Exposed: Laid Bare (Laid Bare #1)(3)

Over the next few days, I busied myself with researching him, as per my process. Despite the fact I didn’t like to meet my future subjects, I did enjoy thoroughly researching them. Unfortunately, I was finding it surprisingly difficult to come up with much of anything on the elusive Lucien Chambers. Sure, I had all his basic stats—age, occupation, businesses he owned—but I needed to delve deeper. I wanted to find more info regarding Lucien’s early years. That task, however, was proving to be quite a feat.

Odd.

From the scant articles I was able to dig up I learned Lucien was born to a Spanish mother and an English father. He had no siblings, and his parents still lived in his hometown of London. They were wealthy—very wealthy—people. Business moguls just like Lucien.

And that was it.

Those few basic facts were all I could find on the Chambers family, leading me to conclude Lucien’s parents were just as reclusive and secretive as their son.

After a final attempt at digging, where I wished I was more of a sleuth like Veronica, I managed to stumble across one article that provided me with slightly more detail on Lucien. It seemed at the age of eighteen, the young Mr. Chambers was determined to make it on his own terms. Consequently, he immigrated to the United States, started an import-export business, and ended up making a name for himself rather rapidly.

The rest of that story I knew. Lucien was involved in all sorts of businesses—manufacturing, retail, and his most recent foray into magazine publishing. Lucent magazine, formerly known as Chicago Now!, had been failing miserably until Lucien stepped in. He changed the name and, over the course of a few months, turned the magazine around. It was a glossy must-have these days.

Fascinating, I thought. It seemed everything Lucien Chambers touched turned to gold.

The other thing I found bizarre was that there were so few photographs of him. Lucien truly seemed to abhor the spotlight, despite the fact he was so incredibly photogenic.

The photos I could find of him—photographs that appeared to be re-circulated and used over and over again—were nothing short of stunning.

So, wow, what a coup it was for me that I was actually going to be photographing Lucien…and in only two days.

The only thing left was to finalize the logistics.

Picking up my cell phone, I called my agent, Shannon. She had secured the gig for me, and she was in charge of the details.

“Dahlia?” she said as she answered on the second ring. “Hold on a sec, dear.”

“Okay,” I replied

She was always putting me on hold, so I was used to it. I heard her mumble something to someone in the background, and then she got back to me.

“I’m glad you called,” she began. “I was actually about to call you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I heard from Mr. Chamber’s people and have directions to the shoot for you.”

“Great.” I grabbed up a pen and paper. “Okay, I’m ready.”

As I jotted down the road names and turns I’d need to make, I realized I was writing out directions that would lead me to an area north of Chicago. And that made no sense.

“Wait,” I interrupted, dropping the pen. “I’m not familiar with any studios up in that area.”

Having worked in Chicago for quite some time, I knew every photography studio in a hundred mile radius of the town, and this address didn’t ring a single bell.

Shannon cleared her throat. “Uh, Mr. Chambers didn’t like the studio idea.”

“Oh, he didn’t?” I let out an odd little laugh. Nervous or annoyed, I couldn’t be sure.

“No,” Shannon continued. “And he specifically requested this location as an alternative.”

“Okay.” I spoke slowly and shrugged as I picked up the pen I’d dropped to the desk. “So, where am I going? Where does Mr. Chambers want the shoot to take place?”

“At his house,” Shannon replied.



The day after Christmas, I discovered Lucien Chambers’ house was hardly just a house. It was more like a freaking mansion.

Driving through the gilt-edged gates and up along the long driveway in my little hybrid economy car made me feel small and insignificant. I couldn’t help it, as the driveway looked like a long, black asphalt tongue, and I half-expected it to roll up and spit me back out onto the street, screaming at me the whole way, “You don’t belong here! Get out!”

Obviously, though, that did not happen.

Despite my overactive imagination, I made it without incident to the entrance of Lucien’s Tudor mansion. But before I had the chance to turn off the ignition, a valet appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and strode up to the car.

Where had he come from?

The trim, gray-haired man motioned for me to roll down my window, and I murmured a startled, “Oh,” as I obliged him.

“Welcome, Miss Vaughn,” he said with a tip of his fuzzy charcoal beret.

With the window glass lowered, a bitter breeze blew in.

Ignoring the cold, I replied, “I’m sorry, sir, that I didn’t see you right away. Were you behind those bushes?”

I nodded to a long, bare hedgerow, but he gave me no response. Instead, he smiled kindly.

I blew out a breath, and started to open the car door. Mr. Valet quickly took over, swinging the door wide, and saying, “Do hurry, Miss Vaughn, Mr. Chambers doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”