The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Dear Reader,
I’m a woman with a past—namely, a group of novels that have been lost for nearly twenty years. I wrote them under pseudonyms at the start of my career, at which time they were published as romances. In the years since, my writing has changed, and these novels went into storage, but here they are now, and I’m thrilled. I loved reading romance; I loved writing romance. Rereading these books now, I see the germs of my current work in character development and plot. Being romances, they’re also very steamy.
Initially, I had planned to edit each to align them with my current writing style, but a funny thing happened on the way to that goal. Totally engrossed, I read through each one, red pencil in hand, without making a mark! As a result, what you have here is the original in its sweet, fun, sexy entirety.
Pictures of You holds a special piece of my heart. It was my very, very first book. Ever! I had never thought to be a writer until I read a newspaper article about women who penned romance novels. They made it sound totally do-able for a mom with three young kids at home. So I read a bunch, loved them, and sat down to write my own. Where to set it? Well, where did I want to go? After hours of library research, I chose Brazil, set off, and never looked back. Ah, where the imagination can take you!
Originally published in 1981 as The Passionate Touch, this first Bonnie Drake book swept me away from runny noses, dirty hands, and laundry, to the lush forests and bracing mountain air of South America, where Eva Jordenson goes in search of a fabled topaz and finds a tall, dark-eyed stranger instead. I may have written this book back when flight attendants were called stewardesses, before we had smart phones that could translate English to Portuguese. But emotion and passion are timeless. Bruised by a bad marriage, Eva finds both in this story of adventure and healing.
Enjoy!
Barbara
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Previously published as The Passionate Touch.
PICTURES OF YOU. Copyright © 1981 by Barbara Delinsky.
Excerpt from Sweet Salt Air copyright © 2012 by Barbara Delinsky.
All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover art © Grace Oda/getty images
eISBN: 978-1-250-01907-3
First eBook Edition: September 2012
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PREVIEW
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
The bright midmorning sun obligingly poked its golden head from behind the schools of scurrying clouds just as Eva Jordenson lifted the camera to her eye. It had been the first time she had done so since she had left New York the previous evening. In fact, although her camera had been her ever-present, ever-faithful companion of the last few years, she had been unusually neglectful of it during the ordeal of the last month. It had been in the middle of a particularly difficult and challenging assignment that she had received the news of her husband’s illness. She had dropped everything to be with him.
The taste of bitterness was strong in her mouth as she let her mind wander back. Yes, she had dropped everything to be with him, as she had always done during their brief three years of marriage. It had begun as infatuation; she had met Stu while she was at college and had immediately fallen for his breathtaking good looks, his undeniable charm as a ladies’ man, and his apparent success in the business, owned by his family, which he had entered directly from business school and had managed to turn into a multimillion-dollar enterprise within a few short years. Stu had swept Eva off her feet, both figuratively and literally, and she had remained thus until the shattering day when she first realized that it had always been, and would continue to be, Stu’s habit of sweeping attractive young women off their feet
Now, as she gazed through the view finder at her surroundings in this small airport in Belo Horizonte, she wondered if Brazil would take her far enough away from the multitude of emotions she had suffered with these past weeks. Would she ever be able to shed the mantle of guilt that threatened to dominate her future for years to come? She had badly needed to get away, to escape the overpowering atmosphere of mourning which had filled each day since Stu’s death. But was she strong enough to free her mind from its burden, as she had done to her body by boldly ignoring the indignant protests of her late husband’s family and making use of the reservation which Stu had originally made for himself aboard the Pan Am jet to Rio de Janeiro?
The flight from Kennedy had been long, though uneventful. Upon her arrival at Rio’s Galeão Airport, Eva had risked life and limb by taking a taxi across town. Never again would she voice one word of complaint about New York taxi drivers; the harrowing ride here in Rio, seemingly run-of-the-mill from the looks of the other drivers on th road, had certainly diverted Eva’s mind from her private battle for a few minutes. It was with a weak though heartfelt sigh of relief that Eva had stepped safely from the taxi at Santos Dumont Airport, knowing that no amount of fear of flying could equal the tension in the brief ride she had just taken.
Once she had boarded the Trans-Brasil plane, it had been a comfortable shuttle from Rio to Belo. A full-course meal had been graciously served, along with a glass of native Brazilian wine, which, to Eva’s mildly though by no means expertly trained palate, was as rich-bodied as any she had tasted. The wine had begun to dull her senses when she was brought gently back to earth by the cafèzinho which had topped off the menu. Never before an admirer of espresso of any form, Eva had found much enjoyment in this rich, sweet, very strong black coffee.
Thus, she had emerged from the plane at Belo in a most composed manner, one which continued to grace her as she put in her request at the appropriate desk for a driver to take her on the last leg of her journey. It had only been during the leisure moments, as she waited with her traveling bags and camera equipment at her feet, that her mind had begun to sink into the quicksand again. With as much determination as she could muster, Eva forced herself into serious contemplation of the sights around her. Many of the other passengers who had disembarked with her had already left the terminal. Of the others who remained, she found herself gazing at a diverse gathering of people, most of whom seemed completely at home, relaxed, and satisfied as they awaited their own contacts. She released the shutter several times, advancing the film to the first frames, and was grateful for the hum of the ongoing conversations which would effectively cover up her photographic activity. No one gave the slightest sign of objection to, much less recognition of, the camera before her. She photographed a group of children who were seated with a stunningly attractive mameluco woman, her proud Indian features blended exquisitely with the white pallor of her smooth skin. Each of the children would have made a portrait by and of himself; each child varied in skin tone, hair color, and clothing from his companions, yet each seemed as contented, as loved, as the next.
Eva shifted her sights to the building itself, extending her zoom lens to capture the architecture of this building which, like so much of the city around it, was relatively
young and indicative of the prosperity which had come to this region of Brazil as a result of its vast mining interests. She photographed the small, well-stocked, open-fronted airport shops carrying their wide sampling of Brazilian goods. The attractive rows of silver, pewter, and leather goods would certainly add a flavor to her photojournalistic effort, as would the stalls of hand-loomed tablecloths, bedspreads, and straw goods.
As the camera’s eye led her back into the central terminal waiting room, her view swept past, then promptly backtracked to focus on two individuals, a man and a woman, who were deeply engaged in a conversation by the airline desk. The woman, obviously an airline employee in her crisply tailored, properly insigniaed navy suit, presented a striking image of sophistication and confidence, her blond hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck, serving to further emphasize her beautifully made-up features, laid open for the world to savor. For Eva, however, the major focus was elsewhere, as she zoomed in on the figure next to the stewardess. It was male from head to foot, more male than Eva had ever been aware existed. Standing at his full height momentarily as he shifted position to more intimately converse with his companion, he reached to well over six feet. His thick head full of casually groomed black hair showed the slightest, and most dashing, hint of gray at the sideburns, adding several years to his overall appearance, which was that of a man in his mid-thirties. His skin, tautly drawn over high cheekbones, bore evidence of a life under the sun, though whether in business or in pleasure Eva had no way of knowing. His dress was as casual as his features —lightweight, tan trousers molding to his lean legs and thighs, a cream-colored shirt, open at the neck to reveal short tufts of black hair on a chest which, from the firm lines emerging suggestively through the thin fabric, promised to be as broad and strong as any woman might wish it. His jacket, a matching tan to the pants, and tie were nonchalantly draped over one arm, which in turn was draped around the stewardess; his other arm rested in a relaxed manner on the high desk next to him. The overall picture, as Eva preserved it in her mind—for she found herself totally unable to function as a photographer with this man in her sights—was one of masculinity, strength, and sureness, peppered with the barest hint of arrogance which a particular tilt of the chin can betray.
Subconsciously, Eva had held her breath as her eyes remained frozen on this stranger. Now she slowly exhaled as her total impression merged into one powerful image. Then, slowly and silently, that one powerful image raised his dark eyes from those of his companion and turned them toward Eva. Through no conscious decision on her part, Eva, who had been observing this compelling figure entirely through her view finder, lowered her camera and allowed her green eyes to meet his challenging gaze, which, in a split second’s time and with barely a flicker, widened to take in the whole of her. As if in retribution for her previous examination of him, of which she was positive he had been unaware, his eyes scrutinized her seated form, intimately examining her shoulder-length curly hair, its brown sheen sparkling wtih red highlights as the sun hit it through the skylight above, and her graceful neck and straight shoulders, whose span was broken only by the spaghetti straps of the sun dress, which she had so wisely changed into at the airport in Rio, having arrived from New York in warmer clothes more appropriate to the month of January in the Northern Hemisphere. So penetrating was his continued gaze that Eva became thankful that her sundress was loose-fitting, leaving the only evidence of her near-perfect figure to be her shapely legs, pale as they were compared to those of the few women seated nearby. His gaze had awakened something totally strange within Eva, something of which she was only beginning to become aware when she was jolted out of this most disturbing visual interchange by a firm tap on her shoulder.
“Jordenson?” inquired a short, rotund man.
“Yes!” Eva responded with a jump, feeling her cheeks flush as she pivoted her head toward the thickly accented voice which addressed her.
“Taxi?”
With an affirmative smile, Eva quickly stood up and shifted both her pocketbook and her camera onto one shoulder as she motioned with her hand toward the bags which the driver simultaneously had spotted and was already lifting. Looking back, she checked to make sure that nothing had been left before turning to follow the driver to his taxi. It was only at the door that she paused to look at where the oddly unsettling man had been standing. There was trace neither of him nor his female admirer, which Eva was sure this woman must be. No doubt they were on their way to some intimate café, mused Eva, as she made a rational attempt to dispel the germ of discomfort this man’s gaze had sent her way.
As the taxi began its journey, Eva settled into the back seat by the window, determined to view, if only in passing, this city, whose beauty and modernity would contrast greatly with the beauty and antiquity of the towns that she would be seeing shortly. With a professional ease, her camera captured many of the sights, new structures and old, graciously planted and cultivated gardens, inviting parks and plazas bounded by tree-lined avenues. Then, as the city was left behind and the highway stretched ahead, Eva permitted herself to sit back and relax. So much had happened to her life in the past few weeks. Had she been told last month that she was soon to be a widow—no less chasing some precious gem in South America—she would have laughed hysterically. Now she could laugh just as hysterically at the reality of the situation. Actually, it was Stu who had planned the trip to Brazil, a trip to be taken for pure enjoyment and, perhaps, a little enlightenment, though, Eva had pondered cynically at the time, with Stu it was always precious little of the latter and a whole lot of the former. And, as if in confirmation of this fact, Eva had not been invited. Stu had claimed, upon her objection, that the hills of central Brazil were no place for a woman. She had heard the same argument time and time again during the past three years, only to learn that what Stu had really meant was that his adventures had no place for “this” woman. It was, in fact, this repeated sentiment that had prompted Eva to go into photography. She had always been a fairly strong, capable person, and she felt stifled by the confines that Stu had established soon after their marriage. Although she was not accustomed to the kind of wealth Stu possessed, she found no inherent satisfaction in taking it for granted. She had been brought up under the old work ethic, and, even though her family had lived well, both her parents had worked, and she had done so too whenever possible during vacations and the summer. They all enjoyed working she had learned to derive satisfaction out of doing something well, be it in school or at work. Thus, when it became clear that Stu had envisioned a wife who would conform to the image of a wealthy socialite, she had balked. Photography was something she had taken to naturally. Studying it seriously was merely an extension of the fun she had had as a youngster playing with the camera her parents had given her on her birthday. When she had landed a job on the staff of a small but influential newspaper in upstate New York—where their country house had been built soon after their marriage—Eva had felt not only pride but a sense of accomplishment and a desperate hope that her job would bring some concrete direction into her life once again.
It had done just that. At the end, it was her major life line to reality. Her marriage was in shambles; she and Stu shared all of the surface trappings of a marriage with none of the sturdy fiber of love to bolster it. Although she had remained faithful to him quite willingly, he had felt none of the same type of loyalty and had made no attempt to hide it. Eva had merely looked the other way, knowing that there was very little she would have been able to do had she tried. But what if she had tried? The same old guilt feeling was always there, taunting her, punishing her, blaming her for her failure to satisfy Stu.
As the converted VW taxi approached a small town built into the hills through which they would be increasingly passing, Eva reached for her camera, motioned the driver to pull over, and climbed out of the car to take photographs from the roadside. She had found the landscape gaining in excitement as they drove. The road had begun to wind in and out of hills, each t
urn with its own surprises. Here the earth had taken on the iron-red color typical of this mineral-rich land. Lime-washed cottages, each with its tin-fluted roof, dotted the hillside in small clusters, the bottom-most almost reaching the bank of the narrow river, which snaked its own way through the hills. Satisfied that she had exhausted the photographic possibilities from this position, she re-entered the taxi, and it made its way once again, moving further into the less-populated regions of central Brazil.
She had to laugh to herself. A goose chase. That’s what she had told Stu this trip would be. A wild-goose chase into some Godforsaken hills in search of a stone that the world neither needed nor would appreciate. The fabled Espinhaco Topaz, he had called it; it was supposedly one of the largest crystals of precious sherry-yellow topaz ever discovered. Yet it had not been seen since its discovery over one hundred and fifty years ago. Now, a Brazilian adventurer had come up with a map that was to lead to the Topaz. Only once had Stu met this Brazilian, and brief as this introduction was, Stu had committed himself to the expedition.
At the time Stu had told Eva of his proposed trip, the whole thing had sounded preposterous. Then, in the week following Stu’s death and funeral, the walls had begun to close in on her to such an extent that she knew she had to get away from the entire scene. Here were the plane ticket, the instructions for reaching the small town of Terra Vermelho (the base for the search), and the letter from this Brazilian, Roberto de Carvalho, who would be leading the small group—all these things were at Eva’s fingertips. The lure was too great. Eva once again yielded to the impulsiveness that, as in the case of her marriage to Stu, occasionally proved to be her one personality flaw. She discarded the somber clothes of mourning, which ill fitted both her vivacious features and her most honest inner feelings, packed her bags for a trip to the warmth of the semitropical uplands, and boarded her plane without a second thought.
Pictures of You Page 1