Chapter One

A/N:
First and foremost, characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Rated: M


Dedication & Props: Secondly, I need to give props where props are due. This fanfic is dedicated to my sister, who is also a member here. If it wasn't for her tenacious and endearing encouragement I would not have continued writing. Brenda, I love you, and if you didn't push me to the cliff's edge, I would have never jumped. :) Thank you.

Hi Everyone~well, this is my first attempt at fanfic (please be gentle with me *smiles shyly*). This is set circa 1950s, Bella and Edward are all human...well, I'll let the first chapter set it up. I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.


Chapter One -

She was an extraordinary woman.

Eyes the color of soft brown chiffon, long flowing locks of chestnut brown hair, skin like alabaster. Too extraordinary.

Isabella Swan, the most highly sought after model that I discovered a little over a year ago in a drug store off of Beverly Boulevard sipping on a chocolate shake, reading a book. An innocent working as an office assistant at some god-awful little hole-in-the-wall law firm.

Isabella had come so far since that day in the soda shop. From small town innocence to societal sophistication in the matter of a year. Her career was only made up of things legends were made of. She went from the small pages of the Sears, Roebuck & Co. catalog to the titillating pages of Robert Harrison’s girlie mags, Eyeful and Beauty Parade. Isabella graduated to grace the cover of Harper’s Bazaar and now the prestigious cover of Life magazine.

What made her more intriguing to people then Marilyn Monroe or any other starlet was the simple fact that she kept a low public profile. Her private life, she kept private. Very private. And that drove newspaper reporters to the brink of insanity.

She was one extraordinary woman, who would never be in the least bit interested in me, her unrealized knight in shining armor. I was the man who took her from nothing and made her face and body the most well-known force of the free world. She looked at me like a child to a father. Nothing more.

She shouldn’t have mattered to me. She was a model, a pin-up. Nothing more then eye candy.

That had the heart of a fucking saint and a mind like Einstein.

I had photographed many, including the very intriguing Ava Gardner and Jane Greer, and felt not so much as a spark for any of them. Until her.

Just another cheesecake model, Cullen. An undeniable and highly fuckable sex goddess that has you wound so tight you couldn’t pull a needle out of your ass with a tractor.

I ran my hand through my already-tousled locks and sighed with deep resignation. I had plenty of women for my liking. I had a Smorgaous board of them in my hip pocket. Literally. My little black book had over two hundred women who would be with me in a New York minute if I phoned them. For dates, for sex, for anything. They were always at my disposal. That was the up side to this whole famous photographer bullshit I ended up in. But that seemed to be the problem: they were disposable.

I watched her exit the white linen tent where we kept clothing and make-up for her numerous changes throughout the day. She was absolutely stunning in a cherry red one-piece halter bathing suit. The bust of the suit was slightly gathered, accentuating the beautiful curves of her hips. She looked breathtaking in it. She always looked beautiful in red though. She always looked beautiful in everything we dressed her in.

She could have been wearing a goddamn potato sack and she’d still look devastatingly gorgeous.

I hopped out of my director’s chair and motioned to my assistant who was holding my camera.

I waved over to the Greek goddess that I adored. Her cherry lips matched the bathing frock making her even more irresistible. The corners of her perfect heart-shaped mouth curved into a smile, “Where would you like me Edward?”

All over me. Your lips. Your hair flowing over my chest as you—

“Mr. Cullen?” she repeated waving her red gloved hand in front of my eyes. I loved it when she called me Mr. Cullen.

I shook my head of the temporary haze that took over, taking a quick nonchalant glance at the crotch of my grey flannel pants, making sure nothing out-of-the-ordinary was happening during my brief absence before speaking, “Yes, love, right there on the chaise lounge by the pool.”

I watched her like a love sick puppy as she crossed the lush green grass of the mansion we had assumed for the day. It always astounded me how she could walk in those black Dior stilettos. Damn, I loved the man who created them. He made every woman with a decent set of gams, loveable. With Isabella, that didn’t matter. She had great legs with or without stilettos.

“Edward!” my assistant, Heidi called as I watched Isabella sit with perfect posture onto the sun lounger, crossing her legs, sitting in wait.

Holy shit, if I could be that lounge right now.

I ran another hand through my bronze tipped locks as I crossed back to Heidi.

“The editor from Life sent a telegram, Edward.”

I snatched the envelope from Heidi and squeezed it in frustration. “Damn, I bet he wants these photos, now, doesn’t he? He’s the most impatient man I’ve ever know.” I tore open the yellow Western Union telegram, my conscious already filled with spit and vinegar.

Heidi raised her well manicured eyebrows my way, “I know someone who has a short fuse as well. You might know him?” Before I could get out a proper response to defend myself, she turned on her black kitten heals and tapped off towards her own chair.

I let out a calming breath before I read the freshly crumpled paper.

Where are my photos Cullen? Life magazine waits for no one. This includes you.

I could hear the irrepressible voice of my current editor Mr. Jay Jenks scream through the words on the paper. Frustration rocked through me.

Art took time. I wasn’t a pretentious amateur that just walked in off the street. I was Edward Cullen, Life magazine’s Photographer of the Year for 1950, 1951, and soon-to-be 1952. Not to mention the one and only who had shot the likes of Lana Turner, Jane Russel, and Eartha Kitt among the countless others, as pin-ups.

Jenks should be kissing my ass.

And these pictures of the most well known, highly sought after, pin-up girl, Isabella Swan would be the ones that would put me on the map for a third time. Like the others past, I was the one and only photographer that she trusted enough to do uninhibited photo shoots like these. Cheesecake shoots.

And someone would think I would be used to these by now. Half-naked women should not have bothered me as long as I have been in this business.

But it bothered me now, just having Isabella in a fucking bathing suit.

I had to think of something else to take my mind off of her. I needed a goddamn drink.

I crumpled the yellow paper and threw the waded ball to the grass.

“Are you ready, love?” I held up my Kodak Ektra. This camera was my personal favorite that had taken all my award-winning shots and today would be the day for the take-home of winning shot number three.

As if on queue, Isabella threw me a brilliant white smile beckoning me with her eyes. I held up my second pair of eyes and began to shoot where I stood capturing her luminous beauty.

Isabella giggled like a school girl as I walked towards her. I paused for a brief moment to fish in my pockets for my pack of Kool cigarettes. Heidi walked over, placed her hand in my pocket, replying, “Let me.”

As she clutched at the green and white box, her fingertips grazed at the erection I was keeping at bay. I backed away, “I’m quite a big boy. I think I can manage a cigarette on my own.”

Heidi smiled coyly as she pulled the box from my pocket. She shook out a cigarette, stuck it in between my lips and took out her small, silver Zippo, igniting it. I took a drag and gave her a disapproving look, “I’m working.”

“Just doing my job, Mr. Cullen.” Heidi turned and sat back in her assistant chair, lighting her own cigarette.

Heidi, I had found, just wanted to bed me for one thing. Fame. Why I hadn’t fired her yet, I was still unaware. Maybe it because she was actually good at her job.

I took another drag off of the cigarette and turned my attention back to my lovely specimen, “Isabella, love, why don’t you swing your legs onto the lounge chair in front of you. Cross them.”

Isabella uncrossed her legs with a swift assurance, taking herself out of a sitting position, lying back onto the white of the lounge chair. The black patent leather of the stilettos caught a ray of sunshine and cast a slight glint into the lens of my camera.

I took ten steps towards her. “Prop up on your left elbow; place your hair over your left shoulder, love. Head up, tuck in your chin slightly. Good, love. Now cast your eyes down towards me. Perfect.”

She was so dutiful in her direction taking that I had to do nothing to her, physically, like I was so used to with my other subjects. I still had an uncontrollable urge to touch her porcelain skin. I walked up to her and pulled a long strand of hair over her pale shoulder. A warm, pink blush ran across her cheeks.

Fuck, she was a fine specimen of a woman.

“My apologies, Edward.” She cast her eyes down to my loafers with a half smile tugging at the left side of her mouth.

I gently pulled her chin up, forcing her eyes to lock on my camera lens. I snapped the photo quickly, peering over the camera after I did so, “No apologies necessary. This is what I love about my pin-up girl. She doesn’t need much direction.”

Another shade of pink brushed over her cheekbones. I allowed my fingertips one more drink of her smooth skin before I jumped onto a stone planter and hovered above her, my camera capturing every movement that was hers. She laughed jovially, covering her mouth with one of her red-gloved hands. Her luscious red lips taunted me with every giggle that escaped her.

The white tank top underneath my white linen shirt was soaked with sweat. Not by the heat of the unforgiving sun, but by the shear thoughts that were rummaging through my head as I shot each frame as fast as my finger could move.

Isabella seductively ran her tongue across her bottom lip.

Tongue- teasing little vixen will be the death of me.

She pulled in her bottom lip and bit down, smiling coyly, as her hands found their way through her luscious locks. Her eyes fluttered shut.

*Snap* Seductive eyes. *Snap* Precious lips. Goddamn I would kill to have those lips around my cock right now. *Snap* Control yourself, Cullen.

Thoughts of love and lust plagued me.

The thoughts of taking Isabella right here on the damn white sun lounger battered me with ferocity. Running my hands through the luxurious waves of her hair, drinking in her strawberry scented skin with every touch of my lips, lapping up any beads of sweat that may form over her milky white breasts.

God damn, I’m going to hell.

I didn’t want the afternoon session to end. Isabella danced her fingertips along the water in the pool. She splayed herself casually over the stone steps leading to the main house, and played with the little Yorkie dog Jack on a pink blanket in the grass. I shot her everywhere that caught my attention as worthy backdrop to her beauty.

The shoot wrapped nicely with twenty-two roles of film to develop and not one slip up from down below. Isabella’s assistant draped a white silk robe around her milky white shoulders as she walked over to me with slow, deliberate movements.

Isabella began to peel the elbow length gloves off one by one.

Damn, who knew stripping gloves off of one’s arms would be a turn on.

She tossed the gloves to her assistant, “Edward, what time would you like me here tomorrow?”

The problem was, I didn’t need her tomorrow. Jenks wanted the photos now, not next week.

A small plan was unfolding right before me.

“How about eleven o’ clock in the morning, love? I’ll show you what we accomplished today over lunch at the Brown Derby.”

If I kept our meeting in an all-too public restaurant with people who valued their privacy as much as her, I wouldn’t want to jump on her throughout our meeting.

“Sounds nice, Edward.” She turned to her assistant, Alice, who was writing furiously as she spoke, “Appointment with Mr. Cullen, Brown Derby, eleven.”

I watched as Isabella turned towards her white tent with her assistant in tow, leaving me alone with a cigarette and Heidi tapping her foot impatiently by the stone steps to the house.

Alice looked up at Isabella, “Would you like me to put out the blue Coco Chanel suit for pressing tonight?”

Isabella took one last glance at me and replied, “Yes, please. The blue one will be fine for a nice lunch out tomorrow.”

Did she know blue was my favorite color on her? Why wouldn’t she? I had been photographing her for the past year.

I scratched at the five o’ clock shadow that had taken up residence on my face in the past twelve hours and thought about how in the hell I was going to get the perfect photo of the most famous, sought-after model to Jenks in New York by nine in the morning for the Life magazine cover.

Heidi continued to tap her foot.

Perfect.

I stole a glance at my watch. The clock face read three o’ clock. I had three hours to find the perfect shot and get Heidi on that plane.