to the intrigue. Blackpool had entertained more than one fantasy about
luring both women into bed. TWo slick, lithe bodies, two agile young
students. His suspicion that Emma was as virginal as Marianne had been
only heightened the appeal.
But he put that thought aside a moment and studied the shadowy
black-and-white prints.
"Marianne said you were good, but I thought that was because you're her
friend."
"No." Even in the small room, Emma managed to keep at arm's length. "I
am good."
He laughed at that, a low rumble that rushed along her skin. When she
felt her muscles tighten, she shifted farther away. Dammit, he was
sexy. But beneath the primitive appeal was something that repelled her.
"So you are, sweet thing." When he turned she caught the light scent he
carried with him-leather from his jacket, sweat, and the faint whisper
of beer. "So, still waters run deep."
"I know my work."
"It's more than work." Casually he braced a hand against the wall and
effectively trapped her. There was an element of danger here he
couldn't resist. "Photography's an art, isn't it? An artist is born
with things other people lack." He reached out and plucked a pin from
her hair. She stood still, as jumpy and dazed as a rabbit caught in the
beams of a truck. "I know. Artists recognize each other." Slowly, he
drew out another pin. "Do you recognize me, Emma?"
She couldn't speak or move. For an instant she couldn't even think. As
she started to shake her head, he swooped, dragging his hand
through her hair, scattering pins, crushing his warm and ready mouth on
hers.
She didn't struggle, not at first, and would always hate herself for
that stunned moment of torrid pleasure. He invaded, delighted most of
all by her perfect innocence. His tongue stabbed through her parted
lips. As she moaned, the beginnings of a protest, his hands raced up
and under her shirt and caught her breasts, squeezing and releasing,
squeezing and releasing, while she fought to catch her breath.
"No. Don't."
He only laughed again. Her trembles had ignited what had only been a
passing interest into real fire. He ground himself against her until
her reluctant passion turned to real fear.
"Let go of me."
She fought him now, nails scraping d(ywn the leather of his jacket, body
bucking. When he slammed her back against the wall, bottles clattered
from the shelf. Now there was terror, like an animal inside her,
clawing until she couldn't find the courage to scream. His hands were
on her zipper, dragging at her jeans. She didn't know she was weeping,
or that it excited him.
He released her to tug at his own jeans. Freed, she looked wildly for a
means of escape. With terror still pumping through her, she snatched up
a pair of scissors and gripped them in both hands.
"Stay away from me." Her voice was low and raw, as shaky as the hands
that held the scissors.