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

s.e.xy. 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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

pa.s.sing interest into real fire. He ground himself against her until

her reluctant pa.s.sion turned to real fear.

"Let go of me."

She fought him now, nails sc.r.a.ping 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.