Wyatt, however, is in pure business mode as he indicates the photos on the walls. "All of these images are the prologue. A way for someone viewing the exhibit to become familiar with the theme. But you're the star attraction. One woman, one series of eight photos designed to explore the core theme while still playing to the overarching concept of the show. Innocence. Sensuality. Seduction. Eroticism. Debauchery. Confidence. All that and more."
I listen, entranced by the passion in his voice. The certainty of his vision. I can hear him in Santa Barbara all those years ago telling me that he intends to be a photographer, famous in his own right, and not because of his family. And from what I've seen of both the paintings and the man, I am certain this is the project that will launch him.
"It's why you're W. Royce," I murmur, speaking more to myself than to him.
"What?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. Except that I think it's going to be spectacular."
"So you understand?"
I glance around the room, taking in the photos and imagining how they will look in an actual gallery, the prints placed just so, with my images alongside them. "I think I get it," I say.
"The idea at least. I'm not really sure what you have in mind for my pictures."
His mischievous smile reminds me of the old Wyatt, and when his dimple flashes my stomach flip-flops. "Don't worry," he says. "You will."
I nod, trying hard not to look nervous.
"There's more than just photos, though," he says casually. "For you, anyway."
I cross my arms and cock my head. "Yeah, I got that. Me in your bed. Not exactly an acceptable hiring practice, but I made my decision and here I am, at your mercy."
He takes a step toward me, then another, his gaze raking over me as he walks, and making my body react in ways that I find both enticing and terrifying, all at the same time.
"I like the way that sounds," he says, the low timbre of his voice giving me chills. "And I fully intend to play our arrangement out to its full extent."
I swallow as perspiration beads on the back of my neck. I want to step back and give myself some distance, but I know he's trying to unnerve me, and I don't want to give him the satisfaction.
"Fine," I say. "Whatever. Right now just tell me what you meant when you said it wasn't only pictures for me."
He hesitates, as if trying to gauge my mood. Then he thrusts his hands out in illustration as he says, "Imagine a long hallway. Four pictures on either side, each of them you."
"Okay," I say. "But where are the others? These, I mean," indicating the photos that already surround us.
"In the antechamber. Visitors wander the chamber before entering the hall. The prologue, remember? That primes them. Then they enter the hall and see you."
"Photos of me. But you said it wasn't just photos."
"They walk down the corridor," he continues, doing exactly that. "And when they reach the end there's a curtain. Semi-transparent. Intricately lit. There's a stage behind it. And that's where you'll be. The woman from the photos, come alive. Posed and provocative, confident and calm."
"I--what? But I thought the show would be permanent at the gallery. How am I supposed to--"
"Just for the opening. In fact, just for part of the opening. Then you can leave the stage and we'll use a video projection."
He turns to face me, and I can see that his mind is whirring, visions of how to bring this show off racing through his head. "What do you think?"
"I--" I shake my head, trying to take all this in. "I think I'm a little overwhelmed."
He laughs, then nods. "Right. Sorry. I've been living this project for almost two years now. I get a little carried away."
"That's okay. I like it." The words escape before I can think about them, surprising both of us. He meets my eyes, his own narrowed with thought.
"I call the show A Woman In Mind."
I consider that, then smile. "I like that, too." I lift my hands and make air quotes. "W. Royce presents, A Woman In Mind. Did the idea start with a particular woman?"
"It did," he says slowly, sounding a little surprised that I asked.