Exposed Read online

  She didn’t glance at him. Instead she spoke as she cleaned her lens and examined her camera, dabbing off the damp spots with the hem of her thick pullover. “Both.” She jerked her chin out, motioning to the snow. “This current bout of insanity would be driven by the latter.” A wry smile kicked at the corners of those little bowed lips.

  Sweet Lord, what a mouth. The lens would eat it up, drink it in. Such a contrast. Stark, almost harsh planes of her face, coupled with a courtesan’s mouth and a concubine’s eyes.

  “It’s the former that allows me to indulge in such insanity,” she went on, still cleaning her lens. “In fact, some days I think that’s the only reason I go to work.”

  “Doing what?” he asked, more intent on studying the contrasts of her face, imagining what lighting he’d use. Black-and-white film, definitely.

  “Advertising.”

  It wasn’t until the mouth he was mentally framing and shooting pulled down at the corners that he realized he was staring. He glanced up to find her staring back. Those eyes sucked him right in. Damn but she was a treasure trove of surprises.

  The complete lack of artifice, not a speck of makeup on that skin, those lashes, that mouth. The total disregard to her hair, her appearance in general, he thought, as he noted the too long sleeves of her faded green pullover, the baggy khakis with the beaten tips of leather boots peeking out beneath the battered hem. Was she unaware of the impact the total package presented? Probably. But that was something he understood. Photographers were like that. So intent on capturing the world around them, they sort of forgot about their own impact on it.

  She tucked her camera under her arm, out of the direct path of the driving snow the slight overhang was doing little to thwart. “What?” she finally said.

  He should have looked away then, perhaps a bit guiltily. Only he didn’t feel guilty. “Professional hazard. I’m usually not so obvious about it, though. You just took me by surprise.”

  She lifted a brow in silent question.

  He grinned, already reaching for his own camera, thumbing off the lens cap and pressing the power button even before it cleared his pocket. Then he did something he’d ordinarily never do. Not without permission, tacit or otherwise. And given her expression when he swung the camera up and clicked, he knew he had neither.

  “Well,” she stated, unblinking. “That was rude.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He didn’t apologize as he snapped one more, then pressed the button that called the image up on the LCD screen. The framing, the lighting, it was all shit. And yet . . . “Sometimes, the alienation risk is worth it,” he murmured.

  She looked away, didn’t ask to see it. “Pro?” she queried, her tone dry as dust. “Or annoying enthusiast?”

  “Both.” He clicked to the first image he’d taken, noting her glancing out of the corner of her eye. Not at the image. But at the camera itself. “Just so you know,” he said, “that shot was for the latter.”

  She said nothing to that, but looked back out to the snow. She had to be freezing. He sure as hell was. But neither of them seemed in any hurry to go back inside.

  “Why?” she finally asked.

  He smiled, amused at the grudging tone. “Impulse. I don’t give in to too many. But when I do, the gut instinct is rarely wrong.”

  She sighed, shook her head. “I didn’t mean that.” She flicked a glance his way, nodded at his camera. “I meant why digital photography? Professional choice? Or curiosity of the impulsive annoying enthusiast?”

  His mouth curved. “I can see I’m going to have to work at rectifying my first impression.”

  “Why? You don’t seem the type to be overly concerned what your targets—I’m sorry, your subjects—think.”

  His grin spread wider. “And yet you make such a fascinating. . . subject.”

  She frowned at that, but not before the corner of her mouth quirked a little.

  “See for yourself,” he said, clicking the picture back on the LCD screen and turning the back of the camera toward her. “Not my best shot, but the promise is all I was after.”

  “Promise?” she asked, sounding supremely disinterested, but pointedly not taking so much as a glance at the image of herself.

  “That there is something worth studying, capturing. And since I know you won’t ask, I’ll just go ahead and tell you. A gold mine of promises.”

  She shook her head, her laugh short and dry. “You’re a smooth one. How many women fall for that line, anyway?”

  His look of surprise was sincere. “Believe it or not, I meant that professionally.”

  She shifted then, pulling her gaze away from the snow, turning her body slightly toward his, toward the shelter of the wall. Her hair and lashes were crusted with snow. Her shoulders were damp from it. They should go inside. But he wasn’t quite ready. And her next question proved she wasn’t, either.

  “And your profession would be?”

  “Shooting women.” At her arched brow, he added, “And, on occasion, men.”

  “Ah. And you showcase your trophies where?”

  “Magazine covers,” he said, with complete immodesty. Those stark eyes of hers demanded nothing less.

  She didn’t ask for credits, didn’t ask his name. Instead she shrugged. “Then we’re in the same business. More or less. Layouts are layouts, after all.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  There was a pause, then she said, “Although I imagine I get less attitude from my subjects than you do yours.”

  He laughed. “I don’t know. Inanimate objects can be inordinately stubborn. Hard to get them to understand they have to shift slightly to the left to catch exactly that hint of backlight you’re looking for.”

  “True. But you can kick them when you’re through and they don’t walk off in a huff threatening to sue.”

  “I’m beginning to see the advantages of advertising photography.” Austin shifted so he faced her, using his shoulder to block as much of the snow as possible. “Are you based in the South?”

  She shook her head, gaze still focused beyond him, out at the snowswept landscape. “New York. I was on assignment in Atlanta.”

  “Tough time of year to take assignments away from home.”

  Another shoulder shrug. “I don’t mind. I offered to go.”

  He smiled. “What, you stopped believing in Santa Claus?”

  Now she looked at him, and although her lips were curved in a deeply bowed smile, her eyes were more . . . inquisitive.

  Good, he thought. He was curious, too.

  “Something like that,” she said. “What about you?”

  “Work.”

  “So, you’re heading home to New York, too, then.”

  He paused, unsure how to answer that question.

  She must have sensed the little arc of tension, because she immediately pulled back from him. Not physically, but the open curiosity on her face a moment ago, returned to the more shuttered expression she’d had since he’d stepped out here. “Sorry. None of my business.”

  “No, it’s not that. I just wasn’t entirely sure how to answer.”

  The dry smile reemerged. “You don’t know where home is?”

  He grinned. “I travel a lot. It’s a quandary.” He sobered a little when she turned away from him again, wanting to keep her there, in the moment, rather than off to the side as a casual observer. It was easy, entirely natural, even, for people in their line of work to slip into that role. He found he didn’t want her doing what was easy. For that matter, neither did he. “Your lips are starting to turn blue. Allow me to buy you a cup of whatever warms you best. Consider it my apology for being, what was it you called me? An impulsive annoying enthusiast?”

  Her lips twitched. “First impressions can be hell, but in my experience they’re often accurate. Or accurate enough, anyway.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right. Can I ask . . . which part is keeping you from saying yes?”

  She laughed then, shook he
r head. “I’m thinking we can add direct to the list.” She shot him a sideways glance. “The growing list.”

  He grinned. “Well, as long as it’s growing, that means I can still add one or two things in the positive column.”

  Her expression told him she wasn’t placing any bets. But that little kick at the corner of her mouth told him he still had a shot at changing her mind. And he found he wanted to.

  “So?” he nudged. “Consider it a public duty.”

  “What, to the next poor woman whose privacy you intrude on?” She snorted.

  Austin couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an odd . . . and stimulating conversation. “Well, if I understand my shortcomings, I might work harder to overcome them.”

  She just shot him a look that said nice try.

  Maybe it was the snow clinging to her lashes, or the way the lighting cast shadows in the hollows of her cheeks, playing up the plump fullness of her lips, but it was in that exact moment that Austin’s interest went from professional . . . to personal. He didn’t just want to capture those lips on film . . . he wanted to taste them.

  Which, in and of itself, wasn’t that amazing. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been aroused by the look of someone. But this was different. This was no simple stirring of interest. It was more like a punch to the gut. And he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt it. Or if he ever had. Maybe it was that for all she couldn’t be more than twenty-five or -six, she was no naïve ingénue. Unlike most of the women he met these days. Models got younger and younger every year. He didn’t. But this was more, even, than that. There was a life lived here, he thought, looking into those dark eyes of hers, experiences had.

  And he realized he was hoping for the chance to hear about them.

  “I’m guessing coffee isn’t enough to redeem me. How about dinner?” It was odd, but he actually found himself sort of holding his breath, anticipating her answer.

  “I have a feeling you’re too used to getting your way.”

  “So, I’m being turned down because I know what I want and I’m not afraid to pursue it?”

  She turned to him then, facing him fully, and gazed directly up into his eyes. She didn’t say anything for several, eternally long moments.

  Austin knew he was being judged, summed up, and it was a little disconcerting to realize just how much he wanted to add up to something worth investigating further. Chalk it up to being stranded, needing to kill time, he told himself. And how better to spend it than with a prickly woman who, in less than fifteen minutes, had managed to intrigue him in ways he’d forgotten he could be intrigued.

  Then she slipped her camera out, raised it deliberately to her eye. Austin was surprised, but, after all, fair was fair. Still, he had to work not to shift his weight, or tense up as she took her time focusing in on him, getting the shot she was looking for. He was never on this side of the lens, and the intrusion was more of an invasion than he’d thought it would be.

  Those eyes of hers saw too much. And, at this specific point in his life, there would be a lot to find in his. She would capture that. And despite the fact that he’d likely never see the proof of it, he didn’t want it in existence in the first place.

  He was just about to lift his hand, and—fair or not—cover the end of her lens with his palm, when she rolled off a series of shots.

  He frowned. She grinned.

  And he couldn’t look away. It was like the sun peeking out beneath two dark storm clouds.

  She reached past his waist and tugged on the door handle. “I’m freezing.”

  He stepped away so she could open the door, still deciding how he felt about . . . well, everything that had transpired out here.

  She paused on her way through the door, looked back at him. He still hadn’t moved. “About that coffee? I take mine black.” Then she ducked inside.

  And just like that, it didn’t matter how he felt. He ducked in the door after her. He wasn’t going to lose her. Not yet.

  Chapter Three

  What in the hell am I doing? Del pushed her way through the throng of passengers clogging her path. Flirting. That’s what she was doing. Well, in her own fashion, anyway. She was not a flirter by nature, not the type of moth that had to flutter in a man’s glow, batting away at his resistance until he caved to her greater charms.

  Charms. There was a laugh.

  And yet . . .

  No, she shook that thought clean from her head. He was charming, despite her indication to him that she thought he was anything but. She, on the other hand, was usually described as being a bit bristly, somewhat unapproachable. It was a defense that had served her well, that she derived a sense of security from, creating that little foyer of space between her and those around her. Choosing who to let in, who to keep at bay.

  And yet, he’d seemingly had no problems approaching her. She thought about the pictures he’d taken, thought about the promises he claimed to have seen. She wasn’t unaware of herself as a woman, quite the opposite. But she understood beauty and knew she wasn’t the embodiment of it. She was scrawny, her hair was a perpetual fashion faux pas, and her face was an asymmetrical construction of angles and curves. Perhaps it was her very oddity he’d found interesting. After all, she thought with a self-deprecating smile, he hadn’t said exactly what promises her face had made.

  But that they were professional in nature she had no doubt. There were certain men who went for the funky-artsy types. Based on her experience, he wasn’t likely to be one of them. Of course, the same could be said in reverse. She wasn’t typically drawn to what she called the God’s-gifted. This man had certainly been showered with them. Thick dark hair, blue eyes that danced, a killer grin. The body wasn’t bad, either. When he’d asked about her equipment, she couldn’t deny she’d already been checking out his. This being before she knew he was carrying a camera.

  Her smile lingered as she thought about the payback she’d exacted from him. He hadn’t liked having his picture taken, but he’d endured it. An honorable man, perhaps? Did they still make such a thing? Of course, she’d pushed it, intentionally taking her time framing her shot, dragging out the torture. Though, truth be told, the lens loved him. He was disgustingly good-looking. Likely he knew it, though she hadn’t picked up on that particular vibe. He seemed far more intent on studying her, than projecting himself. But she’d known even before lifting her camera that there would be no bad shots of this man.

  Promises indeed.

  She felt him behind her, keeping pace with her as she plunged forward, through one car, then the next. The club car was a number of cars in front of hers, and they weren’t even close to that yet. They were forging their way through the third sleeper car, when he touched her briefly on the shoulder, then leaned close to her ear. “Wait.”

  Del paused, tried to shift out of the flow, but was inadvertently shoved up against him. It occurred to her that she didn’t even know his name . . . and a second later she forgot she’d even had the thought. Or any other thought. Except how his hands felt on her.

  His hands—big hands—came up to steady her elbows, but as the steady stream of passengers maneuvered through the narrow passageway, they were pushed to the side, their bodies pressed together. He turned slightly, sheltering her from the flow with his body. She’d never been one for big men, not buying the bullshit theory of needing a big man to make her feel small and feminine. She was quite feminine enough, thank you.

  Which did nothing to explain the hot little thrill she got at the feel of his big, muscled frame pressed against her admittedly narrower, softer one. She didn’t know that it made her feel all that feminine . . . but it did elicit certain animalistic tendencies that were a bit shocking.

  Hmm. Who knew?

  His body completely blocked hers, and when she looked up into the shadow of his eyes, well, she might have gone a little crazy then, because the hard length of him, pressed so intimately against her, the intense focus of his gaze, made her think of ev
ery train fantasy she’d ever had.

  Okay, so she’d never once had a train fantasy. But the longer she let herself stay snagged in the serious depths of his blue eyes . . . well, one or two sprang to mind. In quite indecent detail.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, as they were continually jostled up against each other.

  I’m not, she thought, but didn’t quite muster up the nerve to say it.

  In fact, this was nerve racking . . . or nerve sensitizing. Whatever. Maybe it was all this body heat coming so swiftly on the heels of all that numbing cold, but her skin was buzzing as if some kind of electrical current was sizzling along its surface.

  “What—” She cleared her throat. “What did you want?” she asked, vaguely recalling he’d asked her to wait.

  His eyes flared, and there was no doubt the response he’d have given her if they’d known each other better. Or at all, for that matter.

  She found herself wishing he’d put voice to the thought. What would her answer have been? Two strangers, on a train, headed nowhere.

  He tried to speak, but any real conversation was made almost impossible by the steady stream of conversation eddying around them. Instead he fished in his pocket and came out with a card. Before she realized his intent, he’d slid his hand past her waist, into the lock of the private car they were pressed against. The door came open behind her back and he gripped her elbows as he back-walked her into the private car. He heeled the door shut behind him, and the sudden vacuum of silence made her ears ring.

  Finally out of the insanity, she thought . . . except they were still tangled up with each other, and neither was making an effort to move apart. Her gaze was still hooked into his.

  And the silence changed, became charged. He started to dip his mouth toward hers, then stopped as if realizing only after the fact what he’d been instinctively driven to do. But they continued to stare into each other’s eyes. Until the air in the cramped space fairly crackled around them.