process and know the importance of religion or church in his or her life.”
Ivan made certain not to make eye contact with his Muslim student. He’d learned that some females avoided eye contact with males and strangers. He wasn’t a stranger, but he was male. “Islam instructs you to pray five times each day, fast during Ramadan and take a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once during your lifetime.”
He gave the students an overview of the ethno-cultural differences before giving each a handout of the assessment tool. This was Ivan’s first year teaching a humanistic view of a course that covered selected psychological literature on non-white Americans, and most of the data was derived from his published doctoral dissertation.
A lively discussion ensued until Ivan glanced at his watch, noting he’d gone ten minutes beyond the time for dismissal. “For those of you who have another class, you’d better hustle or you’re going to be late. Have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Monday.”
He gathered the extra handouts, slipping them into a leather case, then checked his cell phone. Someone had sent him a voice-mail message. Punching in his PIN, he listened to the soft, feminine voice coming through the earpiece.
It was Nayo, and this was the first time he detected an inflection in her speech pattern that was different from those living in New York City. Pressing a button, he replayed her message: Ivan, this is Nayo. Please call me when you get this message. She left the numbers for her cell, home and work.
Ivan wrote down the numbers, then dialed the one for her cell. “This is Ivan,” he said after hearing her soft greeting.
“Oh, Ivan, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel Friday. I just remembered that a friend is hosting a pre-Halloween party and I promised her I would attend.”
“What costume are you wearing?”
“Costumes are optional. Is it possible for us to meet tonight?”
“I can’t give you an answer until I check with my office. Hang up and I’ll call you back.”
Ivan had purposely kept busy so he wouldn’t have to think about Nayo Goddard, but just hearing her voice again conjured up the image of her doll-like, wide-eyed gaze. He didn’t know why, but he remembered every curve of her petite body as if she were standing in front of him. He dialed his office, counting off the rings until his secretary answered the call. It rang six times, followed by a distinctive click that indicated the call had been transferred to the reception desk.
“Counseling Center, Demetria speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Demetria, this is Ivan. Can you check my calendar and tell me who’s scheduled to come in this afternoon?”
