crazy to want to see her again this side of the wedding. Crazy to force her to return.
She wasn’t the type to let him have his wicked way with her. She wasn’t the type to let any man have his wicked way with her without a band of gold on her finger.
Maybe not a virgin, but close. The way she’d frozen when he’d dared touch her hair. The way she’d bolted out of his place, probably in fear that he might do more.
And he’d wanted to. Oh, yes. Being that close to her—actually touching her—had turned him on something rotten. When her bag had hit him as she’d hurried out, he’d just managed not to visibly wince. Luckily, she hadn’t stopped and looked down at where her bag had hit him, or she’d have been in for one big fright!
That was another reason why he hadn’t run out into the street after her just now. Looking a fool was not his favourite occupation.
Hopefully, by the time Isabel realised she’d left her phone and turned round to come back, he’d have himself under control again.
And then what, Rafe? What is the point of this exercise? Is it some form of sexual masochism?
Even if you were the kind of man who seduced other men’s fiancées—which you’re not, usually—you haven’t one chance in Hades of defrosting this one.
So, if and when she does come back, have the damned phone handy near the front door, give it to the lady and send her on her merry way.
His decision made, Rafe dropped the metallic-blue cellphone on the hall table and headed upstairs for some breakfast. After that, he came back downstairs to his darkroom, where he set about developing the rolls of film he’d shot last night at Orsini’s summer fashion parade, and at the after-parade party, which had gone well into the wee small hours of the morning. The women’s magazines would be ringing first thing Monday morning, wanting to see the best of them.
Two hours later, Rafe was still in his darkroom, going through the motions, but his mind simply wasn’t on the job. The object of his distraction hadn’t come back, and he simply could not put her out of his head.
The truth was, she intrigued him. Not just sexually, but as a person. He wanted to know more about her.
In the end, Rafe stopped trying to put her out his mind. He abandoned his work, pulled the business card she’d left him out of his pocket, went back upstairs, picked up his phone and punched in the number she’d written down.
The line rang and rang at the other end, with Rafe about to hang up when someone finally picked up.
‘Hello there.’
Rafe frowned. It was a woman, but he wasn’t sure if it was Isabel. She sounded…odd. ‘Isabel?’
‘Yep? To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’
Rafe couldn’t believe his ears. She was drunk!
‘It’s Rafe. Rafe Saint Vincent. The photographer.’
Dead silence. Though he could hear her breathing.
‘You left your mobile phone at my place.’
More silence.
‘I thought you might be worried about it.’
She actually laughed.
‘Isabel,’ he said with concern in his voice. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Mmm. You might say that.’
‘I am saying it.’
‘So what?’
Rafe was taken aback. This wasn’t the woman he’d met today. This was someone else. ‘You said you didn’t drink,’ he reminded her.
She laughed again. ‘I lied.’
His eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with worry. ‘Isabel, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘I guess there’s no point in not telling you. You’ll have to know some time, anyway. The wedding’s off.’
He couldn’t have been more taken aback, both by the news and her manner. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Luke’s left me for someone else.’
Rafe experienced a small secret thrill at this news, but his overriding emotion was sympathy. He knew what it was like to be left for someone else, and he wouldn’t wish the experience on a dog.
‘I’m so sorry, Isabel,’ he said with genuine feeling. ‘You must be feeling rotten.’
‘I was, till I downed my third whisky. Now, I actually don’t feel too bad.’
He had to smile. That was exactly what he’d done the day Liz had left him. Hit the bottle. ‘You should never drink alone, you know,’ he warned softly.
‘Oh, I’m not drunk,’ she denied, even though her voice was slurring a little. ‘Just tipsy enough so that my pain is pleasantly anaesthetised. Why, you offering to drink with me, lover?’
Rafe’s smile widened. It seemed Isabel’s ice-princess act melted considerably under the influence of three glasses of Scotch.
‘I think you’ve had enough for one day.’
‘That’s not for you to say,’ she huffed.
‘Maybe not, but I’m still saying it.’
‘Did anyone ever tell you that you are the bossiest person alive?’
‘Yeah. My mother. She threw a party the day I left home.’
‘I can well imagine.’
‘But she loves me all the same.’
‘I doubt other people would be so generous.’
Her alcohol-induced sarcasm amused him. ‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re a snooty bitch?’ he countered.
He liked it when she laughed. Being drunk suited her. No more Miss Prissy. How he wished he was with her now.
There again, perhaps it was wise that he wasn’t. When and if he took her to bed, he didn’t want her drunk. Or on the rebound. He wanted her wanting him for himself, and no other reason.
‘I guess you won’t be needing my services now,’ he said.
‘As a photographer, you mean?’
Rafe sucked in sharply. What a provocative reply! Perhaps she didn’t disapprove of him as much as he’d thought she had.
Or perhaps it was just the drink talking.
‘Actually, I’d still like to photograph you,’ he said, truthfully enough.
‘Really? Why?’
‘Why?
