The Secret Love-Child

He was no longer bruised, or bitter. That had all happened years ago. But he hadn't lived with a girlfriend since, no matter how much he might occasionally be tempted to. And he didn't date blondes any more. Experience had taught him blondes often played sweet and vulnerable and not too bright, when they were actually smart as a whip, sneakily manipulative and ruthlessly ambitious.

Photographing them, however, was another question. A blonde was still his model of choice.

Rafe wrenched open the front door to his inner-city terrace home and tried not to stare. Wow! Les hadn't exaggerated one bit.

What a pity she was going to be married, he thought as his male gaze swept over his visitor. Because if ever there was a blonde who might make him reassess his decision never to date one again, she was standing right in front of him.

Talk about exquisite!

Ms Isabel Hunt was the epitome of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine. Classically beautiful and icily blonde, with cheekbones to die for, cool long-lashed blue eyes and what looked like a perfect figure. Though, to be honest, she would have to remove the fawn linen jacket she was wearing over those tailored black trousers for Rafe to be sure.

'Ms Hunt?' he said, smiling warmly at her. What had been an irksome task in his mind now held the prospect of some pleasure. Rafe liked nothing better than photographing truly beautiful women. Of course, only the camera would tell if she was also photogenic. It was perverse that some of the most beautiful women in the flesh didn't always come up so well on film.

'Mr Saint Vincent?' she returned, her own gaze raking over him. With not much approval, he noted. Maybe she didn't like men who hadn't shaved by noon.

She looked the fussy type. Her make-up was perfection and her clothes immaculate. That white shirt she had on underneath her jacket was so dazzlingly white, it could have featured in one of those washing-powder ads.

"The one and only," he replied, his smile widening. Most women, he'd found, eventually responded to his smile. Rafe liked his photographic subjects to be totally relaxed with him. Being stiff in front of a camera was the kiss of death when it came to getting good results. 'But do call me Rafe.'

'Rafe,' she said obediently, but coolly.

Ms Hunt, Rafe realised ruefully, was not a woman given to being easily charmed. Which perhaps was just as well. She was one gorgeous woman. Those eyes. And that mouth! Perfectly shaped and deliciously full, her lips were provocative enough in repose. How would he react if they ever smiled at him?

Don't smile, lady, he warned her silently. Or we both could be in big trouble!

'Would you object if I called you Isabel?' he said recklessly.

'If you insist.'

Was that contempt he saw flicker in her eyes? Surely not!

Still, Rafe decided to pull right back on the charm for now and get down to tin tacks.

'Les rang me a little while ago with just the barest of details,' he informed her matter-of-factly, 'so why don't you come inside and we can discuss a few things?'

He led her into the front room where he conducted most of his business. It wasn't an office as such, more of a sitting room, simply and sparsely furnished. The walls, however, were covered with his favourite photos, all of women in various states of dress and undress. None actually nude, but some were close, and all were in black and white.

'I don't see any wedding photos,' the bride-to-be noted curtly as he led her over to the nearest sofa.

'I no longer work as a wedding photographer,' he admitted. 'But I was once Les's partner, so don't worry. I know what I'm doing.'

She gave him a long hard look. 'I suspect you're more expensive than Les.'

Rafe sat down on the navy sofa opposite hers and leant back, stretching his arms along the back.

'Usually,' he agreed. 'But not this time. I'm doing this job as a favour to Les.'

'What about the actual photos? Will I have to pay more for them?'

'No.'

She glanced up at the prints on the wall again and almost rolled her eyes. 'You do take coloured snaps, don't you?'

Rafe was not a man easy to rile. He had a very even temper. But she was beginning to annoy him. Coloured snaps, indeed! He wasn't some hack or hobby photographer. He was a professional!

'Of course,' he returned, priding himself on sounding a lot calmer than he was feeling inside. 'I do a lot of fashion photography. And fashion wouldn't be fashion without colour. But wedding photographs do look fabulous in black and white. I think you'd be pleased with the results.'

'Mr Saint Vincent—' she began frostily.

'Rafe, please,' he interrupted, determined not to lose it. My, she was a snooty bitch. Mr Luke Freeman was welcome to her. Rafe wondered if the poor groom knew exactly what type he was getting here. Talk about an Ice Princess!

'The thing is, Rafe,' she said in clipped tones, 'I wouldn't have chosen a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I wanted all the photographs done in black and white, would I?'