Amber would get a big kick out of her uptight and slightly prudish twin blushing nonstop. Her mother, a prestigious author, would probably take one look at Emma’s costume and have a fatal heart attack, because in her eyes, Emma was already compromising her talents by writing for a soap opera. What was it she’d called Emma’s work? Oh yes, a waste of trees.
Seeing Emma now would just confirm what she’d always known-that her daughters were some odd and inexplicable mutation of the family genes. Her mother would blame Amber, of course, citing that she’d been a bad influence from infanthood, which indeed she had. Emma had gotten really good at being in the middle of those two. If her mother ever found out about this, Emma would manage to smooth it out somehow, as she always did. But she couldn’t concentrate on that now, not while looking at her costume lying innocently on the bed.
Stone had told her not to worry about her hair, that they wanted it long and loose and damp. Well, good, because that’s what she had to work with at the moment-long and loose and damp. Dropping her sundress, she slid back into the thong, grimaced at herself in the mirror as she wrapped the white material across her breasts like a bandeau, and then put on the silk robe Jen had given her.
Emma still felt naked.
She glanced back at her laptop on the hotel bed, where she’d worked all afternoon. Live And Love had been in a ratings slump for months, and she’d tried to help fix it by putting their fan-favorite leads in romantic pairings.
But oddly enough, fans didn’t necessarily want sweet, traditional romance. According to their letters-buckets and buckets of letters-they wanted steamy, hot sex. That had worried their head writer, which in turn had worried Emma a little-okay, it had worried her a lot, because she wasn’t very good at steamy, hot sex. But she’d given it a shot this afternoon.
Guess that meant she could use this trip as a research tax write-off.
Holding the robe open, she took another peek at herself in the mirror. Her sexy twin looked back-a tall, willowy brunette with wild, light amber eyes and a see-through outfit that brought to mind all sorts of wicked things.
Oh boy.
With renewed anticipation, she tied her robe, slipped into her sandals and braved the storm to head toward the set.
And her evening of research.
Walking through the hotel lobby in her white silk robe, she noticed that no one even glanced her way. So much for knocking people over with her newfound sexuality. Trying to get into playing Amber, she swung her hips a little more and tossed back her hair, but only succeeded in tripping down the front stairs as she headed outside into the falling night.
The path was lit but it was still an eerie and strange feeling, walking through the heavy, drumming rain with no one accompanying her but her own thoughts. The growth beneath her feet squished like a sponge as she moved. The night seemed noisy, with the sound of rain hitting leaves and the squawk of the occasional bird combining to bring chills to her skin.
Wet now, she reached the set. Protected by the gazebo, candles flickered on the floor, the benches, even hung from the arches, sending up a warm glow, and in the middle, bent over his camera, was Rafe.
The scene took her breath. He took her breath. His shirt was plastered to his big, tough body, his jeans looked as if they’d been made to fit him like a soft glove, though she doubted there was an inch of softness anywhere on him.
She hadn’t made a sound, and yet, he lifted his head as she came into the clearing. His dark hair was wet and wavy, hitting just past his collar. As she watched, he lifted a hand 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.