Chapter 5

McMaster was off the call now. “Nice of you to drop by.”

“Sorry.” She reached him finally, but there really was no room for her at the top on the small platform.

Damn. If she stood on the rung nearest the top, she was effectively placing her breasts at eye-level with the sleaze.

Don’t think so.

Stifling the eye-roll she so wanted to indulge in, she maneuvered herself down a rung.

Great. Now she was level with his thighs, looking at his hairy legs, encased in khaki shorts that, just to put the ick on the meeting, rode up.

He jerked his head at her. “I said, up here. Not kiss my ass. Though, later, sweet cheeks…”

Shut up, she told herself. Shut up shut up shut up. Hoisting herself level with him, she balanced on the top rung, shifting the tread of her canvas sneakers around to steady herself.

Moving outward to hoist the case onto the low railing around his seat, she unexpectedly teetered.

“Whoa!” McMaster’s hand flew to steady her, and of course he chose to use her ass to anchor her to the platform. She had already caught herself but his hand stayed glued to her like maggots on garbage. She tried to shake it off, but he skimmed purposefully under its curve, settling on her upper leg, right under her butt.

Way too close to her ass.

Giving her leg a monstrous jolt, she shook his grasping paw off. “I’m fine now. Thanks.”

Sounding annoyed was fine, under the circumstances. A remarkable substitute, in fact, for ripping his arm off at the shoulder and beating him to death with it. She forced her glare downwards to collect herself, and there—was Dare. Hand clenched around a wrench, way too tight. Face drawn, muscles bunched.

Sure, McBully was mauling her. But…?

McBully coughed. “Ahem?”

Turning her gaze from Dare, she balanced the case on the edge of the platform. Pressing the clasp open, she drew the stack of precious 5 x 7s out, shielding them from the breeze. Thanks to her solar printer, she was able to show him her work in the format he preferred.

Despite the setting, excitement thrummed through her veins. The extra shots she’d taken had been on his time and were his property. They weren’t photos for the PlayGal shoot, but unique shots of land and seascapes that had punched her in the gut with their beauty.

However, the most important part of it all was that once she got his sign off and could use the photos as she willed, they could be the vehicle to skyrocket her life into exactly the kind of existence she’d dreamt about all her life.

An entry-level job at Prism Studios. That’s what she wanted.

Getting noticed by Prism was daunting. It was the firm that all new photographers wanted to work at. Countless applicants, constantly, was their normal state. But she’d recently heard of an avenue that could catapult her out of the slush pile, if she could pull it off—winning in the breakout contest Jayde Publishing was holding to showcase the year’s top five young photographers.

She’d heard through the grapevine that a win would capture Prism’s interest. The company offered a dream beginning for any photographer. A living wage—not huge, but definitely enough to start—as well as a real focus on creative exploration, working with the talents and passions of the particular photographer.

Hell, even a good showing would get her noticed. And Prism was hiring, suddenly.

It was all in her grasp, so close. The damn thing she’d dreamt about all her life.

The entry fee had been high, and she hadn’t even considered the fledgling contest at first, too busy scraping by with low-paying gigs as she was, until she’d heard that tidbit of information. And she knew the universe had given her shot…if she had the balls to take it.

Unfortunately, she was dealing with the balls of someone else—and he was the loose cannon.

Clasped firmly in her hand, she handed the photos to McMaster, their edges rifling in the wind. “Here.” Her breath caught in spite of herself.

The shots were prime. She’d worked hard to highlight the beauty she’d found in the rugged environs of Chandelle, using customized filters she’d created herself. Chandelle was largely unknown in the present day, its unique land and seascapes an undiscovered treasure.

She swallowed, palpable desire dancing through her at the thought of being publicly recognized by a panel of industry experts as one of the ones to watch in her field.

But that wasn’t the whole reason she had to enter this contest.

If she didn’t make a good showing and score a stable job, finally, she was in real financial trouble. Her only option would be to go back, groveling, to her parents. Leaving the career she loved, as per their ultimatum, and entering the corporate world in a job they—she all but shivered—chose for her.

That she couldn’t do. It would kill her.

It was all up to McMaster.

His hand moved slothfully to intercept the bounty and right at the moment of transfer, a coil of air whipped up and flicked them from his stubby fingers. The photos flew up, cavorted in the breeze, and flapped down to the beach.

A gasp tore from her throat. She scrambled down the tower and jumped the last few feet into the sand with a thud as his apathetic words floated around her. “Grab ‘em, will you, honey?”

Pulling the shots off the blazing white sand, her shoulder bumped hard against someone. Dare crouched beside her, working swiftly with her, salvaging the photos, shaking the sand from them.

Flashing her a grim look, he handed them to her, and his fingers brushed hers. Even through the adrenaline of the moment, electricity shot up her arm like the remnants of a long ago, forgotten storm. For a micro-second, his face morphed and telegraphed surprise, concern and worry for her. Then the flash of civility was gone and the blank look reappeared. He straightened, turned from her abruptly, and went back to the jumble of equipment in the lean-to.

Straightening, photos in hand, she gripped the posts to start her climb back up, but the dufus waved her down. He actually grunted up off his butt and lumbered down as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Easing his bare feet carefully into the cool, shaded area of the sand, he stopped, yawned, then his gaze met her squarely mid-nipple. “I’ll look at them later. Got stuff to do in my tent.”

Panic gripped her. If he didn’t approve them today, all was lost. Everything was ready to go—she’d made sure of that. The sailor of the tender, the cute little boat that had come by from the cruise ship earlier, had agreed to take the files back for her and email them off via the ship’s Internet, as a backup plan to deal with their spotty web.

But, unless McMaster actually took the time to sign off on the prize photos, allowing her to use the pictures that currently were his sole property…

Well, he simply had to do it. Now.

Apparently, he was a pro at reading sputtering, female indignation, because he smiled broadly. “Come, by later. And in the meantime, there’s a little something extra I need you to do for me this afternoon.”

She blinked. “Extra?”

Her schedule was already chockfull of the little somethings he kept adding to her workload. She was already jumping like a flea on hot sand to get what he’d dumped on her, done. Anymore and…

“You know the submission to that photo thing you want me to sign off on?”

She forcibly clamped her lips together, as she couldn’t vouch for what would come out of her mouth if she didn’t.

He knew exactly what she needed, the bastard. And he was playing her need for him, to the hilt.

Ever the relaxed paragon of masculinity, he reached into his mouth with his finger and scraped at something on one of his back teeth.

“One of my buddies, you may have heard of his band, The Shrieking DirtBags? He wants some shots taken of, and I quote, “an angry ocean”. For their next cover. Original shots. They want to do some environmental tie-in, get the greeners on board. I told him I’d take care of it.”

He tossed a vacant look toward the surf. “Nothing to do with this gig. It’d be a personal favor, from you to me.”

The Shrieking DirtBags? Of course she’d heard of them. Rich, but nasty. No wonder they wanted an angry ocean. They were probably going to paint a target on the photo, provide a map and tell their weird fans to go dump toxic waste in the spot.

“Yeah. I’ve heard of them.” She planted her feet firmly into the sand. “What do you mean, an angry ocean?”

“Well,” he lowered his voice, “anger adds spice to a lot of things. Something I think about introducing you to sometime, Shelley.”

Name, bozo. Wrong again.

His eyes glazed over as he lost himself in what were likely revolting thoughts, starring her, and she deliberately thought of something more pleasant.

Like bilge water. Scum floating on its surface, streaked with oil. Noxious fumes mixing with decaying fish parts.

Ah. Much better.

It was more cheerful than allowing herself to think of what he was thinking of.

Oh and wonderful. Now he’d shut up. “Angry ocean, remember?” she prompted.

He rubbed his hand along the haphazard grizzle on his chin. “I figure the spot over by Devil’s Taunt will work. The cliff, the drop to the surf. That’s the spot.”

Her mind flew through time/task calculations. Um, no. Not possible.

“Mr. McMaster, I can’t do it in that timeframe. If I take that on, I’ll be working twenty hours straight. It’s not even that I mind doing that, but the remaining tasks I have require all my concentration. I need to be able to give my all to the edits.”

Hopefully, that was in language he would get.

“Well, if you’d rather not, I’m not sure I can meet with you for your shit later.” He glanced at his gleaming Rolex, in harsh contrast to the rumpled look of everything else about him. “Around four would have worked, to approve your shit. But I’ll have to get on the net, if it cooperates. Find someone else to help my buddies. No time to meet. Sorry.”

His eyes glinted, and it wasn’t hard to read his expression. The perverse enjoyment he had in knowing he had something she wanted, and desperately so. He knew, too, that if his price was just this side of tolerable, she was his fucking puppet.

Much as she wanted to shove him toward the surf and hurl him into the next break-tide, she had to make a decision.

True, on a day when she was feeling magnanimous and particularly kindly toward the human race, arrogant sleaze-ball would be her kindest summation of him.

But despite all that, they were his shots. She couldn’t submit them without him. Plain, unadulterated business facts.

Sleep with him? Not happening.

Take his damn shots?

Yeah. But for a price. Those shots were going to get approved. Tonight. “How many?”

Oh, he was too happy, though he tried to act nonchalant. “Thirty selects, minimum. More’s better.” He looked off into the surf, as if dismissing her. “I like to treat my buddies right. So,” he said as he turned back and studied her, “can I count on you to shoot the photos?”

In lieu of shooting you on this beach, right here, right now?

She squeezed her lips together. Safer.

Nodding, Abby fixed her eyes on his. “They’ll be ready for you at our meeting at four.” She shot a steely glance at him and did her telepathic best to ensure that her intended message was unmistakable. Don’t mess with me this time.

But back to necessities. “It’s my first time here. Any of your crew know the way?”

McMaster stabbed at the tiny screen of his iPhone, already onto his next diversion. He flicked his thumb at Dare. “Take my guy. He’s done tours, and he’s also a firefighter. If you get into any scrapes, like you tend to, he’ll haul your sorry ass out of trouble.”

He tipped his head, querying Dare with an apologetic expression. “Do you mind taking care of brainiac’s ass here?”

Dare looked like he’d swallowed a rock. At least that was a bright spot in this whole mess. Seeing cool and calm Dare flush red and look like his plans had completely gone to hell.

She liked it.

“Yeah,” he said. His expression dared her to be trouble. “I’ll manage.”

“Then let’s rumble, shall we?” Pulling her water bottle out, she checked the level, and crammed it back into her bag, and continued her cool tone. “I’d like to get this over with as fast as possible.”