Taming the Last Acosta. Susan Stephens
Читать онлайн книгу.
pronounced than at this moment, when she was standing beneath a flower-bedecked canopy between her husband and Kruz.
Romy drew a swift breath when the man in question stared straight at her. Lowering her camera, she glanced around, searching for a better hiding place, but shadows were in short supply in the brilliantly lit tent. One of the few things Grace could still detect after a virus had stolen her sight was light, so the dress code for the wedding was ‘sparkle’ and every corner of the giant marquee was floodlit by fabulous Venetian chandeliers.
Mingling with the guests, Romy kept her head down. The crowd was moving towards the receiving line, where all the Acostas were standing. There was a murmur of anticipation in the queue—and no wonder. The Acostas were an incredibly good-looking family. Nacho, the oldest brother, was clearly besotted by his beautiful new bride, while the sparks flying between Diego and his wedding planner wife Maxie could have ignited a fire. The supremely cool Ruiz Acosta clearly couldn’t wait to get his firebrand wife, Romy’s friend and colleague Holly, into bed, judging by the looks they were exchanging, while Lucia Acosta, the only girl in this family of four outrageously good-looking brothers, was flirting with her husband Luke Forster, the ridiculously photogenic American polo player.
Which left Kruz…
The only unmarried brother. So what? Her camera loved him, but that didn’t mean she had to like him—though she would take full advantage of his distraction as he greeted his guests.
Those scars… That grim expression… She snapped away, knowing that everything about Kruz Acosta should put her off, but instead she was spellbound.
From a safe distance, Romy amended sensibly, as a pulse of arousal ripped through her.
And then he really did surprise her. As Kruz turned to say something to the bride his expression softened momentarily. That was the money shot, as it was known in the trade. It was the type of unexpected photograph that Romy was so good at capturing and had built her reputation on.
She was so busy congratulating herself she almost missed Kruz swinging round to stare at her again. Now she knew how a rabbit trapped in headlights felt. When he moved she moved too. Grabbing her kitbag, she stowed the camera. Her hands were trembling as panic mounted inside her. She hurried towards the exit, knowing this was unlike her. She was a seasoned pro, not some cub reporter—a thick skin came with the job. And why such breathless excitement at the thought of being chased by him? She was hardly an innocent abroad where men were concerned.
Because Kruz was the stuff of heated erotic dreams and her body liked the idea of being chased by him. Next question.
Before she made herself scarce there were a few more shots she wanted to take for Grace. Squeezing herself into a small gap behind a pillar, she took some close-ups of flowers and trimmings—richly scented white roses and lush fat peonies in softest pink, secured with white satin ribbon and tiny silver bells. The ceiling was draped like a Bedouin tent, white and silver chiffon lavishly decorated with scented flowers, crystal beads and fiery diamanté. Though Grace couldn’t see these details the wedding planner had ensured she would enjoy a scent sensation, while Romy was equally determined to make a photographic record of the day with detailed descriptions in Braille alongside each image.
‘Hello, Romy.’
She nearly jumped out of her skin, but it was only a famous celebrity touching her arm, in the hope of a photograph. Romy’s editor at ROCK! loved those shots, so she had to make time for it. Shots like these brought in the money Romy so badly needed, though what she really longed to do was to tell the story of ordinary people in extraordinary situations through her photographs. One day she’d do that, she vowed stepping forward to take the shot, leaving herself dangerously exposed.
The queue of guests at the receiving line was thinning as people moved on to their tables for the wedding feast, and an icy warning was trickling down her spine before she even had a chance to say goodbye to the celebrity. She didn’t need to check to know she was being watched. She usually managed to blend in with the crowd, with or without an official press pass, but there was nothing usual in any situation when Kruz Acosta was in town.
As soon as the celebrity moved on she found another hiding place behind some elaborate table decorations. From here she could observe Kruz to her heart’s content. She settled down to enjoy the play of muscle beneath his tailored jacket and imagined him stripped to the buff.
Nice…
The only downside was Grace had mentioned that although Kruz felt at home on the pampas he was going to open an office in London—’Just around the corner from ROCK!,’ Grace had said, as if it were a good thing.
Now she’d seen him, Romy was sure Kruz Acosta was nothing but trouble.
But attractive… He was off-the-scale hot.
But she wasn’t here to play make-believe with one of the lead characters at this wedding. She had got what she needed and she was out of here.
Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that Kruz was no longer in the receiving line.
So where the hell was he?
She scanned the marquee, but there was no sign of Kruz anywhere. There were quite a few exits from the tent—he could have used any one of them. She wasn’t going to take any chances, and would head straight for the press coach to send off her copy. Thank goodness Holly had given her a key.
The press coach wasn’t too far. She could see its twinkling lights. She quickened her step, fixing her gaze on them, feeling that same sense of being hunted—though why was she worried? She could look after herself. Growing up small and plain had ruled out girlie pursuits, so she had taken up kick-boxing instead. Anyone who thought they could take her camera was in for a big surprise.
He had recognised the girl heading towards the exit. There was no chance he would let her get away. Having signed off the press passes personally, he knew Romy Winner didn’t appear on any of them.
Romy Winner was said to be ruthless in pursuit of a story, but she was no more ruthless than he was. Her work was reputed to be cutting-edge and insightful—he’d even heard it said that as a photojournalist Romy Winner had no equal—but that didn’t excuse her trespass here.
She had disappointed him, Kruz reflected as he closed in on her. Renowned for lodging herself in the most ingenious of nooks, he might have expected to find Ms Winner hanging from the roof trusses, or masquerading as a waitress, rather than skulking in the shadows like some rent-a-punk oddity, with her pale face, thin body, huge kohl-ringed eyes and that coal-black, gel-spiked, red-tipped hair, for all the wedding guests to stare at and comment on.
So Romy could catch guests off-guard and snap away at her leisure?
Maybe she wasn’t so dumb after all. She must have captured some great shots. He was impressed by her cunning, but far less impressed by Señorita Winner’s brazen attempt to gate-crash his brother’s wedding. He would make her pay. He just hadn’t decided what currency he was accepting today. That would depend on his mood when he caught up with her.
Romy hurried on into the darkness. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being followed, though she doubted it was Kruz. Surely he had more important things to do?
Crunching her way along a cinder path, she reasoned that with all the Acosta siblings having been raised by Nacho, after their parents had been killed in a flood, Kruz had enjoyed no softening influence from a mother—which accounted for the air of danger surrounding him. It was no more than that. Her overworked imagination could take a rest. Pausing at a crossroads, she picked up the lights and followed them. She couldn’t afford to lose her nerve now. She had to get her copy away. The money Romy earned from her photographs kept her mother well cared for in the nursing home where she had lived since Romy’s father had beaten her half to death.
When Romy had first become a photojournalist it hadn’t taken her long to realise that pretty pictures earned pennies, while sensational images sold almost as well as sex. Her success in the field had