Nora Roberts - One Summer

Lost in reminiscence, Sadie forgot about the camera, not noticing when Bryan began to release the shutter. She wanted the poignancy—that’s what she’d seen. When she printed it, Bryan would be merciless with the lines and creases in the grandmother’s face, just as she’d highlight the flawlessness of the toddler’s skin.

Grateful, Bryan chatted a few more minutes, then noted the woman’s address with the promise of a print. She walked on, waiting for the next scene to unfold.

Shade had his first subject as well, but he didn’t chat. The man lay facedown on a faded beach towel. He was red, flabby and anonymous. A businessman taking the morning off, a salesman from Iowa—it didn’t matter. Unlike Bryan, he wasn’t looking for personality, but for the sameness of those who grilled their bodies under the sun. There was a plastic bottle of tanning lotion stuck in the sand beside him and a pair of rubber beach thongs.

Shade chose two angles and shot six times without exchanging a word with the snoring sunbather. Satisfied, he scanned the beach. Three yards away, Bryan was casually stripping out of her shorts and shirt. The sleek red maillot rose tantalizing high at the thighs. Her profile was to him as she stepped out of her shorts. It was sharp, well defined, like something sculpted with a meticulous hand.

Shade didn’t hesitate. He focused her in his viewfinder, set the aperture, adjusted the angle no more than a fraction and waited. At the moment when she reached down for the hem of her T-shirt, he began to shoot.

She was so easy, so unaffected. He’d forgotten anyone could be so totally unselfconscious in a world where self-absorption had become a religion. Her body was one long lean line, with more and more exposed as she drew the shirt over her head. For a moment, she tilted her face up to the sun, inviting the heat. Something crawled into his stomach and began to twist, slowly.

Desire. He recognized it. He didn’t care for it.

It was, he could tell himself, what was known in the trade as a decisive moment. The photographer thinks, then shoots, while watching the unfolding scene. When the visual and the emotional elements come together—as they had in this case, with a punch—there was success. There were no replays here, no reshooting. Decisive moment meant exactly that, all or nothing. If he’d been shaken for a instant, it only proved he’d been successful in capturing that easy, lazy sexuality.

Years before, he’d trained himself not to become overly emotional about his subjects. They could eat you alive. Bryan Mitchell might not look as though she’d take a bite out of a man, but Shade didn’t take chances. He turned away from her and forgot her. Almost.

It was more than four hours later before their paths crossed again. Bryan sat in the sun near a concession stand, eating a hot dog buried under mounds of mustard and relish. On one side of her she’d set her camera bag, on the other a can of soda. Her narrow red sunglasses shot his reflection back at him.

“How’d it go?” she asked with her mouth full.

“All right. Is there a hot dog under that?”

“Mmm.” She swallowed and gestured toward the stand. “Terrific.”

“I’ll pass.” Reaching down, Shade picked up her warming soda and took a long pull. It was orange and sweet. “How the hell do you drink this stuff?”

“I need a lot of sugar. I got some shots I’m pretty pleased with.” She held out a hand for the can. “I want to make prints before we leave tomorrow.”

“As long as you’re ready at seven.”

Bryan wrinkled her nose as she finished off her hot dog. She’d rather work until 7:00 A.M. than get up that early. One of the first things they’d have to iron out on the road was the difference in their biological schedules. She understood the beauty and power of a sunrise shot. She just happened to prefer the mystery and color of sunset.

“I’ll be ready.” Rising, she brushed sand off her bottom, then pulled her T-shirt over her suit. Shade could’ve told her she was more modest without it. The way the hem skimmed along her thighs and drew the eyes to them was nearly criminal. “As long as you drive the first shift,” she continued. “By ten I’ll be functional.”

He didn’t know why he did it. Shade was a man who analyzed each movement, every texture, shape, color. He cut everything into patterns, then reassembled them. That was his way. Impulse wasn’t. Yet he reached out and curled his fingers around her braid without thinking of the act or the consequences. He just wanted to touch.

She was surprised, he could see. But she didn’t pull away. Nor did she give him that small half smile women used when a man couldn’t resist touching what attracted him.

Her hair was soft; his eyes had told him that, but now his fingers confirmed it. Still, it was frustrating not to feel it loose and free, not to be able to let it play between his fingers.

He didn’t understand her. Yet. She made her living recording the elite, the glamorous, the ostentatious, yet she seemed to have no pretensions. Her only jewelry was a thin gold chain that fell to her breasts. On the end was a tiny ankh. Again, she wore no makeup, but her scent was there to tantalize. She could, with a few basic female touches, have turned herself into something breathtaking, but she seemed to ignore the possibilities and rely on simplicity. That in itself was stunning.

Hours before, Bryan had decided she didn’t want to be dazzled. Shade was deciding at that moment that he didn’t care to be stunned. Without a word, he let her braid fall back to her shoulder.

“Do you want me to take you back to your apartment or your studio?”

So that was it? He’d managed to tie her up in knots in a matter of seconds, and now he only wanted to know where to dump her off. “The studio.” Bryan reached down and picked up her camera bag. Her throat was dry, but she tossed the half-full can of soda into the trash. She wasn’t certain she could swallow. Before they’d reached Shade’s car, she was certain she’d explode if she didn’t say something.

“Do you enjoy that cool, remote image you’ve perfected, Shade?”

He didn’t look at her, but he nearly smiled. “It’s comfortable.”

“Except for the people who get within five feet of you.” Damned if she wouldn’t get a rise out of him. “Maybe you take your own press too seriously,” she suggested. “Shade Colby, as mysterious and intriguing as his name, as dangerous and as compelling as his photographs.”

This time he did smile, surprising her. Abruptly he looked like someone she’d want to link hands with, laugh with. “Where in hell did you read that?”

“Celebrity,” she muttered. “April, five years ago. They did an article on the photo sales in New York. One of your prints sold for seventy-five hundred at Sotheby’s.”

“Did it?” His gaze slid over her profile. “You’ve a better memory than I.”

Stopping, she turned to face him. “Damn it, I bought it. It’s a moody, depressing, fascinating street scene that I wouldn’t have given ten cents for if I’d met you first. And if I wasn’t so hooked on it, I’d pitch it out the minute I get home. As it is, I’ll probably have to turn it to face the wall for six months until I forget that the artist behind it is a jerk.”

Shade watched her soberly, then nodded. “You make quite a speech once you’re rolling.”

With one short, rude word, Bryan turned and started toward the car again. As she reached the passenger side and yanked open the door, Shade stopped her. “Since we’re essentially going to be living together for the next three months, you might want to get the rest of it out now.”

Though she tried to speak casually, it came out between her teeth. “The rest of what?”