big-ass camera would give her the reward of an immediate sighting today. Instead, she was sick to death of hauling the damn thing with nothing to show for it.
Out of sheer boredom she’d taken some outstanding close-ups of a squirrel. While zooming in on the squirrel, she’d realized that Photoshop might be able to transform a squirrel into a Sasquatch. Who was to say that any of the photos used to prove Bigfoot existed were legitimate? Even if she stumbled upon an actual creature, what kind of proof would that be without a witness swearing she hadn’t doctored the shot?
Although the rain had stopped earlier in the afternoon, the drizzle had returned and the light was fading. She pictured herself wrapped in a quilt, sitting in front of the potbellied stove and drinking hot coffee laced with Baileys. Maybe it was time to give up for the day.
She was so intent on her image of a warm fire and a hot drink that she almost missed seeing movement about a hundred yards away. There. Somebody . . . or something was walking through the trees.
Heart pounding, she raised the camera and zoomed in. What she saw made her blink in surprise. Had Roarke changed his mind about looking for Sasquatch on her grandfather’s land? She couldn’t imagine any other reason he’d be there.
Gradually surprise turned to anger. Obviously Earl’s story had put some doubts in Roarke’s mind and he’d decided to investigate, after all, but damn it, why couldn’t he have said so this morning? An admission that he was rethinking his position on Bigfoot would have meant the world to Grandpa Earl. Apparently Roarke was too proud to make it, and the sexy professor instantly dropped several notches in her estimation.
Focusing on him again, she took a couple of pictures. Maybe she’d print them up and present them to him over another drink at Flannigan’s. So, Dr. Arrogant Bastard, if you don’t believe a word my grandfather said, what were you doing prowling around in his woods, hmmm ? Is this or is this not you, Dr. Pompous Hypocrite?
She would do exactly that. He deserved to be found out, and she was just the woman to do it. She snapped off a couple more pictures for good measure. What a prince. And she’d thought he might be worth pursuing. Ha . He was . . . he was taking off his clothes ?
That made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Abby stopped clicking the shutter. Roarke was quickly going from hot prospect to strange weirdo. He could be a nudist, but he’d have to be one totally dedicated nudist to strip down in a cold drizzle.
Apparently he expected to put his clothes on again, though, because he was stuffing them into a nylon backpack as if he wanted to keep them dry. Through the zoom lens, Abby could see . . . everything. Too bad he was a total nutjob, because he was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever had the privilege of viewing naked.
Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt this guy. A girl didn’t usually see this kind of muscle definition in a college professor. True, Abby had dated only one of those in her life, but he’d been sort of soft in the middle.
Roarke was the exact opposite of soft. He turned his back to her, and her mouth went dry. She hadn’t meant to take a picture, but her finger had a mind of its own. It pushed the button. Now, whether she wanted it or not, she had a shot of his powerful back, narrow hips, and tight buns. Oh, darn.
Hey, what the hell. She’d make sure her grandfather never saw these pictures. But his legs were concealed behind some foliage, so she still didn’t have the complete man preserved for later viewing.
Then he moved away from the foliage and she snapped another shot of his muscled thighs and strong calves. Yes, she was acting like a voyeur, but no woman in America would blame her. She willed him to turn around. She wasn’t planning to take a full-frontal picture, but she wasn’t above using the zoom to get a better look.
Then he turned, but he’d shifted his position so
Out of sheer boredom she’d taken some outstanding close-ups of a squirrel. While zooming in on the squirrel, she’d realized that Photoshop might be able to transform a squirrel into a Sasquatch. Who was to say that any of the photos used to prove Bigfoot existed were legitimate? Even if she stumbled upon an actual creature, what kind of proof would that be without a witness swearing she hadn’t doctored the shot?
Although the rain had stopped earlier in the afternoon, the drizzle had returned and the light was fading. She pictured herself wrapped in a quilt, sitting in front of the potbellied stove and drinking hot coffee laced with Baileys. Maybe it was time to give up for the day.
She was so intent on her image of a warm fire and a hot drink that she almost missed seeing movement about a hundred yards away. There. Somebody . . . or something was walking through the trees.
Heart pounding, she raised the camera and zoomed in. What she saw made her blink in surprise. Had Roarke changed his mind about looking for Sasquatch on her grandfather’s land? She couldn’t imagine any other reason he’d be there.
Gradually surprise turned to anger. Obviously Earl’s story had put some doubts in Roarke’s mind and he’d decided to investigate, after all, but damn it, why couldn’t he have said so this morning? An admission that he was rethinking his position on Bigfoot would have meant the world to Grandpa Earl. Apparently Roarke was too proud to make it, and the sexy professor instantly dropped several notches in her estimation.
Focusing on him again, she took a couple of pictures. Maybe she’d print them up and present them to him over another drink at Flannigan’s. So, Dr. Arrogant Bastard, if you don’t believe a word my grandfather said, what were you doing prowling around in his woods, hmmm ? Is this or is this not you, Dr. Pompous Hypocrite?
She would do exactly that. He deserved to be found out, and she was just the woman to do it. She snapped off a couple more pictures for good measure. What a prince. And she’d thought he might be worth pursuing. Ha . He was . . . he was taking off his clothes ?
That made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Abby stopped clicking the shutter. Roarke was quickly going from hot prospect to strange weirdo. He could be a nudist, but he’d have to be one totally dedicated nudist to strip down in a cold drizzle.
Apparently he expected to put his clothes on again, though, because he was stuffing them into a nylon backpack as if he wanted to keep them dry. Through the zoom lens, Abby could see . . . everything. Too bad he was a total nutjob, because he was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever had the privilege of viewing naked.
Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt this guy. A girl didn’t usually see this kind of muscle definition in a college professor. True, Abby had dated only one of those in her life, but he’d been sort of soft in the middle.
Roarke was the exact opposite of soft. He turned his back to her, and her mouth went dry. She hadn’t meant to take a picture, but her finger had a mind of its own. It pushed the button. Now, whether she wanted it or not, she had a shot of his powerful back, narrow hips, and tight buns. Oh, darn.
Hey, what the hell. She’d make sure her grandfather never saw these pictures. But his legs were concealed behind some foliage, so she still didn’t have the complete man preserved for later viewing.
Then he moved away from the foliage and she snapped another shot of his muscled thighs and strong calves. Yes, she was acting like a voyeur, but no woman in America would blame her. She willed him to turn around. She wasn’t planning to take a full-frontal picture, but she wasn’t above using the zoom to get a better look.
Then he turned, but he’d shifted his position so
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