The Obsession

by Nora Roberts

  “How about this? We take a ride in it to your place. You leave your car here, I stay there. Tomorrow, we load your equipment in her, come back so you can do what you do.”

  She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. Shouldn’t sleep with him two nights in a row. It was the next thing to a commitment.

  And the car shined under the garage lights, luring her.

  Xander stood, hipshot and sexy, finishing her off.

  “I can agree to that, but only if you put the top down.”

  “Deal.”

  Fifteen

  There had been a time in his life when Xander had been more apt to fall into bed at five in the morning than stumble out of it. He really hoped that time wasn’t completely at an end.

  But when part of the reward for early rising equaled pancakes—and not from a box mix like his mother made—he could see the benefit.

  The bigger benefit sat beside him on the old glider smelling of summer while the stars went out.

  “So those are the chairs and the table for out here.”

  “They will be.”

  Xander studied the old spring chairs. Even in the dark he could see the rust. “Why?”

  “I’m going for a theme here, and they were a bargain. And because I have vision. I also dropped off a chest of drawers and a coffee table at Jenny’s. Cecil’s holding a couple more pieces I want her to look at.”

  “He must love you, Slim.”

  “I’m going to pay for this patio furniture, and more, with the pictures I took over there yesterday. I got one of his barn. God, the light was perfect, and the clouds—just a roll of gray. And I talked him into standing in the open barn doors, in those bib overalls he wears. He’s leaning on a pitchfork. He grumbled about it, but he liked doing it—and he signed the release in exchange for a print. Good deal all around. Then I— Wait!”

  She jumped up, ran inside. Xander exchanged a look with the dog, shrugged, and went back to his pancakes as the first light bloomed at the edge of the world.

  She ran back, with her camera and a bag.

  “Stand over by the rail,” she ordered.

  “What? No. I’m eating. It’s too dark for pictures anyway.”

  “Do I tell you how to overhaul an engine? Come on, be a pal. Stand by the rail—with your coffee mug. Come on, come on, I don’t want to miss the light.”

  “Isn’t any light,” he muttered, but rose and went to the rail.

  “Call the dog over.”

  Since otherwise Tag might take too personal an interest in the plate he’d left on the glider, Xander called the dog.

  “Just drink your coffee, watch the sunrise. Pay no attention to me. Just look out—no, turn a little more to your right—and lose the scowl. It’s morning, you’ve got coffee and a dog. You just rolled out of bed after spending the night with a beautiful woman.”

  “Well, that’s all true.”

  “Feel it a little, that’s all. And watch the sun come up.”

  He could do that, he supposed. It was a little strange doing it while she moved around him with the camera. But the dog, apparently used to it, leaned against his leg and looked out over the water with him.

  It was a hell of a show, those first trickles of light, the promise of them, the slow blur of rose hitting the water. Then the shimmer of gold rising up, edging the clouds.

  Plus she made damn good coffee in that fancy machine of hers.

  He’d just enjoy it, ignore the way she muttered to herself, pawed through her bag for something.

  —

  Oh, it was perfect. He was perfect. Hardly more than a silhouette, the tall, sleep-rumpled, barefoot, sexy man with the loyal dog at his side, watching the new day whisper over the water.

  Long legs, long arms, big hands, white coffee mug, dark stubble on a sharp profile at the break of dawn.

  “Great. Great. Thanks. Done.”

  He glanced back—and she couldn’t resist one more.

  “Now done.”

  “Okay.” He went back to the glider and his pancakes, and when she joined him, ignoring her own plate to view the shots, he held out a hand. “Let’s see.”

  She didn’t give him the camera, but scooted closer, angled the screen, scrolled through.

  He didn’t know how she got so much out of the light—or the lack of it—how she’d tossed him into relief, managed to make him look moody and content at the same time. Or how she’d managed to capture every shade of sunrise.

  “You’re good.”

  “Yes, I am. I’ll print out a release.”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  Still scrolling, she stopped on one, did something that zoomed in on his profile. “I need to take a closer look at them on my computer, pick the one I think is best for the sexy, moody gallery print I have in mind, then work on it some. Pick another—probably the one where you started to turn, look back at me with the sunrise behind you—for a stock print. You’re going to end up on a book cover.”

  “What?”

  “I know what sells there,” she said. “One of these days, you can add yourself to your collection. That’s a good, and unexpected, morning’s work.”

  She leaned over, kissed him—something she’d never done before. And stifled his instinct to object.

  “Are you going to start on that this morning?”

  Now she zoomed in on the dog’s profile. “That and some other work.”

  “Okay, I’ll get going on the yard.”

  “The yard?” Distracted, she looked over at him. “My yard?”

  “No, I thought I’d just drive around until I found one that appealed to me, and dig in. Yeah, your yard.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m up, and I like yard work.”

  “Says the man without a yard.”

  “Yeah, that’s a downside.” To Tag’s bitter disappointment, Xander polished off the pancakes. “But I give Kevin and Jenny a hand now and then. And Loo. Where are your tools?”

  “I have a shovel, a fan rake, and this set of garden tools—you know, little spade, clippers, the fork thing.”

  He sat for a moment. “And you expect to deal with that yard with a shovel, a rake?”

  “So far. What else?”

  “You need loppers, a wheelbarrow, you can use some of the empty drywall buckets around here, a pickax. You need both a fan rake and a garden rake, shears—”

  “I need to make a list.”

  “I’ll see what I can do with what you’ve got, and we’ll go from there.”

  —

  Since she’d planned on a full morning’s work, she settled down at her temporary station. He could play in the yard, she thought, though she imagined he’d get tired and bored with the sheer grunt work of it and come back in, nudge at her to knock off.

  Have sex, take a ride, do something she didn’t have on her morning agenda.

  That was the problem with having someone around. They so often wanted to do something you didn’t have time for.

  She took care of some basics first, some bread-and-butter shots. Pleased with the barn studies, she uploaded them before spending time on the one she’d chosen of Cecil.

  But since the pictures she’d just taken tugged at her, she shuffled back the other work she’d intended to finish and studied them—frame by frame—on the big screen.

  She started on the last shot—the lucky, impulse shot where he’d been half turned toward her, with a half smile, good and cocky, on his face.

  God, he was gorgeous. Not slick and polished—nothing slick or polished about him. It was all raw and rough, and only more so with that morning stubble, the ungroomed hair.

  She went to work on the background first, burning in the clouds for a little more drama. Yeah, big drama for the backdrop—hot, sexy guy, half turned, looking over his shoulder at a lover.

  No mistaking the half-cocked smile and smoky look aimed at anyone but a lover.

  As a stock photo it would sell, and for years. In th
e short term, she calculated she’d sell dozens in under a week. For fun, and the mystery, she titled it Mister X.

  Yes, an excellent morning’s work.

  She fussed with it more, zooming in, refining small details, and then, satisfied, uploaded it to her site. Once that was done, she reviewed the two shots she’d come down to for the gallery.

  She lost track of time. This work was more exacting, more detailed. She wanted to stress the moment where everything stilled between night and day, just the first hints of light, the drama still below the surface.

  And the man, hardly more than a shadow, with the dog lightly leaning against him.

  Bring out his eyes more, she decided, so the blue played hot.

  She might do a second, she considered, black-and-white—with color pops. Yes, with his eyes boldly blue, and the growing light just as boldly red. The white mug.

  She made a note of the number she wanted for that, went back to the first.

  She toggled between the two, each time studying the previous work with a critical and fresher eye.

  “They’re good. They’re really good,” she murmured, and sent both to the manager of the gallery for preview.

  Then she sat back to study them both again.

  “Really good.”

  She rose, rolled her stiff shoulders, circled her head on her stiff neck—and reminded herself she’d vowed to do at least thirty minutes of yoga daily to keep loose.

  “Starting tomorrow.”

  The least she could do was go check on Xander, offer him something cold to drink. Make sure the dog had something, too, as Tag had opted to hang with Xander instead of sprawling beside her while she worked.

  She went down, opened the front door.

  She saw him, stripped to the waist, torso gleaming with sweat, throwing a stick—more like an entire branch—for the wild-eyed dog.

  More sticks, more debris, filled a wheelbarrow. A large swatch of lawn sat patchy, bumpy, and clear of weeds, tangling brush, and the thorny vines that seemed to grow a foot every night.

  She spotted a pile of rocks, a chain saw, an ax, a pickax, those drywall buckets, plastic tarps with piles of leaves and pine needles centered on them.

  She said, “Holy crap,” and got Xander’s attention.

  “Hey. We got a good start here.”

  “A start? Where did all this come from?”

  “The yard trash from the trashy yard. The tools? Tag and I rode into town, got the truck, stopped by the garden center and the hardware. I left the bills on the kitchen counter. There’s half a cold-cut sub in the fridge if you want it. We got hungry.”

  Slowly she walked down, stepped on grass—pathetic grass, but still. “I never expected you to do all this.”

  “We had some fun with it. If I were you, I’d get rid of those foundation bushes.” He pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket and swiped the sweat off his face with it. “Lelo’d rip them out for you—or tell you if they’re worth saving.”

  “Did I buy a chain saw?”

  “No, that’s mine. You shouldn’t need one now that things are more under control. Once that Dumpster’s gone, you can figure out what you want to do over there.”

  As he spoke, he threw the stick for Tag again. “I’d sure as hell plant myself a good tree.”

  “I . . . I thought maybe I’d plant one of those weepers. A cherry or . . . whatever.”

  “That’d be good.” He pulled off thick work gloves.

  “Xander, how long— What time is it?” She dug for her phone to check, realized she didn’t have it.

  He pulled out his own. “It’s about one.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  “It ain’t morning, baby.” Laughing, he kissed her. “Where do you go when you work?”

  “I just never expected you to . . . You worked hours. Thank you, so much.”

  “It’s just yard work, but you’re welcome. I need to get cleaned up so we can get going. If you still want those book pictures.”

  “Yes, I do—and yes, you do. You’re all sweaty.” Stepping closer, she trained a finger down his chest. “And pretty dirty. You look . . . hot and thirsty.”

  Since the look in her eyes invited it, he hauled her against him. “Now you’re sweaty and dirty, too.”

  “Then I guess we both need a shower.”

  —

  He took her under cool water, running hard, soap-slick hands over her. Eager, avid, her mouth met his so he swallowed those gasps and moans as he took her higher.

  When he pinned her against the wall, drove into her, her fingers dived into his hair, clutched there. Her eyes clung to his as, with lips close, their breath tangled.

  The green of her eyes went opaque as she peaked, as she said his name as he’d wanted her to say it.

  But he held back, denied himself that quick release, slowed the rhythm until her head lolled back.

  She could feel nothing but pleasure, all so ripe, so full it should burst. But it only spread, engulfed her like warm, wet velvet.

  The tiles, cool on her back, his body hot, pressed to her, in her. The air so thick that breathing it in, letting it go, was a moan. She tried to hold on, to give back, but felt as soft and pliable as wax in sunlight. His lips toyed with hers, conquering by torment rather than force.

  She said his name again as her eyes closed.

  “No, no, look at me. Open your eyes and see me, Naomi.”

  “I see you. Yes. God.”

  “A little more. A little more until there’s nothing left. I’m going to take more.”

  “Yes.”

  He took more, kept them both swaying on that high wire between need and release, until it built beyond the bearing, until he let the wire snap beneath the weight.

  —

  Because she felt a little drunk, Naomi took great care packing her equipment. He’d taken her beyond her own boundaries of control, and somehow she’d allowed it. She’d need time and space to decide, to understand, what that meant.

  And now wasn’t the time, not when everything in her felt so soft and vulnerable. When she could still feel his hands on her.

  She packed her tripod, a camera bag, a case, a light stand, diffuser.

  He walked in, smelling of her soap. “All that?”

  “Better to have everything than leave behind the one thing you realize you need.”

  She started to swing on a backpack.

  “I’ve got it. Christ, does everything include bricks?” He picked up her tripod case, the light stand, started out.