It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Lee

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you’ll have to settle for my fee. It’s already been agreed upon and the full amount paid up front. If you give me your bank account number, I’ll…’

      ‘No, don’t bother,’ Rafe broke in, not caring about the money this once. Les might need it. He wouldn’t be running around covering too many weddings with a broken leg. ‘You can owe me one. Just don’t ask again, buddy. Not where a wedding is concerned. Must go. The doorbell’s ringing. I’ll call you back after the bride’s gone. Let you know what I thought of her.’

      Rafe hung up and headed downstairs, then hurried along towards the front door, curious now to see if Les was exaggerating about the bride-to-be’s blonde beauty.

      She’d have to be something really special to surprise him. After all, he was used to beautiful blondes. He’d photographed hundreds. He’d even fallen madly in love with one once.

      He’d been twenty-five at the time, and had just started climbing the fashion photographic ladder. Liz had been an up-and-coming cat walk model. Nineteen, nubile and too nice to be true. Only he hadn’t realised that in the beginning. He’d become so besotted with her he’d actually begged her to live with him. Which she had. But only till she’d milked him for everything he was worth, both personally and professionally. Within a year she’d moved on to an older, more influential photographer, leaving an emotionally bruised and embittered Rafe behind.

      He was no longer bruised, or bitter. That had all happened years ago. But he hadn’t lived with a girlfriend since, no matter how much he might occasionally be tempted to. And he didn’t date blondes any more. Experience had taught him blondes often played sweet and vulnerable and not too bright, when they were actually smart as a whip, sneakily manipulative and ruthlessly ambitious.

      Photographing them, however, was another question. A blonde was still his model of choice.

      Rafe wrenched open the front door to his inner-city terrace home and tried not to stare. Wow! Les hadn’t exaggerated one bit.

      What a pity she was going to be married, he thought as his male gaze swept over his visitor. Because if ever there was a blonde who might make him reassess his decision never to date one again, she was standing right in front of him.

      Talk about exquisite!

      Ms Isabel Hunt was the epitome of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine. Classically beautiful and icily blonde, with cheekbones to die for, cool long-lashed blue eyes and what looked like a perfect figure. Though, to be honest, she would have to remove the fawn linen jacket she was wearing over those tailored black trousers for Rafe to be sure.

      ‘Ms Hunt?’ he said, smiling warmly at her. What had been an irksome task in his mind now held the prospect of some pleasure. Rafe liked nothing better than photographing truly beautiful women. Of course, only the camera would tell if she was also photogenic. It was perverse that some of the most beautiful women in the flesh didn’t always come up so well on film.

      ‘Mr Saint Vincent?’ she returned, her own gaze raking over him. With not much approval, he noted. Maybe she didn’t like men who hadn’t shaved by noon.

      She looked the fussy type. Her make-up was perfection and her clothes immaculate. That white shirt she had on underneath her jacket was so dazzlingly white, it could have featured in one of those washing-powder ads.

      ‘The one and only,’ he replied, his smile widening. Most women, he’d found, eventually responded to his smile. Rafe liked his photographic subjects to be totally relaxed with him. Being stiff in front of a camera was the kiss of death when it came to getting good results. ‘But do call me Rafe.’

      ‘Rafe,’ she said obediently, but coolly.

      Ms Hunt, Rafe realised ruefully, was not a woman given to being easily charmed. Which perhaps was just as well. She was one gorgeous woman. Those eyes. And that mouth! Perfectly shaped and deliciously full, her lips were provocative enough in repose. How would he react if they ever smiled at him?

      Don’t smile, lady, he warned her silently. Or we both could be in big trouble!

      ‘Would you object if I called you Isabel?’ he said recklessly.

      ‘If you insist.’

      Was that contempt he saw flicker in her eyes? Surely not!

      Still, Rafe decided to pull right back on the charm for now and get down to tin tacks.

      ‘Les rang me a little while ago with just the barest of details,’ he informed her matter-of-factly, ‘so why don’t you come inside and we can discuss a few things?’

      He led her into the front room where he conducted most of his business. It wasn’t an office as such, more of a sitting room, simply and sparsely furnished. The walls, however, were covered with his favourite photos, all of women in various states of dress and undress. None actually nude, but some were close, and all were in black and white.

      ‘I don’t see any wedding photos,’ the bride-to-be noted curtly as he led her over to the nearest sofa.

      ‘I no longer work as a wedding photographer,’ he admitted. ‘But I was once Les’s partner, so don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’

      She gave him a long hard look. ‘I suspect you’re more expensive than Les.’

      Rafe sat down on the navy sofa opposite hers and leant back, stretching his arms along the back.

      ‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘But not this time. I’m doing this job as a favour to Les.’

      ‘What about the actual photos? Will I have to pay more for them?’

      ‘No.’

      She glanced up at the prints on the wall again and almost rolled her eyes. ‘You do take coloured snaps, don’t you?’

      Rafe was not a man easy to rile. He had a very even temper. But she was beginning to annoy him. Coloured snaps, indeed! He wasn’t some hack or hobby photographer. He was a professional!

      ‘Of course,’ he returned, priding himself on sounding a lot calmer than he was feeling inside. ‘I do a lot of fashion photography. And fashion wouldn’t be fashion without colour. But wedding photographs do look fabulous in black and white. I think you’d be pleased with the results.’

      ‘Mr Saint Vincent—’ she began frostily.

      ‘Rafe, please,’ he interrupted, determined not to lose it. My, she was a snooty bitch. Mr Luke Freeman was welcome to her. Rafe wondered if the poor groom knew exactly what type he was getting here. Talk about an Ice Princess!

      ‘The thing is, Rafe,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘I wouldn’t have chosen a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I wanted all the photographs done in black and white, would I?’

      Rafe simply ignored her sarcasm. ‘What colour is the groom wearing?’

      ‘Black.’

      ‘And yourself?’

      ‘White, of course.’

      ‘Of course,’ he repeated drily, his eyes holding hers for much longer than was strictly polite.

      She flushed. She СКАЧАТЬ