“Now, is it so terrible modeling for me?” He grinned.
“Depends on how much you’re paying.”
He laughed, a deep, delicious sound that warmed her to her toes. “A woman with her eye on the bottom line. I find that sexy as hell.”
She bit her lip. This woman has her eye on the bottom line every time you turn around, Mr. Bradburn.
“Tell you what,” he continued. “In exchange for your cooperation as a photographic model, I’m willing to offer a few days of room and board in a glamorous Gold Coast mansion. How’s that sound?”
“Like coercion.”
He shrugged and peered down into the camera hood again. “I’ve got a reputation as a self-serving cur to uphold.”
And doing a damn fine job of it, too, she thought. She held her head a little higher and looked directly into the camera. “You said Renee was a model. She must’ve been very beautiful.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.” Damn him! “What kind of modeling did she do?”
“Fashion ads mostly. Some magazine covers. You’d recognize her.” He reached out and gently turned her face for a profile shot. His fingertips were slightly rough, like a cat’s tongue. She took a deep breath, trying to redirect her thoughts from tongues, callused fingers, and the bottom line.
She cleared her throat. “What did she look like?”
“Renee was tall—five ten. She had incredibly long legs and huge violet eyes.”
Glad you asked? she chided herself. “Was she a brunette?” An image of Cindy Crawford came to mind.
“No. She had red hair, a lovely natural auburn, and she wore it very short.” Click.
“No wonder she was a model. She sounds perfect.”
“She wasn’t.”
“No, I mean physically.”
“So do I. Physically she wasn’t perfect. It’s in the eyes, like I said. Her beauty never reached her eyes.”
“Even her ‘huge violet’ ones?” she asked, alarmed at the catty tone of her own voice.
He looked up and smiled. “Eyes are the doorway to the soul, Leah. You know that.”
Right. I know that. She squirmed and looked away, concentrating on counting the tiny ceramic tiles surrounding the fireplace. Why was he keeping this room so darn hot? She asked, “What did you see when you looked into Renee’s soul?”
“Oh, I saw Chanel and Lagerfeld and Cartier and Gucci.”
“Sounds like it was pretty crowded in there.”
“More crowded than you know. There were a few lovers in there, too.”
She gasped and he laughed. She felt her cheeks grow warm again.
Click. Flash. “Seems I got myself snowed in with an old-fashioned girl. No wonder I can’t get anywhere with you.”
“You don’t have to make fun of me.”
“Did you know your accent becomes more pronounced when you’re angry?” He looked up and smiled with boyish charm. “I’m not making fun of you. Really.”
“Were you unfaithful to her?”
“No.”
She was irrationally relieved. “Well, sir, it would seem I’ve gotten myself snowed in with an old-fashioned boy.” He grinned and kept shooting. Her eyes followed him as he moved with each shot. “Is that why you hated her, because she was unfaithful?”
He didn’t respond, didn’t even change expression, as if he’d been expecting the question. He removed the used film magazine from the camera’s back and slid a fresh one into place.
“Take off your clothes, Leah.”
Chapter Seven
“What!”
“I want to do some figure studies.”
Speech evaded her for several seconds. Finally she sputtered, “No!”
“Leah, you’re lovely, you’re graceful—sitting, walking, whatever. Hell, you’re even graceful getting splashed with bourbon. I wanted to shoot you from the moment we met.”
The desire was mutual, she thought.
“Besides,” he continued, “the light is perf—”
“The hell with the light. And the hell with my—my—grace. The answer is no. I’m an old-fashioned girl, remember?”
The way he was looking at her just then, she didn’t feel so old-fashioned. She wondered how much he remembered of the previous night.
“I do this all the time,” he said.
She knew that was true enough. His nudes were wonderful—powerful and evocative. Never gratuitous. But they weren’t of her. “I...just can’t.”
He sat next to her and put an arm over her shoulder. Don’t bother getting brotherly now, she thought, edging away from him. “Think of me as a doctor, Leah. You take your clothes off for the doctor, don’t you?”
She leveled a withering stare at him. “My doctor is about a hundred years old and half-blind. And she doesn’t kiss as well as you do.”
His eyes glowed. “You like the way I kiss?”
She realized the hem of her loose yellow sweater was slowly crawling north. She put a restraining hand on his, feeling ridiculously insecure wearing no underwear—both bra and panties had been washed out and were drying over the bathtub.
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s why you have this place heated up like a sauna, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t want you to get cold.”
Ever the gentleman. “You could’ve told me what you had in mind in the beginning.”
“Would you have stayed?” he asked.
“Hell no.”
“I rest my case.” He was silent a moment, then suddenly stood and began unbuttoning his shirt.
She eyed him warily. “What are you doing?”
“You should feel honored.” He tossed the shirt aside. There was no undershirt, just his perfect bronze torso over faded jeans.
Which he unzipped.
She jumped up. “Now, wait a—”
“I never let anyone photograph me. Never. There are people who’d give their firstborn for an opportunity like this.”
She’d wondered why she hadn’t seen a picture of James Bradburn prior to crashing his party. Now she knew why. “You don’t have to get nekkid,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
“One must be nekkid for a figure study, Leah,” he said solemnly, and started to push his jeans down.
“Don’t! Please.” She put a restraining hand on his arm, and her eyes sought understanding in his. Despite what happened the night before, her natural modesty rebelled at the thought of posing nude while he photographed her. Or of photographing him that way.
Her throat tingled with the heat of a damnable blush, which worked its way north with alarming speed. It was at moments like this that she wished she had James’s swarthy coloring.
Thankfully, she found the understanding she prayed for in the softening of his expression. His wide mouth turned up slightly and he ran his cool knuckles up her scorched throat to her cheek. Never relinquishing her gaze, he adjusted the waistband of his jeans and zipped them. She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
His tender expression slid into a full-blown grin. “If you blush any harder, you’ll explode.”
The swine. “Thanks so much for pointing that out.”
He picked up the camera and placed it in her hands. “I want you to try your hand at this, Leah. Are you familiar with a single-lens reflex?” When she hesitated, he said, “That’s okay. It’s simple. You just aim the camera and look down through the hood, then focus with this ring here and press this little button. Got that?”
“Uhh...”
“Good. Stand here. Okay now. Shoot.”
She stared down into the hood, then peered closer. James had the most magnificent torso she’d ever seen.
“Come on, Leah. It’s rude to make a model wait.”
Hastily she groped with her index finger until she found the shutter release. The strobe flashed and she jumped.
“Great,” he encouraged. “Try a different location. Keep going. Don’t lose momentum.”
&nb
sp; She shuffled a couple of feet to the side, her eyes still directed at the camera. She cracked up. He’d assumed the absurdly exaggerated hip-jutting pose of a female model, right down to the come-hither expression. She grinned and clicked off the shot, moving in closer for the next one.
He flexed like a bodybuilder and assumed a Mr. Universe pose, muscles rippling. She giggled. The strobe flashed. She backed up to take the shot again, wanting to make sure she got all of him in the picture. Good Lord, he was beautiful. Just like Michelangelo’s David. Without warning, she was struck by the memory of how he’d been the night before. Unbridled ...insatiable. Hard.
Click. Flash.
She looked up from the camera and smiled shyly.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
She nodded. “Lie on the window seat, James.”
His eyebrows rose, but he obeyed. Sunlight caressed his body like a lover’s fingers, highlighting his perfect contours and glinting on his chest hair. She found it hard to believe that a man who looked like James could want her in the way he did.
Leah moved to where the shot seemed composed perfectly, focused, and clicked. “Put your hands under your head,” she ordered. He did, resting his head comfortably on his interlaced fingers as if he were lounging at a picnic.
She clicked the shutter and moved in toward his face. When only his chest and head were framed in the shot, she pressed the shutter release again. He stared at her with a pure blue gaze of wonder and affection. The sunlight penetrated his eyes, seeming to light them from the inside, as if she could see straight through to his...
He smiled at her. So sweetly. Only then did she realize she’d been staring, mesmerized. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Leah. I think you have a gift for this.”
She returned his smile and moved in for a close-up of his face, of his eyes, hoping to capture his elusive soul. Click. Click. Click.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said. He sat up and took the camera from her, his voice low and beguiling. “I wish you’d reconsider.” He tugged playfully on the sleeve of her sweater.
A light bulb went off in her head. “I can’t. I mean, you wouldn’t want me to. I have bruises. On my, um...chest.”
“Bruises?” He scowled dangerously. “From that pig Carleton?”
“Well, yes...”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” he demanded.
She realized her idea had backfired when he suddenly put down the camera and started to raise her sweater.
“James!” She yanked the hem back down and held it in a death grip. “Good grief!”
“I just wanted to see—”
“Well, I just don’t want you to see.” She could tell her modesty amused him. “Anyway, how would that look in a picture? I’m black and blue. You should see the one on my hip.”
“Okay.” He reached for her zipper.
She scooted away, shooting him a narrow-eyed glare. “Trust me. It’s there.”
“If it bothers you that much, I can avoid the bruises in my shots. You know, you act as if no man has ever seen you naked.” His expression was probing, inquisitive. She looked away. Well, that was just none of his damn business.
He patted her thigh and rose. “Very well. I’ll grant a reprieve. This time.”
He picked up the camera and directed her to stand sideways in front of the window. He was still naked above the waist, and she toyed with the idea of asking him to put the shirt back on, to establish a more professional, less sensually charged atmosphere. As quickly as the thought came, she discarded it. A small smile curved her mouth. It wouldn’t hurt to look at him a little while longer.
He stroked her hair, entwining his fingers in the waist-length tendrils. “You look like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. She has hair just like this.” His gaze caressed her from head to toe. “Of course, she’s not afraid to be seen in her birthday suit. What’s so funny?”
“I was thinking you looked like Michelangelo’s David.”
“We’re too cultured for our own good, standing around comparing each other to classical art.” As James worked, he kept up a stream of chatter, obviously trying to keep her relaxed. He altered the poses, at one point pulling the loose vee neck of her sweater over one shoulder for a close-up profile.
She felt proud posing for him, secure in the knowledge that she was in the hands of a true master of his art. Each shot was carefully composed as he considered line and light, texture and depth, all the things that combined to make his work so consistently brilliant. Stieglitz managed to horn in on a few shots, leaping up on the window seat, rubbing languorously against her, curious as ever. James humored him for a while before chasing him out of the room.
Finally he put on his shirt and began to pack up his equipment. “Hey, baby! Anyone ever tell you, you look just like dat dere Venus-on-the-half-shell broad?” She laughed at his vulgar tone of voice and lewd wink. “Now, me...well, hey, I got it on good authority I’m da spittin’ image of one of dem dirty statues of a naked guy.” He put his arm around her shoulders and limped out of the sunroom. “So whaddaya say youse an’ me, we go down to my darkroom an’ see what develops?”
*
Leah found herself back in the sunroom at 2:00 a.m., reclining on her side on the window seat, snuggled against a large pillow. She was content simply to gaze outside, where moonlight cast glittering fairy dust over the snow-shrouded grounds of the estate.
She’d been unable to sleep. In her room. All alone. Every time she began to drift off, James invaded her consciousness, all mouth and hands and wild wanting. She couldn’t exorcize her memories of the previous night.
At last she’d gotten up to take a warm bath, her usual cure for insomnia. As she dried off and slipped her host’s red silk kimono over her bare skin, she felt no less jittery and knew the battle was lost. No sense fighting it any longer. She went downstairs to the sunroom, leaving the lights off, feeling more than a little like an interloper in the huge house.
She’d been there about an hour when her comfortable sense of isolation began to succumb to another feeling—that she wasn’t alone. She looked over her shoulder, peering into the shadows near the entrance to the room. Her breath caught when she saw a long form leaning indolently against the doorframe. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was watching her, had probably been watching her for a long time. She was clearly visible in the moonlight streaming through the window.
She felt like a rare form of life on display in a glass case, to be scrutinized in detail and at leisure, probed until it yields its secrets. A tingle infused her like a mild electric current. She felt her nipples tighten and brush against the slippery-smooth silk as her chest rose and fell in a quickened rhythm.
Finally he moved out of the shadows, slowly, favoring his right leg, until she could see his face and the solid contours of his bare chest over the gray track pants. He sat on the window seat near her feet.
He said, “I passed your room and saw the door open. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“All right?”
“I thought maybe you were sick or had another nightmare.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Me neither.”
“I didn’t know you were there. You should’ve said something.”
“I wanted to watch you.” He ran his palm over her side, down the curve of her waist and up to her hip. The heat of his hand penetrated the thin silk, making her feel as if there were nothing between his fingers and her body. “Do you have any idea how wickedly erotic your bottom looks in my kimono?” He removed his hand, but she still felt it there. He said, “I couldn’t ski to the road today to check it out, of course, but I called a neighbor after dinner and he said it got cleared today.”
Her heart lurched. The road was clear. She could go home. She should feel ecstatic. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I guess it...slipped my mind. You can call in the morning for flight information. I know you’re anxious to g
et home. A plow will be here first thing in the morning to clear the drive. I’d take you to the city myself if I could, but...” He nodded toward his bad ankle.
“No problem. I’ll get a taxi to take me to the train station.”
“No,” he said brusquely. “You’re not taking a train. I’ll take care of cab fare to the city.”
“No. I couldn’t let you—”
“Drop it, Leah.” He ran a hand through his hair. His face was tight with strain.
“James, are you in pain?”
He shook his head and rose. “Try to get some sleep.”
She watched him until he disappeared out the doorway. Tomorrow she’d be back home, back in her apartment in Little Rock, and would never see him again.
Get some sleep? Not likely.
*
“The taxi’s on its way.” Leah joined James at a leaded-glass window in the front hall. Together they watched the cumbersome snowplow rumble back down the cleared drive to the street. She was wearing her khaki shirtdress again. “I’ve got a seat on a Delta flight at one-thirty. Should have just enough time to get to the hotel, pack up, and get out to La Guardia.”
“Good.” His voice was flat. “You got everything?”
She indicated her shoulder bag and navy wool coat lying on a chair. “That’s everything.”
“Not quite.” He turned and went to a small table where a large manila envelope lay. She was glad to see he wasn’t limping as badly. He handed her the envelope.
She peeked inside. It contained about a dozen eight-by-ten prints, some of the pictures they’d developed the day before. She pulled one out—the close-up portrait of James—and smiled. She had indeed managed to capture that special look in his eyes, that trick of the light. “Thanks, James.” She knew she’d treasure these photographs...something to remember him by.
She slipped the picture back into the envelope, then pulled out one of herself. It was a side view of her sitting on the window seat with her knees up, her arms around them. He’d told her the fluidity of the line emphasized her special grace. Even with the fill light from the strobe, the lighting was subdued, bringing out the softness and depth of form and the contrast of textures. His ability to manipulate an image of the human body—even a fully clothed human body—astounded her. It was like poetry. He made her feel beautiful.
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