know where she lived? Should she run right now and call the police?
Shhh, breathe, Melissa. She picked up the bakery bag she’d dropped, and put it on the counter next to Gretchen’s flowers. Then she set her gym bag down, stood in Mountain Pose and closed her eyes, forced her rigid shoulders to relax and took in a long, slow breath, letting it out the same way. She did it again and again—thank goodness he was taking a long time to find his stupid brochures—until she felt centered and stronger, and calm. Well … calmer.
Too soon to panic. Angela and Bonnie, both seemingly nice people, had obviously recognized Melissa from the pictures, and they hadn’t looked anything more than surprised and intrigued by her presence. Neither of them had warned her away. In fact Angela must have been trying to send her down the hall to Jack. Maybe he just wanted pictures of someone doing yoga and figured out that Melissa practiced alone after class. She could have been a tree or a rock or a building that caught his artistic eye. The easiest explanation was often the right one. She’d confront him. Any creepy vibes and she’d go straight to the police.
“Sorry, had to open a new box. First I had to find a new box. Here’s the brochure.” Jack stepped into the room, did a double take behind him and shut the door firmly.
Yeah, too late, buddy.
“You know, I just remembered what I came in for.” In spite of her struggle to sustain peaceful breathing, Melissa’s voice came out high and harsh. “I’m looking for pictures of a woman.”
His expression became wary. “Okay.”
“More specifically, I’m interested in pictures of a woman doing yoga.”
“Uh …” Jack began to look hunted.
“In fact, I’m looking for pictures of a woman doing yoga in Cal Anderson Park.” Melissa pointed to the door he’d just closed. “About my height. And weight. With my coloring. And clothes.”
“Uhhh …” He put his hands over his face, dragged them down and peeked at her over the tips of his fingers, his expression one of contrition. “I guess you saw them.”
“I guess I did.”
He swore under his breath.
“Busted?”
“I was going to explain over coffee.” He sent her an I’ve-been-a-bad-boy look that he must know was adorable. She would remain unmoved until he proved himself innocent. And maybe even after that. “This must be a shock, Melissa.”
“A shock?” She faked surprise. “No, no, not at all. Happens all the time. People spy on me and take pictures, oh, twice a week at least.”
“No, it’s not …” He shook his head, the hint of an embarrassed smile curving his masculine lips. “See, you were there and then I was, and then I, uh …”
Melissa scowled. Why did jerks always come in such fabulous packages? Her boss, Barbara, called them baby pools. Warm, inviting and totally shallow. Dive in and you’d get brain damage. Even her mother had warned her, one of the precious rounds of maternal advice she’d given Melissa before she died: really good-looking men—actually, Mom had said people—came first on their own priority lists, and thought they should come first on everyone else’s, too. “And then you what?”
“See, I was thinking you’d be …” He scratched his head. “That is, I was hoping you’d be …”
“I’d be what?” If he didn’t explain soon she was going to hurl her gym bag at his head.
“Oh, man.” He held up both hands. “Can we start over?”
“Why did you take photos of me? Are you stalking me? Did someone hire you?” Melissa’s voice cracked. The possibilities were awful.
“No. No.” His look of genuine concern caused a small bit of her anger to slip away, which made it easier to appear in control. “My interest was purely artistic. I swear.”
Hmm. The simplest explanation … “Why didn’t you ask my permission?”
“Honestly, I was going to.”
“When were you going to?”
“Today, over coffee. Before that …” He wrinkled his nose apologetically. Another adorable-yet-masculine expression. He must practice in front of a mirror. “Thing is, the day I decided to approach you was the day you disappeared.”
“Well.” Melissa smacked her hand on the counter, uncomfortably aware he could be telling the truth. She’d stopped going to yoga for a few months because of her injury. But she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook yet. “How’s that for timing?”
“This isn’t as bad as it seems.”
Melissa arched an eyebrow. “How would you know how bad it seems?”
“I’m guessing you feel violated, vulnerable and afraid.” He leaned both palms on the counter, which emphasized the broad sweep of his shoulders and back. His eyes were sincere, gaze unwavering.
Damn, he was good. Yes, she felt violated, vulnerable and afraid, and with her guard down on all three counts, he was creating an atmosphere of concerned intimacy.
Good thing she was on to him.
“Someone could have noticed you every day the way I did, watched you the same way I did.” His voice was low, earnest. “But photography is a deliberate and permanent act, which is much more threatening.”
Melissa had nothing to say. He’d nailed exactly how bad it was. “Why were you photographing me?”
Jack pushed back from the counter. “The camera loves you. You were irresistible to me.”
He spoke matter-of-factly, photographer discussing his subject, whereas Melissa had to hold herself statue-still and beg her circulatory system not to turn her face scarlet. “You could have asked.”
“You might have told me to get lost.”
“Yes.” She folded her arms over her chest, wanting to appear tougher than she was feeling now that the worst of her outrage had abated. The way he looked at her, as if he could read her mind and see her naked at the same time, was making it very hard to feel she had the upper hand, which she damn well deserved in this situation. “But I would have liked the chance to choose. And to know what you wanted the pictures for.”
“I show at the Unko Gallery.” He reached for the pile of brochures he’d brought out and handed her one. “I was experimenting, working on a new idea, a way of photographing women. You had the look I wanted.”
Melissa opened the brochure, wishing she could ask what look that was, but not willing to betray her interest. Was she the embodiment of every female fantasy he’d ever had? Or was she yet another trend-following Western capitalist pretending to understand yoga? Or was it something else entirely that only he could envision, and which she might not want to hear? Given some of the more disturbing shots in the shop, his ideas might not be that flattering.
Jack was indeed listed in the brochure, alongside a few prominently placed photographs,
