Page 4 of Hard Rock Deceit

"No," he chuckled. "Nothing like that. This is a real job offer." He pulled out a folder from between the seats and opened it, revealing a stack of papers. "If you sign this, I'll tell youeverything."

"Whatisit?"

"The NDA. Non-DisclosureAgreement."

He handed me the papers and a pen. I took them from him carefully and flipped through the pages. The man waited patiently as I went over every line and paragraph. It seemed standard. I wasn't allowed to talk about my job or the people I worked with or else they would sue the pantsoffme.

"You sure you're not a billionaire?" I asked onemoretime.

"Notquite."

Notquite. How close to being a billionaire wasnotquite?

I didn't know what I was getting into, and this NDA didn't put meatease.

The man sitting across from me stared intently, as if willing his eyes to peer intomysoul.

"Why?" I asked. "Whyme?"

"I've been following you for awhile."

My heart thumped hard beneath my ribcage, the words turning vague nerves into fear. Did I have astalker?

"Your work," he clarified. "I've been following your work for a while. There's a certain aspect in your photos I don'toftensee."

Passion. Desire. Was that what hemeant?

He sensed my hesitation. When he spoke again, a shivery sensation took hold of me, sending my fingers and toestingling.

"There's something in your art that calls to me," he said. "I don't know how or why, but you're able to express something in your work that not many people can. It's not always obvious, and it's not always overt. But it's there. I could use someone like you." He leaned forward in his seat. "And I think you could use someonelikeme."

"Like you?" I asked. That was sort of arrogant, wasn't it? "Why would I need someonelikeyou?"

He quirked a small smile. "I have experience with this. Recognizing potential. Honing it. Polishing it. If we work together, I think we can take your art and transform it into something brilliant. If you'reinterested."

His gaze swept me up and down, a probing stare. My heartbeat quickened. The feeling in my chest was so unfamiliar I almost mistook it for nerves. But I wasn'tnervous.

Nervous, I could understand. I could handle that. But my racing pulse, the way all air seemed to leave mylungs…

I'd known this man was beautiful, yes, but it had been an objective statement. Anobservation.

Now I was looking at him through new eyes, like I had with thephotograph.

He thought my work was passionate. He thought I had the potential forbrilliance.

How did he see something no oneelsedid?

My heart squeezed tight, a fluttery feeling welling in my stomach. He flicked his eyes back to the folder of papers. I placed a hand on my belly, telling it to calm down. This was just anxiety. I was anxious about this job offer. Thatwasall.

Fighting to gather my wits, I took deep breaths, calming myself. I pushed my ruffled hair back from my face, the ends just brushing my shoulders. I told myself this was the usual jitters I felt when discussing my art with potential buyers, or when receiving an artcritique.

But that wasalie.

The trembling of my fingers, my racing pulse, the lightheadedness — none of it was simplenerves.

This feeling was foreign. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. I felt vaguely sick from the emotionalwhiplash.

Signing this thing meant I would work with him. I would work with the man who sent my heart pounding, who sent my stomach tumbling over onitself.