Picture This

His wandering touch traced her jawline. “I meant it when I said I was glad you came. I've been dying to see you again.”

“But—”

“Celia, you . . . do something to me. I don't know what it is, and it scares me a little bit. I really like you.”

Celia laughed again, even as her heart raced, beating triple time against her chest, which was now inexplicably pressed up against Niall's. She had every intention of pushing him away. She really did. But when his hand in her hair pulled her closer, slowly and gently, she went to him. A denial was in order, at least. She could protest, say he'd gotten it all wrong, that she didn't like him one bit. Then his soft, generous lips met hers, and every logical thought deserted her. . . .

Books by Jayne Denker

 

 

BY DESIGN

 

UNSCRIPTED

 

DOWN ON LOVE

 

PICTURE THIS

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

eKENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

For my agent-and-authors family at the Booker Albert Literary
Agency—you keep me sane.

Many thanks to everyone who helped out with
Picture This
:

 

Superagent Jordy Albert for beta reads, general commiseration, frequent
Sleepy Hollow
droolfests, and virtual hugs.

 

Beta readers Kathryn Biel, author of the novel
Good Intentions
and
Hold Her Down
, and Caitlin Hemphill—your input was invaluable.

 

Elizabeth Torgerson-Lamark for sharing so much helpful information on cameras and photography—not to mention sharing incredible Indian food!

 

Dr. Marsha Wittink and Dr. Brenda Iannucci for providing insight into that wily disease, dementia.

 

John Scognamiglio and everyone at Kensington Publishing for their support.

 

As always, my family members, who listen to me whine in my darker moments and feed me takeout when I get bogged down in plot holes so deep I forget where the kitchen is.

“ M
arshall, what did I tell you? Pants! Off! Now!”

Celia gripped her hips tighter, her nails digging into the fabric of her offending pants, which were most definitely
not
coming off. She stared at the blindingly white backdrop, the dull, grimy back wall of the warehouse peeking above it, and tried to breathe evenly. That was just something no employee should have to hear in the course of her workday. For most professions, anyway.

“Vic,” she called without turning around, “I can't.”

“Not good enough.”

Her boss heaved a sigh and she heard him trudge closer. The brilliant lights burned the back of her neck on either side of her narrow ponytail. She knew she was holding up the photo shoot—the rumblings of the crowd standing around expectantly communicated that pretty well. Never one for coddling his photography subjects unless it was someone famous (and it usually was—she was a major exception), Victor was about to either unleash holy hell on her . . . or start in with some massively insincere schmoozing to get his way. But she would not be moved. Because this was
not
part of her job description.

“Look,” Vic muttered softly, his broad Australian accent drawing the words out, “you've got to help me out.”

So he was going with the schmoozing. Interesting choice. Didn't matter. Celia steeled herself. Not going to be moved. Not an inch. She snuck a glance at her boss as he fiddled with his beloved Hasselblad. Not for the first time, Celia salivated over the superexpensive camera. Someday . . . She made a mental note to buy a lottery ticket on the way home.

Vic kept his head down, his shaggy, gray-white hair falling over one eye, in a transparent attempt to seem nonchalant. After working for him for more than two years, Celia knew he was freaking out on the inside. He had a good act going, but it wasn't influencing her in the least.

“Nobody had any idea the leg model would have an allergic reaction to the temporary tattoo,” he went on. “Her limb is now the size of the Hindenburg. Even I can't make that look good.”

“Is she all right?”

“She'll be fine. Don't worry about her. Worry about this shoot.”

Celia sighed. “Let me call the agency. They can send over another—”

“No time. The suits from McManus are getting fidgety, and the talent's going to be here any minute. I know you'll do; I've seen your legs, Marshall—”

“Wait—what? When did you—?”

“At that art gallery party. When you wore that . . . flippy skirt.” He smirked tiredly. “One of the reasons I'm so successful at what I do, Marshall, is because I'm observant. And that means I know what's hiding under—what are those, yoga pants?—which, as I've said, need to go. Now.”

“Vic, there's no way I'm taking off my pants in front of everybody.”

Aggravated, he rubbed his cheek, dusted with carefully tended week-old scruff, with his left hand as he gestured with the camera in his right. “The shot is from arse cheeks to the floor. I need your legs bare, all right?” he called as he backed away, getting ready to get to work and likely assuming Celia was as well. “Turning up your cuffs like that won't cut it. Now, can you
please
be professional about this?”

Danny, Vic's second assistant and one of Celia's roommates, walked around her with a light meter in his hand. She caught his snicker even though he hid behind the instrument. “I don't need any commentary from you,” Celia grumbled.

“Come on, you've gotta admit this is just a tiny bit hilarious.”

“Keep it up and I'm using all the hot water before you even manage to find your way out of bed tomorrow morning.”

“And how would that make tomorrow different from any other day? Between you and my sister, it's a miracle I get five minutes in the bathroom most mornings.”

“You snooze, you lose—in this case, literally. Ice bath for you tomorrow, for sure.”

“Look here, missy,” her roommate drawled. “You don't scare me. I once went four weeks with no hot water—in winter—thanks to that good-for-nothing super. Just do what the man says, all right? The faster we get this done, the sooner we can all go home. And I'm making paella tonight.”

With a sly wink at her, Danny gave Victor the high sign and drifted away, making Celia feel even more guilty for keeping everyone waiting. But no. This was not on her. Why should she—

Then, suddenly . . . hands. On her leg. The little “Yip!” that escaped her was absolutely mortifying. She had no reason to flinch. This happened all the time in photo shoots—people took liberties, didn't ask before they manhandled you. They didn't have to. Then again,
she
was never the one being manhandled. She took a steadying breath. It was just Jeannie, the makeup and wardrobe lady, about to apply the temporary tattoo to the back of her leg. Right?

“Oh, sorry. Are my hands cold?”

Then again, Jeannie's touch was never that intimate. Also, she wasn't a tenor.

Celia glanced down, and her stomach clenched.
Dammit.
“The talent” had arrived—and she'd been so preoccupied trying to figure out how not to strip that she hadn't noticed the ripple of excitement pass through everyone in the room. She heard it now, though. Or, rather, felt it—like the level of energy was ratcheted just a little bit higher because Niall Crenshaw, comedic movie star and man of the hour, the celebrity endorsing McManus scotch, was present. Lounging at her feet.

“I couldn't help overhearing, and I get it. The hesitation, I mean,” he said, then stage-whispered, holding the back of his hand alongside his mouth, “Commando, am I right?”

“What? No!” It came out as an indignant squeak.

He flashed his famous lopsided grin at her, and her world listed sideways, just a little. It was disconcerting to see such a familiar face in her everyday life. She was used to it being two-dimensional and several feet high on a movie screen.

Celia faltered. She got the sneaking suspicion he was expecting her to respond a certain way—gush, perhaps? Squeal? Giggle? She didn't have that in her. Instead, she crossed her arms and huffed, “Do I
look
like the commando type to you?”

Niall's assessing gaze traveled up and down her body. Slowly.
Very
slowly. “Oh, absolutely,” he murmured. “At least, a guy can hope.”

It was right about then that the butterflies kicked in.

Which was just plain stupid. And unprofessional of her. After all, working for Victor meant being around lots of celebrities, all the time. Being in the same room with Niall Crenshaw shouldn't have been a big deal. But the thrumming running through her body, including the pulse in her neck, so strong she was terrified it was going to make her voice quaver, said otherwise.

Niall bounced to his feet and stuck out a hand. “Sorry. Niall Crenshaw.”

Tentatively, she shook it. He looked pretty dashing, wearing a nicely tailored tuxedo for the shoot, undone tie draped around his neck, collar open, but it wasn't like he was the most gorgeous guy in the world—he'd never be on
People
's “Sexiest Men” list. He was too tall, too gangly, with a wide mouth and a slightly bulbous nose. If his hair had been shorter, it probably would have revealed ears that stuck out as well. Still, his looks were secondary to his comic timing—when he pulled a face or cracked a joke, millions of people couldn't help but laugh.

“Marshall!” Victor barked.

Celia flinched, and the photographer sighed, clearly reining in his urge to throw one of his famous tantrums.

“Celia,” he said in a more even tone, “Now? Please,” he added. “Before the money men have my hide.”

She rubbed her forehead wearily. She knew when she was beaten. “All right.”

“Jeannie!” Vic bellowed. “Tattoo! Then . . . the studded Jimmy Choos, I think.” To Celia, he said, “I hope they're your size. If not, the feeling will come back into your toes eventually. Off you go. And lose the pants,” he reminded her, returning his attention to his camera. “Please,” he added again, more brusquely and more belatedly than before, now that he'd gotten his way. “And thank you.”

How in the world was she going to do this? Well, she knew how—she was just going to have to suck it up, ignore her misgivings (and her modesty, so out of place in the world of professional photography), and drop trou. Judging by the eager look Niall was giving her, he was all for it.

But this wasn't like her—not in the least. Her role was behind the camera—way behind, in the corner of the room, tethered to the shoot only by the cord running from Vic's camera to the computer, where she dutifully organized all the shots while he worked. Sometimes she never even had the chance to look up from the screen to see what was going on only yards away. And she preferred it, being in the shadows. She was not the spotlight type. So she hesitated, unable to force herself to get over it. And the longer she hesitated, the more Vic growled low in his throat, and the more agitated all the hangers-on became.

Niall noticed. He glanced over his shoulder at the restive crowd, made up of McManus executives, the team from the ad agency, and Vic's assistants (and their assistants), and effectively shut them down—
all
of them, with just a look. Then he studied Celia. “Hey,” he said kindly. “I've got an idea.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and, with a flourish, flapped out a piece of shiny black cloth.

Celia looked at it suspiciously. “What good is a silk handkerchief at this point?”

“A handkerchief? Hardly.” Grinning, he held the item up, stretching it wide. There was an elastic band. “Try these babies on for size.”

“No,” Celia declared. “No, no,
no.
”

“Why not?” the man asked disingenuously, the very picture of innocence.

“You know perfectly well why not. Your manky old underwear? Are you serious?”

“My dear lady!” he gasped, pretending to be affronted. “These are high-quality, freshly laundered silk boxers. My very special extra pair that I keep with me at all times. I wouldn't
dream
of asking you to wear my—how did you put it?—manky old underwear. That is, unless this were an entirely different situation.”

“Don't you waggle your eyebrows at me, mister,” she hissed. “What type of person carries around an extra pair of underwear?”

“You never know when you might need them. Like today, for instance.” He turned to Vic. “What do you think, my man? Would these look good in the shoot or what?”

The photographer thought about it for a moment. “Not bad. Quite sexy, in fact.”

“Right?” He turned to Celia. “There we go—all settled.”

“Jeannie!” Vic bellowed. “Iron!”

Celia ducked away from Niall, who was trying to put the boxers on her head, elastic band first. “Excuse me. Do I have any say in—”

“Absolutely not,” Vic snapped.