She knew one thing—she couldn’t wait to get the new client in front of a camera. She wanted to know his secrets.
She opened the door and smiled her best professional smile.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “If you’re here to request a portrait I’m afraid I’m fully booked today but I can give you an appointment first thing in the morning.”
“My name is Nick Sundridge,” he said. “I’m not a client. May I come in?”
The voice, she decided, went with the man—dark and resonant and compelling. It was a midnight-and-moonlight voice, full of shadows and unspoken promises. A voice that could lead a woman into—or out of—hell. She absolutely had to photograph the man.
But he had just said he was not a client. A tiny shiver of alarm flashed through her. She was suddenly very glad that Norman—big, muscular Norman—was still in the studio.
She dropped her professional smile.
“What do you want?” she said. “If you’re a traveling salesman—”
“I’m going to have to work on my image. People keep mistaking me for a salesman.”
“Is that right? Would that be because you are one?”
“I’m more of a messenger.”
“Western Union?”
“No, this message was delivered by telephone, not telegram, late last night. I was in San Francisco at the time. I’ve been on the road ever since. Long drive.”
“Who sent the message?”
“You don’t know the sender but I assure you he has your best interests at heart. I’ve got a character witness you can call.”
Before she could respond Norman emerged from the studio and ambled down the hall. He was wearing the very snug swimming trunks and his hair was still tousled. He looked like a man who had just rolled out of bed.
He noticed Nick, gave him a brief, polite nod, and then looked at Vivian.
“You can reach me at the gym when my photos are ready, Miss Brazier,” he said.
“Right,” she said.
She tried to think of an excuse to make him linger for a few minutes, but before she could come up with something plausible he was halfway out the door.
“Got to get going,” he said. “I’ll be late to work at the lifeguard station.”
He went past Nick Sundridge and strode briskly down the front walk.
Vivian’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Spalding magically appeared and made a show of walking to her mailbox. The elderly Miss Graham across the street emerged from her house. She, too, headed for her mailbox.
The mail for that day had not yet been delivered. Neither Mrs. Spalding nor Miss Graham cared. Vivian’s new Muscle Beach clients had become a source of great interest in the small neighborhood.
Nick’s brows rose ever so slightly. “About my message, Miss Brazier.”
She moved deliberately out of the doorway and onto the front step. Nick and the dog made room for her.
“You can deliver your message here,” she said.
“I’m a private investigator, Miss Brazier. I’ve been hired to protect you. I suppose you should think of me as your bodyguard, although in fairness, I ought to warn you that I haven’t had a lot of experience—”
She froze. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Someone wants you dead,” Nick said. “There is reason to believe that a killer has been commissioned to murder you at some point in the next few days.”
