Bared. Jill Shalvis

and pushed the hair away from his face. A face that was also wet.

      His expression was shuttered and, not for the first time, she wondered at what his and Amber’s relationship was like. Clearly she wasn’t his favorite person in the world—not even close.

      “You came,” he said.

      She stepped beneath the protection of the gazebo. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

      “Of course I did. I thought you’d make me rant and rave, or even beg, like you did in the Amazon.”

      The thought of this strong, proud man begging was quite the image.

      “In fact, I was so sure of it, I told Stone and Jen to take their time, that you certainly would.” He gestured with his head to the bench. “Let’s get this over with.”

      “Where’s the lighting?”

      “The candles will provide the only lighting this time.”

      “It’s beautiful,” she said, mesmerized by the glow, by the look of concentration on his lean, rugged face. As a workaholic, she had to admit to feeling attracted to any man who felt so strongly about his work.

      Or maybe it was simply the power he held over her, the power to make her do as she normally wouldn’t, to bring out the sexuality and sensuality deep within her, two things she would have sworn she was lacking.

      The rain was hitting the gazebo with a steady rhythm that was better than any music. With the darkening evening, a mist had rolled in, surrounding them, making her feel as though they were the only two people on the planet.

      She shivered and had no idea what she felt, exactly. Fear? Nerves? Arousal?

      All of the above?

      He was looking at her, looking through her, or so it felt. What does he see when he looks at me like that? She wondered a little wildly. She hoped it was Amber.

      Feeling self-conscious, she moved toward the bench, but he stopped her.

      “The robe.” He held out his hand for it.

      Oh yeah, the robe. She began to work her fumbling fingers on the tie that she’d knotted while back in her hotel room. But now the material was wet and that, combined with the way Rafe’s proximity unnerved her, meant she couldn’t get the knot undone.

      With a rough sound of impatience, he brushed her fingers aside, his own warm and sure, and undid the knot in record time. He didn’t stop there, but tugged the robe open, then off her, and tossed it out of the way, toward an empty chair near his camera. “Loosen that,” he said, nodding to the way she’d wrapped herself.

      Immediately she fought the urge to cover herself with her hands. As a woman who felt funny in a two-piece bathing suit and who always wore a bra, she simply wasn’t used to being so exposed to a man, much less the great outdoors.

      But neither the great outdoors nor the man cared. Rafe looked her over impassively from her long, damp and slightly tangled hair hanging over her shoulders, down her legs to her feet, which she’d slipped out of the sandals. Her body started that odd quiver thing again.

      Then she thought she saw it—a flash of heat in his eyes, her only sign that she really did look good enough to pull this off.

      There was some sort of forbidden excitement in that, and a sense of power as well, so that when he pointed to the bench again, she went to it.

      But nothing could stop the little feeling that she was the lamb being led to the slaughter.

      “Lie down,” he said in that demanding, yet somehow compelling, voice that could convince a nun to sin.

      She lay on her back and studied the stark white ceiling of the gazebo. The bench was a little chilly beneath her, but since her body felt so inexplicably hot, it was okay, and at least her entire backside was covered.

      “Arms up, over your head,” Rafe said from behind his camera, and when she complied, he lifted his head and just stared at her.

      “What?” Her arms were still stretched over her head, her body laid out like a sacrifice. “No good?”

      “No,” he said softly. “It’s good.” He kept staring at her as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “It’s amazing, actually.” He looked through his lenses. Then he took the camera off the tripod. “Arch up, just a little.”

      As she did, he came close, very close, shocking her when he put a knee on the bench near her hip and looked down at her through the camera from above. “This is the angle,” he whispered, and since he seemed to be talking to himself, not her, she remained silent.

      “Remember that shoot we did in Fiji, Amber?”

      His voice, so close, startled her, as did the question. “Um…”

      “You played that prank on me. You’ve always played pranks on me, hiding my unused film, unplugging the lights, using makeup to create chicken pox, but Fiji…that was what led to our first and last date.”

      They’d dated only once? Amber had insinuated there was much more than that. “Well—”

      “You handed me your robe, and underneath it you—” He broke off with a little laugh and pulled away from his camera to look directly at her. “Well, I don’t have to tell you—you remember what you did.”

      She only wished she did.

      “You always screw with my head, knowing damn well that when I’m on a job, I’m on it one hundred percent, no playing around.”

      She had the odd urge to apologize, to somehow alleviate his frustration with her, which was silly because he was talking to Amber, not her. But knowing that didn’t take away the urge.

      He added a candle near her opposite hip and lit it, his eyes dark with concentration. He ran his work-roughened fingers up her outstretched arm, moving it slightly to the right, then stared down at her again. He adjusted her other arm as well, so that her fingers brushed each other high above her head. Then he slid his fingers beneath one of her knees and lifted it slightly.

      Everything within her reacted to his touch in a way that shocked her. He was simply a photographer, simply a man doing his job. A man who hardly seemed to notice she was nearly nude—

      He slowly rearranged the loose, white material, draping it over her torso, her belly, curling it between her hip and the candle, then over one thigh.

      At the touch on her inner leg, she jerked and a sound escaped her, one that sounded…needy.

      Lord, she was bad at this, bad at being cool, calm, sophisticated Amber, bad at being so blasé about what he could see of her. Her body hummed again, hummed and ached, and it made her close her eyes.

      A slight breeze brought a few drops of rain to hit her face, for which she was grateful. Research. Fun. She was doing one and having the other, she reminded herself. One weekend pretending to be wild and open and sexy. One little weekend.

      But really, this had to be the last time she bailed Amber out of trouble.

      Her mother would be happy to hear that. Unfortunately, the knowledge was little comfort to her at the moment, lying here in practically nothing.

      “Your eyes need to be open for the shot,” Rafe said, and when they flew open to stare at him, his shutter clicked.

      People were going to see this—her stretched out so open and vulnerable and…bare. They were going to see it and—

      “Remember New Mexico?” He was busy with his camera, not looking at her.

      “Well—”

      “It was our first shoot together. You were an hour late and hated your costume, so you staged that little tantrum that got me yelled at by the director.”

      Sounded like Amber.

      “You felt so bad you kissed me when we were done.” He