A Shot at Love. Peggy Jaeger

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СКАЧАТЬ merely pressing a button. You have to consider the lighting, the motion, or absence of it. A million different things go into capturing the perfect image. A person’s face changes in a millisecond. You can go from an expression of rapture, to the simple turning up of the lips in the time it takes for a heart to beat just once. I wanted to make sure I got the look I wanted to convey. Taking several shots in a continuum ensures I will.”

      Ky nodded. “So the only thing you knew about the older man was you liked the expression on his face?”

      “Yes.”

      “You had no idea who he was?”

      “No. I still don’t. All I know is he and two other men were gunned down on a New York City street. And because of some quirk of nature, I was there when it happened.”

      Ky waited a beat. “What made you continue taking pictures after the shooting started? Most people ran for cover, got out of harm’s way. You stayed where you were and continued to photograph what was happening. I have to ask myself why?”

      Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

      “You’re not a news reporter or photojournalist. You don’t work for any national news publications. You own your own business, work for yourself. What were you hoping to gain from continuing to shoot?”

      Gemma shot up, the chair falling to the floor behind her with a resounding thwack. “Your implication is insulting. You think I continued filming for some dark ulterior motive, don’t you? Like I wanted to sell the pictures, or in some way benefit from them. That’s not only insulting, it’s disgusting.”

      “I don’t think I said anything along those lines.”

      “Your veiled wording implies otherwise. For your bigoted information, my brother-in-law is in private security. I’ve assisted him a few times with surveillance photography, even helped his partner in various filming techniques when he’s gone undercover. I’m not a paparazzo looking for my next big photographic score. Agent—,” she flipped her hand in the air in lieu of addressing him by name, “I’m a professional photographer, and I reacted as one today. I kept filming because I could. I didn’t think I was in any danger. The van was speeding away from me, not toward me.”

      Ky looked across the table at her, weighing her words. “For the record, again, it’s Pappandreos, and I never assumed you were anything other than what you’ve stated, Miss Laine. I simply need to make sure you had no prior knowledge of the men who were gunned down today.”

      “I don’t know them from Adam.” Her voice dropped a notch as her gaze bore into his.

      Ky wanted to believe her, but a cautious regard for human nature had always served him well.

      “Do you recognize the name Mario Calafano?”

      Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze never leaving his. “It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure. Why?”

      Instead of answering he asked, “How about Jackson Hunter or Paul Ingersall?”

      She shook her head. “No.”

      Ky nodded. Rising, he told her, “I think we’re finished here, Miss Laine. We have your contact information. We’ll call when we’re done with the memory card.”

      “I can’t have it now?”

      The childlike whine in her husky voice reminded him of his nieces and nephews when they didn’t get their way.

      “We haven’t finished with it yet. But I assure you, I’ll get it back to you.”

      “When?”

      “As I’ve said, when we’re finished with it.”

      “This blows.” She frowned and crossed her arms in front of her again, this time her hands were fisted.

      It wouldn’t have surprised him if she stomped her foot next. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his card. “These are my contact numbers. If you don’t hear from me in a few days, feel free to call.”

      “A few days?” she cried. “That’s a lifetime to someone on a publishing deadline. I have a lot of work on that card and it needs to be uploaded and edited.”

      “A few days are all we need.”

      She mumbled something he couldn’t hear and didn’t think he wanted to, figuring it was something derogatory about himself. Ky made arrangements for an agent to drive her home and then watched as she was escorted out of the office.

      “Hell hath no fury.” Jon chuckled.

      “The quote pertains to a woman scorned.”

      “Scorned or not, she’s one seriously pissed but fine-looking female.”

      Ky agreed, on both counts. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

      * * *

      Gemma let herself into her condo, threw her keys down on the entrance table, toed off her shoes, and then plopped down onto her couch.

      “Jerk.” She rubbed her tired eyes with the heels of her palms and dropped her chin to her chest. “Special Agent Jerk.”

      Seething, she thought about all the shots she’d taken before the shooting. Pictures she now couldn’t work on. An entire day’s filming, shot. Literally. Shot to hell.

      And there were some great images in the batch, too. The toddler twins running down the street with their parents laughingly chasing after them; the tiny, elderly woman carrying her equally frail Pomeranian; the Asian shopkeeper sweeping outside her grocery store, an e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

      All pictures she knew would be perfect for the book. Only now she had to wait for them to be returned. And if there was one thing Gemma Laine hated, it was waiting.

      That, and arrogant special agents.

      She blew out a breath, her bangs dancing up off her forehead. Since seven o’clock that morning, she’d been walking around Manhattan, looking for inspiration. She hadn’t stopped to eat or drink before the shooting, and waiting at FBI headquarters had chewed up another few hours with nothing in her system. A loud growl snarled up from her empty stomach and echoed in the apartment.

      A quick inventory of the refrigerator reminded her she’d wanted to stop at the local grocery today when she’d finished working. All that stared back at her from the cool interior was a pint of skim milk, a few bottles of beer from the last time her sister and brother-in-law had visited, and three eggs.

      “Oh, well. An omelet it is.”

      She put the frying pan her sister had given her for Christmas on the stovetop and turned the coil to medium heat. She’d never be the chef Kandy was, but she knew the basics for making a great breakfast. After whisking the eggs with some of the milk, she added a sprinkling of black pepper and nutmeg to the mix.

      When the pan was the perfect temperature and she was about to pour in the eggs, the doorbell rang.

      Since she lived in a doorman-controlled condo and all her family were well СКАЧАТЬ