# Falling For Mr. December

Kate Hardy

The best Christmas present ever!Photographer Sammy Thompson has learnt the hard way to protect herself. After surviving cancer, she’s not about to risk her emotions on just anyone! But meeting buttoned-up barrister Nick Kennedy at a charity calendar shoot, and feeling the sparks between them, makes Sammy wonder what she’s been missing out on…Sammy’s never dreamt of forever, but as she gets to know the man behind the pinstripes, dare she hope Nick will make it a Christmas to remember with the most magical gift of all – his heart?

## Nick Kennedy was spectacular, Sammy thought.

Broad shoulders, beautiful biceps, enough hair on his chest to be sexy without him looking like a total gorilla and a definite six-pack.

Mr December was going to be the best page on the calendar. He could probably sell the calendar all by himself.

But now he’d said there was no wife or girlfriend, she couldn’t help wondering: How come a gorgeous man with a good brain and kind eyes was single? Was it because he was a workaholic and his girlfriends tended to get fed up waiting for him to notice them? Or had she missed some major personality flaw?

“What?” he asked, clearly noting that she was staring at him.

“Nothing,” she said, embarrassed to discover that her voice was slightly croaky. She really had to get a grip.

The last thing she needed was for her skittish model to work out that she was attracted to him.

But a girl could dream …

Award-winning author KATE HARDY lives in Norwich with her husband, two children, one spaniel and too many books to count! She’s a fan of the theater, ballroom dancing, posh chocolate and anything Italian. She’s a history and science geek, plays the guitar and piano and makes great cookies (which is why she also has to go to the gym five days a week …).

Falling for Mr. December

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Fi, my best friend, with much love.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SAMMY LAUGHED AS the penny finally dropped. ‘So you want me to photograph naked men for you?’

Ayesha, who chaired the Friends of the London Victoria Hospital, squirmed and stared into her latte. ‘Put like that, it sounds terrible!’

‘I know what you meant. Do it artistically,’ Sammy said, still smiling. ‘A calendar of hot men to raise funds for the cancer ward. It’s a great idea. So do you have a bunch of sexy doctors lined up to pose for me?’

‘A couple,’ Mari, the vice-chair, said. ‘But we were thinking maybe we can include other people who’ve been involved with the ward.’

‘Cured patients, so you can say that this is what a cancer survivor looks like? That could work well.’ And, for a cause like that, Sammy would seriously think about going public and baring her own leg, if they couldn’t get enough models.

‘We were thinking relatives of patients,’ Ayesha said. ‘Ones with high profiles locally. We’ve got an actor, a musician, a chef, a gardener...’

‘So I could maybe shoot them in their own locations, doing their job. That’d work really well,’ Sammy said. ‘And they’re all happy about posing naked—provided I preserve their modesty?’

‘Ye—es,’ Ayesha said.

The hesitation told her everything. ‘You didn’t actually tell them it meant posing naked, did you?’ Sammy asked.

‘We’re going to,’ Mari said. ‘We can talk them into it.’

‘As I’ll need signed model release forms before I can let you use the photographs, I’m afraid you’ll have to do that.’ Sammy looked at her diary. ‘If you’re using the hospital as a location, I could shoot the whole lot in a day, but if I need to go to different places then I’ll have to work out a schedule based on the locations and the availability of the models.’ She scribbled some notes down on a pad. ‘These are the best times for me to do it, but I can also work round a couple of other things if you need me to. Talk to your models and let me know where and when you want me to do the shoots.’

‘Sammy, you’re a star. Thank you so much,’ Ayesha said.

Sammy shrugged off the praise. ‘It’s the least I can do. If it wasn’t for the treatment I had here when I was a teen—’ and again two years ago ‘—then I wouldn’t be here. And this means I can give something back.’ She smiled. ‘This is going to be fun. And we’re going to raise a ton of money for the ward.’

* * *

Nick folded his arms and looked at his sister. ‘All right, Mandy. Out with it.’

‘Out with what?’ she deadpanned.

‘Amanda Kennedy, I’ve known you for thirty-five years.’

‘At least one year of which you wouldn’t remember, because you were a baby at the time,’ she retorted.

‘Agreed,’ he said, ‘but I can always read your expression. So don’t ever take up playing poker, will you?’

She sighed. ‘I guess.’

Nick had known that tonight wasn’t just about his sister giving him an update on his nephew’s cancer treatment. Despite going through a messy divorce, Mandy still believed in love and happy endings. And all too often she tried to fix him up with someone she thought would be his perfect date. Nick had stopped believing in love years ago, and he’d learned the hard way that you couldn’t be successful both in love and in your career. So after the break-up of his marriage he’d gone for the safe option and concentrated on his career.

No doubt this was another of Mandy’s friends who really needed a plus-one for a dinner party and he’d fit the bill perfectly. OK. He’d help out, but he’d make it clear that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Nowadays he didn’t do anything deeper than casual dating.

Then his sister said something he really hadn’t expected. ‘The Friends of the Hospital are doing a calendar to raise funds for the ward.’

He didn’t need to ask which ward. The cancer ward. The one that had treated his nephew Xander for osteosarcoma. Well, he could do something to help there, too. ‘If they’re looking for a sponsor to cover production costs, count me in.’

Mandy reached across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘Aww, Nick. I knew you’d offer to help before I could ask you. But they already have a sponsor for printing costs.’

‘OK. What else do they need to cover? Distribution? Warehouse? Paying the photographer?’

‘Um—not that, either. The photographer’s doing it for nothing.’

‘Then what?’

She took a deep breath. ‘They want you to be one of the models.’

‘Me?’ He looked at her, totally shocked. He knew his sister had been under a lot of stress recently, but had she gone temporarily insane? ‘Why?’

Mandy raised her eyebrows. ‘Need I remind you that you actually got approached by a model agency when you were seventeen?’

‘And I didn’t take up their offer.’ He might have considered it, to fund his way through university; but a couple of weeks later their parents had split up and life had disintegrated into chaos. Nick had forgotten all about the modelling offer and retreated into his studies. Concentrating on his books was what had got him through all the upheaval of his parents’ divorce. Just as concentrating on his job had got him through the misery of his own divorce.

‘Seriously, Nick—will you do it? They’re looking for people who are connected with the ward.’

As Xander’s uncle, he definitely had that connection.

‘And they want people with interesting jobs.’

‘A barrister isn’t that exciting,’ he said.

‘Yes, it is. You look like a film star in your wig and gown.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Mandy, I’m just an ordinary guy.’

‘Like hell you are. Apart from the fact that you’re my little brother, which would make you special in any case, can I remind you that you’re one of the youngest ever barristers appointed to being a QC?’

He grimaced. ‘Why would anyone be interested in that?’ About the only people who would even know what a QC was were people who had needed to brief one. Or maybe fans of certain types of TV crime drama.

‘And you’d be helping raise money for the ward. Money they really need for new equipment.’

That was an unbeatable argument, and they both knew it. How could he possibly say no? This was to help other kids who were in Xander’s position. And a little voice in his head added selfishly that maybe if he did it, then that would persuade Fate to give Xander a break and keep him in remission. And for that Nick would do almost anything.

‘Will you do it?’ she asked.

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘All right.’

She smiled. ‘Good. Thank you. I’ll give your phone number and email to them, then—I’ll do that now, if you don’t mind, because they’re waiting on my answer.’

‘OK.’ But Mandy was still hiding something, he was sure. ‘And the rest of it?’ he asked.

She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re holding something back.’

She shrugged and tapped a message into her phone.

‘Just save us both the time and tell me the rest of it, Mandy,’ he said, leaning back and eyeing her over his glass of water.

‘OK.’ She sat back in her own chair and looked at him straight. ‘Since you ask, you’re going to be naked.’

‘What?’ He’d just taken a sip of water and he nearly choked on it. Naked? He must’ve misheard. No way would his sister have done this to him.

‘You won’t be showing anything,’ she said.

‘Define naked,’ he said grimly.

‘In court. Wearing your wig and robe.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mandy. The Head of Chambers would never agree to it.’

‘Um, he already has.’

He blinked hard. Was he hearing things? Leo had already said yes? But—how? ‘You what?’

‘I talked to your clerk this morning,’ she said. ‘And he thinks it’s a great idea.’

Now Nick was beginning to understand all the knowing smiles that had greeted him all afternoon. The news must’ve gone round chambers in ten seconds flat—gossip that juicy would never be ignored. And they’d all known that he didn’t have a clue what was going on, making it even more fun for them.

‘So what exactly did Gary say?’ he asked, keeping his voice low and even and meanwhile planning how he was going to make his clerk grovel hugely in the morning.

‘He put me through to your Head of Chambers. Then I told Leo all about it and he said he thought it was really a good idea, too. And he’s getting clearance for us so you can do the shoot in the local court. He says he’ll cover any photographic permission costs at the court himself.’

‘Oh, good God.’ With his boss on side, there was no way Nick could get out of it. He covered his face with his hands. ‘Please tell me this is some weird, surreal dream. Please tell me it’s a nightmare and I’m going to wake up. Preferably right now.’

‘Nick, I’ve already told them you said yes,’ Mandy said plaintively.

‘That was before I knew I was going to be naked. This is a seriously bad idea, Mandy,’ he said softly. ‘I’m a senior barrister. I have to respect the dignity of the court. Which doesn’t mean posing naked—or near-naked—for a calendar shoot, no matter how noble the cause is.’

‘But Leo said it would be OK. And... Nick, we need you,’ Mandy pleaded. ‘And it’s not as if you’re the only one with a responsible job. One of the surgeons at the hospital is doing it.’

‘Which is publicity for his own place of work.’

‘And I think there’s an actor and a musician on their list. And a chef.’

‘All of whom would get a career boost from the publicity,’ he pointed out.

‘Please, Nick. For me. And for Xander.’

‘It doesn’t look as if I’ve got much choice,’ he said grimly. ‘But promise me you’ll never, ever pitch a stunt like this again.’

‘I promise. I’m sorry, Nick.’ She bit her lip. ‘But the ward needs the money.’

Lack of money meant lack of equipment. Which in turn meant that some kids wouldn’t get the treatment they so badly needed. And that meant that those kids might even die.

Which was Nick’s worst nightmare regarding his nephew.

And he was in a position to change that. To give more kids a chance of life—the same amazing chance that Xander had been given. All he had to do was pose for one little picture that would help to publicise the cause and encourage people to donate.

One little naked picture.

It really went against the grain. But far worse was the thought of his nephew dying and the way it would shatter all their lives and devastate his elder sister.

‘All right,’ he said, blowing out a breath. ‘But I need to double-check this with Leo myself, first, and make sure that he’s absolutely clear on all the details. And if he changes his mind and says that I can’t do it, then I’ll sell calendars by hand for you—and I’m very persuasive, so I’ll sell tons of them to everyone in the whole of Inner Temple and Middle Temple. Plus I’ll also give a personal donation to match those sales. Double.’ Time and money. They’d be a good alternative to posing naked for a calendar, wouldn’t they?

And hopefully he’d be able to persuade his Head of Chambers that having one of his barristers naked and in the focus of the press might not be such a good idea...

CHAPTER TWO

AND OF COURSE Leo still said yes. Even when Nick pointed out exactly what was involved.

So, two weeks later, Nick found himself heading to the local Crown court. Leo had arranged for Court Number Two to be used outside the normal court working hours, though there was still a chance that Nick might bump into someone he knew who’d want to know what he was doing hanging round the court building when he wasn’t in a trial—especially when he looked as scruffy as he did right now.

S. J. Thompson, the photographer, had sent him a couple of very business-like texts to arrange the photo shoot and explain that Nick needed to dress casually and remove anything that might cause a mark on his skin—socks, collars, waistbands and the like—at least two hours before the shoot.

For putting him through something as embarrassing as this—not to mention the teasing he knew he’d get from his colleagues when the calendar actually came out—Fate had better keep Xander safe, Nick thought grimly.

When he got to the court, carrying his court attire in its usual boxes, there was nobody waiting outside. The only person he could see in the lobby was a woman who looked to be in her late twenties or so, wearing black trousers, a black silky short-sleeved top and black shoes. Her blonde hair was cropped so short as to be almost a military cut. She didn’t look remotely like the man Nick was here to meet.

She looked up from her book, then closed it, stood up and walked towards him. ‘Nick Kennedy, I presume?’

He blinked. Was she the photographer’s assistant or something? ‘Yes.’

‘Thank you for being on time. I’m S. J. Thompson—though you can call me Sammy, if you like.’ She held out her hand for him to shake.

‘You’re S. J. Thompson?’ Even as the words came out, he realised how dim they sounded. And how stupid of him to assume that the use of initials meant that the photographer was male.

She gave him a slight smile. ‘I’m afraid so.’

Clearly he wasn’t the first to have made that mistake. ‘I—er—nice to meet you,’ he said, feeling totally wrong-footed.

And, when he shook her hand, awareness zinged through every pore. Sammy Thompson was the most striking woman he’d met in a long time. And that severe haircut only served to highlight how pretty and feminine her face was. There was nothing masculine at all about her. Her mouth was a perfect rosebud, and he found himself wanting to trace her lower lip with his fingertip. Worse still, he could picture himself doing that before leaning in and kissing her. Lightly at first, a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing, and then deepening the kiss as she responded...

He shook himself mentally. Oh, for pity’s sake. This was business. OK, maybe not the normal kind of business he’d conduct here in the court, but it was still business. And he wasn’t exactly known for having ridiculous flights of fancy.

But he did feel uncomfortable right now.

It was nothing to do with sexism—as far as he was concerned, it was how you did your job that mattered, not what your gender or your sexual orientation or your religion was—but Sammy’s gender made this situation a little more difficult. Because it meant that now he was going to be stripping off in front of a woman he’d never met before.

Either his doubts showed on his face or she was used to this reaction from the people she photographed, because she said softly, ‘It’s not going to be as bad as you think. And, if it helps, remember that I’ll be seeing you simply as a life model rather than as an actual person. I don’t tend to hit on my models.’

‘I—yes. Of course. Sorry.’ How long had it been since he’d felt in a whirl, like this? He was never this pathetic and woolly. And he really hoped he didn’t look as if he was staring at her. He forced himself to look away. ‘I believe we have Court Number Two booked.’

‘My equipment’s already in there, though I haven’t set it up fully yet,’ she said. ‘Once we’ve decided precisely where you’re going to stand, it won’t take me long. Oh, and we really ought to cover the legal details now.’

Legal details? That got his attention.

‘Firstly, I have public liability insurance, which covers any damage to person or property while we’re in the location—not that there will be any—and secondly I’ll need you to sign a model release form,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty standard wording, but I’d still prefer you to read it thoroughly before you sign it.’ There was just the slightest twinkle in her sea-green eyes as she added, ‘Though I guess in your case I don’t really need to tell you to ask me to explain any legal wording you don’t understand.’

‘Quite,’ he agreed, trying to sound cool and professional. Even though Sammy Thompson was making him feel decidedly hot under the collar. What was it about her that made him feel like this?

‘Shall we?’ She gestured for them both to go in to the court room, and put a note on the door saying Filming in progress: do not enter.

‘I take it you’ve worked in here before, or at least somewhere like this?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then you’ll be comfortable with the setting,’ she said approvingly.

True, but he really wasn’t comfortable with what he was about to do. ‘Usually I’m fully dressed when I’m in this room,’ he said.

She indicated his cases and suit carrier. ‘This lot contains what you wear in court, I assume?’

He nodded. ‘I brought all of it because I wasn’t sure what you’d need.’ Though he knew it would be a lot less than he would prefer.

‘OK. Talk me through it,’ she invited.

He took his work clothing out of the cases he’d brought with him, piece by piece, and laid each one in turn on the judge’s bench. ‘Tunic shirt, waistcoat, pinstripe trousers and frock coat.’

‘You don’t wear a normal business suit under your lawyer’s gown?’ she asked, sounding surprised.

‘I did before I took silk,’ he said. ‘That is, before I became a QC—a Queen’s Counsel.’

‘Which is a senior barrister, right?’

‘Yes. So that’s why I wear the frock coat.’ He took out the gown. ‘And this.’

‘And that gown’s silk, I assume?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘May I touch it?’

He frowned. ‘Why?’

‘So I can move it about and see how the light affects it,’ she said. ‘Obviously I’ll be careful with it. One of my best friends is a wedding dress designer, and I’ve taken most of the shots for her portfolio and website, so I understand how to handle material without marking it.’

‘Ah. Of course.’

His fingers brushed against hers as she took the gown from him, and it felt as if pure electricity were running through his veins. What on earth was the matter with him? He never reacted like this. Especially to a complete stranger.

Maybe he was overreacting because he hadn’t dated in a while, and his body’s natural urges were making themselves felt because Sammy was really attractive. Well, tough. This was business and he really didn’t have time for this. Behave, he told his libido mentally. You know relationships are a disaster zone.

She peered at the material carefully from several angles, then nodded in seeming satisfaction. ‘OK. Do you wear lace at your collar, or am I thinking of something else?’

‘That’d be ceremonial legal dress,’ he said. ‘Normally in Crown court a male barrister wears a wing collar that attaches to the shirt, and court bands.’ He took them out of their cases for her.

‘So the bands are the things that hang down like a two-pronged white tie?’

Despite himself, he smiled. ‘Yes. Actually, they’re symbolic. The Lord Chief Justice said back in the sixteenth century that they were two tongues. One for the rich, for a fee, to reward our long studies; and one without reward to defend the poor and oppressed.’

‘I like that,’ she said. ‘So you defend the poor and oppressed?’

‘I’m usually a prosecutor,’ he said, ‘but English barristers can defend as well as prosecute. I guess in either case I’d be defending my client’s interests, and it’s not for me to call them poor or oppressed.’

* * *

Sammy liked that little bit of humility. Given that Nicholas Kennedy QC was a top barrister, she’d half expected him to be a bit on the arrogant side, but she instinctively liked the man she’d just met. He had kind eyes, a deep rich brown. And, even though he clearly wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of being part of a shoot for the charity calendar—especially now he knew the photographer was female—he’d obviously made a promise to someone and had the integrity to keep that promise.

She could see exactly why the committee had asked him to pose for their calendar. Talk about photogenic. His bone structure was gorgeous. He could’ve been a model for a top perfume house, advertising aftershave. It was rare to have that kind of beauty teamed with an equally spectacular intellect. And it made him almost totally irresistible.

But she was going to have to resist the pull of attraction. She was here to work, not to drool over the eye candy. Right now she was supposed to be putting the man at his ease. And hadn’t she just told him that she never hit on her models?

Well, this wasn’t going to be a first for her.

Be professional, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to let herself remember the little shiver of desire that had rippled down her spine when he’d shaken her hand. Or wonder how that beautiful mouth would feel against her skin. She was going to focus on her job.

Besides, he was probably committed elsewhere. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t prove anything. A man that beautiful would’ve been snapped up years ago.

‘Your hair’s very short,’ she commented. ‘Do you have a military background, or is the haircut necessary because you have to wear a wig in court?’

‘It makes the wig a little more comfortable, yes,’ he said. ‘Speaking of which...’ He took out the wig next.

There were short, neat rows of curls all the way round the pale grey wig, and two tiny tails hanging down at the back with neat curls at the ends.

‘The wig is what everyone associates with lawyers in court,’ she said. ‘You’ll definitely be wearing that, and probably the gown—though I might do some shots without the gown as well.’

‘What else do I get to wear?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Not the trousers, the coat or the shirt, I’m afraid. Even though they’re nicely cut and made from good material.’

He flinched.

‘You can wear the collar and tie thingies.’

She could see in his expression that he was dying to correct her terminology—but he didn’t. Clearly he was resisting the temptation to be nit-picky and was trying to be co-operative. Teasing probably wasn’t the kindest or most appropriate thing she could do right now.

‘Thank you. I think,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘As I said, to me you’ll be simply a life model.’

But she needed him to relax so the strain wouldn’t show on his face when she photographed him. Given what he did for a living—and that he’d agreed to wear some of his court dress for the shoot—she guessed he’d be more comfortable talking about his work. ‘Talk me through the court layout, so I can decide where to put you.’ Even though she knew perfectly well where she was going to ask him to stand. She’d done her research properly, the way she always did before she took a portrait.

‘Right in front of us is the judge’s bench.’

‘Where he bangs his gavel, right?’

He laughed. ‘I think you’ve been watching too many TV dramas. English judges don’t use gavels.’

She knew that, but he didn’t need to know that she knew. It looked as if her plan to make him more comfortable was working. Except, when he laughed like that, it made him look sexy as hell—and that made it much more difficult for her to keep her part of the bargain, to be detached and think of him as a life model.

Not that Sammy was looking for a relationship right now. She was too busy with her job, and she was fed up to the back teeth with dating Mr Wrong—men who ran for the hills in panic, the second they learned about her past, or who saw themselves as her knight in shining armour and wrapped her so tightly in cotton wool that she couldn’t breathe. None of them had seen her as a woman.

Then again, she wasn’t really a whole woman any more, was she? So she couldn’t put the blame completely on them.

And after Bryn had finally been the one to break her heart, Sammy had decided that it would be much easier to focus on her family, her friends and her job and forget completely about romance.

Though the wedding she’d photographed a couple of months ago had made her feel wistful; now both her best friends were loved-up and settled. And although she was really happy for both of them, it had left her feeling just the tiniest bit lonely. And the tiniest bit sorry for herself. Even if she ever did manage to meet her Mr Right, there was no guarantee of a happy ending. Not if he wanted children of his own, without any kind of complications. She couldn’t offer that.

She pushed the thought away. Enough of the pity party. She had a great life. A family who loved her—even if they were a tad on the overprotective side—friends who’d celebrate the good times with her and be there for her in the bad times, and a job that really fulfilled her. Asking for more was just greedy.

‘No gavel, then. So what else am I looking at?’

‘OK. In front of the judge you have the clerk of the court, the usher, and the person who makes the sound recording of the trial or a stenographer who types it up as the trial goes along. They face the same way as the judge.’ He walked over to the benches facing the judge’s bench. ‘This is where the barristers sit, though we stand when we’re addressing the court. The defence barrister is nearest to the jury—’ he indicated the seats at the side of the room ‘—and the prosecution barrister is nearest to the witness box. The solicitors sit behind the barristers, and at the back is the dock where the defendant sits. Over there behind the witness box you have the public gallery and the press bench.’

‘So it’d make the most sense to photograph you where you’d normally stand in court,’ she said. Exactly where she’d always planned for him to pose—and where her equipment just so happened to be waiting. ‘OK. Can you stand there for me?’

‘Dressed like this?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘For the moment, yes—though if you wouldn’t mind putting on your gown, that’d help with the light meter readings.’

He shrugged on his gown and went to stand at the barristers’ bench. She noticed that he was looking nervous again.

‘You’re really not going to end up on the front page of the newspapers with headlines screaming about “top barrister flashes his bits”,’ she reassured him. ‘The point of the calendar is to sell gorgeous men posed artistically.’ And Nick definitely fitted the bill on both counts. ‘If the bench doesn’t cover your modesty, so to speak, then you can hold a bunch of papers in a strategic place. Don’t you normally have a bunch of papers with you in court, tied with a pink ribbon?’

‘A brief,’ he said. ‘It’s the instructions from my client. The defence has a pink silk ribbon and the prosecution uses white.’

Though he still didn’t look convinced about the shoot.

She sighed. ‘Look, just stand there for a second.’

As he did so, she took her camera body out of its carrying case, fitted a lens so she could take a quick photograph, then came over to show him the digital picture on the screen. ‘This obviously isn’t a proper composition—for the real one I’ll be quite a bit more nit-picky about the lighting and the lens—but it should be enough to prove to you that your dignity will remain intact. OK now?’

‘Sorry.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I know I’m being ridiculous about this. I guess this just isn’t the normal sort of thing I’d do in a day’s work.’

‘That’s pretty much what everyone’s said so far.’ She grinned. ‘Well, except for the actor. He didn’t mind stripping off, but I guess he’d done it a few times before. All in the name of art, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Nick echoed, still looking uncomfortable.

‘And what you do in court—you have a persona, and that’s a bit like acting, isn’t it?’

‘A bit, I suppose,’ Nick said. ‘But, as I said, at work I’m normally wearing quite formal dress—not standing in the middle of the room, almost naked.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ Sammy said, ‘I think what you’re doing is really special. It takes guts—everyone’s happy enough to put their hand in their pocket and donate money to a good cause, but you’re doing something out of the ordinary. Something that’s going to make a lot more of a difference. And I bet whoever you’re doing this for is hugely proud of you.’

‘My sister,’ he said, ‘and my nephew.’

‘The ward treated your nephew?’ she asked softly.

He nodded. ‘Xander’s in remission at the moment.’

She guessed the bargain he’d made in his head: if he did this to help raise money, then Fate might smile on his nephew and keep him in remission. She knew her own sister had made the same bargain, and it was why Jenny had her hair cropped at the same time as Sammy did, every two years.

She wondered briefly why Xander’s father hadn’t offered to do the calendar shoot. Or maybe it was just that Nick had a more photogenic job. It was none of her business, anyway. She was just here to do the shoot.

‘OK. I’m happy with that position. Now, there aren’t any windows in here; plus we’ve got a notice on the door, so nobody’s going to walk in on us. It’s quite safe. So, while I’m setting up properly here, do you want to lose the clothes?’

* * *

No, Nick didn’t want to lose the clothes. At all.

But he’d promised he’d do it, and he wasn’t going to break his word. ‘What do you want me to wear out of the court dress?’ he asked, drawing on his usual court demeanour and trying to sound as if he was completely unflustered.

‘Wig, collar and bands, and we’ll try some shots with the gown and some without,’ she said. ‘I take it you followed my instructions to avoid marks on your skin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Let’s do this.’

Nick felt incredibly self-conscious stripping off. Putting on the collar and bands without his tunic shirt felt weird. Though the silk gown was soft against his skin, and he gathered it in front of him to cover himself and went to stand by the bench.

‘We’ll do some shots sitting down, first,’ Sammy said. ‘I guess you need some papers spread out on the bench in front of you.’

Luckily he’d thought to bring a brief with him. He fetched it and sat down.

‘Do you wear glasses?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Pity. I should’ve thought to bring some frames with me.’

He frowned. ‘Why do you want me to wear glasses?’

‘To make you look clever.’

He wasn’t sure if she was teasing him or not. Then he looked her straight in the eye and saw the mischievous twinkle. ‘Very funny.’

‘Yes, m’lud—or should I say Your Honour?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘That’s what I’d say to the judge. You’d refer to me as My Learned Friend.’

Her mouth quirked, and heat flooded his body. That impish smile transformed Sammy Thompson to a pure beauty.

And this was totally inappropriate.

He damped his feelings down. For all he knew, she was married or involved with someone. OK, so she wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. And he wasn’t looking for a relationship anyway; the disintegration of his marriage to Naomi three years ago had put him off the idea of opening his life to someone else ever again. The one woman he’d thought was different. The one he’d thought had supported his ambitions and understood him. Yet it had all been a sham. That wasn’t a mistake he intended to repeat. Even if he did find Sammy Thompson attractive, he wasn’t going to act on that attraction. Dating seriously wasn’t something he did any more.

He focused on posing for Sammy and following her instructions. He stood up, changing position when she told him to.

‘OK. Now you can lose the gown for the next set of shots.’

‘Are you quite sure about this?’ he asked, wishing he were a hundred miles away.

‘Tell you what, shy boy,’ she drawled. ‘Do the rest of the shoot for me without making any more fuss, and I’ll buy you dinner.’

He blinked. Was she asking him out? ‘Dinner? Why?’

‘Because I’ve already shot two other models for the calendar today and I didn’t have time for lunch, which means that right now I’m starving—I’ll apologise now in case my stomach starts rumbling during the shoot. So I think we should have dinner while we look through the shots and you tell me which ones you approve to put forward to the Friends of the Hospital,’ she said. ‘Unless you have a girlfriend or a wife who’d have a problem with that, in which case please call her now and ask her to join us, because I really don’t want to have to wait for too long before dinner.’

He shrugged slightly. ‘No wife. No girlfriend.’ And this was feeling more and more like agreeing to a date. Something that pushed him even further outside his comfort zone. He paused. ‘Would it be a problem for your partner if you ate with me?’

‘Not if I had one, because this is my job.’

So she was single. Available...

He squashed those thoughts. No, no and no. He didn’t date any more. Not seriously.

‘The quicker we get this done, the quicker I get food,’ she continued, ‘and the less likely it is that I’ll get grumpy with you. You need to focus, m’learned friend. Lose the gown. And think yourself lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ He very nearly had to shake his head to clear it. Was she talking about him getting lucky?

‘You’re Mr December. I could’ve made you wear a Santa hat. Or pose holding a bunch of mistletoe. Or—’ She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Insert a cheesy Christmassy pose of choice.’

Ah. That kind of lucky. Nothing to do with sex, then.

And would his head please, please start playing by the rules and stop thinking about lust and other inappropriate things? Because right now he was naked, and it would be impossible to hide his physical reaction to her.

‘Noted,’ he said dryly. He took off his gown, folded it neatly, and set it on the bench where it would be out of sight of her camera.

* * *

Wearing just his barrister’s wig, collar and bands, Nick Kennedy was spectacular, Sammy thought. Broad shoulders, beautiful biceps, enough hair on his chest to be sexy without him looking like a total gorilla, and a definite six pack.

Mr December was going to be the best page on the calendar. He could probably sell the calendar all by himself.

But now he’d said there was no wife or girlfriend, she couldn’t help wondering: how come a gorgeous man with a good brain and kind eyes was single? Was it because he was a workaholic and his girlfriends tended to get fed up waiting for him to notice them? Or had she missed some major personality flaw?

‘What?’ he asked, clearly noting that she was staring at him.

‘Nothing,’ she said, embarrassed to discover that her voice was slightly croaky. She really had to get a grip. The last thing she needed was for her skittish model to work out that she was attracted to him. And Nicholas Kennedy was bright. He couldn’t be more than five or six years older than Sammy’s own thirty years, and he was at the top of his profession. Scratch bright: that kind of background meant he had to be super-bright. So he’d be able to work it out quickly.

She got him to do a few more poses. To her relief, he’d relaxed enough with her by now to trust her, even when she moved round and took some shots from the side and some others from the back. And, oh, his back was beautiful. She’d love to do some proper nude studies of him. In a wood, looking for all the world like a statue of a Greek god.

Not that he’d agree to it. Not in a million years.

But a girl could dream...

‘OK. That’s a wrap. You can get dressed now,’ she said, ‘and by the time I’ve loaded everything on to my laptop we’ll be ready to go to dinner.’

‘The stuff I was wearing is hardly dressy enough for going out,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘As I wasn’t planning to take you to the Dorchester or Claridge’s, I think you’ll be just fine.’

She put the memory card in the slot on her laptop and downloaded the photographs while she packed away the rest of her equipment. Once she’d finished downloading the pictures, she saved the files. ‘Is it OK for me to turn round now?’ she asked with her back still towards Nick.

‘Sure.’

Rather than putting on the ratty T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms again, he was wearing the white tunic shirt—without the collar—the waistcoat and his court trousers.

Sammy’s heart skipped a beat. Right now, with his formal dress very slightly dishevelled, he looked as sexy as hell. She could imagine him with the shirt undone, especially as she’d actually seen his bare chest. If his hair was ever so slightly longer and someone had ruffled her hand through it to suggest that he’d just been thoroughly kissed, he’d look spectacular. In fact he’d go straight to number one in the Sexiest Man in the World list. She itched to get her camera out again. And this time she’d make him pose very differently.

‘OK?’ he asked.

No. Not OK at all. She was all quivery and girly, and that really wasn’t good.

So she’d have to fall back on acerbic humour to hide how she really felt. ‘Sure. Lucky, lucky me—I get to have dinner with a half-dressed man.’ Her mouth quirked. ‘Are you really so vain that you couldn’t go out to eat in an old tracksuit and T-shirt?’

‘I’m not vain,’ he protested. ‘I just feel a little more comfortable in this than I do in the scruffy stuff.’

‘It’d serve you right if I took you to a fast-food burger restaurant now—and then you’d really look out of place,’ she teased.

‘I’ll bluff it. There’s nothing wrong with burgers.’

Did he really expect her to believe that? She’d just bet he was the kind of guy who went for fine wines and Michelin-starred dining. ‘When was the last time you went to a fast-food place?’ she challenged.

‘Last weekend, with my nephews,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Next question?’

Ouch. She’d forgotten about his nephews. If they were teens, like her own nephews, then she knew he’d be very familiar with fast-food places. She screwed up her face. ‘OK, now it’s my turn to apologise. Blame my rudeness on low blood sugar. Because I am a grumpy, starving photographer right now.’

He smiled, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Stuffy and uncomfortable, she could deal with, but relaxed and sexy was another kettle of fish entirely.

Right now, Nick Kennedy could be very dangerous to her peace of mind.

‘Let’s go and eat,’ Nick said, ‘and you can show me how much of an idiot I’ve made of myself.’

He hadn’t made an idiot of himself at all. He was utterly gorgeous and he’d be the star of the calendar—even more so than the actor and the musician who’d posed for her earlier in the week, because they were aware of how pretty they were and Nick wasn’t. But Sammy knew she needed to keep her libido under control. She’d learned her lesson well, after Bryn.

No.

More.

Relationships.

Make that underlined and with three exclamation marks. And covered in acid yellow highlighter to make sure she didn’t forget it.

‘My car’s outside,’ she said.

‘So is mine.’

She took a coin from her purse. ‘Let’s toss for it. The winner gets to drive. Heads or tails?’

‘Heads.’

It was heads.

‘My car, then,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if I bring my equipment with me?’ she asked. ‘I’d prefer not to leave it unattended, even if it’s locked out of sight in my car.’

‘It would make more sense,’ Nick said, ‘if we got a takeaway and ate it at my place. Then neither of us would have to worry about leaving expensive work equipment unattended in the car.’

‘Why your place and not mine?’

He coughed. ‘Because I just won the coin toss.’ He paused. ‘You can ring my sister and ask her to vouch for me, if you’re worried about going to a stranger’s flat.’

‘A stranger who’s willing to put himself out of his comfort zone to help raise money for an oncology ward, and whose day job means he skewers the baddies in court and gets them sentenced for their crimes? I think I’ll be safe enough with you,’ Sammy said. Plus all her instincts were telling her that Nick was one of the good guys, and her instincts—except when it came to dating—were pretty good. ‘But I’ll follow you in my car. That makes more sense than getting the Tube back here afterwards.’

‘You won’t have to get the Tube back here. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘So you’re going to drive home, then back here, then home again? That doesn’t make sense either.’ She took her phone out of her bag. ‘Give me your address, just in case I get stuck in traffic and can’t follow you over a junction or something, and end up having to use my satnav.’ She tapped in the details as he dictated them. ‘Great. Let’s go.’

‘Can I carry anything for you?’ he asked.

She indicated his armful of boxes and carriers. ‘I think you’ve got enough of your own, and anyway I’m used to lugging this lot about.’

‘Fair enough.’

She took the notice off the court door, told the security team that it was fine to lock up, and packed all her equipment into her car. And all the time she was berating herself mentally. She must be crazy. Why hadn’t she just done what she’d agreed with her other models and emailed him a choice of half a dozen photographs that she could go on to present to the calendar committee? Why was she letting him review the whole shoot with her?

The truth was because she wanted to spend more time with him. Because she was attracted to him.

But she also knew that her relationships were a disaster area. She had a three-date rule, because agreeing to more than that risked her having to tell the truth about her past—and in her experience men reacted badly to the information. Besides, she was pretty sure that Nick Kennedy was a total workaholic who wouldn’t have time for a girlfriend—that was still the only reason she could think of why someone as gorgeous and good-hearted as him would be single—so it was better not to start anything. So she’d be sensible and professional when they looked at the photographs. They’d grab some food; and then she’d say a polite goodbye and never see him again.

Pity.

But, since Bryn, Sammy had learned to be sensible. It was the safest way.

And she was never getting her heart broken again.

CHAPTER THREE

AS HE DROVE back to his flat, Nick wondered if he’d just gone completely crazy. Why on earth had he invited Sammy Thompson back to his flat?

Then again, she’d had a fair point about not leaving expensive equipment unattended in a car. Horsehair wigs and silk barrister gowns weren’t exactly cheap, either, and he wouldn’t want to leave them in his car—just as she clearly hadn’t wanted to leave her camera equipment in hers.

Out of the few dates he’d been on since the end of his marriage, he hadn’t invited a single one of his girlfriends back to his flat. And he was far too sensible to invite a complete stranger back to his flat.

Yet that was exactly what he’d just done. Today was the first time he’d met Sammy. He knew practically nothing about her, other than that she was a photographer and she’d been commissioned to shoot the calendar by the Friends of the London Victoria.

Then again, he had good instincts—except perhaps where his ex-wife was concerned, he admitted wryly—and he’d liked Sammy immediately. She was business-like and capable, and she had a sense of humour that appealed to him.

And he was going to have to ignore the fact that she was utterly gorgeous. Slender yet with curves in all the right places, maybe six inches shorter than his own six foot one, and she was strong enough to carry heavy boxes of photographic equipment around without it seeming to bother her. Her bright blonde hair—which he was pretty sure was natural rather than dyed—was cut in a short pixie crop that framed her heart-shaped face, and her sea-green eyes were serious when she was working and teasing when something amused her.

Then there was her mouth. A perfect cupid’s bow. A mouth that he’d wanted to trace with the tip of his finger before exploring it with his own mouth...

This was bad. He hadn’t waxed poetic over anyone like this for years—maybe not since he was a teenager. So he’d better get it into his head that Sammy Thompson was simply the photographer who was working on the charity calendar, and he’d probably never see her again after today. Except maybe if the ward held some kind of launch event when the calendar went on sale and they both happened to attend it, and then they could just be polite to each other.

Be professional, he told himself. Treat her as if she’s a client, or a colleague. Keep it business-like, choose the photographs, and then you can just let her walk out of your life and go back to what you normally do. Work, being there for Mandy and the boys, and more work. A perfectly balanced life.

* * *

Sammy was glad that she’d taken Nick’s address and put the postcode into her satellite navigation system before they left the court’s car park, because as she’d half expected she ended up losing him at a junction. Following the satnav’s directions, she ended up driving through one of the prettiest tree-lined streets in Bloomsbury, where the five-storey town houses all had wrought iron railings, tall white-framed sash windows that would let huge amounts of light flood into the rooms, and window boxes full of bright, well-manicured geraniums. She could see Nick’s car towards the end of the street, and thankfully there was a parking space on the road behind it. Nick himself was waiting for her by his car.

When she climbed out of her car, Nick handed her a parking permit to place inside her windscreen. ‘I’m sorry I lost you at that junction,’ he said. ‘I did slow down, but I couldn’t see you behind me.’

‘No worries,’ Sammy said with a smile. ‘That’s precisely why I took your address.’

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘And you don’t mind if I bring all my stuff in?’

‘That’s fine.’ He was still laden with his own cases, but even so he picked up the heaviest of her boxes and took it to the door of the Georgian house on the corner.

It was exactly the kind of building that made Sammy itch to get her camera out. The front door was painted black, with white columns and narrow bands of stucco either side to turn the entrance from a rectangle to a perfect square. Above the entrance was a filigree fanlight, the pattern within the arched window reminding her of a spider’s web. The door knocker, handle and letterbox were all shiny brass, the front doorstep was scrubbed clean, and on either side of the step there was a bay tree in a black wooden planter, its stem perfectly straight and its leaves clipped into a neat ball.

Everything was discreet, tidy—and clearly wealthy without being ostentatious about it. It was a house that had been looked after properly.

Clearly her interest showed on her face, because Nick smiled. ‘You like the architecture?’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said. ‘I have to admit, architectural detail is one of my biggest weaknesses. Especially windows like that one.’ She indicated the fanlight above the front door.

‘Come on up and I’ll give you the guided tour.’ And then he looked slightly shocked, as if he hadn’t meant to say that.

Tough. He’d said it now, and Sammy wasn’t going to pass up the chance to look round such a gorgeous building.

‘My flat’s the ground floor and first storey,’ he said.

‘Not the whole house?’

He smiled. ‘I live on my own, so I don’t really need a whole town house. The flat gives me enough room for work, guests and entertaining.’

Though even a flat in a building like this—and in an area like this—would cost an eye-watering amount, Sammy thought. Especially a duplex flat. It would be way out of her own price range.

‘Let’s base ourselves in the kitchen,’ Nick said. ‘We can order some food, and then I’ll show you round.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Nick’s kitchen was small, but perfectly equipped. It had clearly been fitted out by a designer and it was the kind of shabby chic that didn’t come cheap, with distressed cream-painted doors and drawer fronts, light wood worktops and pale terracotta splash-backs and floor tiles. There was a terracotta pot of herbs on one of the windowsills, and an expensive Italian coffee-maker and matching kettle, both in cream enamel; apart from that, everything was tucked neatly away.

Either Nicholas Kennedy was a total neat freak, or he didn’t actually use this room much himself, she thought.

She set her boxes on the floor next to the light wood table at one end of the kitchen and put her laptop on the table itself. ‘Is it OK to leave these here?’

‘Sure.’ Nick opened a drawer and brought out a file. Sammy had to bite her lip to stop herself grinning when she realised that his takeaway menus were all filed neatly in punched plastic pockets. She’d bet they were in alphabetical order, too.

Clearly he didn’t have a clutter drawer with menus and all sorts of bits and pieces stuffed into it, unlike everyone else she knew. He was a neat freak, then. But that didn’t mean he was totally buttoned-up. After all, he’d agreed to do a naked photo shoot. Someone totally stuffy would’ve refused to do that.

‘Would you prefer Indian, Chinese, or Thai?’ he asked.

‘I eat practically anything,’ Sammy said, ‘except prawns. Fish, yes; crustaceans, no. Other than that, anything you like, as long as it’s here as soon as possible.’

‘Because you’re starving. Noted.’ He gave her a slight smile. ‘How about a mix of Chinese dishes to share, then? And I promise, no prawns.’

‘That’d be lovely.’

‘Crispy duck?’

‘Love it. Thank you.’

She set up her laptop while he was ordering their meal.

‘They’ll be here in forty minutes,’ he said. ‘OK. I promised you a guided tour.’

Sammy didn’t quite dare ask if she could bring her camera. ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ she said with a smile.

‘Living room,’ he said, showing her through the first door.

Like the hallway, it had a stripped pale wooden floor. There were two huge sash windows dressed with floor-length dark green curtains; the walls were painted dark red and there was an antique-looking glass chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. It looked more like the effort of a designer than personal choice, Sammy thought.

The sofas were all low, upholstered in dark green leather and looked comfortable, and there was a light-coloured wooden coffee table in the middle of the room, set on a green silk patterned rug. There was a black marble fireplace with a huge mirror above it, reflecting the chandelier and the state-of-the-art television and audio-visual centre. Between the two sash windows, there was an enormous clock with a white face and dark roman numerals. There were plenty of silver-framed photographs on the mantelpiece, which she assumed were of his family.

But what really grabbed her attention was the painting on the wall. It wasn’t exactly out of place, but she would’ve expected the designer to choose a couple of period portraits or maybe some kind of still life, to go with the rest of the decor. This painting was a modern landscape of a bay at dusk where the sea, cliffs and sky blurred together in the mist. It was all tones of blue and grey and silver—really striking. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said.

‘Yes. I liked it the moment I set eyes on it,’ he said.

So this was his taste rather than his designer’s? She liked it. A lot.

Just as she had a rather nasty feeling that she could like Nick Kennedy rather a lot, if she got the chance. He was more than easy on the eye, and she liked what she’d learned about him in the short time she’d known him.

He ushered her in to the next room. ‘My office.’

It was another room with dark red walls and stripped wood floors, but this time the curtains framing the two huge sash windows were cream voile and the patterned silk rug in the centre was dark red. The chandelier was wrought iron, and one wall was completely filled with books, most of which she guessed would be legal tomes. There was a desk against the opposite wall, teamed with what she recognised as a very expensive office chair—the kind she’d dreamed about owning but couldn’t justify the price tag—and a state-of-the-art computer sat on his desk.

She could imagine him working here, with a bunch of papers spread out on the desk, his elbow resting on the table and his hand thrust through his hair while he made notes with a fountain pen. Because Nicholas Kennedy was definitely the kind of man who would use a posh pen rather than a disposable ballpoint.

‘Dining room,’ Nick said, showing her the next room.

Like the other rooms, the dining room had stripped floors; but it was much lighter because the walls were painted cream rather than dark red. There was a huge mirror above the white marble fireplace, reflecting the light from the sash windows and the antique glass chandelier. A light-coloured wooden table that seated eight sat in the centre of the room, teamed with matching chairs upholstered in cream-and-beige striped silk, which in turn matched the floor-length curtains. The silk rug here was in tones of cream and beige. She loved the room; she could just imagine sitting on the window-seat with a book, sunning herself while she read.

And there was another striking piece of art on the wall—a close-up of a peacock with its tail spread, and it looked as if it was painted in acrylics. ‘The colours are glorious,’ she said softly, enjoying the splash of orange among the turquoise, blues and greens. And it was so very different from the other picture; clearly Nick’s taste was diverse.

But the artwork that really made her gasp was in his bedroom. The room was large, but for a change not painted dark red; it had blue and cream Regency striped wallpaper, floor-length navy curtains, stripped floors and a dark blue silk patterned rug to reflect the curtains.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the black and white photograph that had been sliced vertically into three and framed in narrow black wood: a shot of the steel and glass roof of the Great Court at the British Museum. ‘That’s one of my favourite places in London.’ And she had quite a few shots of that roof in her own collection. ‘I adore that roof.’

‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘It’s the pattern and the light.’

‘Did you know that no two panes of glass in the roof are the same?’ she asked.

‘No, but now you’ve said it, I’m going to have to look.’

‘There are more than three thousand of them,’ she pointed out. ‘And the differences are tiny. It’s only because of the undulations.’ But the sudden light in his eyes now they were talking about art made her wonder. ‘Did you ever think about being an artist or an architect rather than a barrister?’

He smiled. ‘Absolutely not. I can barely draw a straight line with a pencil.’ And then he changed the subject, making her wonder even more. ‘Given that I already know you’re starving, can I make you a coffee and offer you some chocolate biscuits to tide you over until the takeaway arrives?’

‘That would be lovely. Thank you,’ she said. ‘Your flat’s beautiful. Though I wouldn’t have put you down as someone who’d choose dark red walls.’

‘An interior designer organised most of the place for me just before I moved in,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe my living room and office are a little dark.’

Just a tad, but she wasn’t going to be rude about it. ‘“Strikingly masculine” is probably the official phrase,’ she said with a smile.

He ushered her back to the kitchen. She sat at the table and opened the file of photographs on her laptop while he made the coffee; and then he brought over two mugs of coffee and a plate of really good chocolate biscuits.

‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘And don’t be polite. You said you’d missed lunch.’

‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully, and devoured two. ‘These are scrumptious.’

‘They’re my sister’s favourites,’ he said. ‘I keep a stock in for her.’

Nick was the kind of man who paid attention to details and quietly acted on them, she thought. She’d just bet he had a stock of his nephews’ favourite treats, too. And the coffee was better than that served in most upmarket cafés; though, given that posh coffee machine sitting on his kitchen worktop, it wasn’t so surprising. If you had an expensive machine, it stood to reason that you’d use good coffee in it. ‘Would you like to see the photographs now?’ she asked.

‘Sure.’ He viewed them in silence, then nodded with what she was pretty sure was relief. ‘You were very discreet. Thank you.’

‘The point is to raise money, not to embarrass people,’ she said softly. ‘And it’s meant to be fun, so I think we should discount this one, this one and this one—’ she pointed to them on the screen ‘—as you look very slightly uptight in them.’

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I have to admit, picking out your own photographs is a bit...’ He grimaced.

‘It makes everyone squirm. It’s much, much easier to look at someone else’s photographs and choose the best ones in a set than it is to choose your own,’ she said.

‘Which ones would you choose?’ he asked.

‘Honestly? This, this and this.’ She pointed them out. ‘Mainly because of the expression on your face. You look more relaxed here.’ And really, really sexy, which was the whole point of the calendar. Selling pictures of hot men to make money for the ward. Not that she was going to say it; she knew it would make him uncomfortable.

‘OK. I’m happy with those ones,’ he said.

‘Great.’ She took the model release form from her bag. ‘So we’ll put the shot numbers in here.’ She wrote them down. ‘Would you like to check that you agree with the numbers before you sign?’

He smiled. ‘You sound like a lawyer.’

‘I sound like a professional photographer who likes to get things right,’ she corrected.

He checked the numbers on the form against the numbers on her laptop, then signed the form. ‘I’m impressed with what you did. Can I see any of the other calendar shots?’

Sammy shook her head. ‘Sorry. Only the Chair of the Friends and the committee members she chooses to work with her on the project can see them until the proofs are printed,’ she said.

‘Fair enough. I was just curious.’

‘About the other models?’ she asked.

‘About your work,’ he said, ‘given the way you reacted to that picture of the British Museum’s roof.’

‘Ah. If you want to see my portfolio, that’s a different matter entirely.’ She pulled up a different file for him. ‘Knock yourself out.’

He looked through them. ‘You’ve got a real mixture here—lots of people and a few landscapes.’

‘They tend to go with profiles of people in magazines and Sunday supplements,’ she said. ‘That’s my bread-and-butter work. So if the profile is of someone who’s set up an English vineyard, I’d take a portrait of that person and then whatever else is needed to illustrate the interview or article. Say, the vineyard itself, or a close-up of a bunch of grapes, or the area where the wine’s produced or bottled.’

‘What about the photographs you take for you?’

‘What makes you think I don’t take these ones for me?’ she parried.

‘Apart from the fact that you admitted that they were work, it was the look on your face when you saw the house—as if you were dying to grab your camera and focus in on little details. Particularly the fanlight window.’

‘Busted,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘Architecture’s my big love—I never wanted to be an architect and create the buildings myself, but what I like is to make people focus in on a feature and see the building in a different light instead of just taking it for granted or ignoring it entirely.’ And, although she’d never normally show her private shots to someone she barely knew, something about the way Nick looked at her made her want to open up. She went into another file. ‘Like these ones.’

‘They’re stunning,’ Nick said as he scrolled through them. ‘And I mean it—I’m not just being polite. I’d be more than happy to have any of these blown up, framed and hung on my walls.’

She could see in his face that he meant it. And it made her feel warm inside. Some of her exes had scoffed at her private photography, calling her nerdy and not understanding at all what she loved about the architecture. And others had wanted her to give it all up so they could look after her—because a cancer survivor shouldn’t be pushing herself to take photographs from difficult positions. Hanging off a balcony to get a better angle for her shot really wasn’t the sort of thing a delicate little flower should do.

She’d wanted a relationship, not a straightjacket. And being protected in such a smothering way had made her feel stifled and miserable, even more than when the men she’d dated had backed off at the very first mention of the word ‘cancer’.

‘So when do you take this kind of shot?’ Nick asked.

‘When I get a day off, I walk round London and find interesting things. And sometimes I go to the coast—I love seascapes. Especially if a lighthouse or a pier’s involved.’

‘And you put your pictures on the internet?’

‘I have a blog for my favourite shots,’ she admitted.

‘So did you always know you wanted to be a photographer?’ he asked.

‘Like most kids, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do when I grew up,’ Sammy said. ‘Then, one summer, my uncle—who was a press photographer before he retired—taught me how to use a proper SLR camera.’ Nick didn’t need to know that it was because she’d been cooped up in one place, the summer when she’d had treatment for osteosarcoma; she’d been bored and miserable, unable to go out with her friends because she had been forced to wait for the surgical wounds to heal and to do her physiotherapy. Uncle Julian had shown her how she could get a different perspective on her surroundings and encouraged her to experiment with shots from her chair. ‘I loved every second of it. And I ended up doing my degree in photography and following in his footsteps.’

‘A press photographer? So you started out working for a magazine?’

‘For the first couple of years after I graduated, I did; and then the publication I worked for was restructured and quite a few of the staff were made redundant, including me. That’s when I decided to take the leap and go freelance,’ she explained. ‘Though that also means I don’t tend to turn work down. You never know when you’re going to have a dry spell, and I like to have at least three months’ money sitting in the bank so I can always pay my rent.’

‘And you do weddings as well?’ He pointed to one of the other photographs.

‘Only for people close to me. That one’s Ashleigh, one of my best friends, on Capri last year.’

‘It’s a beautiful setting.’

‘Really romantic,’ she agreed. ‘The bridesmaid is my other best friend, Claire. She and I went to the Blue Grotto, the next day. It was for a commission, I admit, but I would’ve gone anyway because the place is so gorgeous. You had to lie down in the boat to get through the entrance, but it was worth the effort. The light was really something else.’ She flicked into another file and showed him some of the photographs. ‘Look.’

‘I like that—it’s another of the sort of scenes I’d like to have on my wall,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Like that misty seascape in your living room. That’s the kind of thing I like to shoot at dawn or dusk. If you do it with a long exposure, the waves swirl about and look like mist.’

‘That’s clever,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘No. That’s technique. Anyone can do it when they know how.’

When their food arrived, Sammy put her laptop away while Nick brought out plates and cutlery.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m driving so I’d rather not. A glass of water’s fine, thanks.’

He poured them both a glass of water from a jug in the fridge—filtered water, she thought. Nick Kennedy clearly dotted all his I’s and crossed every T.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, gesturing to the various dishes in the centre of the table.

‘Thank you.’ She noticed that he eyed her plate when she’d finished heaping it. ‘What?’

‘It’s refreshing, eating with someone who actually enjoys food.’

‘That sounds as if you’ve been eating dinner with the wrong kind of person,’ she said dryly. ‘Most people I know enjoy food.’

‘Hmm.’

She finished stuffing one of the pancakes with shredded duck and cucumber, added some hoi sin sauce and took a taste. ‘And this is seriously good. I haven’t had crispy duck this excellent before. Nice choice, Mr Kennedy.’ She paused. ‘As we’re going halves on this, how much do I owe you?’

‘My house, my hospitality, my bill,’ he said. ‘No arguments.’

‘Thank you.’ Though there was more than one way to win an argument. Maybe she could print one of her seascapes for him, the one he’d really liked, to say thank you for the meal. ‘So you like modern art rather than, say, reproductions?’ she asked.

‘Some. I’m not so keen on abstract art, which probably makes me a bit of a philistine,’ he admitted.

‘No, you like what you like, and that doesn’t make you a philistine—it makes you honest,’ she said. ‘And your taste is quite diverse. I’m assuming they’re original artworks, given that one of them is acrylics?’

He nodded. ‘I like to support local artists where I can. There’s a gallery not far from my chambers. The gallery owner gives me a call if something comes in that she thinks I’ll like.’

‘That’s fabulous. It means both the artist and the art-lover win. Well, obviously, and the gallery owner, because she gets her commission.’

‘Something like that.’ He paused. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’

Her heart skipped a beat. From his body language and the way he’d relaxed with her, she had a feeling that the attraction was mutual. Was he going to ask her out?

And, if he did, would she have the courage to act on that attraction and say yes?

‘Sure,’ she said, affecting coolness.

‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘What you said about me being in the military—is that why your hair’s so short, too? You spent time in the Forces?’

The question was so unexpected that she answered it honestly before she realised what she was saying. ‘No. I have a crop like this every two years.’

He blinked. ‘Why two years?’

She could try and flannel him and say that it was a fashion statement, but he was observant. She was pretty sure he would’ve picked up the cues. ‘Because it takes that long for my hair to grow twelve inches.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why do you need to grow your hair twelve inches?’

‘Because seven to twelve inches is what they need for wigs,’ she said softly.

The penny dropped immediately. ‘You donate your hair?’

She nodded. ‘There’s a charity that makes wigs for kids who’ve lost their hair after chemotherapy. My sister Jenny and I have our hair cut together every two years. We normally get people to sponsor us as well, and the money goes to the ward so they can buy things for the kids. You know, things to keep them occupied and cheer them up, because being stuck in hospital isn’t much fun—especially when you’re a kid.’ The hair cut before last had been on the actual day of Sammy’s test results. She and Jenny had celebrated the news with a hair cut and a bottle of champagne.