Snowed by Pamela Burford Page B

flashed out to steady the camera he held. He quickly recovered, standing erect once more, but she could tell the effort took more out of him than he wanted to show.
    “You’ve got good instincts,” he said tightly, indicating the camera. “This Hasselblad is my baby. Wouldn’t take kindly to being dropped.”
    “You shouldn’t be on your feet, James.”
    “I haven’t worked in three days and I’m beginning to climb the walls. Won’t you take pity on a poor, work-starved, crippled artist?”
    She didn’t want to admit how uncomfortable she was with the idea of being photographed by James. It was almost as if he could see right into her soul when he looked at her through his precious Hasselblad. “I don’t know.” Her hand went to her bruised cheek. “My face...”
    “Your face is lovely. And the bruise is fading.” Tenderly he kissed the spot. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Leah.” His voice was even lower than usual as he ran his fingers through her long hair. “Old Torquemada himself couldn’t have devised a torture worse than imprisoning a photographer with such a beautiful woman and forbidding him to capture that beauty for posterity.”
    She smirked at the syrupy flattery. “You’re a self-serving cur, Mr. Bradburn.”
    “I suppose I am. But you know what I’ve noticed?” He limped closer, and closer still, slowly inching her back to the window seat. She tried to ignore the scent of his fresh-washed skin and the warmth of his body, which reminded her all too vividly of last night.
    He said, “The most exquisite women are the ones who have no inkling of how beautiful they are.”
    Leah wanted to say,
I’m not beautiful,
but she knew that would have seemed like fishing for a compliment. She held his azure gaze and kept her mouth firmly shut.
    “Yours is the kind of beauty that begins with the eyes,” he said, still inching her back. She was afraid to stop his progress for fear he’d fall again. The exasperating man was probably counting on that, she thought as she suddenly felt the edge of the window seat at the back of her knees. He put a large hand on her shoulder and exerted gentle pressure. She sat.
    He backed up a bit and began shooting again. She noticed that when she moved, first looking down, then away, he said nothing, made no attempt to pose her. He simply followed her movements with his camera as if stalking her. The strobe flashed with each click of the shutter.
    “Now, is it so terrible modeling for me?” He grinned.
    “Depends on how much you’re paying.”
    He laughed, a deep, delicious sound that warmed her to her toes. “A woman with her eye on the bottom line. I find that sexy as hell.”
    She bit her lip.
This woman has her eye on the bottom line every time you turn around, Mr. Bradburn.
    “Tell you what,” he continued. “In exchange for your cooperation as a photographic model, I’m willing to offer a few days of room and board in a glamorous Gold Coast mansion. How’s that sound?”
    “Like coercion.”
    He shrugged and peered down into the camera hood again. “I’ve got a reputation as a self-serving cur to uphold.”
    And doing a damn fine job of it, too,
she thought. She held her head a little higher and looked directly into the camera. “You said Renee was a model. She must’ve been very beautiful.”
    “You’re blushing.”
    “I am not.”
Damn him!
“What kind of modeling did she do?”
    “Fashion ads mostly. Some magazine covers. You’d recognize her.” He reached out and gently turned her face for a profile shot. His fingertips were slightly rough, like a cat’s tongue. She took a deep breath, trying to redirect her thoughts from tongues, callused fingers, and the bottom line.
    She cleared her throat. “What did she look like?”
    “Renee was tall
—
five ten. She had incredibly long legs and huge violet eyes.”
    Glad you asked?
she chided herself. “Was she a brunette?” An image of Cindy Crawford came to mind.
    “No. She