A Novel Seduction by Gwyn Cready Page B

hours to shoot—the mere fact of having his name associated with her paper—gave it instant credibility.
    He lifted the beer to his mouth and drank, the long muscles of his neck moving up and down. He was on his third bottle, and she’d picked up the six-pack only half an hour ago. She’d found herself more and more attracted to him with each assignment, but he inhabited a world far different than hers. He was a grown-up, for one, eight years older than she was, with a real job and a real income and a list of credentials as long as her arm. More important, though, he had a street edge to him that seemed completely out of reach to a girl whose most serious excess was miniature Kit Kat bars.
    “I can’t believe you thought this would take an hour,” she said, pulling her eyes back to the screen.
    “I can’t believe you thought it would take all night.”
    “Typical male point of view.” She gave him an innuendo-filled smile. “Always trying to shortchange the rightful process.”
    He didn’t reply. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked.
    “If an hour’s not enough to do the job,” he said, turning to meet her eyes, “perhaps you need more competent partners.”
    She felt a boom, as if a mortar had just gone off, completely altering the landscape between them, and she was both thrilled and petrified.
    “You have a high opinion of your work,” she said dry-mouthed, turning back to the keyboard to hide her unsteadiness.
    “I have an impressive résumé.”
    And he did. She knew of at least a TV reporter and local artist whom Axel could number among his conquests, although he himself never mentioned them. Her own list was considerably shorter. Two. Her high school boyfriend, even though they had done it so badly it could hardly count, and the French grad student who’d done a full-court press during her junior year in Paris. Ellery’s parents had had a rocky marriage, even before her father cut out entirely, and Ellery had learned to expect, well, if not the worst from men, then at least not the best, which meant she did not give her heart willingly. This had kept her safe—and focused on her writing—but it had also kept her circling the same emotional ground. Although she dated a lot, each relationship always ended up stalling, like a car with a bad fuel pump. She was starting to be afraid she would never feel the thrill of full-on acceleration.
    “What are you doing?” Even without looking, she could feel him turn the camera in her direction, and she was relieved to change the course of the conversation.
    “I’m setting it on auto timer,” he said without pulling his eye from the viewfinder. “Don’t worry, you’re not in the frame.”
    Like rugged climbing vines, his legs were woven intothose of the tripod, and there was an enthralling intensity to the way his hands made minute adjustments to the lens and dials. For some reason she was instantly jealous.
    “Can I look?”
    He gave her an amused smile. “Are you art-directing me now?”
    “I
am
the editor, right?”
    He bowed, and she made her way to the tripod. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but the idea of inserting herself into his milieu was irresistible.
    An electric charge shook her as she peered through the viewfinder. She could smell the piquant beer malt that had become his signature scent to her and feel the fading warmth of his hands on the camera body.
    “What do you see?”
    The shot was amazing. The pillows of silver drifted slowly in and out of the shadow-dappled frame, but she was finding it hard to formulate a reason, given the immediacy of his arms and the fact she could feel his breath brushing over her shoulders.
    A sheen appeared on her palms. “Shouldn’t there be something playing in the background to channel your concentration? You know: Anne Murray, Celine Dion, a Maple Leafs game?”
    “Don’t worry. I have my muse.”
    She pulled away from the viewfinder, fingertips tingling. “Looks