Family in Progress. Brenda Harlen

words as she handed her portfolio to him.

      “I’m guessing that this interview is more in the nature of an obligation than a pleasure,” she explained her question. “But I’m hoping that, by the time we’re finished here, you’ll be glad you took the time.”

      He considered her words as he thumbed through the pages of her portfolio, pausing once or twice but otherwise giving no hint of any reaction to the contents.

      “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?” he asked.

      “Usually.”

      “And do you find that outspokenness an attribute or a detriment?”

      “It can be both. But I’ve found that the best way to get what I want is to communicate what I want clearly.” She met his gaze. “I want this job, Mr. Warren.”

      “Why Classic?” he asked. “What is it about this magazine that intrigues you?”

      Samara knew she should have been prepared for that question and had an answer at the ready. But her tendency to speak her mind aside, she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth about this—that she needed a job and this one seemed as good as any.

      She didn’t really care about cars—classic or otherwise. As far as she was concerned, they were just a means to an end, a form of transportation. But she could hardly tell that to the man whose office was decorated with framed photos of polished vehicles and who had every available surface covered with scale models of classic machines.

      “I like a challenge,” she said at last. “I’ve worked at several different jobs, taking pictures of everything from fashion models to fine cuisine, but I’ve never worked with the automotive industry. I thought this job would give me an opportunity to expand my—” she scrambled to find the right word in English “—horizontal.”

      Steven frowned, and she wondered what she’d said wrong. Then his eyes cleared and his lips curved slightly. “I think you mean ‘horizons.’”

      She shrugged. It wasn’t the first time her grasp of the English language had slipped and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

      “I also thought it would be a great opportunity for you,” she told him.

      He lifted a brow. “How so?”

      “Because your magazine will benefit from my creative energy and enthusiasm.”

      He flipped through several more pages in her portfolio before he spoke again.

      “You might be right,” he agreed.

      But then he stood and offered his hand, and her blossoming hope withered.

      “Thank you for your time, Ms. Kenzo. I have some other applicants to interview, but I’ll be in touch by the end of the week.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Warren.” She forced a smile as she shook his hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

      And she left his office, resigned to checking the employment listings in the local newspaper when she got home.

      But first, she was meeting Jenny for lunch.

      Steven watched Samara walk out of his office, noting the way her slim hips swayed in the frilly camouflage skirt that swirled several inches above her knees and showed off legs that were trim and toned. Over it she wore what looked like a man’s oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the tails knotted at her waist.

      He didn’t think he’d formed an opinion of Samara from anything his sister-in-law told him, but he must have had a mental image in his mind because her appearance had blown his preconceived notions apart. Her longtime friendship with Jenny had made him think that she would have the same professional, reserved demeanor as his sister-in-law, but Samara definitely made a more artsy and unique impression than his brother’s wife.

      Now that he’d met her, he remembered having seen her in photos from Richard and Jenny’s wedding, though she had a much greater impact in person than in pictures. She was maybe five feet four inches tall in the chunky heels she wore, and yet there was a huge energy around her for someone so petite. Her hair was black and shimmered down her back like a silk curtain. Her eyes were almost as dark, bright with humor and intelligence. Her lips were shiny with some kind of gloss, a trio of silver hoops hung from each of her ears, and though her fingernails were short and unvarnished, her fingers sparkled with an assortment of rings.

      She didn’t look as if she was long out of high school, though he knew she had to be around his sister-in-law’s age since they’d gone to college together.

      Still, he shouldn’t be concerned about how she looked or dressed. If he hired her, she would be working behind the camera, not in front of it. But he was concerned because she was an undeniably attractive woman who would be working in a predominantly male environment at Classic. Of course, most of the men were gearheads who were more likely to get turned on by V-8s than G-strings, but it was another factor to be taken into consideration.

      Not as significant a factor as her portfolio, though, and that had been more than impressive. Since leaving the Tokyo Tribune almost two years earlier, she’d been doing mostly freelance work, traveling around the world to take pictures of everything from spiritual ceremonies in Tibet and orphaned children in Afghanistan to beach resorts in the Caribbean.

      He wasn’t sure that any of that experience qualified her for the job at Classic, though, except insofar as it proved she could work magic with almost any subject through the lens of her camera. Which should have been enough to tip the scales in her favor, but there was still something about the woman that gave him pause. A sense that she was maybe holding something back?

      He shook his head. He’d never been accused of being particularly insightful, so he wasn’t sure why he had the feeling there was more to his sister-in-law’s friend than she wanted him to see. He only knew that he wasn’t going to rush into making any decisions. As anxious as he was to have the matter settled so they could get to work on the next issue of the magazine, he wanted to be sure he hired the best candidate. He didn’t want to go through the arduous interview process again in another three months.

      He flipped through the other résumés on his desk, then pushed the meager pile away and bit back a sigh as the phone on his desk buzzed again.

      This time he punched the intercom button. “Yeah?”

      “The principal of Parkhurst School is on line two,” Carrie said.

      Calls from his daughter’s principal had been all too frequent in the last year—and were a major factor in Steven’s decision to take the job in Chicago and move what was left of his family to Illinois. He’d thought—hoped—that the change would be good for them. But the kids had been in school less than a month and apparently Caitlin was up to her old tricks already.

      The pounding in his head that had begun to lessen roared to life again.

      He braced himself and connected the call. “Steven Warren.”

      “Mr. Warren. It’s Louise Crawford from Parkhurst Elementary. I’m calling about Tyler.”

      “Tyler?” He was stunned.

      His nine-year-old son had never given him a moment’s trouble. When he’d announced that they were moving halfway across the country, Caitlin had kicked and screamed from that moment until they’d arrived in Chicago. Tyler, on the other hand, hadn’t been happy but had accepted the move with a mature stoicism that belied his years. Or maybe he’d only thought his son accepted the move.

      “What did he do?” Steven asked wearily, even as he wondered, What have I done?

      Samara stood at the corner of East 60th and Dorchester with the Chicago Transit Authority schedule in her hand. People complained about Tokyo being a difficult city to navigate, but she’d grown up there and had no trouble finding her way around. Chicago, on the other hand, was a maze