Forsaking All Others

  “Ardent!” she threw out.

  For the first time his eyes settled on hers, remained on them, in full, while he leaned toward her as if only the merest thread of restraint compelled him not to touch. His eyes spoke poems, his lips hinted kisses, and his stance was so questing that she actually straightened and took a quick step backward.

  Immediately he dropped the pose and took up his own lazy, loose-boned stance again, his eyes asking how he’d done.

  The breath she expelled lifted wispy Pekingese bangs away from her forehead and temples, then she laughed, a bit nervously, but enormously pleased.

  “Hey, do you do this all the time?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “This . . . this immediacy!”

  He looked surprised. “Am I immediate?” He laughed a little.

  “Immediate!” She became animated, pacing back and forth before him, boot heels clicking on the floor. “You’re as immediate as electricity! Do you know what it sometimes takes to pull those kinds of responses out of models?”

  “I never thought about it much. I haven’t been in this racket very long. I just did what I was told.”

  “Yeah, you sure did.” She came right up to him, smiling now, shaking her head in disbelief. Involuntarily, she took two steps backward.

  Holy Moses! He didn’t even know what he had. It was more than looks, more than bone structure and vibrant skin and come-hither eyes. It was . . . charisma! The kind photographers search for and rarely find. He quickly grasped each mood she sought to create and portrayed them not only with facial expression but with body language so poignant and natural that she hardly sensed him changing from one pose to the other until his mood caught her in the gut and telegraphed itself.

  Suddenly realizing she was standing there clasping the top of her head as if trying to hold it on, she let her hands slide down and moved toward her desk, crossed her arms, and stared at the windows while stammering, “The . . . there’s one other thing I have to ask you to do, and it may be rather unorthodox, but . . . I . . . I . . .”

  He noted the defensive way she turned her back and crossed her arms. “You haven’t seen me running yet, have you? So what’s next?” He smiled.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “Take off your jacket.”

  “It’s off,” he claimed, snaps flying open even as he spoke. He dropped the jacket nonchalantly across one corner of her desk.

  His arms and chest filled out the jersey beautifully. She took a gulp and reminded herself he was just a model.

  “Now the jersey.”

  That one slowed him down for a fraction of a minute.

  “The jersey . . . sure.” It came off, but a little slower than the jacket.

  He was now in a white V-neck T-shirt, the jersey bunched up in one uncertain hand as if he were getting ready to pitch it at the first thing that threatened.

  “The T-shirt, too,” she ordered.

  He illustrated “suspicious” without being ordered to. His magnificent eyes skittered to her, to the desk top, to the wall where a few totally unobjectionable samples of her work were displayed. Finally, frowning, his eyes came to rest on her. “Hey, lady—”

  She spun to face him fully. “The name is Scott, Allison Scott.”

  “Okay, Ms. Scott, I don’t do any of that kinky stuff that I’ve heard—”

  “Neither do I, Mr. Lang!”

  “Well, just what kind of book is this, anyway?”

  “It’s not pornography, if that’s what you’re thinking. But if you’re scared to take off the shirt, I’ve got a file full of faces that’ll suffice just as nicely as yours!”

  “I guess I’d like to know why first.”

  “I told you, it’s a romance. It takes place on Sanibel Island.” Why was she being so defensive, she wondered. Because suddenly, when confronted with such an impressive physical specimen, she found she was wondering what he looked like bare-chested—and wondering out of mere female curiosity, not just artistic professionalism. Immediately she realized her mistake—it was amateurish and childish to be hedging the issue. She should have asked him immediately and avoided all mystery. Allison decided to be honest.

  “All I need to know is if you have hair on your chest, but I felt a little silly asking.”

  Without another word the T-shirt came off. He stood before her in those tight, washed-out blue jeans, the nipples of his chest puckered up in the old icebox of a building, while zephyrs of too-fresh air sneaked along the floors. His was the first naked chest she’d seen since Jason departed, and Allison found she had to force her thoughts into structured paths while viewing it. But it was difficult to disassociate herself from the fact that he was—masculinely speaking—superb. Allison felt her body radiating enough heat to melt every shred of ice off those windows while he stood before her, shivering, letting her study him.

  He looked down his chest, then back up at her. “Enough?” he asked.

  For a moment she felt like a curious teenager peeping at the boys through a knothole in the changing-room wall, while he stood before her thoroughly at ease.

  “Yes,” she answered, and immediately the shirts started coming back over his head. From inside the first he asked, “So what am I going to wear for this picture?”

  “Bathing trunks. Have you got any?”

  “Sure.” His head popped out, hair tousled in gamin boyishness that belied the mature, well-proportioned body she’d just assessed.

  “What color are they?” she asked, moving back around the desk.

  “White.”

  “Perfect, since we’ll be shooting at night and they’ll show up more.”

  His eyebrows curled and again he watched her warily as she moved, businesslike, to pick up pencil and clipboard, making a note while asking, “Do you have any scars on your legs or back?”

  “No.” He tossed the jersey on, shivering visibly now.

  “Do you have any objections to kissing a stranger?”

  With one arm half drawn into his jacket sleeve, he stopped, as if struck dumb.

  “Kissing a stranger?”

  “Yes.” She raised serious eyes to his, making a desperate effort to appear calm.

  “Who?”

  Allison plucked the photo of the chosen female model from the pile on her desk and handed it to him. “Her.”

  He gave it a cursory glance. “The other subject in the photo, I take it?”

  “Yes, if her coloring turns out to be right when I see her.”

  He turned it over and read the name on the back. “Vivien Zuchinski.” He laughed and shook his head, lifting some of the tension from the room. “With a name like that she’d better know how to kiss!”

  It broke the ice. Their eyes met and he chuckled first, followed by her mellow sounds of mirth.

  “I feel like an ass,” she admitted, relaxing even further, at last able to look him in the eye again.

  “Well, I was a little uncomfortable there for a minute myself.”

  She ambled past the windows, toward the back of the studio, away from him. “I’ve never hired anybody for this kind of assignment before. I went about it all wrong. I apologize for making you feel ill at ease.” She turned a brief glance back over her shoulder. He was still beside the desk.

  “It’s okay . . . as long as I get to kiss . . .” He checked the back of the photo again, “Vivien Zuchinski,” he finished with a grin. He tossed the photo back onto the desk and followed Allison along the length of the studio.

  “Do you mind my asking you a few things?” Rick Lang queried.

  “No, ask away.”

  “Well, for starters, why are we shooting at night?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “I can see you’re still suspicious, Mr. Lang.”

  “Well, you have to admit it sounds a little fishy.”

  “Not when you want a nighttime effect. It’s going to be a beach scene with a fire. I’ll need total darkness outside so I can control the lighting. As you can see, the place is
solid windows.” She waved a hand at the glass wall and scanned the length of the studio before her eyes came to rest on him.

  “A fire?” he repeated dubiously.

  “Yup.” With her hands in her pockets, one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other, she looked a trifle smug.

  “In here?” he asked skeptically.

  “In here. You don’t believe I can do it?”

  He shrugged. “It’ll be a good trick if you do. How many shots are you planning to take?”

  “Oh, sixty-five maybe . . . of each cover, front and back.”

  He whistled softly. If she took that many shots, she was serious, dedicated, and thorough. He glanced around, obviously searching for a beach.

  “Trust me,” she said. “When you come for the session there’ll be a beach. And all you have to do is wear a bathing suit and kiss a pretty girl. Is that so tough?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then do you want the job or not, Mr. Lang?”

  “This is really on the level? Nothing kinky?”

  “Honestly, you are a skeptic, aren’t you? I admit the poses will be sensual. There’ll be body contact—after all, it is a romance. But the final result will be tasteful.”

  A teasing light came into Rick’s eyes. “Hmm . . . it’s beginning to sound like more fun all the time.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “When do we shoot?”

  “Thursday night, if things go right. I’ve got to create the set first, and this one might give me a little trouble.”

  “The scuba gear?”

  “No, not that. That’s for the next series I’m doing. I was just planning ahead. It’s the beach that’s going to give me trouble on this one. I’ll face the scuba gear later.”

  “Would it help you out if I borrowed some from a friend of mine?”

  Her face registered pleased surprise. “Could you really?”

  He glanced at the snowy city below. “I really don’t think he’s putting it to very hard use right now, do you?”

  “And I wouldn’t have to take scuba lessons and get the bends?” She feigned great relief, then added seriously, “Taking the pictures is often the easiest part. It’s setting them up that makes my hair turn gray sometimes.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.” He raised his eyes to the top of her head, then let them drift back to her face, an easy smile on his lips.

  Immediately she was on her guard. It was the kind of remark Jason might have made, that sly, flattering brand of innuendo that had broken down her barriers and made her break her one basic rule of thumb: never get personal with the male models.

  Though it was meant as banter, not flattery, the moment the words were out of Rick Lang’s mouth he noticed how she crossed her arms tightly across her ribs. She was a classy-looking woman, particularly when she let her guard down. But often she set up unconscious barriers—the crossed arms, the lowered sunglasses, jumping behind the desk. He couldn’t help but wonder what made her so defensive.

  “I’ll drop the gear by some afternoon.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can pick it up, wherever he lives.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “I appreciate it, really. And thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it.” He opened the door, turned with a grin, and finished, “As long as I get to kiss Vivien Zucchini.”

  “Zuchinski,” she corrected, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her lips.

  “Zuchinski.”

  Then he was gone.

  Allison’s arms slowly came uncrossed. She stared at the door, picturing his face, his form, his too-good-to-be-true physique. Unconsciously she slipped one hand through her long hair, kneading the back of her neck where pleasant tingles displaced common sense.

  Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, Scott? He’s just another pretty boy out to make a score, and don’t forget it!

  Chapter

  THREE

  VIVIEN Zuchinski turned out to have exactly the right color and length of hair. Her face wasn’t quite as long as her publicity photo made it appear, but she had flawless skin, still clinging to most of last summer’s tan, and a mouth that could be called nothing but voluptuous. Her eyes were a stunning blue, as big as fifty-cent pieces, eyes, Allison knew, that would photograph beautifully, for they were fringed with sooty lashes so thick it seemed they’d weigh her down. Her breasts, it seemed, threatened to do the same. Oh, Vivien Zuchinski had all the qualifications, all right. Her main shortcoming, Allison could tell immediately, was that the girl was stupid, which—thankfully—would not show in a photograph. She chewed gum like an earth-breaking machine, had a fixation with lip gloss, which she constantly pulled out of her shoulder bag and painted on her pouting lips, whether in the midst of conversation or not. Her favorite word, which made Allison grimace, was “nice.”

  “Hey, nice studio,” Vivien said immediately upon entering. “Hey, nice boots! Wheredja get them? I got a pair’s kinda like them but not as nice. Those’re really nice.”

  Allison cringed. Most of the models she worked with were intelligent, upbeat, many of them students on their way to professional careers in another field, helping themselves through college with the money they earned modeling. Vivien Zuchinski was definitely the exception to the rule.

  “Hey, ah, what’s the guy look like? Is he a fox, I mean, you know, ah, has he got a nice bod?”

  “Very nice,” Allison answered dryly. “Almost as nice as yours, Vivien.”

  “Hey, really? I like a guy with a nice bod.”

  It was all Allison could do to keep from rolling her eyes. “Have you got a bathing suit?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, got a bunch of ’em, nice ones, too.”

  “Would you mind bringing them along when you come?”

  “Sure, you bet.”

  “The girl in the book wears a blue bikini.”

  “Hey, no sweat! I got this really nice blue bikini, bought it last summer when this lifeguard up at Madden’s kinda started givin’ me the eye, you know? And I figure I’d just put on a little show for him and come out on the beach with a different bikini every day, but I only had five and I was gonna be there for six days, so, gol, what was I s’posed to do?” She flipped her palms up at shoulder height, hopelessly. “So I find this nice blue bik—”

  “Vivien, bring them all, would you?”

  Vivien was too much of a stereotype to be believable. She hung a hand on one hip, threw Allison a wide-eyed look of innocence, and answered, “Oh, sure . . . yeah, sure thing.”

  “Then I’ll see you Thursday.”

  “Yeah, sure. Where’d you say you got them boots again?”

  By the time Allison had gotten rid of Vivien she wondered if she’d made a mistake hiring her. Allison stood with hands on hips, shaking her head at the door through which Vivien had left, then glanced down at her own high-heeled boots and said to herself, “Nice boots, hey.”

  THE following afternoon Allison was standing disgruntledly with a broom and dustpan in her hand, spilled sand around her feet, when Rick Lang showed up with air tanks, flippers, hoses, and pipes.

  “Hi.”

  She looked up, surprised, realizing in a flash how glad she was to see him again. “Oh, hi . . . oh, you brought them!” She dropped the dustpan, wiped her hands on her thighs, and came eagerly toward the door.

  “Where do you want this stuff? It’s kind of heavy.”

  She motioned toward the wall, sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. “Thanks. At least that’s one thing that’s gone right today.”

  “Have you got troubles?” He noted the sand, then her disgusted face. She noted his same old jeans and letter jacket, not at all the kind of clothing a guy wears to turn a girl’s head.

  “Have I ever.” She glared at the mess. “I’m thinking about flying us down to Florida to do these shots! Except I think Vivien Zuchinski would drive me crazy before we got there.”

  “Vivien didn’t turn out to be what you wan
ted?”

  “Vivien’s . . .” Allison searched for the proper word and turned a sardonic smirk his way. “Vivien’s . . . nice.”

  He eyed the upward tilt of Allison’s lips as she enjoyed some private joke. When she smiled, her eyes smiled with her mouth. She was dressed in off-white corduroy trousers with some kind of stylish, little army-green rubber shoes with bumpy white soles and long tongues and laces. They looked like something a socialite might wear duck hunting. Cute, he thought, taking in her modish hooded jacket and turtleneck sweater. Again she wore the sunglasses, pushed high up on her head.

  “What’s wrong with Vivien?”

  “Nothing!” But there was a smirk of sarcasm in the quick word as she flipped her palms up innocently, then repeated, “Nothing. She has a terrific face and a very nice body.”

  “Good for me,” he teased. “When can I kiss her?”

  “Anytime you want . . . I’m sure she’ll make that abundantly clear. You see, Miss Zuchinski has already pointed out the fact that she likes a guy with a, quote, ‘nice bod,’ unquote. Also, she likes her men foxy.”

  He laughed, leaning back, but it had a nice, easy sound, uncluttered by ego. “Need a hand?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask. The damn gunnysacks weigh a ton, and the first one came open halfway across the floor, which is not where I wanted to build my beach.”

  Already he was shucking off his frowsy letter jacket, laying it across the top of the refrigerator. “Just show me where.”

  She pointed to the area where the backdrop paper hung in huge rolls from the ceiling, then led the way, rolling aside some tall strobe lights on stands while he grabbed the ears of the closest gunnysack and dragged it over. She went to work cleaning up the loose sand while he moved the rest of the sacks. Covertly she watched the play of his back muscles as he lugged the bags.