Читать книгу Taming the Last Acosta - Susan Stephens, Susan Stephens - Страница 8

SHE MADE HER way down the aisle towards the area at the rear of the coach set aside for desks and equipment. Her small, slender shape, dressed all in black, quickly became part of the shadows.

‘I know there’s a light switch in here somewhere,’ she said.

Her voice was a little shaky now the door was closed, and the tension rocketed between them. He could feel her anticipation as she waited for his next move. He could taste it in the air. He could detect her arousal. He was a hunter through and through.

‘Here,’ he said, pressing a switch that illuminated the coach and set some unseen power source humming.

‘Thank you,’ she said, with her back to him as she sat down at a desk.

‘You’ll need this,’ he said, handing over the camera.

She thanked him and hugged it to her as if it contained gold bars rather than her shots.

He had more time than he needed while she logged on. He used it to reflect on what had happened over the past hour or so. Ejecting Romy from the wedding feast should have been straightforward. She should have been on her way to Buenos Aires by now, then back to London. Instead his head was still full of her, and his body still wanted her. He could still hear her moaning and writhing beneath him and feel her beneath his hands. He could still taste her on his mouth, and he could remember the smell of her soap-fresh skin. He smiled in the shadows, remembering her attacking him, that tiny frame surprisingly strong, yet so undeniably feminine. Why did Romy Winner hide herself away behind the lens of a camera?

A blaze of colour hit the screen as she began to work. What he saw answered his question. Romy Winner was quite simply a genius with a camera. Images assailed his senses. The scenery was incredible, the wildlife exotic. Her pictures of the Criolla ponies were extraordinary. She had captured some amusing shots of the wedding guests, but nothing cruel, though she had caught out some of the most pompous in less than flattering moments. She’d taken a lot of pictures of the staff too, and it was those shots that really told a story. Perhaps because more expression could be shown on faces that hadn’t been stitched into place, he reflected dryly as Romy continued to sort and select her images.

She’d made him smile. Another first, he mused as she turned to him.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do you like what you see?’

‘I like them,’ he confirmed. ‘Show me what else you’ve got.’

‘There’s about a thousand more.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’ For maybe the first time in his life.

‘Why don’t you pull up a chair?’ she suggested. ‘Just let me know if there any images you don’t feel are suitable for the charity.’

‘So I’m your editor now?’ he remarked, with some amusement after her earlier comment about censorship.

‘No,’ she said mildly. ‘You’re a client I want to please.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgement of this. He could think of a million ways she could please him. When she turned back to her work he thought the nape of her neck extremely vulnerable and appealing, just for starters. He considered dropping a kiss on the peachy flesh, and then decided no. Once he’d tasted her…

‘What do you think of these?’ she said, distracting him.

‘Grace is very beautiful,’ he said as he stared at Romy’s shots of the bride. He could see that his new sister-in-law was exquisite, like some beautifully fashioned piece of china. But did Grace move him? Did she make his blood race? He admired Grace as he might admire some priceless objet d’art, but it was Romy who heated his blood.

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’ Romy agreed, with a warmth in her voice he had never noticed before. She certainly didn’t use that voice when she spoke to him.

And why should he care?

Because for the first time in his life he found himself missing the attentions of a woman, and perhaps because he was still stung, after Romy’s enthusiastic response to their lovemaking, that she wasn’t telling him how she thrilled and throbbed, and all the other things his partners were usually at such pains to tell him. Had Romy Winner simply feasted on him and moved on? If she had, it would be the first time any woman had turned the tables on him.

‘This is the sort of shot my editor loves,’ she said as she brought a picture of him up on the screen.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because you’re so elusive,’ she explained. ‘You’re hardly ever photographed. I’ll make a lot from this,’ she added with a pleased note in her voice.

Was he nothing but a commodity?

‘Though what I’d like to do,’ she explained, ‘is give it to the charity. So, much as I’d like to make some money out of you, you can have this one gratis.’

As she turned to him he felt like laughing. She was so honest, he felt… uncomfortable. ‘Thank you,’ he said with a guarded expression. ‘If you’ve just taken a couple of shots of me you can keep the rest. ‘

‘What makes you think I’d want to take more than one?’

Youch.

What, indeed? He shrugged and even managed to smile at that.

Romy Winner intrigued him. He had grown up with women telling him he was the best and that they couldn’t get enough of him. He’d grown up fighting for approval as the youngest of four highly skilled, highly intelligent brothers. When he couldn’t beat Nacho as a youth he had turned to darker pursuits—in which, naturally, he had excelled—until Nacho had finally knocked some sense into him. Then Harvard had beckoned, encouraging him to stretch what Nacho referred to as the most important muscle in his body: the brain. After college he had found the ideal outlet for his energy and tirelessly competitive nature in the army.

‘There,’ Romy said, jolting him back from these musings. ‘You’re finished.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ he said, leaning in close to study her edited version. He noticed again how lithe and strong she was, and how easy it would be to pull her into his arms.

‘I have a deadline,’ she said, getting back to work.

‘Go right ahead.’ He settled back to watch her.

The huge press coach was closing in on her, and all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck were standing erect at the thought of Kruz just a short distance away. She could hear him breathing. She could smell his warm, sexy scent. Some very interesting clenching of her interior muscles suggested she was going to have to concentrate really hard if she was going to get any work done.

‘Could you pass me that kitbag?’ she said, without risking turning round. She needed a new memory card and didn’t want to brush past him.

Her breath hitched as their fingers touched and that touch wiped all sensible thought from her head. All she could think about now was what they had done and what they could do again.

Work!

She pulled herself back to attention with difficulty, but even as she worked she dreamed, while her body throbbed and yearned, setting up a nagging ache that distracted her.

‘Shall I put this other memory card in the pocket for you?’ Kruz suggested.

She realised then that she had clenched her hand over it. ‘Yes—thank you.’

His fingers were firm as they brushed hers again, and that set up more distracting twinges and delicious little aftershocks. Would she ever be able to live normally again?

Not if she kept remembering what Kruz had done—and so expertly.

Her mind was in turmoil. Every nerve-ending in her body felt as if it had been jangled. And all he’d done was brush her hand!

Somehow she got through to the end of the editing process and was ready to show him what she’d got. She ran through the images, giving a commentary like one stranger informing another about this work, and even while Kruz seemed genuinely interested and even impressed she felt his aloofness. Perhaps he thought she was a heartless bitch after enjoying him so fully and so vigorously. Perhaps he thought she took what she wanted when she wanted. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they deserved each other.

So why this yearning ache inside her?

Because she wanted things she couldn’t have, Romy reasoned, bringing up a group photograph of the Acostas on the screen. They were such a tight-knit family…

‘Are you sure you want to give me all these shots?’

‘Concerned, Kruz?’ she said, staring at him wryly. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve kept more than enough shots back.’

‘I’d better see the ones you’re giving me again.’

‘Okay. No problem.’ She ran through them again, just for the dangerous pleasure of having Kruz lean in close. She had never felt like this before—so aware, alert and aroused. It was like being hunted by the hunter she would most like to be caught by.

‘These are excellent,’ Kruz commented. ‘I’m sure Grace can only be thrilled when she hears the reaction of people to these photographs.’

‘Thank you. I hope so,’ she said, concentrating on the screen. Grace’s wedding was the first romantic project she had worked on. Romy was better known as a scandal queen. And that was one of the more polite epithets she’d heard tossed her way.

‘This one I can’t take,’ Kruz insisted when she flashed up another image on the screen. ‘You have to make some money,’ he reminded her.

Was this a test? Was he paying her off? Or was that her insecurity speaking? He might just be making a kindly gesture, and she maybe should let him.

She shook her head. ‘I can’t sell this one,’ she said quietly. ‘I want you to have it.’

The picture in question showed Kruz sharing a smile with his sister, Lucia. It was a rare and special moment between siblings, and it belonged to them alone—not the general public. It was a moment in time that told a story about Nacho’s success at bringing up his brothers and sister while he was still very young. They would see that when they studied it, just as she had. She wouldn’t dream of selling something like that.

‘Frame it and you’ll always have a reminder of what a wonderful family you have.’

Why was she doing this for him? Kruz wondered suspiciously. He eased his shoulders restlessly, realising that Romy had stirred feelings in him he hadn’t experienced since his parents were alive. He stared at her, trying to work out why. She was fierce and passionate one moment, aloof and withdrawn the next. He might even call her cold. He couldn’t pretend he understood her, but he’d like to—and that was definitely a first.

‘Thank you,’ he said, accepting the gift. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘I’ll make a copy for Lucia as well,’ she offered, getting back to work.

‘I know my sister will appreciate that.’ After Lucia had picked herself off the floor because he’d given her a gift outside of her birthday or Christmas.

The tension between them had subsided with this return to business. He was Romy’s client and she was his photographer—an excellent photographer. Her photographs revealed so much about other people, while the woman behind the lens guarded her inner self like a sphinx.

DAMN. She was going to cry if she didn’t stop looking at images of Grace and Nacho. So that was what love looked like…

‘Shall we move on?’ she said briskly, because Kruz seemed in no hurry to bring the viewing session to an end. She was deeply affected by some of the shots she had captured of the bridal couple, and that wasn’t helpful right now. Since she was a child she had felt the need to protect her inner self. Drawing a big, thick safety curtain around herself rather than staring at an impossible dream on the screen would be her action of choice right now.

‘That was a heavy sigh,’ Kruz commented.

She shrugged, neither wanting nor able to confide in him. ‘I just need to do a little more work,’ she said. ‘That’s if you’ll let me stay to do it?’ she added, turning to face him, knowing it could only be a matter of minutes before they went their separate ways.

This was the moment she had been dreading and yet she needed him to go, Romy realised. Staring at those photographs of Grace and Nacho had only underlined the fact that her own life was going nowhere.

‘Here,’ she said, handing over the memory stick. ‘These are for you and for the charity. You will keep that special shot?’ she said, her chest tightening at the thought that Kruz might think nothing of it.

‘So I can stare at myself?’ he suggested, slanting her a half-smile.

‘So you can look at your family,’ she corrected him, ‘and feel their love.’

Did he have to stare at her so intently? She wished he wouldn’t. It made her uncomfortable. She didn’t know what Kruz expected from her.

‘What?’ she said, when he continued to stare.

‘I never took you for an emotional woman,’ he said.

‘Because I’m not,’ she countered, but her breath caught in her throat, calling her a liar. The French called this a coup de foudre—a thunderbolt. She had no explanation for the longing inside her except to say Kruz had turned her life inside out. It made no sense. They hardly knew each other outside of sex. They didn’t know if they could trust each other, and they had no shared history. They had everything to learn about each other and no time to do so. And why would Kruz want to know more about her?

They could be friends, maybe…

Friends? She almost laughed out loud at this naïve suggestion from a subconscious that hadn’t learned much in her twenty-four years of life. Romy Winner and Kruz Acosta? Ms Frost and Señor Ice? Taking time out to get to know each other? To really get to know each other? The idea was so preposterous she wasn’t going to waste another second on it. She’d settle for maintaining a truce between them long enough for her to leave Argentina in one piece with her camera.

‘Thanks for this,’ Kruz said, angling his stubble-shaded chin as he slipped the memory stick into his pocket.

She felt lost when he turned to go—something else she would have to get used to. She had to get over him. She’d leave love at first sight to those who believed in it. As far as she was concerned love at first sight was a load of bull. Lust at first sight, maybe. Lack of self-control, certainly.

Her throat squeezed tight when he reached the door and turned to look at her.

‘How are you planning to get back to England, Romy?’

‘The same way I arrived, I guess,’ she said wryly.

‘Did you bring much luggage with you?’

‘Just the essentials.’ She glanced at her kitbag, where everything she’d brought to Argentina was stashed. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘My jet’s flying to London tomorrow and there are still a few spare places, if you’re stuck.’

Did he mean stuck as in unprepared? Did he think she was so irresponsible? Maybe he thought she was an opportunist who seized the moment and thought nothing more about it?

‘I bought a return ticket,’ she said, just short of tongue in cheek. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

Kruz shrugged, but as he was about to go through the door he paused. ‘You’re passing up the chance to take some exclusive shots of the young royals—’

‘So be it,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding on their privacy.’

‘Romy Winner passing up a scoop?’

‘What you’re suggesting sounds more like a cheap thrill for an amateur,’ she retorted, stung by his poor opinion of her. ‘When celebrities or royals are out in public it’s a different matter.’

Kruz made a calming motion with his hands.

‘I am calm,’ she said, raging with frustration at the thought that they had shared so much yet knew so little about each other. Kruz had tagged her with the label paparazzi the first moment he’d caught sight of her—as someone who would do anything it took to get her shots. Even have sex with Kruz Acosta, presumably, if that was what was required.

‘Romy—’

‘What?’ she flashed defensively.

‘You seem… angry?’ Kruz suggested dryly.

She huffed, as if she didn’t care what he thought, but even so her gaze was drawn to his mouth. ‘I just wonder what type of photographer you think I am,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘A very good one, from what I’ve seen today, Señorita Winner,’ Kruz said softly, completely disarming her.

‘Gracias,’ she said, firming her jaw as they stared at each other.

And now Kruz should leave. And she should stay where she was—at the back of the coach, as far away from him as possible, with a desk, a chair and most of the coach seats between them.

She waited for him to go, to close the door behind him and bring this madness to an end.

He didn’t go.

Leaning over the driver’s seat, Kruz hit the master switch and the lights dimmed, and then he walked down the aisle towards her.