cracked his skull.
Her heart began to pound when he looked at the painting of her on the beach. It was a nighttime seascape. The water was calm. A moon hung suspended in the sky like a china plate. The woman was posed in profile. She was leaning back, propped up by straight arms behind her. Her head was thrown back so that her back arched and her hair swept her naked back. Her knees were raised. She looked as though she were offering up her breasts to the moon, which was kissing them with iridescent light.
"This one is incredible. Absolutely beautiful," Ian said. She thrilled to the low, husky, reverent tone of his voice. He touched the picture. Her heart all but stopped when his fingers grazed over the breasts so beautifully painted. "Lovely," Ian whispered.
"Do you like it?" she asked tremulously, her throat tight with emotion.
"Yes, yes," he said earnestly. "I admire an artist who can reflect light off water that way and make it look so real."
She strangled on an outraged cry. He was admiring the painting, the technique. All the appreciation glowing in his eyes was for the artist, not the model. She stared at him, bewildered and wounded, but he didn't even notice. He was calmly turning the pages of the book.
"Here's another interesting study," he commented.
Shay dropped her eyes from his face to the black and white photograph. She lay stretched out on her back, knees raised. One languid arm had been lifted. The back of her other hand rested on her forehead. The photographer had backlit her so that the black outline of her body was in stark contrast to the bright light behind it.
The profile of her face and chin were clearly defined before they blended into the silhouette of her throat. The shape of her breast, the impudence of its nipple, was outlined in startling detail. Her stomach dipped into a graceful hollow. Beyond that, the softly swelling mound of her femininity blended into the top of her thighs.
It was a beautiful photograph of the female anatomy in silhouette. The anonymity of it made it all the more beautiful. It belonged to all women.
"This photographer often uses that backlighting effect, doesn't he?" Ian commented.
Who cared? She wanted him to notice the woman in the photograph, not the damn lighting. "Yes."
"I thought so. I've seen some of his other works. Did he do this one, too?"
The last photograph in the folder was the most recent, also the most suggestive. It had been shot for a perfume ad for the European market. It was far too bold for American magazines and billboards. It, too, was in black and white, but this time she was fully lighted. The camera was above her.
Her hair was spread out behind her head on black velvet. Her face was turned away from the camera, her chin almost resting on her shoulder. The photograph had been cropped to show only one breast covered with a sheer white veil. Through it, her nipple was enticing, yet oddly vulnerable.
But it was her expression that captured the attention of the viewer. It was sublime. Her eyes were closed, her brows slightly puckered, her moist, shiny lips parted in a hint of a smile. Its message was clear: this woman was in the throes of passion fulfilled.
Actually at the time the photographer had said, "When we finish, Shay, I'll treat you to a hot fudge sundae. Think of it. Gooey chocolate, whipped cream, almonds, vanilla ice cream."
His camera had been clicking all the time he talked. She closed her eyes and licked her lips in anticipation since she hadn't eaten that day. When she heard his whispered, "My God," she knew she'd given him just the expression he'd been striving for all afternoon.
Ian studied the photograph for a long time. Shay's heart stood still. She had a wild vision of him slinging the picture, the book, and his conscience aside, grabbing her to him, and devouring her mouth with his. She saw her fingers plowing through his thick black hair to hold him fast, saw herself reclining at his insistence on the soft cushions
Her heart began to pound when he looked at the painting of her on the beach. It was a nighttime seascape. The water was calm. A moon hung suspended in the sky like a china plate. The woman was posed in profile. She was leaning back, propped up by straight arms behind her. Her head was thrown back so that her back arched and her hair swept her naked back. Her knees were raised. She looked as though she were offering up her breasts to the moon, which was kissing them with iridescent light.
"This one is incredible. Absolutely beautiful," Ian said. She thrilled to the low, husky, reverent tone of his voice. He touched the picture. Her heart all but stopped when his fingers grazed over the breasts so beautifully painted. "Lovely," Ian whispered.
"Do you like it?" she asked tremulously, her throat tight with emotion.
"Yes, yes," he said earnestly. "I admire an artist who can reflect light off water that way and make it look so real."
She strangled on an outraged cry. He was admiring the painting, the technique. All the appreciation glowing in his eyes was for the artist, not the model. She stared at him, bewildered and wounded, but he didn't even notice. He was calmly turning the pages of the book.
"Here's another interesting study," he commented.
Shay dropped her eyes from his face to the black and white photograph. She lay stretched out on her back, knees raised. One languid arm had been lifted. The back of her other hand rested on her forehead. The photographer had backlit her so that the black outline of her body was in stark contrast to the bright light behind it.
The profile of her face and chin were clearly defined before they blended into the silhouette of her throat. The shape of her breast, the impudence of its nipple, was outlined in startling detail. Her stomach dipped into a graceful hollow. Beyond that, the softly swelling mound of her femininity blended into the top of her thighs.
It was a beautiful photograph of the female anatomy in silhouette. The anonymity of it made it all the more beautiful. It belonged to all women.
"This photographer often uses that backlighting effect, doesn't he?" Ian commented.
Who cared? She wanted him to notice the woman in the photograph, not the damn lighting. "Yes."
"I thought so. I've seen some of his other works. Did he do this one, too?"
The last photograph in the folder was the most recent, also the most suggestive. It had been shot for a perfume ad for the European market. It was far too bold for American magazines and billboards. It, too, was in black and white, but this time she was fully lighted. The camera was above her.
Her hair was spread out behind her head on black velvet. Her face was turned away from the camera, her chin almost resting on her shoulder. The photograph had been cropped to show only one breast covered with a sheer white veil. Through it, her nipple was enticing, yet oddly vulnerable.
But it was her expression that captured the attention of the viewer. It was sublime. Her eyes were closed, her brows slightly puckered, her moist, shiny lips parted in a hint of a smile. Its message was clear: this woman was in the throes of passion fulfilled.
Actually at the time the photographer had said, "When we finish, Shay, I'll treat you to a hot fudge sundae. Think of it. Gooey chocolate, whipped cream, almonds, vanilla ice cream."
His camera had been clicking all the time he talked. She closed her eyes and licked her lips in anticipation since she hadn't eaten that day. When she heard his whispered, "My God," she knew she'd given him just the expression he'd been striving for all afternoon.
Ian studied the photograph for a long time. Shay's heart stood still. She had a wild vision of him slinging the picture, the book, and his conscience aside, grabbing her to him, and devouring her mouth with his. She saw her fingers plowing through his thick black hair to hold him fast, saw herself reclining at his insistence on the soft cushions
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