TEN

Normally, Hiram would have gone straight to Sid's first, but for some reason he decided to change the routine.  He wasn't sure exactly why, but something told him that a quieter evening was called for, something softer and more personal.  He hadn't spent any time with Madeline in quite a while.  He didn't want to share her with an endless stream of business associates and clients; he wanted to take advantage of her smile, of her warmth.  Hell, he decided, he missed her, and she only worked in the next room from him.

He was also worried that one of his newer acquaintances might surface, one of those dark, deep-eyed men who shelled out the big bucks without question when he presented Greve's photos. Not only did Hiram not want to see them, or to be associated with them, but also he didn't want Madeline to know about them.  He wasn't ashamed of his new enterprise, not exactly, but somehow she just didn't fit into the picture.

Madeline was involved in every other aspect of his business, knew more about him than any living person, and yet he couldn't share this one with her now, maybe not ever.  He could barely share the truth of the situation with himself, the personal involvement with the photos, and the obsession with them.  He certainly didn't want to add her disapproval to his own growing concerns.

Hiram chose a small Italian restaurant on the outskirts of the city, one that he'd always enjoyed, ordering the linguini and a bottle of wine half as old as either of them. He felt freer than he'd felt in years; as though hundred pound weights had been removed from his shoulders.  No Greve, no perverts, no photos.  Only himself, and Madeline, together and close.  It was very comfortable.

They were a pair, he knew.  He'd told her on many occasions that it was so.  She anchored him, his dreams and his grand schemes, found practical ways to make them work.  Every time he'd been near ruin, every time it had begun to seem as though things might just fall apart, she'd found a way to turn the negative into a positive, putting him on top and making him feel as though he'd done it himself.  It was her way.

On top of her other redeeming qualities, Madeline was beautiful.  There was no doubting or arguing with that; it was her beauty that had first drawn him to her.  She had an ageless, timeless quality about her, far beyond the physical, that drew people to her, not just men, everyone she met.  Hiram didn't know why he'd been blessed with her, or why she'd stuck with him through so many years, but he was a wise enough man to be thankful for it. 

It was a little bit eerie, he realized.  Her features reminded him of a living, breathing model of Greve's talent.  If he didn't know her, hadn't known her for years, he'd see the same qualities in her he did in the photos.  She seemed beyond reach, independent and untouchable.  Even when they made love, it was on equal ground – out of mutual need and desire.

They had shared everything, but now he had allowed something to come between them.  He felt it like a wall, growing steadily thicker and blacker, and he knew that there was no way he would ever be able to breach it.  He knew that to tear it down would end everything.  Madeline had forgiven him many faults, but this was not a fault, it was a disease, and he feared he might never recover from it.  He had to keep the wall low enough for him to slip over and back when he needed, and one day soon he knew he’d have to put in steps and forget that business altogether, if he wanted to remain sane – and free.

"So," Madeline said finally, her eyes averted slightly, as though moving into uncertain territory.  "I was wondering, Hi, about this man, Greve?  Is he a new client, or a customer?  He left you a package today, some photographs . . ."

Gates felt the color draining from his face, felt his heart hammering, and thundering against his skull.  What had Greve done now?  What had she seen?  He took a wheezing gasp, and she turned to him, concern in her eyes, and confusion.

"What's wrong, Hi?" she asked, half-rising and reaching out to lay a hand on his arm in alarm.  "Are you okay?"

Concentrate, he told himself, Get it together, Gates, don't blow it now.  Aloud, he said, "I…I just swallowed something wrong, Maddy.  I'm fine."  He took a couple of quick breaths to restore his nerves to some semblance of control.  "Wh… what pictures did he leave?"

She smiled, a little uncertainly at first, then more broadly.  "They're wonderful pictures, Hi, children, families, portraits, all from his studio downtown.  I didn't even know he was there, but he's really very good, don't you think?"

Hiram felt the biggest inner sigh of relief he'd ever experienced flow through and out of him, felt his heart and breathing normal out.  Blinking slowly, he answered her.  "Yes, yes Maddy, he is.  I've been thinking of letting him take on some of the advertising work for the company, setting up some models, that sort of thing.  You really think he's good?"

As he spoke working his story out as he went, he cursed Greve inwardly.  What had the man been thinking?  What had he been doing in Hiram's office while he wasn't there, talking to Maddy, probably undressing her with his mind and snapping his filthy photos?  What did he call it? -  "Capturing images."

Hiram barely repressed a shudder at the thought.  He knew Maddy would never question anyone he'd already accepted into his office, especially not anyone as innocuous as Christian Greve.  The thought that the man could reach out to her, be near her like that, was disturbing on levels Hiram could barely comprehend.

"Oh yes," she gushed, "I mean, they are much better than anything we've used in the past.  He seems to have a sort of vision, you know?  Anyway, there was one other picture, a bit strange, but very, very interesting. 

It was more of the type of thing we'd use, though a trifle exotic.  It was of a young woman, nude, with colored stripes in her hair and dressed to the nines.  I thought maybe I'd seen her somewhere before, but now I'm not so sure.  That shot was truly remarkable, Hi; people would pay well for work like that. 

"If he doesn't have an agent, I think you should take him on.  If you don't someone will.  He's that good."

Hiram was barely aware of her words, barely hanging on to the thread of the conversation well enough to nod when he was expected to, and he knew she'd catch him at it soon, if she hadn't already.  He decided to go with it, for now, let Greve have his little laugh.  Nothing he could do about it, in any case, nothing at all. 

He only prayed that the photos in the paper and on the news, the continuing coverage of the Kodak Zodiac would be dim and obscure, that she would not see them.  If she put two and two together and realized he'd been lying to her, there was no telling how she might react.

"Where did you leave the pictures?" he asked finally, trying not to let the nervousness in his voice quiver through, trying to appear as though it were a trivial matter, nothing of real importance.  Failing.  He remembered the cold, calculating eyes of the two detectives who'd come to question him, and he thought of that picture, lying on Maddy's desk in plain sight, catching their eyes.

"They're on your desk, Hi, where else would I put them?  Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

The waitress arrived just then, a tall, lithe girl with long braided hair and a bright smile, and she had the wine.  Hiram reached for the glasses, splashed a smile forcibly across his lips, and nodded for the girl to open the bottle.  There was more than one way to escape your troubles, more than one way to blur the reality of a moment.  He took his time swirling the wine and sniffing the tart aroma, letting his eyes close and his head clear.

When the girl was gone and the wine was poured, Hiram leaned close to Madeline, breathing in the odd perfume she always wore and whispered in her ear.  "Nothing could make things better, right this minute Maddy.  Nothing in the world.  I'm just on edge, that's all.  That's why I needed to get away."

"Is that why I'm here, too?" she grinned up at him impishly, the smile erasing years from her face in a flash, "to take your mind off your troubles?"

"Nobody does that better than you, Maddy, nobody.  I was hoping you might stop over this evening, after dinner, have a drink?  I don't really feel like being alone, for some reason."

"You're almost never alone, Hi," she laughed, tossing her hair back off her shoulders in an oddly girlish gesture and smiling at him again, mischievously this time.  "You know I'll come, though why you wouldn't call any of a hundred younger, prettier girls you might call is beyond me."

"I know better than that," he chuckled, his good spirits returning slowly.  "You know better, too.  There's nobody like you . . . not at work, not in bed, not ever.  You are the only person of lasting importance in my life. Do you know that?"  He shocked himself more than he did her with the words, feeling the truth of them pounding through him.

She was still looking at him, but he noticed an odd dampness at the corners of her eyes.  He felt an unfamiliar glow in his own chest as he returned her gaze, and he wondered why he'd never really noticed the feeling before.  It was as comfortable as an old pair of jeans, as subtly overpowering as expensive cognac.  For a successful, worldly man with more money and women than he knew what to do with, he found himself surprisingly naive when it came to deeper emotion.

"You've never said anything like that to me, Hi, not in all the years I've known you," she said, her voice trembling slightly.  "I've always known you felt that way, always felt that you did, but you never bothered to tell me.  You never singled me out, made any type of commitment.  Why now?"

He had difficulty getting a suddenly very dry throat to respond, but he forced the words out, concentrating on bypassing the lump that seemed intent on clogging his throat.  "I don't know, really," he answered, reaching out to take her hand in his.  "I guess I'm just thinking a lot more lately about my life, about what is important, and what isn't. 

"When I do that, you keep coming up at the top of the list, and you've been there all along.  I guess I'm just coming to realize it myself."

Tears flowed from her eyes, and she leaned closer to him, put her head delicately on his shoulder and wrapped her slender arms around his neck.  He wasn't used to seeing her lose control, and he reached out to hold her, feeling the nearness of her more intimately than ever before, feeling her emotions.

Regaining her composure, she raised up, brushing him with damp eyelashes, washing his chin with her tears, and found his lips, kissing him deep and long.

Now Hiram had a whole hell of a lot to think about, a lot to do and to change.  If what he was almost certain had just happened, after all these years, had indeed happened, things were going to be different for him.  There would have to be some settling down, some cutting back, maybe a vacation somewhere, just the two of them.  Where in hell had this come from?

Then it hit him like the point of a knife.  Greve.  It was the nervous fear the man brought him, the odd, lingering sensation that ate away at his confidence.  He was afraid of losing her.  It was that fear that had made him realize how much that would hurt, how much it would take from him.  The thought of that perverted maniac even being in the same room with her brought a shiver to his spine.

They ate in thoughtful silence.  Madeline was like a schoolgirl on a date, suddenly, looking at him differently and smiling more.  It was as if she wanted to keep him in her sights – make sure he didn't change, or disappear.  She seemed to be memorizing the moment, imprinting it in her mind.  A 'captured' image.  Damn, why couldn't he get that asshole out of his mind?

How had he missed her feelings before?  How could he have missed them?  She had been right there in front of him, right behind him when he fell, lifting him up, holding him close.  And she was, after all, the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.  Somehow the years and the money had confused the facts in his mind.

After dinner they drove slowly to his penthouse, leaving the BMW with the parking attendant and walking in together, snuggled side by side.  Her hair tickled his nose, and her hands wandered provocatively over his belt, his waist, below.  The pleasant freedom he'd felt at the restaurant had followed them, surrounding them like a euphoric cloud. 

They sipped scotch on his couch, then moved to the bedroom in due time, not hurrying.  Casually, as if commenting on her hair color, or the way her lipstick matched her mascara just so, Hiram asked her if she would move in, still unsure of where this new possessiveness was coming from, this new desire to be with her.

"You know the answer to that," she teased him, using his own words from earlier in the evening.  "I want nothing more in the world than to be with you.  If you weren't such a stubborn, blind old coot, you'd have seen that years ago."

And that was that.  Hiram Gates, entrepreneur, businessman, agent and snuff-photo monger, was no longer available.  Off the market.  It should have felt like a trap, should have closed in around him with the suffocating closeness of prison walls, but it did not.  It felt good, safe, and very, very right.  It had been a long time since anything had felt so right.

Late that night, her head resting softly on his shoulder and the bare, breathtaking length of her pressed tightly against him beneath his velvet sheets, she whispered his nightmare into his ear, and the shadows returned, snatching at the edges of his new happiness and tugging it away, bit by bit.

"That photographer," she said softly, twirling the ends of her hair between her fingers and tickling his chest with it, "he really does do good work, Hi.  I was thinking.  Maybe I could do some posing?  Just for you, I mean?"

She looked up at him, eyes filled with innocence, glowing with the emotions of the evening and the after-sparkle of their lovemaking, and he nearly screamed.  He clutched her so tightly that the air left her lungs, holding on so that nothing on the earth or beyond it could have ripped her free and howled his fury to the wind.  Nearly.

"No." he said simply.  "I don't want you near that man, Maddy.  Not now, not ever, do you hear me?  He isn't all he seems . . . he . . ." Hiram stopped, knowing he'd already said too much.  "I just wouldn't feel right.  There are other photographers.  Ben Stiles, Mike?"

"They aren't as good," she pouted, pulling away and searching his eyes for whatever it was that had broken their mood so suddenly.  Hiram knew he'd tensed up, that she'd felt it.  She was beautiful, but one thing Maddy was not was stupid. "You know that.  You also know that guy Mike can't keep his eyes, or his hands, off of me.  I hate him.  I wanted to do this for you.

"You don't understand, Hi.  That last picture, the girl's makeup was so perfect, so beautiful.  I want that.  I want to be so breathtaking for you that you can't look away, that nothing else shines so brightly.  For you."

"You are all that and more without any photographs or makeup," he said, his voice still trembling.  "You are perfect now, this way, the real you.  Promise me you won't go to him?"

She didn't answer, but kissed him instead, insinuating herself between his legs softly and flowing over him, bringing a groan of pleasure and a wash of warmth that drained all thought from his mind.  As she slid her tongue down, he whispered his question one more time, but only he could hear.  "Promise?"

She lifted her head for just one second, looked up at him with a wicked grin on her lips and said simply, "I love you, Hiram Gates.  I love you."

Then she was back at his body, and his thoughts emptied into the darkness, swirling away in a wash of pleasure.

* * *

Christian showed up at Gates' office much earlier than he had on any other occasion, barely able to contain himself until the place opened.  He was eager to get started, eager to move on and complete his work.  The delays that came with selling the photos, finding buyers and checking them out, the secrecy of it all, had seemed exciting at first, almost worth the effort they cost, but now they only annoyed him. 

It was art they were seeking, that he was seeking.  The business, the money, they weren't important.  Clandestine games were fine for sport; good for a quick thrill and to fire the imagination, but they were not his focus.  Christian needed results, needed to know he was nearing his goal, not just treading water.

Madeline was there, beaming brighter than ever and smiling at him in recognition as he entered.  "Mr. Greve," she called out, "Good to see you back.  I think Hiram is expecting you.  Would you have a seat for just a moment?"

He nodded, trying to keep his excitement under control. She was happy to see him.  That had to be a good sign.  He'd thought that throwing in the picture of Lindy at the last second might have been a mistake, and that she might have guessed too much or misinterpreted what she saw. 

There had been several poor likenesses of the girl in the paper and on the evening news.  There was always the chance Madeline would make the connection.  Apparently his worries had been ungrounded.

"I was wondering," she said quickly, and her face colored a bit, "about one of your pictures.  The one of the young girl with the exotic makeup?"

He nodded, his throat suddenly dry and his heart hammering.  She continued.

"I was wondering who did the makeup.  Did she come to you like that?"

"No," he said, allowing himself to breathe and smile at the same instant.  "I do all my own makeup, when possible.  I learned it from my mother."

Gates came to his doorway, and they broke off their conversation hurriedly.  Christian rose, and Gates ushered him into his office and closed the door firmly behind them.  Christian would have cheerfully sat for a few more moments, framing mental poses for Madeline, painting the makeup that would draw the most from the lines of her face, the deep-set pools of her eyes. 

It was an almost physical break when he was snapped free of her by the closing of the office door.  He'd wanted to explain more to her, to tell her how he saw the makeup before he did it – how the images formed without conscious thought and he just captured them.  He'd wanted her to understand.

"We've got to talk, Christian," Gates said immediately, not wading through any of his usual pleasantries.  "Some things have got to be put straight, here and now.  It is not going as well as I'd hoped, not at all."

Christian blinked at him, not sure what the man was getting at, but certain that the tone of his voice was not what he'd expected, what he'd wanted.  "What is it?" he asked, voice quavering slightly.  "What's wrong?"

"You know God damned good and well what's wrong, Greve, and I want you to put an end to it, or we're through.  What was the idea coming back here, involving Madeline in all this without permission?  You didn't even tell me you were coming!  We can't be seen together much these days.  You know why that is.  Your end of this and mine are very separate things.

"She knows nothing about what we are doing.  I want to keep it that way.  Nobody but you and I and our clientele have the slightest clue your work exists.  Don't you understand the importance of that?  Don't you know what a fucking chance you took giving her that picture of the girl?  She might have shown it to someone, left it out on her desk . . . any number of things could go wrong."

"But I was trying to help," Christian explained, walking closer and leaning forward onto Gates' desk to look the man in the eyes.  "I have the answer, the model I've been looking for. I know she's perfect.  I wanted to do what I could to help you set things up."

"And how would bringing my assistant your photographs accomplish that, Christian, could you explain that to me?  And bringing in one of the photos, one she might have lain out on her desk, that those two detectives might have come back to pick up a forgotten hat or dropped wallet and seen, how was that going to fucking help anything?  Does this model you're talking about live in prison?"

Christian backed away a bit, his mind whirling.  He hadn't thought of that.  He hadn't known for sure that the two were police, in fact.  Now that he did, the memory of the men staring at him, the way they'd sized him up instantly and driven their questioning eyes into his back for more information than he was willing to give flashed into focus. 

"I . . . I didn't think, I just..."

"You didn't think," Gates said, "and I'm beginning to wonder what I was thinking, signing on with this business in the first place.  I've half a mind to put an end to it now, before the cops and half the city come down around our ears.  Do you know what they do to rapists and murderers, Greve?  Do you know where they would put you, what they would do to you?"

"No," Christian cried out, almost choking in his effort to spit the words more quickly from his throat, "you can't, you mustn't.  Not now, not when it's in my grasp. 

"The woman, Madeline, she’s perfect.  You must set it up, prepare things.  She is the vision from my dream, I know that now, and . . ."

Gates' already stormy countenance exploded.  His neck, then his face, then every inch of exposed skin on his beefy body flushed bright crimson.  His eyes blazed, and his jaw worked as if trying to force a word too large and violent across his tongue, physically assaulting Christian with the sound.

"You - will - leave - her - alone." he grated.  "You will not talk to her, you will not see her, and you will keep your clammy, filthy, perverted little killer hands off her.  If you do not, I will make certain that you are arrested, thrown away for the rest of your life in a room where men will do things to you like you do to these women.  You will not have Madeline.  Is - that - clear?"

Christian backed up with each word, each syllable, feeling the force of the other man's anger beat against him, chasing his thoughts and his confidence into tiny hidden crevasses deep inside.  He cowered against the windowsill, leaned back and only just stopped himself from pressing so tightly against the window that the glass gave way.

"I...” He could not speak.  This was not what he'd anticipated, not what he'd planned.  He had to have those photos, had to make Gates see.  It wasn't important who she was, just that she was perfect.  No other image would be her equal, no other work he might produce, regardless of his level of talent, his level of concentration, could fulfill the dream.

"She's only a receptionist," he managed, gulping in air and glaring back at Gates, angered by the sudden violence of the man's attitude, by his defiance.  "We are in this together, Gates, and I'm telling you, she's the one.  She is perfect.  What the hell is your problem?"

Gates began to move toward him again, his eyes cold and hard, and Christian scrabbled across the wall away from him.  There were no more words, and with a sudden lunge, Gates had him by the collar, pulling him close.  Christian hadn't realized just how big, how powerful the man was until he felt himself physically lifted, raised in the air and pressed against the wall so that only his toes brushed against the floor.

"You will leave her alone, and you will leave here now," Gates grated.  "If you do not, I will be forced to take the only action remaining that will rid me of your filth and kill you.  Do I make myself clear?  You will get another model; there are always more models.  Madeline is far more than a receptionist, and she is not for you."

Christian tried to stare the man down, but there was no give in those eyes, no conceded ground.  He slumped, nodded his head and gulped for air. Gates let him slide toward the floor.  Christian caught himself before he lost his footing and pressed his hands into the wall.  He watched his "partner" with all the wariness of a cornered animal.  Christian hadn't felt so physically cowed since he'd been a child on the playground; fencing with the bullies every recess and avoiding them on the short walk home.

The thought angered him.  He'd seen the look he now saw in Gates' eyes before, small-minded, narrow.  He'd seen it and it had brought pain, time and again.  He'd seen it in the eyes of a few of the men his mother had brought home, the ones who hadn't been afraid to raise their hands to her, or to him, the ones that had made her cry out into the dark hours of the night, not always in pleasure, that had made him watch and even hold her down on occasion, had made her hold him down.  Gates had no right to treat him this way.  None.

"This is not over," he said, turning on his heel before the man could react, before he could be attacked again.  "You'll be hearing from me again, Hiram, and we'll be coming to some agreements. 

"You remember this.  I'm not the only one involved.  I'm not the only name that could be turned over, either.  How would Madeline feel if she knew what we did together, hmm?  How would those big boys in the prison like the idea that you turned women over to someone like me?  I'm betting you'd be just as popular in the shower as I would."

That hit a nerve, because he saw Gates lunge forward again.  Having anticipated this, Christian moved to the side, avoided the larger man and reached the door, which he pulled open suddenly.  With a smile of triumph, he slipped out into the lobby, turned away from Gates and headed for the street.

Madeline waved to him as he passed, and Christian hesitated, taking in the beauty of her smile, framing it in his mind, molding it.   Momentarily he considered stopping, finishing the discussion they'd begun earlier, but he did not.  There was plenty of time, and he still needed Gates.  He waved back, smiling as brightly as he could, then left, the image of her smile strobing through his mind.

Still breathing heavily, the color in his face not yet drained from his emotional outburst, Gates watched Christian go. Hiram’s hands were at his sides, clenching and unclenching, his knuckles white, and he was gulping in air.  He must have made quite a sight, because Madeline took one look at him and let out a little cry, hurrying around the desk to his side.

"What is it, Hi?  What's wrong?  You look like you're ready to kill someone!"

"Nothing," he grated, fighting for control, unable to believe the exchange that had just taken place, the level to which things had sunk so quickly.  "Nothing at all.  We just had a little, business dispute."  In short explanation, he added, "Mr. Greve seems to think his services are a bit more valuable than I do, that's all."

"He is very good," she said timidly.  Hiram swung toward her, ready to let loose with another volley, but the sight of her deflated his anger, leaving him with a lost, empty feeling. Somehow, when love of her had caused the anger in the first place, he couldn't bring himself to vent any of it in her presence. 

"I have some work to finish," he said shortly.  "I don't want to be disturbed for a while, okay?"

She nodded, looking a little put off, but mollified for the moment.  He spun on his heel and re-entered his office, closing the door tightly and snapping the dead bolt in place.

Hiram poured a large glass of scotch, not one of the crystal tumblers, but the kind he kept for mixed drinks, and he took a long pull on it before sitting down.  His hands strayed to the key and to the locked drawer almost of their own volition. Before he knew it, he was fingering the photos again, wondering at their perfection, their beauty, longing to possess the woman, not Cherie, but the woman Greve had discovered within her.

Damn the man, he thought to himself, How did I let him drag me into this?  He knew.  The girl in the photo knew.  She smiled the answer back at him, eternally licking moisture that never was from pliant lips, making Hiram’s groin and his head throb in unison.  Damn him.

* * *

Christian drove home in a fury.  Without the oppressing weight of Gates' eyes on his, without the man's imposing presence, he could think straight again and plan.  Gates was a fool, an idiot.  He had the vision of a mole!  There was no compromise in this.  It was not a game, not a silly business proposition that he could put down in a ledger and speak of over cocktails.

The days when Christian bowed to the decisions of others were over.  The vision was his, and only the business end belonged to Gates, the dispensable end.  Christian needed to find a way to drill that home and make the man understand.

He reached his house and slammed inside.  He poured a drink and paced the length of the small apartment, letting his eyes run over years of work, years of falling short.  He studied the new work again, defined the flaws carefully in his mind and worked over each detail.  Each failure.  He knew he was obsessing, that there was nothing more to be found, nothing he hadn't labored and cursed over already, but still he looked.

Something began to nag at him.  Perhaps he could do it.  Perhaps some other model could be found.  If he made no mistakes, if he didn't let her seduce him and implant her foul impressions in the perfection of his vision, it might be possible. 

He knew now that had been the problem with Cherie.  Too much of her had soaked into him.  He had seen how she would move, how she would hold her head or twist her face, and he had emulated it too closely, not being true to his own vision.  His fluids had soaked into her, but she had shared hers as well – cracking the mold of perfection.

Christian had taken subliminally perfect pictures of Cherie.  They could not have been more perfect, had that been what he was after.  Despite the shortcomings of the work, he had found images in her form, in her features, that no other would have found.  He had photographed her and brought out the essence of another, a slick and porcelain goddess.  Just not the goddess he'd sought. 

He had fallen short of the art he craved, the masterpieces he could have sculpted from her in his mind.  He had let her influence him, even as he believed himself in total control.  The memory of her flesh and her desire had been too fresh and overpowering.  Christian had no defense against it, and it had conquered him, slinking in behind his sight and twisting things, just enough to ruin them, not enough to hide the beauty.

He now knew what it was that the Christians talked about so often, the temptations of the flesh.  The power of touch and sensation to befuddle, even cloud his vision was extreme and indefensible. 

He stopped short as his eyes fell on the newspaper clipping of the girl in the ad for Gates' establishment.  Her image returned to him, the one he'd worked on, dreamed of, chiseled into his memory from the first moment he saw the photo.  It was a good photo, even bordering on a great photo.  The girl was a natural to the lens, very camera-friendly, and his images were still fresh and potent. 

She might do it.  She might transcend the mundane bonds that had held back his other models and move to that next level. She might be the one.  The image of Madeline fought to surface, but he batted it away, suppressing it roughly.  It was more important to try again, more important to keep working, than it was to fight with Gates.  Christian could accomplish nothing without the other's aid, had neither time nor patience to find another partner. 

He looked at the phone, turned from it, looked again.  He would not call yet.  When he did call, he would not back down.  Gates needed to know who was really calling the shots. 

In the beginning, Christian himself had not known, or had not had the confidence to see it, but since the photos had begun to emerge, he was growing a keen awareness of his power.  It was a mutual need, but the larger part of that need fell in Gates' court, not Christian's.  Gates needed the photos, and he lusted after the money.  Christian sought only the art.

He could manipulate the emotions of others through that art.  Even in its flawed state, his work could do that. If he could produce work that had such an effect on a man like Gates who’d seen about everything there was to see, then he already had more power than he would have dreamed possible. 

The question was, could he figure out how to use it to his own advantage, or would he continue to back down and be another man's stooge.  He certainly thought he knew the answer to that one, but there would be time enough to worry about that the next day.  Now there was work to be done, true work – art.

Christian poured another drink and pulled the picture of the model free of the wall, carrying it to the table.  He sat long into the night, placing it next to Cherie's likeness, and then Lindy's, comparing the features, the contours of skin. 

Yes, he thought, he would have this one, and she would be good.  There was time, later, for Madeline, or whomever he wanted.  For now it was enough.  This girl had sparked the initial contact with Gates, had led him to the actions that were going to assure his fame.  It was only fitting that she take her place among the honored ones, the immortalized images he would preserve for the world. 

He drank, and he thought, and he worked, taking time out to stare at the images he'd created, working and re-working the girl's face in his mind.  He nodded off at the table, waking only when his head fell against the wood surface, and then he rose and went to his bed.  He took the photos with him, propping them beside his head on his nightstand.

They eyes were upon him as he slept, and he felt their beauty surrounding him.  They were his, and the next would be divine.