“Hmm?” Patrick gave her a dazed look.
“You know, those things you took with your camera the other day?” Hanna teased, pantomiming snapping a picture. She was eager to send them to agencies. IMG was her top choice, and then maybe Next or Ford.
“Oh!” Patrick rubbed a hand through his thick hair. “Yes. Of course. I’ll go get them.”
He wandered off into the next room. Artists, Hanna thought with an adoring smile. Always so absent-minded and lost in their own world.
Hanna’s phone started to buzz. The call was from Emily.
Sighing, she pressed her ear to the receiver. “What?”
“I’ve been getting more notes from A,” Emily said in a shrill voice. “Have you?”
A horn honked loudly outside. Patrick bumped into something in the other room and let out a loud shit. “Um, maybe,” Hanna answered.
“Are they about . . .” Emily cleared her throat.
Hanna knew exactly what Emily meant. “Yeah.”
“What are we going to do, Hanna? Someone knows!”
Hanna winced. If A knew—really knew . . .
Just then, Patrick emerged from the back room. Hanna gripped the phone with both hands. “I have to go.” She stabbed END like she was killing a spider.
“Everything okay?” Patrick asked from the doorway.
Hanna flinched. “Of course.” She dropped the phone back into her leather bag and whirled around to face him. Strangely, Patrick wasn’t holding anything in his arms. No photos, no digital camera, no leather portfolio, nothing.
Patrick strode over to the leather couch in the corner and plopped down. He patted the seat next to him. “Come sit next to me, Hanna.”
The floorboards creaked as Hanna crossed the room. She slid onto the couch, and Patrick scooted over to her. “You’re stunning, you know that?”
Hanna’s stomach did another flip. She ducked her head bashfully. “I bet you say that to all your subjects.”
“No, I don’t.” He turned Hanna’s chin toward him and stared deeply into her eyes. “To tell you the truth, I’m not that great with girls. It carries over from when I was in high school—I was kind of a loser. And you . . . well, you’re like that popular girl I lusted over but couldn’t have.”
Hanna’s insides melted. “I used to be a loser, too,” she whispered. “I used to be so ugly I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror.”
Patrick cupped her face with his hands. “I doubt you were ever ugly.”
Then, he leaned forward and kissed her. Hanna leaned in, too, giddy with anticipation. But as their lips touched, something felt . . . wrong. The kiss was slimy and frantic. Patrick tasted like wheatgrass, and his hands felt like heavy paws on her body, not gentle and sweet like Mike’s had always been. As he eased her down on the couch, an image of Mike flashed in Hanna’s mind, and she felt a twinge of longing.
She pushed against Patrick’s chest. “Uh, can we look through the shots right now? I’m dying to see your work.”
Patrick chuckled lightly. “Let’s worry about that later,” he said, then buried his face in Hanna’s neck.
A sour feeling welled in Hanna’s stomach. Patrick’s weight pinned her on the couch. “But we can do this later too, right?” she said, still trying to sound light and carefree. “Please can I see the photos? Please?”
Patrick continued to grope her. All at once, Hanna noticed how his lips made smacking noises. His hair looked oily, and there was a smattering of dandruff on his shoulders. A horrible thought struck her: What if Mike was right about him?
She shot off the couch. “Patrick, I want my photos. Now.”
Patrick leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. With a cruel sneer of his lip, he instantly transformed from a lovestruck photographer into something far more sinister. “So you’re nothing but a tease, huh?”
Hanna blinked hard. “I just think we should keep things professional. You asked me to come over to look at my photos. I thought you were going to send them out today.”
“Come on, Hanna.” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Are you really that naïve?”
In a sweeping motion, he leaned down and pulled out a large manila envelope from under the couch. He undid the string fastener and revealed six glossy photos of Hanna. They weren’t the shots of her at the Liberty Bell or City Hall, though, but six almost-identical photos of her at his studio. The wind was in her hair, there was a slutty expression on her face, and her dress had fallen down her chest to reveal most of her lacy, strapless bra.
They weren’t like the provocative, half-naked Annie Leibovitz Vanity Fair photos, either. The lighting was brassy. Certain parts of Hanna were out of focus, and the composition wasn’t artful at all. It looked like bad porn.
Hanna flinched, suddenly light-headed. “What are these? Where are the others? The good ones?”
“The others don’t matter.” Patrick’s smile grew broader and broader. “These are the gold mine. To me, anyway.”
Hanna backed away, her heart sinking. “W-what do you mean?”
“C’mon, Hanna. Do I really have to spell it out for you? What would Daddy do if he saw these? If his competitor saw these? I have friends in high places. This would make a top story on TMZ. And then . . . poof!” Patrick snapped his fingers. “Bye-bye, Senate campaign!”
Hanna’s body felt swelteringly hot, then frigidly cold. “You wouldn’t!”
“I wouldn’t? You don’t even know me, Hanna.”
Hanna wilted against the island, her hopes and dreams leaking out of her like a punctured balloon. Everything he’d said, all his kind praise, had been a ruse. “Please don’t show those to anyone. I’ll do anything.”
Patrick placed his finger on his chin and cast his eyes to the ceiling, like he was pretending to think. “I won’t if you come up with ten thousand dollars by the end of this weekend. How about that?”
Hanna’s jaw dropped. “I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Of course you do, rich girl.” Patrick’s eyes gleamed. “You just have to be creative about where to look. I want it in cash in a manila envelope. Give it to a guy named Pete who works at the flower stand at Thirtieth Street Station. If you don’t, you’ll be link of the week. Daddy’s little assistant will have to work very hard removing this from the Internet. And I doubt the public will trust a man whose teenage daughter takes off her top for strangers.”
Hanna stared at him. Her gaze fell to the photos again. Suddenly, the whole scenario was hideously clear to her. “Y-you’re not even a real photographer, are you? You don’t have connections in New York. You just said that to set me up! You lied!”
Patrick laughed and held up his palms. “You got me.” Then he lowered his face to Hanna’s. “I guess you’re not the only one who’s good at lying, Ms. Marin.”
Hanna didn’t wait to hear another word. She backed away and ran out the door, slamming it hard. The building seemed even more derelict than it had twenty minutes ago. The couple was still arguing downstairs. The tin ceiling looked like it was about to collapse. Four floors down, Hanna thought she heard the faintest giggle yet again, like someone had heard everything.
“That’s it,” Hanna screamed. Whoever this bitch A was, Hanna was going to tackle him or her to the ground and tell them to shut the hell up. She raced to the bottom of the stairs, her arms pumping hard, her fingers barely grazing the dilapidated railing.