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 they wanted.
Isabel looked at the man sitting opposite her and wondered what kind of lover he’d be.
Not that you’re ever going to find out, her conscience reminded her harshly.
‘I have to go, Isabel,’ her mother was saying. ‘Your father and I were just having a bite to eat before we go down the club. When will you be home? Will you be eating with us tonight?’
Isabel had been living with her parents during the last few weeks leading up to the wedding. She’d quit her flat, plus her job as receptionist at the architectural firm where Luke worked, content to become a career wife and home maker after their marriage. She and Luke were going to try for a baby straight away.
‘As far as I know,’ she told her mother whilst she continued to watch the man opposite with unreadable eyes. ‘Unless Luke comes back today and wants to go out somewhere. If he happens to ring, you could ask him. And tell him I’ll be back home by one at the latest.’
‘Will do. Bye, love.’
‘Bye, Mum.’
She clicked off the phone then bent down to tap it against the album on the coffee-table. ‘Very impressive,’ she said, giving him one of her super cool looks, the ones she fell back on when her thoughts were at their most shocking. Pity she couldn’t have rustled one up earlier when his barb about her wearing white at her wedding had sent a most uncharacteristic flush to her cheeks. Still, she was back in control now. Thank heavens.
She put down the phone and opened the album to a page which held a traditional full-length portrait of a woman in an evening gown. ‘I liked this portrait very much. If you feel you could reproduce shots like this, then you’re hired.’
‘I don’t ever reproduce anything, Isabel,’ he returned quite huffily. ‘I’m an artist, not a copier.’
Isabel’s patience began to wear thin. ‘Do you want this job or not?’ she threw at him.
‘As I said before, I’m doing this as a favour to Les. The question is…do you want me or not?’
Isabel’s eyes met his and she had a struggle to maintain her equilibrium. If only he knew…
‘I suppose you’ll have to do,’ she managed to say.
‘Such enthusiasm. When and where?’
How about here and now?
‘The wedding is at four o’clock at St Christopher’s Church at Burwood, a fortnight from today. And the reception is at a place in Strathfield called Babylon.’
‘Sounds exotic.’
It was, actually. Isabel had a secret penchant for the exotic. Though you’d never tell by looking at her. She always dressed very conservatively. But her favourite story as a child had been Aladdin, and she’d often dreamt of being a harem girl, complete with sexy costume and gauzy veils over her face.
‘Do you want me to come to your house beforehand?’ he asked. ‘A lot of brides want that. Though some are too nervous to pose well at that stage. Still, when I was doing weddings regularly, I developed a strategy for relaxing them which helped on some occasions.’
‘Oh?’ Isabel tried to stop her wicked imagination from taking flight once more, but it was a lost cause.
‘I’d give them a good…stiff…drink,’ he said between sips of his coffee.
How she kept a straight face, Isabel would never know.
‘I don’t drink,’ she lied.
‘Figures,’ he muttered, and she almost laughed.
He obviously thought she was a prude.
‘Don’t worry,’ she went on briskly. ‘I won’t be nervous. And, yes, I’m sure my mother will want you to come to the house beforehand. I’ll jot down the address and phone number for you.’ She pulled out a pen from her bag, plus a spare
