she could argue that his natural beauty almost eclipsed that of the stunning backdrop.
He wasn’t ruggedly hewn like their island leader, Graham, whom she thought of as Paul Bunyan in plaid. Roan was tall, as well, but where Graham was linebacker big with a square jaw, Roan was rangy and lean, broad of shoulder, lean of hip, his muscles perfectly and tightly defined, and his skin surprisingly golden, which only leant a gleaming, gladiator feel to the whole image. Unruly, sun-bleached brown hair shagged around his head in wayward curls, looking as if he did nothing more than rake a hand through it now and again. There was a shadow of stubble on his cheek, but she sensed it was more a result of the afternoon hour than through any deliberate design. In fact, she doubted he gave his appearance much thought. Mostly because he didn’t have to.
He was roguish and charming, with a devilish glint of mischief in his green eyes and a deeply grooved dimple that winked often given his penchant for grinning. She was quite certain he was well used to incorporating all of that to further his own agenda whenever it suited him. Probably because it had netted him an alarmingly high, ego-inflating ratio of success.
She had no patience with people like that.
She knew her own unusual looks and her taller-than-average height set her apart from the crowd, but she’d spent a lifetime playing them down to get what she wanted, and where she wanted to go. She took a lot of pride in the fact that her work spoke for her. And only her work. No one could argue that she’d earned her way to her current pinnacle of success by employing any asset other than her pure, unmitigated talent behind a camera.
And yet … she looked at all that rugged, charming beauty, and it tugged at something inside her. Something intensely … female. She responded to it, to him, almost viscerally, and no amount of intellectual arguing with herself could divert her from that singular truth.
She closed her eyes with the sole intent of ridding herself once and for all of his unwanted hold on her attention, but all that did was drive her thoughts in steamier, more primal directions. She thought about how he’d smiled and dangled that kilt. How he held that sword. His palms were wide, even the muscles in his forearms were rigidly defined, as he’d gripped the hilt. Her lips parted as she imagined him letting go of that tartan, and striding to her, planting that sword deep in the earth, then taking her by the arms and yanking her up against him, plunging his tongue into her mouth and making her—
A tap on the door jerked her from her reverie.
“How goes it in there?”
“Almost done,” she choked out, cheeks flaming as she realized how almost “done” she’d actually been.
“Can I see?” Kira asked through the closed door.
“Not yet with these,” she said, rallying herself back to the moment at hand. And away from where she’d like to have another pair of hands at the moment. “But I have a ton of digital stuff to sort through, so you can give me your expert advice about them.”
There was a snort. “I have an eye for weaving patterns, but you don’t want me tellin’ ye anything about photography.”
“They’re pictures of half-naked men.” Tessa opened the door a bare crack and slipped through, shutting it quickly behind her. “The appeal is universal, requiring only gut instinct.”
“So shallow,” Kira said, then smiled. “I like it.”
“Then you are officially my assistant.”
Kira’s smile broadened, and the light it brought to her eyes made Tessa feel slightly less than the schmuck of a friend she’d been of late.
“I’ve got the tiffin almost done,” Kira said, as she turned into the small, but tidy kitchen. She smiled over her shoulder. “‘Tis only appropriate we enjoy the rush of chocolate endorphins while drooling over naked men—even if I did grow up with most of them.” She paused then and made a face. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I can be the least bit objective after all. I still remember what each of them looked like with freckled cheeks and the complete absence of body hair.”
Tessa wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
“I know. But there is chocolate—which can only help.”
“I can be shallow enough for the two of us. Let’s proceed, shall we?”
Kira slid the pan of tiffin—chocolate and crushed cookies baked in warm, buttery goodness—and set it to cool on a rack on the butcher block counter, while Tessa propped open her laptop on the small kitchen table. She plugged in one of the three digital SLR cameras she’d used that day. It had been simpler than changing lenses back and forth.
Kira slid two heavy stoneware mugs onto the table and filled them with hot water, before dropping tea bags in each to let them steep. “I would ask why you need so many of those, but any explanation you’d give would go right over my head. I’m fortunate if I can get both the head and the feet of my subjects in the same shot. But let me tell you, I never cease to be amazed that you look through that little window and capture what you do. I look through that same tiny porthole and can’t even hope to decide where to frame the scene so that it looks like anything more than a disorganized jumble.”
Kira continued chattering away and Tessa kept one ear marginally tuned in, but the lion’s share of her focus was on the file download and creating separate folders for each subject.
It was only when the chatter died down that Tessa looked up and blinked. “What?”
“I know today was a pain in the arse.” Kira reached across the table and laid her hand over Tessa’s arm. Kira was a toucher by nature, a nurturer of the first order.
Tessa had discovered she was neither—which worked out well in her line of work. It was usually intrinsic to her job to operate apart from whatever was going on around her, so it was rare that anyone touched her deliberately, and certainly not so casually. Or kindly. When someone put hands on her, it was usually in an attempt to separate her from her equipment, or remove her bodily from wherever she happened to be standing at the moment.
That she could handle. That she expected. It went with the job.
This … this threatened her. She didn’t know how to handle it. Especially now. So she carefully slid her arm free under the guise of needing to type on the keyboard.
“I know taking pictures of any kind wasn’t what you came here to do. For that, I’m sorry.”
Tessa purposefully didn’t meet Kira’s direct gaze. She had made plenty of acquaintances in her years traveling the globe as a photo-journalist. But there was only one person who knew her. Truly knew her. Tessa was well aware that her story about wanting to take a little holiday and catch up with her old friend had only been accepted on the surface. She’d told Kira she was experiencing a little burnout, hoping that would explain her fatigue and general crankiness. She’d be fine if Kira would just allow them to operate under that pleasant façade.
“Maybe shooting half-naked Scots was exactly what I needed,” Tessa said, though not with any real conviction. “Who wouldn’t like a break from the ravages of war and mother nature for a little time spent staring at some beefcake instead? Who knows, could be the launch of an entire new career direction.” And God help me, I need one.
Her attempt at levity was met with a sincere smile that had everything to do with extending compassion and little to do with amusement.
