by BETH KERY
Titles by Beth Kery
One Night of Passion series
Addicted to You
(writing as Bethany Kane)
One Night of Passion Specials
Bound to You
Captured by You
Berkley Heat titles
Sweet Restraint
Paradise Rules
Release
Explosive
Because You Are Mine
Part I: Because You Tempt Me
Part II: Because I Could Not Resist
Part III: Because You Haunt Me
Part IV: Because You Must Learn
Part V: Because I Said So
Part VI: Because You Torment Me
Part VII: Because I Need To
Part VIII: Because I Am Yours
Berkley Sensation titles
Wicked Burn
Daring Time
CAPTURED BY YOU
A One Night of Passion Novella
Beth Kery
HEAT, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CAPTURED BY YOU
Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
Excerpt from Exposed to You copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
Cover photograph: Shutterstock / Chaoss.
Cover design by Jason Gill.
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Heat Special edition / October 2012
Heat Special ISBN: 978-1-101-57395-2
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Special Excerpt from Exposed to You
Chapter One
As one of the most successful landscape photographers in the world, Chance Hathoway was used to capturing the unexpected. A guy had to be ready when Mother Nature decided she’d show you the full extent of her power, because that fickle deity didn’t approve of slackers. He was admittedly addicted to those rare, magical moments when he was granted a glimpse into the inner sanctums of pure beauty.
The evening he saw the woman walking out of Orchard Lake, water streaming down her smooth, naked skin, Chance figured Mother Nature had outdone herself.
He stood at the periphery of the forest photographing the setting sun over the wooded lake. The meadow grass and yellow daisies close to him provided ideal perspective and contrast texture to the calm water. Forty-five minutes ago the water had been peppered with falling rain, making it look like the lake was on a low boil. Presently, it was as smooth as glass. A hushed, soft silence prevailed in the aftermath of the storm. Sunlight clung in the humid air. The quality of the light could make a magnificent scene boring and a mediocre scene brilliant. The southern Illinois forest lake was pretty enough, but it was the saturated quality of the light that would make for some truly worthwhile images. Hopefully, anyway, Chance thought as he attached a wide-angle lens and began clicking off photographs.
He first saw her through the lens of his camera—a pair of lithesome arms breaking the liquid-mirror surface of the lake. He paused in his photo taking. The back of his neck tingled, and Chance knew instinctively that a special moment was about to unfold. He pressed with his finger repeatedly as she neared the shore. She drew close enough for him to make out the shape of her glistening calves and thighs as she kicked, propelling herself forward. He caught a glimpse of her buttocks, two round, pale globes skimming just beneath the surface of the water, breaking the surface every once in a while and teasing his senses. He felt his cock stir but continued to work with focus, capturing the essence of unexpected beauty.
When she got within thirty feet of the shore, he deftly changed his wide-angle lens to a telephoto and seamlessly resumed his photography. Something about her graceful, unhurried movements held him spellbound—a woman lost in the simple delight of a solitary summer swim, feeling the cool water licking her naked skin and the warm evening sun falling on her back.
She stood in the shallows, the water streaming down her dark hair, sloping shoulders and full breasts. Chance’s intense focus fractured. He just stared through the camera lens, his forefinger held still, his breath stuck in his lungs. She walked slowly toward shore, taking her time, her skin gilded by golden sunlight and gleaming with moisture.
His finger moved as if of its own volition, attempting to capture her image . . . her essence.
Does nature actually make women like this anymore? he thought, stunned. She was like a 1950s film goddess—large, shapely breasts with luscious-looking, dark pink nipples; a small waist; taut, smooth belly and round hips. Was she mad, walking around naked in the forest with a body like that? Chance considered himself a modern man, but blimey . . . If anything could bring out the caveman in a male, it would be her. It was a little hard not to think of totally inappropriate things in that moment, like tossing her over his shoulder, laying her down in the grass and claiming her female glory in the most ancient, primal way a man could.
Something about her vulnerability admittedly excited him. As she rose from the lake, he saw that the dark pubic hair between her long, shapely thighs had been trimmed very short.
Without telling himself to do it, he zoomed in. Blood pounded into his cock, making him hard and ready in an instant, when he saw drops of water clinging to pubic hair and plump sex lips. What would it be like to see them dripping with juices of arousal?
As she came within feet of the shore, he clicked off more photos. Her full breasts struck an erotic contrast to her delicate, narrow rib cage. They trembled slightly as she moved through the water. He knew in a rational sense that he was invading her privacy, but the moment wasn’t abo
ut logic or political correctness. Chance was a photographer. He could as easily have stopped himself from breathing as he could still his finger on his camera with such a miracle of unguarded feminine beauty standing before him.
His arousal mounted as the water level hit her knees and then her calves and more and more of her goddess-like form was revealed. He didn’t normally photograph humans. They were so contrived in comparison to landscapes and wild animals. But this woman—this magnificent creature—was an exception. She epitomized natural grace. Sex was a primal, crucial part of nature, after all.
And she was sex walking.
She stood in the shallows, panting softly from her exercise, and brought a tail of long, dark hair around her right shoulder. She squeezed, releasing the excess moisture. He could hear the water dripping into the lake, see the droplets sprinkle on her heaving breasts. She slid her hand over the back of her head and released a restraining band. Wavy wet tendrils of hair fell around her shoulders and chest, coming within an inch of her voluptuous breasts.
He knew the precise moment when she realized she was being observed. Had she heard the click of his camera? She went still. He focused on her face. Her wet pink lips parted in dawning surprise. Her eyes were large and brandy-colored. They were trained directly on him.
He stood and looked at her with his naked eye. About thirty-five feet separated them. He’d photographed many a wild animal in locations across the globe. It was always an intoxicating, almost eerie moment when an animal first noticed him and, for a second or two, their awareness—human and beast, object and subject—melded.
Meeting this woman’s stare sent a thrill through him unlike anything he’d ever known. What would she do? Rush over to him and yell at him for his presumption? Scream? As far as he knew, there wasn’t anyone near the deserted location in the woods. The recent storm had chased most of the hikers and fisherman out of the forest. Perhaps she’d run. Something about her almost preternatural stillness reminded him of an animal before it took flight.
But then her arms fell docilely to her sides and her spine straightened, causing her breasts to thrust forward slightly. Otherwise, she remained immobile, her gaze never leaving him. He didn’t know why, but her open, unmoving pose triggered something in him. He didn’t know for certain if her posture was an invitation. It felt like it, though.
He bent to the camera and doggedly continued an impossible task—to capture the essence of a goddess.
* * *
Sherona Legion had grown up in southern Illinois, and she knew Orchard Lake like she intimately knew every inch of her diner and every inhabitant of the tiny town of Vulture’s Canyon. Or at least she thought she knew her comfortable little corner of the universe. It was suddenly transformed into a mysterious, vast, exciting world when she walked out of Orchard Lake after her swim and saw the man at the edge of the forest photographing her.
For several seconds she stood stock-still, her muscles tensed and her heart starting to beat a throbbing alarm in her ears. She was easy prey. Thoughts of grabbing her clothing and making a dash for the forest raced past her consciousness, but then the man stood. He was a stranger to her. He was tall with shaggy, sandy blond hair. His skin was golden brown next to the white crewneck T-shirt he wore along with long army green canvas shorts and brown hiking boots. He apparently spent a lot of time outdoors, given that tan. His hips were narrow, but his chest and shoulders looked powerful. His athletic build, long legs and muscular calves told her loud and clear who would likely win if it came to a race.
A thrill of excitement went through her at the thought of him chasing her through the woods . . . catching her.
She blinked, shocked by her unexpected train of thought.
His hand remained on his camera, reminding her of the possessive, sure touch of a lover. Who was he? His clothing was outdoor casual, but along with his elaborate camera spoke of some degree of affluence.
All of these jumbled, anxious thoughts came to her in an instant as she stood there, naked and dripping with water, while he scored her with his stare. She should dress and demand he destroy the photos. Her gaze dropped over the front of his canvas shorts, and her breath burned in her lungs. Even from this distance, his arousal was obvious.
Heat rushed through her, the degree of it stunning her. She was vulnerable and naked. For some reason, his observation of her, the fact that he’d claimed her image both with his camera and naked eye, struck her as bold on his part. Dominant . . . exciting.
She recognized she was defenseless, but felt strangely powerful in the knowledge. She dropped her hands to her sides in an unfamiliar submissive gesture (Sherona was not known for being docile). Her naked body was nothing to be ashamed of. She knew from the thick ridge of the shaft of his cock riding along his left thigh that she was, in fact, beautiful to him.
It didn’t surprise her in the slightest when he bent again to peer through the camera lens. She stood transfixed, a gentle breeze causing goose bumps to rise along her skin and her nipples to stiffen. The subtle movement of his fingers as he took her picture over and over struck her as highly erotic. She imagined what it would be like to feel those fingers on her skin, detailing her form using the sense of touch instead of sight. Liquid heat rushed through her, the strength of her response taking her off guard. Without really thinking, she pressed her fingers to the damp slit of her sex. Pleasure spiked through her, delicious and forbidden. Her nipples tightened painfully. She sensed him pause in his photo taking. He lifted his head slightly, spearing her with a narrow-eyed stare.
Good God. She was an exhibitionist, and she hadn’t known it until that moment.
She blinked, disbelief and horror jolting through her at the realization. She lunged for the neatly folded sundress she’d placed at the edge of the meadow grass before she entered the water. Anxiety pressed down on her chest as she hurriedly donned it, covering her nakedness, and slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops. She glanced up as she tossed her panties into her canvas tote—she didn’t want to make herself more vulnerable by pulling them over her legs in front of him—but the man still stood behind his tripod, unmoving. Sherona straightened, her heartbeat now pounding in her ears.
The forest preserve path that led to the parking lot was fifty feet to the right of her and perhaps seventy feet from the man. She had the advantage as far as distance. Besides, she somehow doubted he’d leave that expensive-looking camera behind to chase after her. Her heart was beating so fast, it felt as if it had swollen and was pressing against her breastbone.
She watched him warily as she walked quickly toward the path, her chin tilted defiantly, ready to break into a run at his slightest move. His mouth opened, and for a few tense seconds, she thought he was going to call out to her. He didn’t, though, and Sherona gained entrance to the path. She plunged into the forest, the thick foliage blocking her view of him. She hadn’t wanted him to see her run, but now she raced toward her car. By the time she reached the paved parking lot, she was breathing erratically and a fine sheen of sweat covered her skin.
She gave one backward glance toward the forest and opened her car door. Not until she sat in the driver’s seat with the doors locked did she allow herself a moment to catch her breath. As her wild heartbeat slowed, she glanced to her left. The only other car in the parking lot was parked perpendicularly to her Ford Focus; a sleek, silver Jaguar coupe convertible. She noticed the rental plates.
It had to have been his car. Nobody in the vicinity of Vulture’s Canyon, save Katie Pierce, drove such a luxurious, sporty vehicle.
Now that she was safe, she pressed her hand on her chest as if to calm her racing heart. Rationally, she knew she should have approached the man and demanded he destroy the photos he’d taken of her.
But something had happened out there in those woods. Something that Sherona couldn’t see or touch, but could measure by its effect on her body and spirit. For some inexplicable reason, knowing that stranger had seen something in her that Sherona herself had n
ever glimpsed caused the confining walls of her small, comfortable life to explode.
Her world suddenly seemed like a much bigger, breathtaking place.
* * *
Two days later, Chance strolled into the pleasantly cool, extremely clean interior of the Legion Diner. The good-looking, husky young man who stood behind the counter with a half apron tied around his blue jeans wasn’t the person he’d been hoping to see. The only other people in the diner were a gray-haired man in his late fifties who gave him a suspicious, grouchy-looking once-over before he returned to his newspaper and a thin man wearing a cap, his jug ears sticking out from beneath it. The skinny man was eating his meatloaf single-mindedly, never glancing up once at Chance’s entrance.
The kid behind the counter gave him a friendly nod.
“Sit anywhere you like.”
“Thanks,” Chance said, sliding into one of the booths that lined the front windows. He looked out onto the deserted Main Street of Vulture’s Canyon. Better to call it Only Street. As far as Chance could make out, the desolate street lined with ancient, crumbling storefronts was the only paved thoroughfare in the back-hills town set in the midst of the Shawnee National Forest. The Legion Diner along with the Trading Company and the Last Stop Saloon appeared to be the only viable businesses in Vulture’s Canyon.
He glanced around when the boy set a glass of ice water in front of him.
“I was looking for the owner? Sherona?” Chance said.
The young man’s amiable countenance faded slightly.
“She’s taking some bread and pies over to the Trading Company. She’ll be right back. Are you English or something?” the kid asked.
“Australian. Ever visited the land down under?”
The young man threw him a dry glance. “The farthest south I’ve ever been is Nashville. What can I get you?”