Exposed to Passion (Five Senses series Book 3) Read online

  EXPOSED TO PASSION

  By GEMMA BROCATO

  LYRICAL PRESS

  An imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  Dedication

  For my children, Erin and Andrew, and for Linda. Your love, support and encouragement mean the world to me.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Vincent Dean Jr. for his guidance on the photography aspects I’ve included in the book. He showed me just how fascinating the world behind the lens can be.

  Thanks also to my wonderful critique partners, G.A. Edwards, Emily Collins, Edie Jo Gibson, Lindy Dierks, Dawn Lind, P.J. Bishop and Jan Leyh. Your critique wisdom and brainstorming capabilities were instrument in helping me polish my words.

  Corinne DeMaagd, my lovely editor, helped transform this book to something I’m ridiculously proud of. Through the entire editing process, she patiently explained why she suggested changes, or the finer points of grammar (which I sorely need). The things I’ve learned will make my journey as an author easier. As always, to my publisher, Renee Rocco—shepherding the flock is never easy; she just makes it look that way.

  Chapter 1

  When the weather alert popped up on her phone, Rikki Salerno took one look at the sky and made a split-second decision to abandon unpacking the boxes that contained her life. Indecisive about which cameras to bring, she slotted every lens possible, and then some, into the specially designed, waterproof bag.

  She kicked her way through a mountain of paper scattered across the floor, then pushed a pile of books off a chair in search of her keys. Spying them on the desk, next to the waxy paper cup filled with warm diet cola, she snatched them up, then danced a little victory jig and shoved them into her pocket. Making her way to the front door, she jolted to a stop and looked at her feet. Puma sneakers would never do. Doing an about-face, she raced back to the tiny mudroom near the kitchen and grabbed a pair of rubber rain boots stamped with the New England Patriots logo. They were hideous, but they were a better choice than tennis shoes.

  When she arrived at her destination, she knew she’d chosen wisely. Water lapped the red stripe at the top of the boots as she jogged through the brackish tributary toward the peninsula she’d targeted to take the shot.

  Oh God, she was losing the light. If she didn’t hustle the fleeting glow would fade. It could be years before she found it again. The storm approaching from the northwest came complete with angry, boiling clouds. The sun, lowering on the western horizon, bounced off the cottony gray, reflecting shards of light back to earth in patterns echoed across the swampy grass.

  Rikki quickened her pace, a herculean task considering the burden of her overweight backpack. Sparing another glance at the heavens, she panted in relief. The light had held, but it would be close. Even a second too late spelled failure. She grimaced at her exaggeration. It really meant she’d just have to wait until the next storm. It was springtime; that could be tomorrow.

  Or it could be weeks from now.

  This would be the shot of a lifetime. The picture that would finally allow her to step out of the overwhelming shadow she’d lived in her whole life. Her chance to shine, like the sun rebounding off the clouds.

  “Stupid marsh. Why couldn’t this be pavement?” Good Lord, she was talking to herself. But if she didn’t make it to the little spit of land jutting into the marsh soon, she’d fail. The first time she’d tried to create a similar photo, her grandfather had laughed hard enough to make tears leak from his faded blue eyes. She’d stored that particular memory and pulled it out often to reexamine. Like a scab she couldn’t leave alone.

  She shuddered to a halt when she reached her destination, then scurried up the soft, loamy embankment toward solid ground. The soil under her boots shifted with each step. “Careful, Rikki,” she scolded as she threw her body forward to maintain balance, barely managing to reach the top without a major mishap.

  Sliding the pack from her shoulders, she unzipped it while turning in a circle, looking for a safe, dry spot in the middle of the marsh to set it down. A flat rock rose from the sandy ground to her left. “That’ll do.”

  She deposited the pack carefully on the surface, then squatted and unstrapped the tripod, efficiently extending the legs to full height. She sorted through the case until she found her favorite lens and pulled it out along with a camera. Years of practice and sheer muscle memory made the task of fitting the lens to the body easy. She nestled the camera in her lap and opened the pack’s bottom compartment where she’d stored her rain gear. The bag and equipment represented a huge investment. It made sense to take five seconds to cover it in case the heavens unleashed the promised rain. If she got soaked it was okay, but damage to her cameras would kill her.

  The sun’s warmth, combined with her frantic jog up the creek, proved to be too much. She stripped off her jacket and tied it around her waist.

  Clutching the camera in one hand, and the tripod in the other, she stood and walked toward the edge of the embankment. She approached the eroded lip of the bank gingerly, testing each step to ensure she remained on solid ground. She sidled out as far as she dared, then stopped and secured the camera to the stand with a quick flick of her wrist. She positioned the apparatus in the loose soil. Drawing a deep breath and crossing her fingers for luck, she bent to peer through the viewfinder.

  Well, damn skippy. This was definitely the place. Her mad dash through the marsh meant she’d made it in time.

  The view through the camera was one of the most photographed in New England. It was a place where setting suns and fast-moving storms painted stunning masterpieces across the horizon. Today’s atmospheric conditions had created the trifecta every photographer dreams of—light, reflection, definition—a dramatic canvas for the picture she knew would skyrocket her toward fame.

  The sounds of splashing and giggling destroyed the peaceful solitude of the moment. Her spirits dipped the second she realized she’d have to share this popular spot. Ever since Silas Sims’ photo had made the Great Salt Marsh a Holy Grail for nature shots, photographers flocked to the location during an approaching thunderstorm. Like seagulls stalking a school of fish. She resented the intrusion, but nothing could be done about it. The Spit was public property.

  Ignoring the newcomers, she focused on adjusting her camera settings, looking between the light in the clouds and the menu on the digital camera. Someday, she’d come back and try to record the magnificent view the old school way, on film.

  But today wasn’t that day.

  She straightened, casting a critical eye toward the sky, scanning for the best cloud formation—the one place reflecting light brighter than any other. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and pleasure tumbled through her head like a waterfall when she found a white spot shining klieg-light style in the steel-gray sky, a miniscule piece of celestial real estate sucking the viewer into infinity.

  She fired the shutter several times, then pulled back to scan the horizon again.

  Lifting her tripod, she shifted to the left while the splashing grew louder behind her. Could they make any more noise? Like a herd of water buffalos headed her way. She pressed the shutter release and quickly fired off five more shots. Releasing a satisfied breath, she reached to finesse the white balance setting on the camera.

  “All right, kids. This is our best vantage point.” A man’s deep voice echoed off the creek bank. “Get your equipment out and set up. Don’t forget to adjust your settings like we talked about on the way over. Let’s move, people. You don’t have long to get the shot. And stay out of the way of
other photographers here.”

  Rikki spared a glance over her shoulder to acknowledge the intruders. Ah, a class field trip by the looks of it. A high school photography club? The lone adult in the group scrambled up the embankment, followed lemming-like by a bunch of teenagers.

  The man leading the group turned to look her direction. “Hello. I hope it’s okay to share this space. Don’t mind us, I’ll try to keep these kids out of your way.”

  The man’s smile, lit by the ethereal light bouncing off the clouds, stunned her. The urge to turn her camera his direction and snap away warred with her need to photograph nature’s heavenly playground. She resisted, barely, and waved her hand, gesturing around the peninsula. “Plenty of room. You might want to tell your kids to be careful. The ground is pretty treacherous.”

  She stabilized the tripod on sandy earth and directed her gaze toward the horizon. A teen, built like a defensive linebacker, jostled her rig when he pushed past to grab a prime spot. Panic gripped her throat when her tripod wobbled. The expensive equipment tipped drunkenly toward the softly burbling creek. She grasped one of the shiny metal legs, steadying it, and jumped to the right to clear room for the big galoot to get by.

  The small movement brought her to the edge of the unstable bank that bordered the creek bed. Soil shifted under her boots and crumbled away into the creek with a loud splash. Rikki struggled to maintain her balance; her stomach twisting a mere second after she realized a fall was inevitable. Instinct forced her to release the tripod to avoid pulling it with her. As it shimmied precariously, she flailed her arms, fighting to regain her footing and halt her backward momentum. A small scream escaped her lips as she plunged toward the water.

  “Look out,” the group leader bellowed.

  She slammed into the silt on the creek bottom. Her shoulder blade zinged painfully when it made contact with a sharp rock buried in the sediment. Her breath expelled in a harsh gasp on impact. Cold, brackish water closed over her head and invaded her nose and mouth. Fighting her way to the surface, she coughed, spitting to clear her mouth and sinuses.

  Son of a—! Rikki wheezed a breath into her watery lungs and bit back angry words. She struggled to get to her feet.

  She flinched as water splashed over her head again when the man jumped into the creek. Reaching under her arms to help her up, his big, warm hands connected with her breasts, covering them as he lifted. He steadied her from behind, spooning her with his chest and hips the way a lover might. His sharp gasp was barely audible over her coughing. As soon as she regained her equilibrium, he dropped his hands to her waist and dug his fingers into the flesh above her hips. Any other time, she might welcome the pressure. But not now, soaking wet, with a complete stranger, in front of an audience.

  “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry.” He splashed backward, his tone apologetic.

  Rikki scrubbed her hands over her face and hair, slicking briny water away. A quick glance to the shore assured her that the camera had remained on dry land.

  The photography club stood on the bank, staring at the spectacle—water trickling down her face, clothes clinging like second skin. The males, in particular, hungrily eyed her chest in all its wet T-shirt glory.

  Heat flared in her cheeks and she spun away from the shore to face the man who’d felt up her boobs when he’d helped her to her feet. The guy stood in water up to his knees, rubbing his palms together, staring at the double Ds that had adorned the front of her body since she’d turned thirteen.

  The warmth in her face approached blast-furnace temperature when she shot a surreptitious glance down her body. Yep, her yellow shirt molded to her frame, and the super-cute, super-supportive lacy bra she’d chosen that morning had turned transparent, providing an unmistakable glimpse of her areolas. Her rock-hard nipples completed the risqué look. Great, she’d turned into a beacon for every red-blooded male in the area.

  Good God! Twenty-five years old and her damn chest continued to be a source of embarrassment. Shouldn’t she be beyond this by now?

  Mortified, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, wincing as she hugged her shoulders, partly to minimize the view, partly because she was cold, which only made matters worse. Behind her, one of the boys let out a low wolf whistle, and several other kids snickered.

  The sound of laughter broke her rescuer’s focus on her body, and he frowned at the kids on the bank. He snapped his fingers. “Hey. Eyes on the skies, knuckleheads. The light is fading and I bet not a single one of you has taken the pictures for this assignment. Show’s over. Get busy,” the man ordered.

  “I took a great shot just now, Mr. K,” a boy with a nasal voice said. Distinct female twittering followed his remark.

  “I’ll bet you did, Brett. Your job today was to get shots of the horizon.” Mr. K turned his attention back to Rikki, apology painting his handsome face. “Jesus, I’m really sorry. I’ll be sure he deletes any images he shouldn’t have taken. The last thing you need is for racy pictures of you to hit some high school boy’s social media pages. Teenage boys can be hound-dogs, you know.”

  “What’s your excuse, Mr. Handsy?”

  Looking down, he seemed to realize he still rubbed his palms together. Shoving his hands in the pockets of khaki slacks, his face scrunched up. He lost the battle to keep his eyes on her face. Long, dark eyelashes swept down and back up, an infinitesimal movement she would have missed if she’d blinked. She’d grown accustomed to callous leers when men finally looked her in the eyes again. This guy was no different.

  Anxiety and anger rose in her throat. She hated the choking sensation that had accompanied any scrutiny of the physique she’d been cursed with her entire life. Men saw her chest, and any manners they’d learned evacuated their bodies. All they saw was fair game for their eager advances, even when she’d turned the attention aside. Every girl she’d ever met either expressed pity or jealousy. Even the authority figures in her life, supposedly mature individuals, hadn’t been immune.

  He raised his eyes to hers and held them, determination evident in his knitted brows. “At least I enjoy the view with a more adult sense of appreciation. So sue me.” He’d lowered his voice, a too-little, too-late effort if he meant to keep the students from hearing.

  She narrowed her eyes at the tone of the man’s voice. His grin revealed even white teeth. Damn him for the charming dimples that creased his cheeks and cobalt blue eyes lit with humor. He was gorgeous, but that did little to alleviate the humiliation twisting in her gut.

  “I am sorry Brett knocked you into the water. He forgets to leave his tackling instincts on the football field.”

  It was difficult to maintain her anger when faced with the warmth of his smile. She sternly reminded herself that she was soaking wet, bitterly cold, and embarrassed, thanks to his student’s carelessness. And this jackhole had the audacity to smile at her. Her lips thinned as a result of her festering indignation. Unfortunately, the effect was lost when her teeth started chattering.

  “Oh God, you’re freezing. Here, take my jacket.” He unzipped the fleece he wore and shrugged out of it. The movement pulled his shirt taut across his chest, outlining broad shoulders, lean muscles, and hinting at a six-pack abdomen.

  Jeez, none of her high school teachers had anything near this guy’s beautiful, hard body. Clearly, he didn’t spend his off-hours grading papers.

  Careful not to let the coat drag in the water, he wrapped it around her shoulders then slogged away from her a step or two. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and shifted his gaze discretely to the horizon. She grudgingly approved of his attempt to allow her privacy to pull it on. The jacket she’d tied around her waist was as soaked as the rest of her. When she climbed out of the water, his consideration would at least save her from flashing the teens still ogling from the creek bank.

  Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she winced when pain shot across her shoulder blade. Damn shame rocks weren’t made of cotton candy. She should be grateful her head hadn’t connected with them. Or
her camera.

  “I’m Sam Kerrigan. And the dolts on the bank are the Granite Pointe High School Photography Club. I teach there and volunteered to be the club sponsor.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and extended it toward her, palm open, a gesture of apology.

  The sight of his long fingers reminded her of how warm his hands had been when he’d pulled her from the water by her breasts. She didn’t reach out to take his hand; doing so would send another shard of pain straight to her shoulder. “Rikki Salerno,” she replied through chattering teeth. Suppressing a shiver, pain bloomed anyway and she sucked her breath in sharply.

  When she gasped, Sam’s brows drew together. “Are you okay?” he asked, concern deepening his voice.

  “I hit a rock when I went under. My shoulder blade stings a little.”

  “Did you hit your head?”

  He reached toward her, as if he planned to check for bumps or contusions.

  Shying away from him, she risked the pain to cross her arms around her waist. “No, just my back.”

  “Let me take a look. Lift your shirt.”

  Sure, that would happen. As soon as hell froze over. “Are you freaking kidding? Haven’t you seen enough already?”

  “I’ve seen it before. Besides, it’s not your front I want to look at. Unless…wait, you’re not put together backward, are you? Because that would be bizarre and make me glad I have a camera.”

  Those irresistible dimples made another appearance. She locked her knees and tried to convince herself it was in order to defeat the shivering caused by her wet condition. She scowled, knowing she could put the attempt in the fail category. Damn him, again.

  “Come on, I just want to help.”

  He had a point. She winced as she shrugged and presented her back to him. The heat of his fingers against her chilled skin sent shivers up her spine. He tugged the back of his coat and her T-shirt up, exposing the lace of her bra. She grasped the front of his jacket together over her chest. His students continued to watch the action in the creek instead of the skyline. One boy in particular had focused his camera their direction.