Off Kilter. Donna Kauffman
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the Western slant of the sun and scalded him with a single, silent look. “Man up, for God’s sake, and drop the damn thing.”
“We’re not sending in nude shots,” Roan replied with an even smile, as the chants and taunts escalated. “So I don’t understand the need to take things to such an extreme—”
“The contest rules state, very clearly, that they’re looking for provocative,” Tessa responded, sounding every bit like a person who’d also been forced into a task she’d rather not have taken on—which she had been.
Sadly, that fact had not brought them closer.
She shifted to another camera she’d mounted on another tripod, he supposed so the angle of the sun was more to her liking. “Okay, lean back against the stone wall, prop one leg, rest that … sword thing of yours—”
“‘Tis a claymore. Belonged to the McAuleys for four centuries. Victorious in battle, ‘tis an icon of our clan.” And heavy as all hell to hoist about.
“Lovely. Prop your icon in front of you, then. I’m fairly certain it will hide what needs hiding.”
His eyebrows lifted at that, but rather than take offense, he merely grinned. “I wouldnae be so certain of it, lassie. We’re a clan known for the size of our … swords.”
“Yippee,” she shot back, clearly unimpressed. “So, drop the plaid, position your … sword, and let’s get on with it. It’s the illusion of baring it all we’re going for here. I’ll make sure to preserve your fragile modesty.”
She was no fun. No fun ‘tall.
“The other guys did it,” she added, resting folded hands on top of the camera. “In fact,” she went on, without even the merest hint of a smile or dry amusement, “they seemed quite happy to accommodate me.”
He couldn’t imagine any man wanting to bare his privates for Miss Vandergriff’s pleasure. Not if he wanted to keep them intact, at any rate.
He was a bit thrown off by his complete inability to charm her. He charmed everyone. It was what he did. He admittedly enjoyed, quite unabashedly, being one of the clan favorites because of his affable, jovial nature. As far as he was concerned, the world would be a much better place if folks could get in touch with their happy parts, and stay there.
He didn’t know much about her, but from what little time they’d spent together that afternoon, he didn’t think Tessa Vandergriff had any happy parts. However, the reason behind her being rather happiness-challenged wasn’t his mystery to solve. She’d been on the island for less than a week. Her stay on Kinloch was as a guest, and therefore temporary. Thank the Lord.
The island faced its fair share of ongoing trials and tribulations, and had the constant challenge of sustaining a fragile economic resource. Despite that, he’d always considered both the McAuley and MacLeod clans as being cheerful, welcoming hosts. But they had enough to deal with without adopting a surly recalcitrant into their midst.
“Well,” he said, smiling broadly the more her scowl deepened. “‘Tis true, the single men of this island have little enough to choose from.” The crowd took a collective breath at that, but his attention was fully on her. Gripping the claymore in one fist, he leaned against the stacked stone wall, well aware of the tableau created by the twin peaks that framed the MacLeod fortress, each of them towering behind him. He braced his legs, folded his arms across his bare chest, sword blade aloft … and looked her straight in the eye as he let a slow, knowing grin slide across his face. “Me, I’m no’ so desperate as all that.”
He got a collective gasp from the crowd. But rather than elicit so much as a snarl from Miss Vandergriff, or perhaps goading her so far as to pack up and walk away—which he’d have admittedly deserved—his words had a rather shocking effect. She smiled. Fully. He hadn’t thought her face capable of arranging itself in such a manner. And so broadly, with such stunning gleam. He was further damned to discover it did things to his own happy parts that she had no business affecting.
“No worries,” she stated, further captivating him with the transformative brilliance of her knowing smile. She gave him a sizzling once over before easily meeting his eyes again. “You’re not my type.”
That was not how those things usually went for him. He felt … frisked. “Then I’m certain you can be objective enough to find an angle that shows off all my best parts without requiring a blatant, uninspired pose. I understand from Kira that you’re considered to be quite good with that equipment.”
The chanting of the crowd shifted to a few whistles as the tension between photographer and subject grew to encompass even them.
“Given your reluctance to play show and tell, I’d hazard to guess I’m better with mine than you are with yours,” she replied easily, but the spark remained in her eyes.
Goading him.
“Why don’t you be the judge?” Holding her gaze in exclusive focus, the crowd long since forgotten, he pushed away from the wall and, with sword in one hand, slowly unwrapped his kilt with the other.
He took far more pleasure than was absolutely necessary from watching her throat work as he unashamedly revealed thighs and ass. He wasn’t particularly vain or egotistical, but he was well aware that a lifetime spent climbing all over the island had done its duty where his physical shape was concerned, as it had for most of the islanders. They were a hardy lot.
The crowd gasped as he held the fistful of unwrapped plaid in front of him, dangling precariously from one hand, just on the verge of—
“That’s it!” Tessa all but leapt behind the camera and an instant later, the shutter started whirring. Less than thirty seconds later, she straightened and pushed her wayward curls out of her face, her no-nonsense business face back. “Got it. Good! We’re all done here.” She started dismantling her equipment. “You can go ahead and get dressed,” she said dismissively, not even looking at him.
He held on to the plaid—and his pride—and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt. The shoot was blessedly over. That was all that mattered. No point in being irritated that he’d just been played by a pro.
She glanced up, the smile gone as she dismantled her second tripod with the casual grace of someone so used to the routine and rhythm of it, she didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll let you know when I get the shots developed.”
He supposed he should be thankful she hadn’t publicly gloated over her smooth manipulation of him. Except he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment.
He couldn’t believe she was Kira’s best mate. Kira MacLeod was kind, gentle, and sweet of nature … whereas Tessa was a temperamental virago. It was hard to comprehend what could have drawn the two together.
“Wasnae so painful after all, was it then?” Graham pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against as the crowd disbursed. “Ye didn’t even have to show off yer manly bits.”
He walked over, handing Roan his shirt, and, big as he was, momentarily provided a natural screen that Roan took full advantage of, making quick work of wrapping the plaid around himself again.
“Much,” Graham added, with a dry note and an all-too-pleased look on his face.
Roan waited until he was decently covered before shooting his friend a quelling look. “You’re taking far too much pleasure in all of this, ye ken. I realize ye think yer gettin’ some sweet bit of revenge for me sendin’ ye all the way across the pond to retrieve yer beloved—”
“From her own wedding,” Graham interjected. “A wee tidbit of information you’d neglected to share.”
“Only because ye’d never have gone if I hadn’t!” He waved his hand, dismissing the topic. They’d hashed it out already upon Graham’s return a month ago. The trip had landed him a bride, and simultaneously given every inhabitant of their tiny Hebridean island a reason to celebrate. With Graham’s marriage to a McAuley bride,