by Nancy Warren
“Thanks. Um, you will make sure and shoot the girls too, right?”
“You think the models could be in on the thefts?”
“Just take the pictures, will you?”
He looked at her and suddenly her brilliant stroke of genius didn’t seem quite so much like the gesture of someone who was helping him solve a case. “You don’t think I can take pictures of models, do you?”
“Of course I—” She stopped. Sighed. Looked at him with those deep, seriously blue eyes of hers. “I have no idea. While you are taking pictures of everything else, do you think you could take some fashion shots simply for the practice?”
“They won’t even be wearing the real gowns.”
“I know that. But they’ll be working on staging, timing, choreography and so on. I’ve told the house that we’re going to do a feature on the details that go into fashion week. A behind-the-scenes kind of thing.”
“Terrific idea.”
“Except that nobody really cares.” She shrugged. “I can probably do a short piece, maybe something longer online, but my job is to showcase the actual fashions. And I need great shots. So do us both a favor and practice on the real live models, okay?”
“Okay.” He leaned over, brushing her knee with his hand. “Sorry.” He reached his camera bag and unzipped it. Dug around in the bottom and pulled out the instruction booklet that came with the camera. He adjusted his glasses and flipped open the book.
“What are you—”
“Shh, I’m trying to read. Let’s see…f-stops. Aperture. Where’s point and click?”
She whacked him on the arm with her bag. “You may think this is funny, but it’s my career on the line, buddy. You mess this up and I’ll be using freelance stock photography. I’ll be humiliated. I’ll never be able to show my face in Paris again.”
“I promise, you won’t be humiliated by my photography.” He didn’t like to boast, but he was damn good with a camera. He could have made that his career, except he liked detective work. Still, the photography was an exciting and lucrative hobby, as well as being useful in his line of work. He laid a hand above her knee, thinking to soothe her or maybe just get her mind on something other than his imagined photographic shortcomings. But the second he touched her he felt the fabric slide against her slim, muscular thigh. She might mock him for his outdoor ways, but she was doing something to stay in shape.
He could feel the heat of her skin through her clothing and he couldn’t stop his fingers from venturing a little higher. He heard the hitch of her breath and saw her eyes darken. Making tiny, teasing movements against her thigh until he could feel the muscle quiver beneath his fingers, he leaned slowly forward. “Trust me,” he said, and then he kissed her, taking a long, slow taste of her. He’d intended nothing more than a little pleasure for both of them, a taste of what they both knew was ahead, but when their mouths met lust hit him like a freight train. Wham.
Knowing he had to hang on to his control, he pulled reluctantly away, enjoying the shock of her stunned expression and wet lips. “Later,” he promised them both.
KIMI WAS INDULGING in a soak in the deep, decadent tub in her hotel. She had a glass of wine in her hand and a knot of tension in her belly. She thought she might as well enjoy this week since it might be her last one in Paris. Sure, her publisher had arranged for Holden to be her photographer so it wouldn’t really be her fault if he screwed up, but she’d know her coverage wasn’t top notch.
If they hadn’t already reassigned her Milan photographer she’d call him and pay him out of her own pocket to make sure she got some decent shots.
She drank some more wine. Edith Piaf was playing in the background, and whatever very expensive salts she’d poured in the bath smelled heavenly.
There was a knock on her door. “Merde,” she said as she was immediately jerked out of her blissful moment.
“Qui est-ce?” she demanded.
“Kimi? It’s Holden.”
“What do you want?”
“Got some proofs for you.”
She was out of that bath so fast, water sloshed to the marble tile. “Wait. Wait. I’m coming.” She grabbed a thick, monogrammed towel, dried herself quickly and slipped into a hotel robe. Then she ran to the door while belting the luxurious cover-up.
7
SHE OPENED the door and her visitor’s eyes widened. “Sorry. Were you in bed already? It’s nine-thirty. I didn’t think I needed to call first.”
“No. It’s fine. I was taking a bath, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s why your hair is wet down here by your ears.” He took one fingertip and traced a wet ringlet. She was sure he only meant the gesture to be teasing, but the second his skin touched hers it didn’t feel much like teasing anymore.
He’d changed into jeans; at least they were his new jeans, the ones she’d picked out for him. And he wore them with one of the three sweater-and-shirt combos she’d approved. Excellent.
She saw the brown envelope in his hand and was torn between wanting to know what the contents looked like and not wanting to know.
Curiosity won over cowardice. “Come on in.”
“I could leave them.” She felt that he was uncomfortable, and she realized he was worried she’d hate his work. Which reminded her that he wasn’t a trained fashion photographer, he was an undercover private detective and no matter how bad his proofs, she’d find something nice to say.
Then she’d get right on the phone and wake her publisher up and demand that they bring in somebody else to help with the photos. She had her pride.
“No. Come in. Sit down.” She gestured to the sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Maybe in a minute.” He walked over and sat on the sofa, but he leaned forward, as if he had somewhere else he had to be.
She couldn’t stand keeping either of them in suspense any longer, so she lifted the unsealed flap and spilled a dozen or so eight-by-ten proofs out onto the table. For a second there was absolute stillness and silence in the room. A dozen gorgeous women sprawled on the table, some upside down, some right side up, some sideways.
She picked up the closest proof. It was clear, in focus, perfectly centered in the frame. Already he’d exceeded her expectations. But he’d caught more than simply a model in a dress—not even the real couture number, but whatever they’d stuffed her in to practice the timing. He’d caught the flair of drama in her. Kimi knew the model. She was a young Australian with a guileless wide-eyed stare and cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese. She had no idea how he’d done it, but he’d caught something magical.
She looked at the next one and appreciated the arrogance in the upturned arms and the way the model’s eyes flirted with the camera—or with Holden as he’d taken the shot, it didn’t matter. He captured not only her flirtation, but somehow made the dress part of the come on. It worked. She went through all of them before speaking, but she was enchanted.
It was impossible for her to explain to someone how to take a good fashion photo, but she knew them when she saw them. “Holden, these are amazing. I can’t believe you could so instinctively know how to shoot a model.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Glad you like them. I gotta tell you, I wasn’t looking forward to facing you if you decided I suck.”
She glanced up at him. “You must know you don’t suck.”
“I kept telling you that. You didn’t seem to believe me.”
“You didn’t develop this instinct from shooting pictures of animals.”
He snorted. “You think there’s no drama in the wild? That animals don’t have idiosyncrasies?” She kept looking at him steadily. He shrugged, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “And you forgot my work. I use my camera to catch people doing things they’d rather no one saw. You get good at reading faces and develop an instinct for timing.”
She went through the photos one more time, feeling the tension in her shoulders relax and excitement begin to build. “You, my friend, have hidden talent
s.”
“You have no idea.”
The tone of his voice was warm and promising, like hot-fudge sauce as it hits ice cream, making it melt.
And suddenly she was aware that she was naked beneath her robe, her skin still damp from the bath.
She could ignore his comment, laugh it off, but she had a feeling she’d only postpone the inevitable. She looked up slowly, letting her gaze connect with his. She was beyond delighted with him. It seemed they’d started out on the wrong foot, and now they were learning to work together, maybe trust each other. It wasn’t such a big step to indulging in a little extracurricular fling.
“What hidden talents?” she asked softly.
He reached out, it seemed in slow motion, and with one finger followed the path of a damp ringlet from behind her ear, following its path down her neck. She felt the wetness of her own hair and the dry, slightly rough pad of his fingertip snaking his way lower. How far would he go? she wondered.
How far would she let him?
Their eyes met and held. She’d never seen him without his glasses on and all of a sudden she wondered what he’d look like without them.
“You smell good.”
She felt good.
“Your skin is warm.”
He had no idea.
He let his hand fall to her shoulder. She didn’t move forward and she didn’t shrug it off. She couldn’t decide what she wanted. To listen to her body jangling with desire meant to throw caution to the winds and sleep with a guy she hardly knew. To ignore the pull of desire meant calling on self-control she wasn’t sure she had in sufficient quantities.
He didn’t move forward either. She wondered if he was engaging in the same mental process. “Is there anyone at home I should know about?” he asked at last.
“You mean like a husband?”
He shrugged. “Husband, lover, boyfriend.”
“No to the first. Not at the moment to the second and we broke up three months ago to the third.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
She tilted her head to the side, looking up at him. “You?”
He hesitated long enough that her stomach tightened. As she was starting to pull away so his hand would fall away, he said, “No. Nobody at home.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
A tiny smile tilted her mouth. “So, we’re both single.”
“Seems that way.”
The moment lengthened, they gazed at each other in quiet contemplation, then he leaned in and kissed her slow and sure, a man who clearly liked to take his time. A man, as she’d seen so clearly from those pictures, who enjoyed women. She let herself go, let herself begin to dissolve into his embrace. His lips weren’t demanding, they were more testing, exploring.
The zinging heat that went back and forth between them was insistent. When he deepened the kiss she found herself clinging to him. Her hands around him, her head falling back.
Oh, it had been too long since she’d taken some time for herself, time to let go and enjoy her own body against that of a sexy guy. She’d been working too hard, she thought dimly, but she must have been out of her mind to let this part of her life lie fallow.
They kissed for a long time, tasting, teasing, exploring. He moved his hand to her knee, nudging it open, and her leg bumped the table.
With an expression of impatience, he let go of her completely and turned to shove the table out of the way. A single photo fluttered to the floor, a model wearing something blue, she thought idly.
He dropped down beside her. Cupped the back of her neck and went back to kissing her. He kissed like a man who didn’t plan on stopping at kisses.
Waves of heat floated up and down her body as he angled himself over her, kissing her more deeply.
Oh, he tasted good. Strong, tender, somehow American. When he drew back to look down at her, she reached for his glasses and eased them off. “I love your eyes.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady.
He undid the sash of her robe and pushed the edges away. He made a tiny sound and then kissed her breasts until they tingled, and the tingling moved all over her. “I’ve been thinking about this since I first met you.”
She chuckled. “Thinking about kissing my breasts?” She tried to keep it light, but already her heart was racing and her breath was coming faster.
“I was thinking about making love to you.”
“You were?”
“Yes.” He kissed his way from one aroused nipple to the other. “When I saw you that first night with your shoes snapping and your skirt swinging I knew I wanted you even though I thought you only spoke French.”
“I—” She sighed, shifting to wrap her arms around him, and bumped her elbow on the sofa. “You know, there’s a wonderful bed in the bedroom. Soft, civilized.”
He kissed his way between her breasts to her belly. “Maybe later.”
“Later,” she agreed as he slowly began kissing his way down to where she was hot, needy and open for him.
He took his time reaching his destination, which was both frustration and agonizing pleasure. He toyed at her hipbone, turning that into an erogenous zone, nuzzled his way down her thigh to her knees. Oh, wrong direction, wrong. Other way!
After he’d teased her inner knee, he began the slow, agonizing climb, stopping to taste her skin on the way. She tossed, restless, desperate for release when she felt him shift, felt the warm waft of his breath where she needed him most. She held her breath for a moment, then he put his mouth on her, wet and hot and oh, yes, exactly there. He toyed with her, teased her, taking her up and relentlessly up. She felt carpet beneath her clutching fingers and as she grew closer to the inevitable explosion, her head fell back and she saw the gorgeous long windows, the lacy drapes like a fancy frame and centered in the middle, the Eiffel Tower bright with lights and as glowing and festive as she felt.
Paris. “Oui,” she whispered. Then as he moved relentlessly to her hot button, his tongue stroking her to madness, it turned into a cry. “Oui, oui!”
She lay there a moment with her eyes closed, absorbing the pleasure all over again. Her skin was supersensitive, pulsing with the aftershocks of passion. He lay beside her, stroking her softly, giving her time to enjoy the moment.
She opened her eyes, lazy and satisfied, and then felt a rather smug grin form. “I’m naked and had an orgasm and you haven’t even got your shirt off.”
“Guess I work faster than you.”
She snorted, gathering her robe together and yanking him to his feet. “Guess it’s my turn. And I do my best work in the bedroom.”
8
SHE FLICKED on a low lamp on the bedside, which bathed the room in romance. Then she dropped her robe and approached him, naked.
She loved how his eyes devoured her and his hands reached for her before they were close enough to touch. She undressed him slowly. She wasn’t shallow enough to like him for his wardrobe, but undeniably, the clothes added to his appeal. And under the sophisticated elegance of the clothes, she took pleasure in his body, the hard muscles of an outdoorsman. His torso tanned all over. Long, powerful legs, and a cock that looked made to ride.
“Did you bring condoms?”
His face fell in comical dismay. “No. I was thinking about the proofs. I didn’t think you’d be in a robe with nothing under it but steam.” He backed away. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I have some.” She grinned, slipping into the bathroom. “I was just checking to see how sure of me you were.”
“Not at all.”
She thought of the way he’d kissed her earlier, the single word later. She suspected he’d known, as she had, that this thing with them was inevitable.
She led him to her bed, leaving the light on since, if there was one thing she knew about him it was that he was a visual guy. “Want to know a secret?” she whispered as she pushed him to his back and kissed the spot above his heart, where she could see his pulse beating.
“What?”
>
She kissed her way down a belly that was taut and muscular and took her time fitting him with the condom. “I’d have had sex with you even if your pictures turned out to be lousy.”
He laughed. “You are so easy.”
The laugh turned to a groan as she straddled him and took him inside her body. She’d intended to take her time, but she found once she started moving on him she couldn’t move slowly. She needed hard and fast and he had no trouble keeping up with her. His eyes devoured her, but, oddly, he used his hands almost the way a blind person would, as though he needed the information from his hands to really see her. She’d never felt such total focus and it seemed to sharpen her vision of him so they were completely and intimately with and in each other. He seemed instinctively to know what she wanted, until she lost count of how many times he made her cry out. When they were both spent, she got out of bed, poured them some wine and brought it back.
They sipped.
“I should probably head back,” he said.
“Ah, so you’re one of those men.”
“One of what men?” He looked aggrieved and suspicious.
“The kind of men who run out the second the physical part of the evening is over.”
“I was thinking you needed your sleep.”
“I’ve got a few minutes.” She pushed pillows behind her and leaned against them, sipping. “To talk.”
“Talk.”
“Who was she?”
He let out a huge sigh. “Couldn’t you start with my favorite color or something?”
Her lips twitched. “I already know your favorite color. It’s blue.” Seeing his eyes widen, she explained, “Most of your wardrobe is blue. Also the trim on your camera case.” She laid a hand on his chest, still warm and bumping away as his heart slowed down. “So, who was she? The woman who left you fumbling for the answer to your current romantic status?”
He flopped back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. A moment passed. “She was Rebecca.”
“Rebecca. Pretty name.”