to be a ball if his bride was this uptight about sex.
‘I’m sorry but I really don’t want my wedding photos done in black and white,’ she pronounced coldly, despite her pink cheeks. ‘If you feel you can’t accommodate me on this, then I’ll just have to find another photographer.’
‘You won’t find anyone decent at this late stage,’ Rafe told her bluntly.
She looked frustrated and Rafe found some sympathy for her. He was being a bit stubborn, even if he was right.
‘Look, Isabel, would you tell a painter how to paint? Or a surgeon how to operate? I’m a professional photographer. And a top one, even if I say so myself. I know what will look good, and you won’t look just good shot in black and white. You’ll look magnificent.’
She was clearly taken aback by his fulsome compliment. But he’d never had the opportunity to photograph a bride as beautiful as this. No way was he going to let her muck up his creative vision. With the automatic cameras now available, any fool could take colour snaps. But only Rafe Saint Vincent could produce black and white masterpieces!
‘There will be any number of guests at your wedding taking coloured snaps, if you want some,’ he argued. ‘My job, however, is to give you quality photographic memories which will not only be beautiful, but timeless. I guarantee that you’ll still be able to show your wedding photographs to your grandchildren with great pride. They won’t be considered old-fashioned, or funny, in any way.’
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she threw at him in almost scornful tones.
‘I’m very sure of my abilities. So what do you say?’
‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’
‘You won’t be disappointed if you hire me. Trust me on this, Isabel.’
She half rolled her eyes again.
Trust, Rafe realised, was something else Isabel Hunt did not do easily.
‘Why don’t you look at some of my more conventional black and white portraits?’ he suggested, pushing over the album portfolio which lay on the coffee-table between them. ‘You might find them reassuring. I confess the shots on my walls are somewhat…avant-garde. Meanwhile, I’m dying for a cup of coffee. I haven’t been up all that long. Late night last night,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Would you like one yourself? Or something else?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve not long had breakfast.’
‘Aah…late night, too?’ he couldn’t resist saying.
She looked right through him before dropping her beautiful but chilly blue eyes back to the album. She began flicking through it, insulting him with the little time she spent over each page.
He glowered down at the top of her head, and had to battle to control the crazy urge to bend over and wrench the pins out of her oh, so uptight French roll. His hands itched to yank her to her feet and shake her till her hair spilled down over her slender shoulders. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her till there was fire in her eyes, not ice. He wanted to see that blush back in her cheeks. But not from embarrassment. From passion.
He wanted… He wanted… He wanted her!
Rafe reeled with shock. To desire this woman was insane. And stupid. And masochistic.
First, she was going to be married in two weeks. Second, she was a blonde. Third, she didn’t even like him!
Three strikes and you’re out!
Now go get your coffee, dummy. And when you come back, focus on her simply as a fantastic photographic subject, and not the most challenging woman of the century.
CHAPTER TWO
ISABEL did not look up till she was sure she was alone, shutting the photo album with a snap.
The man was impossible! To hire him as her wedding photographer was impossible! Rafe Saint Vincent might be a brilliant photographer but if he wasn’t capable of listening to what she wanted, then he could just go jump.
Truly, men like him irritated the death out of her.
And attracted the devil out of her.
Isabel sighed. That was the main problem with him, wasn’t it? The fact she found him wickedly sexy.
Isabel closed her eyes and slumped back against the sofa. She’d thought she’d finally cured herself of the futile flaw of fancying men like him. She’d thought since meeting and becoming engaged to Luke that she would never again need what such men had to offer.
Luke was exactly what she’d been looking for in a husband. He was handsome. Successful. Intelligent. And extremely nice. A man who, like her, had come to the conclusion that romantic love was not a sound basis for marriage, that compatibility and common goals were far more reliable. Falling in love, they’d both discovered in the past, made fools of men—and women. Passion might be the stuff poems were written about, but it didn’t make you happy in the long run. Mind-blowing sex, Isabel now believed, was not the be-all and end-all when it came to a relationship.
Not that Luke wasn’t good in bed. He was. If her mind sometimes strayed to her own private and personal fantasies while he was making love to her, and vice versa, then Isabel hadn’t been overly concerned.
Till this moment.
It was one thing to fill her mind with images of some mythical stranger during sex with Luke. Quite another to go to bed with him on her wedding night thinking of the likes of Rafe Saint Vincent.
And she would, if he was around all that day, looking her up and down with those sexy eyes of his.
Isabel shook her head with frustration. She’d always been attracted to the Mr Wrongs of this world. The dare-devils and the thrill-seekers. The charmers and the slick, smooth-tongued womanisers who oozed the sort of confidence she found a major turn-on.
Of course, she hadn’t known they were Mr Wrongs to begin with. She’d thought they were interesting, exciting men. It had taken several wretched endings—especially the disaster with Hal—to force her to face the fact that her silly heart had no judgement when it came to the opposite sex. It picked losers and liars.
By her late twenties, desperation and despair had forced Isabel’s brain to develop a fail-safe warning system. If she was madly attracted to a man, then that was a guarantee he was another Mr Wrong.
So she didn’t have to know much about Rafe Saint Vincent to know his character. She only had to take one look at him. Les had provided her with some brief details about him—namely that he was a bachelor, and a brilliant photographer—but to be honest, aside from the warning bells going off in Isabel’s brain, Mr Saint Vincent’s appearance said it all, from his trendy black clothes to his earring and his designer stubble. The fact he lived in a terraced house in Paddington completed the picture of a swinging male single of the new millennium whose priorities were career, pleasure and leisure, and who was never going to buy a cow when he could have cartons of milk for free. Rafe might not be a criminal or a con man, like Hal had been, but he would always be a waste of time for a woman who wanted marriage and children.
Actually, every man
