Mac walked to the computer with the camera, set it up to display. “These are raw, but you’ll get the gist.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth frowned at the screen as Mac started the slow slide show. “Yes, they’re nice. That’s—that one.”

Mac stopped on one of the formals. “This?”

“That’s what I had in mind. It’s very good. We both look good, and I like the angle. This one, I think.”

“I’ll mark it. Might as well see the rest, to be sure.” Mac started the slide show again.

“Yes, they’re really very good. Very good. I do think the one I picked is . . .” She trailed off as the shot of them hugging came on screen. “Oh. Well, that’s lovely. Really lovely, isn’t it?”

“My mother will like the first one you picked.” Behind her, Charles rubbed Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“She will. Exactly. We’ll get it for her, have it framed for her. But . . .” She looked at Mac. “You were right; I was wrong. This is the one I want, the way I want to be portrayed in our engagement photo. Remind me I said the first part in September, when I try to tell you how to do your job.”

“I will. I was wrong, too. I think it’s going to be a pleasure to work with you after all.”

It took Elizabeth a moment, but she laughed.

She sent them off to Parker, figured Parker now owed her. She was sending off clients who—for the moment, at least—were more open to ideas and direction than they had been.

She settled down to complete packages for clients. One set of proofs, and the other the complete choices, all displayed in albums. For Bride and Groom, for MOB, MOG, the extra photos requested by various members of the families and wedding party.

When they were boxed, she decided she had just enough time for a quick dish of leftover pasta salad before she carted them and herself over to the main house.

She managed a couple of bites, eating over the sink. Frozen fairyland, she thought, staring out the window. Everything still and perfect. She grabbed her glass of Diet Coke, started to drink.

The cardinal smacked right into the window, a bang and blur of red. Diet Coke spewed up at the jerk of her hand to splash all over her shirt.

She watched the idiot bird wing away while her heart vibrated in her throat. Then she looked down at her shirt. “Damn it.”

She stripped it off, tossed it on top of her stacked washer/ dryer in the kitchen pantry. In bra and black pants, she wiped up the spill on the counter. Irritated, she grabbed the ringing phone. Since the readout indicated Parker’s cell, she answered with an aggrieved, “What?”

“Patty Baker’s here to pick up her albums.”

“Well, she’s twenty minutes early. I’ll be there, and so will they—on time. Keep her occupied,” she added as she moved toward the studio. “And don’t bug me.” She clicked off, turned.

Then she stared at the man who stood inside her studio.

His eyes popped, he blushed, then with a choked, “Oh God,” he spun around. And with a gunshot crack, smacked straight into the doorjamb.

“Jesus! Are you okay?” Mac tossed the phone on a table as she rushed over to where he was currently staggering.

“Yes. Fine. Sorry.”

“You’re bleeding. Wow, you really hit your head. Maybe you should sit down.”

“Maybe.” And with that, eyes dazed and slightly unfocused, he sort of slid down the wall to the floor.

Mac crouched, brushed at the dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead and the bleeding scrape that was already growing into an impressive knot. “Okay, it’s not cut. You’ve escaped stitches. It’s just really bashed. Boy, it sounded like you hit the door with a hammer. Ice maybe, and then—”

“Excuse me? Um, I’m not sure if you realize . . . I just wonder if you shouldn’t . . .”

She saw his gaze aim down, followed it with her own. And noted while she considered triage, that her barely bra-covered br**sts were very close to pressing into his face.

“Oops. Forgot. Sit there. Don’t move.” She leaped up, dashed away.

He wasn’t sure he could’ve moved. Disoriented, bewildered, he sat where he was, back braced against the wall. Even with the cartoon birds circling over his head, he had to admit they’d been very pretty br**sts. He couldn’t help but notice.

But he wasn’t at all sure what to say or do in his current situation. So sitting there, as she’d told him, seemed best all around.

When she came back with a bag of ice, she had a shirt on. It was probably wrong to feel the quick tug of disappointment. She crouched down again on what he noticed—now that her br**sts weren’t in view—were very long legs.

“Here, try this.” She put the ice in his hand, put his hand on his throbbing forehead. And sat back on her haunches like a catcher behind the plate. Her eyes were the green of a magic sea.

“Who are you?” she asked him.

“What?”

“Hmm. How many fingers do you see?” She held up two.

“Twelve.”

And smiled. Dimples creased into her cheeks with the curve of her lips and his heart did a little dance in his chest.

“No, you don’t. Let’s try this. What are you doing in my studio—or what were you doing here before you concussed yourself over my boobs?”

“Ah. I have an appointment? Or Sherry does. Sherry Maguire?” He thought her smile dimmed a little, and the dimples disappeared.

“Okay, wrong place. You want the main house. I’m Mackensie Elliot, photography end of the business.”

“I know. I mean I know who you are. Sherry wasn’t very clear, which is usually the case, on where.”

“Or when, since your appointment’s not until two.”

“She said she thought one thirty, which I know means she’ll get here at two. I should’ve gone by Sherry Time, or called to confirm myself. Sorry again.”

“It’s no problem.” She angled her head. His eyes—very nice eyes—were clear again. “How do you know me?”

“Oh. I went to school with Delaney, Delaney Brown, and with Parker. Well, Parker was a couple years behind us. And, you, sort of. For a little while.”

She shifted for a closer look at him. Dense, disordered brown hair that needed a style and trim by most standards. Clear, quiet blue eyes surrounded by a forest of lashes. Straight nose, strong mouth in a thinnish face.