The man was impossible! To hire him as her wedding photographer was impossible! Rafe Saint Vincent might be a brilliant photographer but if he wasn’t capable of listening to what she wanted, then he could just go jump.
Truly, men like him irritated the death out of her.
And attracted the devil out of her.
Isabel sighed. That was the main problem with him, wasn’t it? The fact she found him wickedly sexy.
Isabel closed her eyes and slumped back against the sofa. She’d thought she’d finally cured herself of the futile flaw of fancying men like him. She’d thought since meeting and becoming engaged to Luke that she would never again need what such men had to offer.
Luke was exactly what she’d been looking for in a husband. He was handsome. Successful. Intelligent. And extremely nice. A man who, like her, had come to the conclusion that romantic love was not a sound basis for marriage, that compatibility and common goals were far more reliable. Falling in love, they’d both discovered in the past, made fools of men—and women. Passion might be the stuff poems were written about, but it didn’t make you happy in the long run. Mind-blowing sex, Isabel now believed, was not the be-all and end-all when it came to a relationship.
Not that Luke wasn’t good in bed. He was. If her mind sometimes strayed to her own private and personal fantasies while he was making love to her, and vice versa, then Isabel hadn’t been overly concerned.
Till this moment.
It was one thing to fill her mind with images of some mythical stranger during sex with Luke. Quite another to go to bed with him on her wedding night thinking of the likes of Rafe Saint Vincent.
And she would, if he was around all that day, looking her up and down with those sexy eyes of his.
Isabel shook her head with frustration. She’d always been attracted to the Mr Wrongs of this world. The dare-devils and the thrill-seekers. The charmers and the slick, smooth-tongued womanisers who oozed the sort of confidence she found a major turn-on.
Of course, she hadn’t known they were Mr Wrongs to begin with. She’d thought they were interesting, exciting men. It had taken several wretched endings—especially the disaster with Hal—to force her to face the fact that her silly heart had no judgement when it came to the opposite sex. It picked losers and liars.
By her late twenties, desperation and despair had forced Isabel’s brain to develop a fail-safe warning system. If she was madly attracted to a man, then that was a guarantee he was another Mr Wrong.
So she didn’t have to know much about Rafe Saint Vincent to know his character. She only had to take one look at him. Les had provided her with some brief details about him—namely that he was a bachelor, and a brilliant photographer—but to be honest, aside from the warning bells going off in Isabel’s brain, Mr Saint Vincent’s appearance said it all, from his trendy black clothes to his earring and his designer stubble. The fact he lived in a terraced house in Paddington completed the picture of a swinging male single of the new millennium whose priorities were career, pleasure and leisure, and who was never going to buy a cow when he could have cartons of milk for free. Rafe might not be a criminal or a con man, like Hal had been, but he would always be a waste of time for a woman who wanted marriage and children.
Actually, every man Isabel had ever fancied had been a waste of time in that regard. Which was why, when she’d found herself staring thirty in the face, still without the home and family of her own she’d always craved, Isabel had decided enough was enough, and set about finding herself a husband with her head, not her heart.
And she had.
Isabel knew she could be happy with Luke. Very happy.
But the last thing she needed around on her wedding day was someone like Rafe Saint Vincent.
Yet she needed a photographer. What excuse could she give her mother for not hiring him? The black and white business wouldn’t wash. Her mother just loved black and white photographs, a hangover from the days when that was all there was. Her mother was not a young woman. In fact she was seventy, Isabel having been the product of a second honeymoon when Doris Hunt had turned forty.
No, there was nothing for it but to hire Rafe God’s-gift-to-women Saint Vincent. Isabel supposed there was no real harm in fantasising about another man while your husband was making love to you, even on your wedding night. Luke would never know if she never told him.
And she wouldn’t.
Actually, there were a lot of things about herself she’d never told Luke. And she didn’t aim on starting now!
Her eyes opened and lifted to the photographs on the wall again and, this time, with their creator out of the room, Isabel let her gaze linger.
They really were incredibly erotic, his clever use of shadow highly suggestive. Although the subjects were obviously either naked or semi-naked, the lighting was such that most private parts were hidden from view. There was the occasional glimpse of the side of a breast, or the curve of a buttock, but not much more.
Tantalising was the word which came to mind. Isabel could have stared at them for hours. But the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs had her reefing her eyes away and searching for something to do. Anything!
Fishing her mobile phone out of her bag, she punched in her parents’ number and was waiting impatiently for her mother to answer when her nemesis of the moment walked back into the room, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.
She pretended she wasn’t ogling him, but her eyes snuck several surreptitious glances as he walked over and sat down in the same spot he’d occupied before. He was gorgeous! Tall and lean, just as she liked them. Not traditionally handsome in the face, but attractive, and oh, so sexy.
‘Yes?’ her mother finally answered, sounding slightly breathless.
‘Me, here, Mum.’ No breathlessness on Isabel’s part. She sounded wonderfully composed. Yet, inside, her heartbeat had quickened appreciably. Practice did make perfect!
‘Oh, Isabel, I’m so glad you rang before we left for the club. I was thinking of you. So how did it go with Mr Saint Vincent?’
‘Fine. He was fine.’
Isabel saw his dark eyes widen over the rim of his coffee-mug. Clearly, he’d been thinking she wasn’t going to hire him.
‘As good as Les?’ her mother asked. Les had been hired by her parents before, for their recent golden wedding anniversary party.
‘Better, I’d say.’
‘That’s a relief. I’ve waited a long time to see you married, love. I would like to have some decent photographs of the momentous event.’
Isabel’s eyes flicked up to the two most provocative photos on the wall and a decidedly indecent thought popped into her mind. What would it be like to be photographed by him like that? To be totally naked before him? To have him arranging filmy curtains or sliding satin sheets over her nude body? To have to stand—or lie—perfectly still in some suggestive pose for ages whilst he shot reel after reel of film, those sexy eyes of his focused only on her?
Just the thought of it sent her heartbeat even higher.
Fortunately, Isabel was not a female whose inner feelings showed readily on her face. She could look at a man and be thinking the hottest thoughts and still look cool. Sometimes, even uninterested. Which perhaps was just as well, or she’d have spent half of her life in bed.
She didn’t flirt easily. Neither was she capable of the sort of coy sugary behaviour some men seemed to find both a come-on and a turn-on. Most men found her slightly aloof, even snobbish. They often confused her ice-blonde looks and ladylike manner with being prudish and undersexed. Which perhaps explained why most of her lovers had been men who dared to do what a gentleman wouldn’t, men who simply rode roughshod over her seeming uninterest and simply took what