“Emma, turn toward me,”
Rafe demanded, not caring that he sounded abrupt. “Tilt your head down, eyes up at me.”
Without a word, Emma did, and he took those shots, too. Her slight stiffness actually worked in his favor, the slightly shy, outrageously sexy schoolgirl. It was wrong but he wanted her, wanted so damn much. By the time he put down the camera, his hands were shaking.
“Is that it?” she asked, still leaning against the lockers.
“That’s it.”
She pushed away and walked toward him, every sway of her hips a slam to his gut.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and backed up a step.
She didn’t stop until their toes touched. “I didn’t like that.”
“I didn’t, either.”
She cocked a hip and looked at him from carefully made-up eyes. “And I don’t like you.”
He waited, tense, for what she would say next.
“But I’ve never wanted you more,” she said in a frustrated voice.
That was all the invitation he needed….
Dear Reader,
I really wondered whether I had another Blaze story in me. The sexy premises always seem to escape me. Then my husband got this wildly sexy calendar from a friend—twelve shots of beautiful women in erotic poses—and I thought, surely, these women are just like me. Well, except for the perfect bodies and gorgeous faces, that is.
That calendar started me thinking how a woman would find herself posing for such pictures, and Bared was born. Take one hot, but slightly repressed soap opera writer and one sexy, but slightly attitudinal photographer stuck together for this job of shooting twelve months of fantasies….
Some of you might recognize my hero Rafe in this story. He briefly appeared in my February 2004 Temptation novel, Back in the Bedroom. I hope you enjoy reading his story!
Happy reading,
Jill Shalvis
Bared
Jill Shalvis
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
1
RAFE DELACANTRO WAS IN HELL and, as usual, it was a woman’s fault.
The lush, vibrant green tropical forest of Kauai surrounded him. With the hanging vines and myriad trees and bushes, not to mention the buzz of strange and exotic insects and who knew what else, the place was a virtual paradise.
But all he felt was pent-up frustration and resentment, both of which he needed to get rid of in order to make this photo shoot work. It was his last photo shoot, at least for Hollywood, and he couldn’t wait to get it done. For ten years he’d been snapping images of the rich and famous, the spoiled beauties, the up-and-comers, working mostly in fashion and for magazines, making a name for himself as one of the best photographers. And it had been a good run. He was proud of all that he’d accomplished.
But at age thirty-two he was tired of the demands, of the games. Tired of being at the beck and call of people who had too much fame, too much money and not a clue as to what real life was about.
Rafe had a clue, and he wanted more of it.
Still, being a photographer defined him, so he wouldn’t—couldn’t—retire his camera entirely. After this last series of shoots, he’d use a camera for himself only, trying his hand at something other than people. Plants, landscapes, even animals—anything that couldn’t talk back, argue or con. Yeah, his retirement was well earned and it would be amazing.
As soon as this job was done—this one last favor for a good friend. It was a calendar spread, twelve months of fantasies…which, for Rafe, equaled twelve different, difficult shoots in various locales. They were working on the March page of the calendar today, and his crew stood by. The lighting seemed perfect at the moment, but given the rumbling in the sky, this would be temporary.
They really needed to get started right now, but they were missing one important, necessary element—the model.
Hence his frustration, resentment and seething temper.
Finally, just as the last of his patience vanished, she showed up, taking her sweet time sauntering through the muggy, steamy heat down the path toward the crew as if she had all day. Her eyes—a light amber color that matched her name—were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. Amber’s hair tumbled past her shoulders free and unencumbered, as he’d requested. One thing going his way, at least. Her long, willowy body was covered by a wraparound skirt and a T-shirt, because he happened to be holding her costume in his hand. But he had no doubt that her mouthwatering form, the one that had graced many a B movie and more than her share of dubious-quality Web sites, would be perfect for what he had in mind.
He stood in the middle of the set that, thanks to the incredible beauty of the island, was comprised of a naturally mossy floor, a half circle of bushes and a hammock swinging gently between two trees. A gazebo completed the backdrop. It began to lightly rain and steam rose from everything, an effect that they couldn’t have created anywhere but here on the island. Just out of the camera’s range were the bulbs, the cords and the blocking required to capture the lighting just right—lighting they were losing as the fog lowered.
“About time,” he said, knowing she’d lower her sunglasses and flash him her impetuous grin, not caring about anyone’s schedule but her own.
Amber didn’t care about much other than herself, a fact he’d learned five minutes into their one