Photo Play by Pam McKenna Page B

exasperation. “Uh-huh what? Uh-huh you’ll give me my money back? I’m waiting.”
    “Can’t.” Click. “Spent it. Just one button, okay? Let’s start with one button.”
    “What do you mean you spent it? That’s— For heaven’s sake, just write me a check so I can get out of here.”
    “It’d bounce.”
    She gaped. “Your check would bounce?”
    “Why do you think I’ve been reduced to taking pictures of repressed suburb—”
    “Don’t say it again!”
    He shrugged, still clicking off frames. “Three ex-wives with expensive lawyers. What can I tell you? What color bra are you wearing?”
    Darla dropped her head into her hands. All she’d wanted was a few sexy pictures to jump-start her love life. How had a simple thing like that gone so off the rails?
    “Good,” Kon said, clicking the shutter. “Good. Now toss your hair back.”
    “What?” Her head snapped up.
    “Excellent. That’s it.” He peeked from behind the camera with such a sexy, teasing smile, she almost forgot she was mad as hell at him. “You look really hot.”
    Now she did forget she was mad. She also forgot to breathe. Nobody had ever called her hot. “Pretty” on a handful of occasions when someone—usually her mother—felt like throwing her a bone, but never hot.
    Darla’s voice trembled. “You’re a real prick, you know that?” Alarmingly, her eyes stung.
    Kon’s smile faded.
    Her hand had grasped the doorknob before she remembered her purse and tote bag. She swung back into the room, praying she could keep the tears at bay until she was well away from this hateful man.
    The hateful man intercepted her before she’d gone two steps. “Darla.”
    She tried in vain to twist out of his grasp. He was too strong, his big hands searing her upper arms, the clean, masculine scent of him filling her nostrils. He was so close. She couldn’t think with him so close.
    “Wait a second,” he said.
    “Where’s my purse?” She craned her neck, trying to see past a pair of wide, muscular shoulders, trying not to let this self-important creep see how much he’d gotten to her. “Where did you put my stuff?”
    “Relax,” Kon said, “you can have your stuff, I just...” He squeezed her arms over the cotton blouse. “You need to see something.”
    He pulled her toward the camera. She resisted. “I’ve seen enough. I’ve heard enough. Let me go.”
    Kon tapped buttons on the camera and angled the viewfinder screen toward her. Darla went still, transfixed by what she saw there. She opened her mouth and shut it without speaking. She glanced at Kon, who studied her with an unreadable expression.
    Darla leaned in closer to the small image, her voice an awestruck whisper. “How did you do that?”
    The question socked Kon in the solar plexus, though he managed to keep his features neutral. The picture on the viewfinder was a close-up of Darla’s face. She glared at the camera, her dark eyes burning with emotion. Long, straight chestnut hair framed her face, a few errant strands clinging to her flushed cheeks. Tendons stood out in her throat. A vein bulged in her temple.
    She looked sexy as hell.
    “Really,” Darla said. “I mean, that’s not what I...” Her voice trailed off.
    “Yes, it is, Darla. It is what you look like.” Kon clicked rapidly through the series of photos he’d snapped. Together they watched as frustrated anger seized Darla by the throat and gave a good shake. In the last shot, her eyes glistened with tears of helpless rage.
    Why? Because he’d told her how hot she looked. She’d thought he was lying.
    She turned toward the backdrop, looked at the lights, the umbrellas, then the camera.
    “I’m good.” Kon shrugged.
    “You’re a prick.” There was no heat in it. The anger had drained away, leaving her deflated. “And a bully.”
    “Your point?” Kon stepped into the shadows behind the backdrop and reemerged with a little padded bench, which he placed right under the lights. An antique piano