by Nora Roberts
“Bryan—”
“I love to touch you.” She slid down until her mouth could skim over his chest, tasting flesh and water. She nibbled, listening to the thunder of his heart, then rubbed her cheek against his damp flesh just to feel, just to experience. She felt him tremble and lie still a moment. When was the last time he’d let himself be made love to? she wondered. Perhaps this time she’d give him no choice.
“Shade.” She let her hands roam where they pleased. “Come to bed with me.” Before he could answer, she rose. While the water streamed from her, she smiled down at him and slowly pulled the pins from her hair. As it fell, she shook it back, then reached for a towel. It seemed they were through with words.
She waited until he stepped from the tub, then took another towel and rubbed it over him herself. He made no objection, but she could sense him building up the emotional defense. Not this time, she thought. This time it would be different.
As she dried him, she watched his eyes. She couldn’t read his thoughts, she couldn’t see beneath the desire. For now, it was enough. Taking his hand, she walked toward the bed.
She would love him this time. No matter how strong, how urgent the need, she would show him what he made her feel. Slowly, her arms already around him, she lowered herself to the bed. As the mattress gave, her mouth found his.
The need was no less. It tore through him. But this time, Shade found himself unable to demand, unable to pull her to his pace. She was satiating him with the luxury of being enjoyed. Her lips took him deep, deeper, but lazily. He learned that with her, passion could be built layer by finite layer until there was nothing else. They smelled of the bath they’d shared, of the soap that had rubbed from his skin to hers. She seemed content to breathe it in, to breathe it out while slowly driving him mad.
It was pleasure enough to see him in the late-afternoon sunlight. No darkness now, no shadows. To make love in the light, freely and without barriers was something she hadn’t even known she craved. His shoulders were still damp. She could see the sheen of water on them, taste it. When their mouths met she could watch his eyes and see the desire there that echoed what pulsed inside her. In this they were the same, she told herself. In this, if nothing else, they understood each other.
And when he touched her, when she saw his gaze follow the trail of his hand, she trembled. Needs, his and hers, collided, shuddered, then merged together.
There was more here than they’d allowed themselves or each other before. At last this was intimacy, shared knowledge, shared pleasure. No one led, no one held back. For the first time, Shade dropped all pretenses of keeping that thin emotional barrier between them. She filled him, completed him. This time he wanted her—all of her—more than he’d ever wanted anything. He wanted the fun of her, the joy, the kindness. He wanted to believe it could make a difference.
The sun slanted in across the deep, vivid gray of her eyes, highlighting them as he’d once imagined. Her mouth was soft, yielding. Above him her hair flowed down, wild, free. The lowering sun seemed trapped in her skin, making it gleam gold. She might have been something he’d only imagined—woman, lean, agile and primitive—woman without restraints, accepting her own passions. If he photographed her this way, would he recognize her? Would he be able to recapture the emotions she could push into him?
Then she tossed back her head and she was young, vibrant, reachable. This woman he’d know, this feeling he’d recognize if he went away alone for decades. He’d need no photograph to remind him of that one astonishing instant of give and of take.
Shade drew her closer, needing her. You, he thought dizzily as their bodies merged and their thoughts twined. Only you. He watched her eyes slowly close as she gave herself to him.
Chapter 9
“I could get used to this.”
With her camera settled comfortably in her lap, Bryan stretched back in the pirogue, the trim little dugout canoe they’d borrowed from a family who lived in the bayou. A few miles away was the bustling city of Lafayette, Louisiana, but here was a more slumberous view of summer.
Bees humming, shade spreading, birds trilling. Dragonflies. One whisked by too fast for her camera, but slow enough to appreciate. Spanish moss hung overhead, shading and dipping toward the river as the water moved slowly. Why hurry? It was summer, fish were there for catching, flowers were there for picking. Cypress knees thrust their way out of the water and an occasional frog stirred himself enough to plop from his pad and take a swim.
Why hurry indeed? Life was there to be enjoyed.
As Shade had once pointed out, Bryan was adaptable. In the rush of Dallas, she’d worked long hours in the darkroom and on the street. All business. When the moment called for it, she could be efficient, quick and energetic. But here, where the air was heavy and the living slow, she was content to lie back, cross her ankles and wait for whatever came.
“We’re supposed to be working,” he pointed out.
She smiled. “Aren’t we?” While she swung one foot in lazy circles she wished they’d thought to borrow a fishing pole as well. What did it feel like to catch a catfish? “We took dozens of pictures before we got in the boat,” she reminded him.
It’d been her idea to detour into the bayou, though she was all but certain Shade had topped her with his pictures of the family who’d welcomed them. She might’ve charmed them into the use of their boat, but Shade had won hands down with camera work.
“The one you took of Mrs. Bienville shelling beans has to be fabulous. Her hands.” Bryan shook her head and relaxed. “I’ve never seen such hands on a woman. I imagine she could make the most elegant of soufflés right before she went out and cut down a tree.”
“Cajuns have their own way of life, their own rules.”
She tilted her head as she studied him. “You like that.”
“Yeah.” He rowed not because they needed to get anywhere but because it felt so good. It warmed his muscles and relaxed his mind. He nearly smiled thinking that being with Bryan accomplished almost the same thing. “I like the independence and the fact that it works.”
Bryan lay back listening to the buzz and hum of insects, sounds of the river. They’d walked along another river in San Antonio, but the sounds had been different there. Soft Spanish music from musicians, the clink of silver on china from the outdoor cafes. It had been fabulous at night, she remembered. The lights had glowed on the water, the water had rippled from the river taxis, the taxis had been full of people content with the Texas version of a gondola. She’d taken a picture of two young lovers, newlyweds perhaps, huddled together on one of the arched stone bridges above the water.
When they’d driven into Galveston she’d seen yet another kind of Texas, one with white sand beaches, ferries and bicycle surreys. It’d been easier to talk Shade into renting one than she’d imagined. With a smile, she thought of just how far they’d come, not only in miles. They were working together, and when he could be distracted, they played.
In Malibu, they’d gone their separate ways on the beach. In Galveston, after two hours of work, they’d walked hand in hand along the shore. A small thing for many people, Bryan mused, but not for either of them.
Each time they made love, there seemed to be something more. She didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t question it. It was Shade she wanted to be with, laugh with, talk with. Every day she discovered something new, something different about the country and the people. She discovered it with Shade. Perhaps that was all the answer she needed.
What was it about him? Whether she chose to or not, there were times she wondered. What was it about Shade Colby that made her happy? He wasn’t always patient. One moment he might be generous and something close to sweet, and the next he could be as cool and aloof as a stranger. Being with him wasn’t without its frustrations for a woman accustomed to less fluctuating moods. But being with him was exactly what she wanted.
At the moment, he was relaxed. He wasn’t often, she knew, but the mood of the river seeme
d to have seeped into him. Still, he was watching. Someone else might have floated down the river, glancing at the scenery, appreciating the overall effect. Shade dissected it.
This she understood because it was her way as well. A tree might be studied for the texture of its leaves, the grain in the wood, the pattern of shade and light it allowed to fall on the ground. A layman might take a perfectly competent picture of the tree, but it would be only that. When Bryan took the picture, she wanted it to pull feelings out of the viewer.
She specialized in people, Bryan remembered as she watched Shade draw the oars through the water. Landscapes, still lifes, she considered a change of pace. It was the human element that had and would always fascinate her. If she wanted to understand her feelings about Shade, maybe it was time to treat him as she would any other subject.
Under half-lowered lashes, she studied and dissected. He had very dominating physical looks, she mused. Being dominated was definitely not her ambition in life. Perhaps that was why she was so often drawn to his mouth, because it was sensitive, vulnerable.
She knew his image—cool, distant, pragmatic. Part of it was true, she thought, but part of it was illusion. Once she’d thought to photograph him in shadows. Now she wondered what sort of study she’d get if she photographed him in quiet sunlight. Without giving herself a chance to think, she lifted her camera, framed him in and shot.
“Just testing,” she said lightly when he arched a brow. “And after all, you’ve already taken a couple of me.”
“So I have.” He remembered the picture he’d taken of her brushing her hair on the rock in Arizona. He hadn’t told her that he’d sent the print back to the magazine, nor did he doubt it would be used in the final essay. Nor had he told her it was a print he intended to keep in his private collection.
“Hold it a minute.” With brisk, professional movements, she changed her lens, adjusted for distance and depth and focused on a heron perched on top of a cypress knee. “A place like this,” she murmured as she took two more insurance shots, “makes you think summer just goes on and on.”
“Maybe we should take another three months traveling back and do autumn.”
“It’s tempting.” She stretched back again. “Very tempting. A study on all seasons.”
“Your clients might get testy.”
“Unfortunately true. Still…” She let her fingers dip into the water. “We miss the seasons in L.A. I’d like to see spring in Virginia and winter in Montana,” Tossing her braid back, she sat up. “Have you ever thought of chucking it, Shade? Just packing up and moving to, oh, say Nebraska, and setting up a little studio. Wedding and graduation pictures, you know.”
He gave her a long steady look. “No.”
With a laugh, she flopped back. “Me either.”
“You wouldn’t find many megastars in Nebraska.”
She narrowed her eyes but spoke mildly. “Is that another subtle shot at my work?”
“Your work,” he began as he gently turned the boat back, “is uniformly excellent. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be working together.”
“Thank you very much. I think.”
“And because of the quality of your work,” he continued, “I wonder why you limit yourself to the pretty people.”
“It’s my specialty.” She saw a clump of wild flowers on the mossy, muddy edge of the river. Carefully she adjusted her camera again. “And a great many of my subjects are far from pretty—physically or emotionally. They interest me,” she said before he could comment. “I like to find out what’s under the image and give a glimpse of it.”
And she was well skilled at it, he decided. In truth, he’d discovered he admired her for it—not only for her skill, but for her perception. He simply couldn’t rationalize her following the glitz trail. “Culture art?”
If he’d meant it as an insult, however mild, it missed its mark. “Yes. And if you asked, I’d say Shakespeare wrote culture art. Are you hungry?”
“No.” Fascinating woman, he thought, as reluctant as ever to be fascinated. He craved her, it was true. Her body, her company. But he couldn’t resolve the constant fascination she held for him, mind to mind. “You had a bowl of shrimp and rice big enough to feed a family of four before we started out.”
“That was hours ago.”
“Two to be exact.”
“Picky,” she mumbled and stared up at the sky. So peaceful, she mused. So simple. Moments like this were meant to be savored. Lowering her gaze she smiled at him. “Ever made love in a pirogue?”
He had to grin. She made it impossible to do otherwise. “No, but I don’t think we should ever refuse a new experience.”
Bryan touched her tongue to her top lip. “Come here.”
They left the lazy, insect-humming air of the bayou behind and landed in bustling, raucous New Orleans. Sweating trumpet players on Bourbon Street, merchants fanning themselves in the Farmers’ Market, artists and tourists around Jackson Square—it was a taste of the south, they both agreed, that was as far apart from the South as San Antonio had been apart from Texas.
From there, they traveled north to Mississippi for a touch of July in the deep south. Heat and humidity. Tall, cool drinks and precious shade. Life was different here. In the cities, men sweated in white shirts and loosened ties. In the rural districts, farmers worked under the sweltering sun. But they moved more slowly than their counterparts to the north and west. Perhaps temperatures soaring to a hundred and more caused it, or perhaps it was just a way of life.
Children exercised the privilege of youth and wore next to nothing. Their bodies were browned and damp and dusty. In a city park, Bryan took a close-up of a grinning boy with mahogany skin cooling himself in a fountain.
The camera hadn’t intimidated him. As she homed in, he’d laughed at her, squealing as the water cascaded over him, white and cool until he’d looked encased in glass.
In a small town just northwest of Jackson, they stumbled across a Little League game. It wasn’t much of a field, and the bleachers looked as if they’d object to more than fifty people at a time, but they pulled off and parked between a pickup and a rusted-out sedan.
“This is great.” Bryan grabbed her camera bag.
“You just smell hot dogs.”
“That too,” she agreed easily. “But thisis summer. We might get to a Yankee game in New York, but we’ll get better pictures here today.” She hooked her arm through his before he could get too far away. “I’ll reserve judgment on the hot dogs.”
Shade took a long, sweeping view. The crowd was spread out, on the grass, in folding chairs, on the bleachers. They cheered, complained, gossiped and gulped iced drinks. He was all but certain everyone there knew one another by name or by sight. He watched an old man in a baseball cap casually spit out a plug of tobacco before he berated the umpire.
“I’m going to wander around a bit,” he decided, considering a seat on the bleachers too limiting for the moment.
“Okay.” Bryan had taken her own scan and considered the bleachers the focal point for what she wanted.
They separated, Shade moving toward the old man who’d already captured his attention. Bryan walked to the bleachers where she and the onlookers would have a solid view of the game.
The players wore white pants, already grass stained and dusty, with bright red or blue shirts emblazoned with team names. A good many of them were too small for the uniforms and the mitts looked enormous on the ends of gangling arms. Some wore spikes, some wore sneakers. A few had batting gloves hung professionally from their back pocket.
It was the hats, she decided, that told of the individual’s personality. One might wear it snug or tipped back, another tilted rakishly over the eyes. She wanted an action shot, something that would bring the color and the personalities together with the sport itself. Until something formed for her, Bryan contented herself with taking a shot of the second baseman, who passed the time until the batter stepped into the box by kicking his spikes against the bag and bl
owing bubbles with his wad of gum.
Scooting up another step, she tried her long lens. Better, she decided, and was pleased to see that her second baseman had a face full of freckles. Above her, someone snapped gum and whistled when the umpire called a strike.
Bryan lowered her camera and allowed herself to become involved in the game. If she wanted to portray the atmosphere, she had to let herself feel it. It was more than the game, she thought, it was the feeling of community. As the batters came up, people in the crowd called them by name, tossing out casual remarks that indicated a personal knowledge. But the sides were definitely drawn.
Parents had come to the game from work, grandparents had pushed away from an early dinner and neighbors had chosen the game against an evening by the TV. They had their favorites, and they weren’t shy about rooting for them.
The next batter interested Bryan mainly because she was a strikingly pretty girl of about twelve. At a glance, Bryan would’ve set her more easily at a ballet bar than home plate. But when she watched the way the girl gripped the bat and bent into her stance, Bryan lifted her camera. This was one to watch.
Bryan caught her in the first swing on a strike. Though the crowd moaned, Bryan was thrilled with the flow of movement. She might be shooting a Little League game in a half-forgotten town in Mississippi, but she thought of her studio work with the prima ballerina. The batter poised for the pitch, and Bryan poised for the next shot. She had to wait, growing impatient, through two balls.
“Low and outside,” she heard someone mumble beside her. All she could think was if the girl walked she’d lose the picture she wanted.
Then it came over, too fast for Bryan to judge the placement of the ball, but the girl connected with a solid swing. The batter took off, and using the motor drive, Bryan followed her around the bases. When she rounded second, Bryan homed in on her face. Yes, Maria would understand that look, Bryan thought. Strain, determination and just plain guts. Bryan had her as she slid into third with a storm of dust and a swing of body.