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 actually flushed.
Rafe was startled. She couldn’t be a virgin. Not at thirty. And not looking like that. It was faintly possible, he supposed. Either that, or sex wasn’t her favourite pastime.
Rafe pitied the groom some more. It didn’t look as if his wedding night was going to be a ball if his bride was this uptight about sex.
‘I’m sorry but I really don’t want my wedding photos done in black and white,’ she pronounced coldly, despite her pink cheeks. ‘If you feel you can’t accommodate me on this, then I’ll just have to find another photographer.’
‘You won’t find anyone decent at this late stage,’ Rafe told her bluntly.
She looked frustrated and Rafe found some sympathy for her. He was being a bit stubborn, even if he was right.
‘Look, Isabel, would you tell a painter how to paint? Or a surgeon how to operate? I’m a professional photographer. And a top one, even if I say so myself. I know what will look good, and you won’t look just good shot in black and white. You’ll look magnificent.’
She was clearly taken aback by his fulsome compliment. But he’d never had the opportunity to photograph a bride as beautiful as this. No way was he going to let her muck up his creative vision. With the automatic cameras now available, any fool could take colour snaps. But only Rafe Saint Vincent could produce black and white masterpieces!
‘There will be any number of guests at your wedding taking coloured snaps, if you want some,’ he argued. ‘My job, however, is to give you quality photographic memories which will not only be beautiful, but timeless. I guarantee that you’ll still be able to show your wedding photographs to your grandchildren with great pride. They won’t be considered old-fashioned, or funny, in any way.’
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she threw at him in almost scornful tones.
‘I’m very sure of my abilities. So what do you say?’
‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’
‘You won’t be disappointed if you hire me. Trust me on this, Isabel.’
She half rolled her eyes again.
Trust, Rafe realised, was something else Isabel Hunt did not do easily.
‘Why don’t you look at some of my more conventional black and white portraits?’ he suggested, pushing over the album portfolio which lay on the coffee-table between them. ‘You might find them reassuring. I confess the shots on my walls are somewhat…avant-garde. Meanwhile, I’m dying for