Snowed by Pamela Burford Page A

chin and made her meet his eyes. “I’ll never tolerate being made a fool of. For anyone.” His expression reflected fierce conviction.
    “I never wanted to do that,” she whispered.
    “I think I know that now. And as you’ve pointed out, certain things are simply none of my business. Old boyfriends included. I guess I can respect your privacy.”
    A change came over his face then. He dropped his hand and slid his gaze away. “Leah...I know I did something last night. I kind of remember, but...well...” He reached into his jeans pocket and deposited something on the table.
    Three shirt buttons with threads hanging off them. The buttons from the flannel shirt she’d worn the night before. She felt a blush scorch her cheeks. If her panties came out of his pocket next, she’d die of mortification right there in his kitchen.
    His words were stiff and formal-sounding. “I apologize. For whatever I did. You made it clear you don’t welcome this sort of thing from me, and...all I can say is, I was kind of out of my mind, what with the pills and...” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes swiftly assessed her. “Leah, did I hurt you?”
    “No.”
    He hesitated. “Did we...I didn’t...?”
    “No!”
    He smiled at the vehemence of her response. “I didn’t think so. Somehow I know I would’ve remembered making love to you, altered state or no.” The look of raw desire she saw made her heart race. “Can you forgive me?”
    “Don’t be silly.” She abruptly rose and busied herself with plates and flatware. “It’s already forgotten.”
    She prayed her skill at lying had suddenly improved.
    *
    Just when she’d decided to give up her search, Leah finally located James in the sunroom. He didn’t notice her enter at first, so absorbed was he in setting up photographic equipment
—
a strobe light on a stand, a large reflector card on another stand
—
facing the long window seat.
    Diffuse midafternoon sunlight, reflecting off the snow outside, streamed in through the large bay window with its western exposure. Electrical cables snaked along the floor, connecting a wall outlet, the strobe light, and the camera he held. An aluminum case on the floor contained other equipment.
    She said, “I thought you might like some tea.”
    “Thanks.” He slid a film magazine onto the back of the camera.
    She noticed he was balancing his weight gingerly. Earlier she’d rewrapped his ankle. The swelling was beginning to recede, but the skin was still badly discolored. “And I brought aspirin. When was the last time you took aspirin?”
    “You’re mighty strict,” he teased.
    “That’s some fire you have going.” A log blazed in the fireplace, making the room pleasantly toasty. “You cold?” She pressed a hand to his forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
    “I’m fine. Just wanted it warm in here. Come here. Sit on the window seat. I have to get a light reading.”
    “Oh. Okay.” She put the tea and aspirin on the mantel and sat down. He took a light meter out of the metal case and held the small black contraption near her face. He pushed a button and looked at the reading. Then he replaced the meter in the case and faced her, peering down into the hood of the camera. The strobe flashed as he pressed the shutter release.
    She tensed. “What
—
what are you doing?”
    He didn’t look up from the camera. “You’re a bright girl. Can’t you figure it out?”
Click
. The strobe flashed again and he moved in, favoring his sprained ankle.
    “I
—
I didn’t know you were going to
—
”
    “Who did you think I was going to shoot
—
Stieglitz?”
Click
.
    She stood. “You could’ve asked.” She started to move past him.
    He reached out to intercept her and she smoothly evaded his grasp, pleased with herself until she realized the maneuver had caused him to stumble onto his right foot. She caught his arm just as his leg began to buckle, his face taut. In the same instant her other hand