her up and down, left, right and center, that her background would not be an issue.
So here was Vernon, clearly angling to protect the bankable quality of his star.
“Action is one thing. But I thought we were talking sports photographer. No offense, Claire.” Vernon held up a deferential hand. Claire nodded coolly. What she wouldn’t give for a stray pigeon to suddenly drop a not so little gift on Vernon’s gelled head. No, maybe on his coat. The sight of blemished cashmere might send him into anaphylactic shock.
“I supposed a Pulitzer counts for nothing?” Trish interjected.
Jason turned to Claire. “A Pulitzer?”
Claire shrugged. “Actually, it’s two.”
“Well, you may not value Claire’s news experience, but I’m sure you saw January’s Focus Magazine with Clyde Allthorpe on the cover?” Trish went on.
Claire saw Vernon’s jaw drop. Who hadn’t seen the magazine cover showing the running back, dripping with water, with a giddy grin adorning his face and, what appeared to be, little else on the rest of his body? The issue had set a record for the most newsstand copies ever sold. It had made every television entertainment show, and even become the running joke of late-night television hosts. Public radio had wanted to do an analysis of the phenomenon. What more could a girl ask for in the way of fame and fortune?
Well, she could have the fame and fortune of Clyde Allthorpe, who, as Vernon knew only too well, was the proud possessor of the largest endorsement contract among professional athletes. It was even an endorsement contract that eclipsed Jason’s, which as timing would have it, was due for renegotiation. And speaking of renegotiation, Clyde had signed that contract after the cover photo had hit the stands.
“You took that photo?” Vernon asked Claire.
“I did,” Claire said. “But you’ve got to understand—”
“What’s to understand?” Trish interrupted. “I think Vernon fully appreciates how lucky we are to have you on this job. Now why don’t you and Jason get to work while I talk to Vernon about what we’re planning next.” Trish shooed Claire and Jason along as if they were naughty puppies. There were times when well-manicured French tips definitely made a statement.
Claire turned to Jason. “Well, I guess we’ve got our marching orders. As you’ve already heard, I’m Claire Marsden, but I never got a chance to properly introduce myself.” She held out her hand.
Jason took it. “You’re freezing.” He placed both her bare hands in his and started to rub. His hands were large, his skin rough. Claire didn’t know about her hands, but her toes, which usually were frozen nubs despite two layers of woolen socks, were definitely getting hot. “You should wear gloves,” he said, and rubbed more briskly.
Claire swallowed. “Can’t. It’s an occupational hazard. I can’t wear gloves with the camera. I’m just always cold.”
Jason lifted her hands in his and started to blow. “Better?”
Actually, she was feeling warm, quite warm. “I’m not sure better is the exact word I’d choose.”
Jason peered over their hands. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.
“How about maybe you stop?”
“How about maybe you blow on my hands and I’ll see how I feel?”
Claire was just about to tell Jason what he could do to his hands when he released hers. He held up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding.”
“Something tells me you’re going to be bad news, Jason Doyle.” She shook her head and searched for the technician who was to bring her cameras. He was over by the entrance to the ice rink. Bags of equipment were piled on a bench nearby. She motioned for Jason to follow.
“So how do you want me?” he asked.
Claire made a show of rummaging through her camera bag.
“Does this mean we’re not going to be close friends?”
She looked up. “I think this photo session will be perfectly cordial. We’ll relax, have fun. Afterward, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a year or two. I’ll send you a congratulatory e-mail regarding your next Stanley Cup victory. You might send me pictures when your first child is born. But after that, even the most casual communication will peter out, and five years from now, you’ll think, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that lady photographer, Claire something? I remember she was good at her job, but, boy, was she ever lousy at taking a joke.’”
He listened in silence, and when she’d finished, took a step closer. His hulking frame was mere inches from hers. The worn leather of his jacket sleeve brushed against her sweater as he circled to get in her view. “Is it just me, or are you always this uptight, Claire Marsden?”
She turned, her face now mere inches from his. The color of his eyes had deepened to a midnight hue. Not good. She chickened out. Lowered her gaze. And saw his chest heave in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the molecules of air that barely separated their bodies seemed to twitch and tremble in a sharp staccato.
She fixed what she hoped was an aloof gaze back on him, and, working hard to keep her voice calm, said, “Why don’t you put on your skates and team jersey? We’ll get you on the ice, doing your thing.” The soul of business, she turned back to her camera bag and searched around for rolls of film. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, and swung the camera strap over her neck with an ease borne of having repeated the motion at least a million times.
“Where do you want my hands?”
Claire nearly dropped her telephoto lens. So much for instinct.
“What do you want me to do with my hands—on the ice?” Jason had doffed his jacket and pulled on a jersey. He was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates, something he, too, had done more than a million times.
The act should have been merely mechanical. Why was the sight of his strong fingers working with deft speed so sexy? Until she looked down at her own hands, Claire hadn’t realized that she was unconsciously outlining the protruding camera lens. She quickly let go. The weight made the strap bite into the back of her neck
Claire straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, I think we’ll have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”
Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”
“Oh, I think I already have.”
SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.
Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as
