by Alison Kelly
‘I’ll speak with Jack Reagan, the owner, about them,’ Patric cut in smoothly, in a tone of subtle warning.
‘Oh, I’m sure there’ll be no need for that!’ She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Now, here are your keys, Mr Flanagan.’ The woman pushed them across the counter. ‘I’ll fetch my husband to help take up your bags.’ With that she vanished into the adjoining bar.
‘How long have you known the owner?’ Jacqui asked.
‘I don’t. I read his name on that licence over there.’ He nodded to the wall. ‘I’m not in the mood to handle her attitude too.’
‘That makes two of us,’ she muttered, picking up her key. ‘You sure don’t get this kind of treatment at the Hilton.’
His expression was condescending. ‘Must come as a shock to find that not everyone is impressed by meeting the famous Risque Girl.’
‘Actually, Flanagan,’ she said haughtily, ‘it comes as a welcome relief!’
Jacqui’s room was clean, and furnished with a wellmaintained pine wardrobe, double bed, side-table and a chest of drawers. A portable TV sat on top of the chest of drawers and an uncomfortable-looking armchair kept guard over the French door leading on to the upper veranda.
Clean, cosy and practical, all it needed was a few posters of pop stars from the early eighties and it would have been nearly identical to the room she’d had as a kid.
She glanced at the luggage by the front door, then sighed. Nope, it could wait. Taking a shower and grabbing a nap were light-years ahead of unpacking in her schedule of priorities. Perhaps once she’d rid herself of her travelling fatigue she could start dealing with the cold sweats which started every time she thought about the fast approaching photo sessions and the reality of what she was going to do—a nude shoot!
Jacqui entered the bathroom from her room, locked the door in the opposite wall, which connected to another room, and stripped off her clothes. Then, after regulating the water temperature, she stepped eagerly into the shower. Ah, bliss!
She let the warm water relax the muscles across the back of her shoulders for several minutes, then slowly started to rotate them. Ouch! The sudden movement of her head provided physical proof that Flanagan really was a proverbial pain in the neck!
Lifting a hand to knead the protesting muscle, she warned herself not to think of the man. Ha! He was the whole reason she was here.
She squeezed a liberal amount of her favourite shower gel into her palm and began soaping it over her body. Her nudity brought her mind back to the shoot. For the first time the monetary rewards and the fact that she’d once and for all be rid of her father’s debts didn’t seem like a good enough reason for what she was going to have to go through.
She knew that legally it was way too late to decide that she’d changed her mind, but she had all the same. Exactly when, she wasn’t certain, but at this moment she’d have given almost anything to be able to walk away from the whole thing—especially the photographer involved.
Not for anything as reasonable as moral reasons, but for utterly irrational ones. Not because she didn’t think Patric would be strictly professional at all times, but because she wasn’t sure she could be. Not because she doubted Flanagan’s skill as a photographer, but because she didn’t!
A good photographer could capture the very soul of his subject and lay it bare, and, from what she’d seen of Flanagan’s work, he’d progressed beyond being just good years ago! What worried her wasn’t so much the thought that strangers would see her naked exterior, but that he would see her naked interior. Patric Flanagan might be making her feel all the things she’d always hoped she would, but the last person she wanted to be feeling them for was him!
Why did fate have such a warped sense of humour that her heart should pound and her breath should catch at the sight of a guy she could barely tolerate and who actively disliked her? Why did liquid sensuality dampen her body the moment his muddy brown eyes locked with hers?
Why couldn’t he have been ugly, or at least gay, instead of being the most drop-dead gorgeous heterosexual male she’d ever met? Why couldn’t his kiss have been repulsive and oppressive, instead of bone-melting and spiritually freeing? Why couldn’t his touch have been rough and chilling, instead of caressing and warm? And…and why the hell couldn’t she even analyse the whole stupid situation without lust burning her insides and sending her nipples rigid?
Cursing, she shut off the hot water and turned the cold tap full on. With luck she’d get pneumonia and have to be hospitalised. Two seconds later, deciding that she wasn’t tough enough to endure the freezing spray any longer, Jacqui stepped from the shower and went on to Plan B—praying that it would rain for the rest of her life!
CHAPTER SEVEN
PATRIC sipped his beer and waited as his opponent surveyed the snooker table. After four days of rain the locals assured him that it was finally gone. With luck they could scout locations tomorrow and start shooting the next day.
His gaze drifted to where Jacqui and three adoring local teenage boys were playing a game on a video machine.
They’d hardly spoken since their arrival and Patric suspected that she was making as much effort to avoid him as he was her. Each morning she was finishing her breakfast by the time he arrived down to have his, and the situation was reversed at dinner. What she did during the day he had no idea, since he’d spent the last three days burning up his excess energies and boredom by throwing his trail-bike through the mud a few miles out of town.
On the occasions that they were in the bar at the same time she was usually holding court with various admirers of both sexes, while he had to endure hearing continual accolades about how wonderful she was.
On cue, his middle-aged opponent spoke. ‘She’s so flamin’ nice. Not a bit hoity-toity like you’d expect.’
‘You had your shot?’ Patric returned.
‘Yep. Pocketed the last red, but missed the yella.’
Patric nodded and leaned over the green felt table, lining up the yellow. He sank it and then proceeded to do the same to the green and brown balls. Unfortunately when sinking the brown he hadn’t hit the cue ball exactly right, and as a result his shot of the blue was more difficult than he’d planned. He took his time studying the best angle and was finally about to make his play when—
‘You should have put more return on the white ball, Flanagan.’
Barely managing to stop himself from miscuing, he turned around to face a solicitous-looking Jacqui.
‘I know that. Now, if you’ll keep quiet—’
‘I really think you’d be better off playing the blue from—
‘Don’t you have anything better to do? Where are your pals?’
‘They’ve gone to the bar. I told them that you and I’d have a game of doubles against them when you finished here.’
‘Did you, now?’
‘Yeah.’ She placed her money on the rim of the table to reserve it. ‘But, given your last shot, I’m beginning to think I should have picked another partner.’
Patric turned, sank the two remaining coloured balls with more flourish than was necessary, then sent the black off all four cushions before pocketing it.
He laid his cue on the table and faced her. Her hair was pulled back and she’d actually tied a knot in it just below her neck. She wore faded jeans, fashionably ripped at both knees, and an oversized man’s shirt tied at the waist. On her, the plainness of the outfit was both elegant and wild, but, experiencing a tightening of his jeans, he didn’t risk speculating about whether the tantalising hint of skin and navel the get-up exposed was intentional or not.
He fixed his gaze on her face, biting down a groan as a cheeky smile curved her lush mouth and lit the depths of her eyes.
‘Not bad, Flanagan,’ she said. ‘Where’d you learn to play snooker?’
‘Dad bought me a table for my eleventh birthday. I used to spend hours in the games-room practising trick shots.’ He folded his arms. ‘From what you said before, so did y
ou.’
‘We didn’t have a games-room, much less a pool table.’ She picked up the cue he’d discarded and checked its weight against the one she already held.
‘So where did you learn to play?’ he asked when she began chalking the cue he’d favoured.
‘The Ashfield Pool Room.’
‘A pool hall?’ He couldn’t begin to imagine her in a pool hall. ‘Jaclyn Raynor actually went into a pool hall?’
‘No.’ Her laugh was full of genuine amusement at the notion. ‘But Jacqui Raynomovski used to hang out there from the time she was ten.’
Even if he hadn’t been slack-jawed with shock he still wouldn’t have had a chance to respond to this unexpected information, because two of the youngsters she’d been with earlier approached, carrying large glasses of beer.
‘What do you say to twenty bucks, Jacqui?’ one asked.
‘I say let’s make it fifty.’
‘You’re on!’
After his first three shots Patric decided that they’d have more chance of winning the game if Jacqui racked her cue right now! Not that she couldn’t play—hell, she was the one who’d scored all their points so far—but the sight of her denim-clad bottom bent over the table every time she lined up a shot was playing havoc with his concentration.
He moved to the other side of the table only to discover that from this side, whenever she leaned over, the front of her loose-fitting shirt dipped to display a teasing shadow of cleavage.
Patric closed his eyes in frustration, but a second later opened them as waves of jealousy surged through him. Hell, he probably wasn’t the only male in the place aware of the scenery. He cast a look at the guy standing next to him and fought down the urge to put his fist into his gut. Oh, sure, the guy looked like he was only interested in the game that was going on, but who’d buy that story? It wasn’t—
‘Hey, Flanagan!’ Jacqui’s impatient voice cut through his musings. ‘It’s your shot.’
‘Huh? Oh, right We’re on the green—’
‘No, Flanagan, Pete just pocketed the green.’ She gave him a weary look. ‘Get with the programme, will you?’
Cursing himself for being so distracted that he’d lost track of the game, he rechalked his cue as he studied the lay of the balls. For all intents and purposes he was snookered, with the brown ball tucked in behind the black and the pink.
Determination not to allow his mind to be sabotaged by his feminine partner prompted him to choose the riskier of two possible plays. Instead of merely going for the safe option of playing off the cushion and nudging the ball away from the hole, he decided to play the white ball hard off the cushion, so it would cut behind the black and pink and, hopefully, slice the designated brown ball into the top left-hand pocket.
It was a tough shot, but by pulling it off he’d prove that once he set his mind to it he was immune to the distractive powers of the woman opposite.
Leaning low over the table, he spread his legs to balance himself and looked along the line of the cue, easing it between his thumb and forefinger—once, twice…
He watched the white ball ricochet off the cushion at speed, but the rest seemed to be in slow motion…It passed the black with less than a hair’s width to spare, hitting the edge of the brown and rolling it towards the pocket Its momentum slowed to snail’s pace, and for long seconds it teetered on the extremity of the felt.
Patric sucked air through clenched teeth and closed his eyes until a flat-sounding clunk told him that the ball had dropped into the pocket.
The congratulations and accolades of those watching were inconsequential in the face of his relief at having exorcised himself. He lifted his gaze to Jacqui, intending to give her a smug grin, but the idea died the instant he realised that her delighted smile was meant for him. He was still seeing the wide grin and the sparkle of admiration in his mind as he took his next shot and screwed it up completely, leaving Pete’s partner with the opportunity to clear the table.
By some miracle the guy muffed it, and Jacqui had only three simple shots for victory. She made the first two and then, to the utter disbelief of everyone watching, she hit the white ball too hard, causing it to ricochet off the black into the side-pocket.
‘Oh, darn!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t believe I did that!’ She bestowed a dazzling smile on the two teenagers they’d been playing. ‘Guess that means we owe you fifty, huh?’
‘Say, you want to play for double or nothing?’ one challenged, his words bringing a look of horror to his mate’s face.
Patric, not eager to put his body through more trauma, didn’t give Jacqui a chance to open her mouth.
‘Not tonight, mate,’ he said, pulling a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and handing it to the guy who’d looked as reluctant as he himself felt about a rematch. ‘We have to get an early start in the morning.’
Jacqui’s eyes were questioning as they met his.
‘Rain’s cleared,’ he said simply.
The teenagers muttered farewells and left them.
‘S-s-so we start shooting…tomorrow?’ Jacqui looked apprehensive. ‘Won’t it still be too…too wet?’
‘Probably, but that’s no reason not to pick out the locations for the next day. We’ve wasted enough time already.’
She nodded and looked at her trainer-clad feet. ‘What exactly do you have in mind for me?’
Patric almost groaned at her choice of words.
‘I mean, you haven’t really told me—’
‘I never plan my photographs in advance. I prefer to wing it,’ he said. ‘To go with my feelings at the time—understand?’
‘Yes, but…’ She seemed unable to stand still, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, then shrugging and sliding her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. The action pulled the shirt tighter and lifted her breasts.
‘Look, Jacqui, I’m bushed,’ he said, although fatigue was the least of his worries! If the arousal stirring in his body increased any more, going with his feelings would mean that Jacqui would be spread beneath him on the snooker table. What had happened at the gas station had only proved that an audience was no safeguard against his libido. He disguised the beginnings of a groan as a sigh. ‘Can’t this conversation wait until tomorrow?’
She nodded. ‘Sure. What time will—?’
In his haste to escape he anticipated her question. ‘We’ll leave after breakfast.’ With that he strode off in the direction of the stairs, intent on a very cold shower.
Three times Jacqui lifted her hand to knock on Flanagan’s door, and three times she dropped it back to her side. She was so appalled by her timidity that on the fourth attempt her determination not to chicken out resulted in her almost hammering down the door.
It was whipped open with a rough, ‘What the hell—?’ and suddenly she found herself confronted by a bare-chested Flanagan. ‘Good God, Jacqui, there’s no need to pound the thing down! I thought it was the vice squad.’
Did the vice squad arrest people for being sinfully sexy and spectacularly proportioned? she wondered. Because, if so, Flanagan had good reason to be looking concerned. His muscular chest was covered with a smattering of curling, dark hair, which still held droplets of moisture and thinned into a V as it arrowed down over a flat stomach and into half-zipped jeans.
She swallowed hard, forcing her eyes back to what she considered was the much safer region of his face, only to find herself mesmerised by a drop of water which tumbled from the end of a curl below his ear, down on to his shoulder and along the line of his clavicle.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
My pulse-rate, she moaned silently, wondering if she could speak without panting. ‘Oh—er—’ No panting, but she was pretty squeaky. She tried again. ‘I need to know how early “after breakfast” means. I…well, I don’t want to…’ Drat the guy! Couldn’t he have put on a shirt or something? ‘I don’t want to sleep in.’
He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘As I recall, you’re the first up in the morn
ing.’
‘Er—well, yes. I just thought you might want to get a really early start—like seven or six or…’ The way he was watching her was jumbling her brain. ‘Or…earlier.’
His only response was to run a hand through his hair and then shake his head. A stray droplet landed on her cheek. Given the heat coursing through her, she was surprised that it didn’t evaporate on contact. Instead Flanagan lifted a gentle hand to brush it away, then, smiling absently, he continued to stroke his thumb over her cheekbone. Beneath his touch she froze to the point where even her lungs wouldn’t work.
‘You have the most incredibly soft skin. It looks and feels like whipped cream.’
Maybe, she thought frantically, but inside she felt like hot fudge. His touch moved to her lower lip, and Jacqui thought that she swayed a little before his eyes trapped hers, making her mind incapable of registering anything but the number of times he traced her mouth. One, two, five, eleven…
‘Eight!’ he rasped.
‘E-e-eight?’ she stammered, steadying herself on the doorjamb as he stepped back suddenly.
‘Yes, meet me in the dining-room at 8 a.m. sharp!’
Confused by his sudden switch of moods, she blinked, and when her lashes opened she was facing his closed door.
‘You want to tell me why you threw that snooker game last night?’
The question was asked with casual uninterest as Flanagan snapped off several quick shots of a fast-running stream, but Jacqui wasn’t deceived.
‘What makes you think I threw it?’
‘Your previous shots showed that you’re too good a player to have gone in off the black on such an easy play.’ He lowered his camera and looked at her.
‘Look, one of the kids was desperate for money to buy his girlfriend a birthday present. All right?’ she asked tersely. ‘If you’re bothered about losing a few bucks deduct it from my fee.’
‘I intend to.’
She rolled her eyes, and was horrified to hear the camera whirr to life as she did so.
