Full Exposure

Chapter Twelve

Serena took a few deep breaths as she plunged the room into darkness. Her heart raced and shivers danced up and down her spine, but she ignored them as she always did. Today was no different than any other day. The fact that Damien was on the loose would have no effect on her. She wouldn’t allow it to affect her. This was her darkroom and she would damn well do the work that she was trained to do.

She crossed blindly to the high counter where her equipment lay, the path as old and familiar as her own face. Today, she wanted to develop the black-and-white photos she’d taken of Kevin in his studio—the day after they’d made love the first time. Yesterday she’d spent nearly sixteen hours in her darkroom, developing roll after roll of film in a marathon session that she would prefer not to repeat.

But she’d already been away from Kevin for three days and she wanted to get back as soon as possible. He’d tried to stop her from going home, citing progressively more outlandish reasons for why she needed to stay in the bayou. But her work was at a standstill—how could she take any more pictures until she really had a chance to look at what she had?

So she’d ignored his craziness, his pouting, and even his wild, glorious lovemaking, and she’d come home to work—something she’d never had trouble doing before. Work had always been her solace. From the time Sandra had bought her her first real camera, if she had a problem she went to the darkroom with it—either to hide from it or to let her mind work on it as she followed the well-rehearsed steps to developing film. In the last twelve years, she’d developed enough film to do the basics in her sleep. Which was why her darkroom was such a great place to think up solutions.

She reached for the first roll of film, removing it from the 35mm canister with a can opener—a method her first photography instructor swore by. She unwound the film and peeled off the tape that connected it to the spool. Behind her, an old Aerosmith CD played—Stephen Tyler crooning about not wanting to miss a thing.

Her heart beat faster as she ran her fingers lightly over the negatives. This was the roll she’d been dying to see—the one of Kevin working alone the morning after they’d first made love. She’d reveled at the drive and passion pouring from him as she’d taken the pictures. He’d been in his own world, lost in the power and beauty created by his own mind and the challenge of bringing that beauty to everyone else.

Her hands shook at the memory and she fumbled a little as she loaded the film onto the metal reel necessary for developing. He was magnificent—so fiercely private and isolated, yet so willing to open up once his walls were bridged. Where did he get the courage, she wondered. And where could she find some to match?

She placed the film in the tank and covered it out of sheer habit as her mind continued to work on her relationship with Kevin. What was she going to do with him? How was she going to leave him when the book was finished? Could she even if she wanted to?

With the film safely covered, she flipped on the light. Stared at her unsteady hands in disbelief. What was happening to her? How had she let one man turn her so inside out in so short a time? She never stayed in a relationship very long, never let it get serious enough to shake her up. Never, never let a man tell her that he loved her.

Je t’aime. I love you. Kevin’s voice haunted her as she checked the temperature of the soup. She’d let the developing fluid warm a little—wanting it warmer than usual so that she could get a coarser, grainier effect for the roll. More primitive—like Kevin himself.

She checked the thermometer. Seventy-nine degrees. Seventy-nine. The number echoed in her head, again and again. The number of stab wounds in Sandra’s body when Damien was done with her. The number of times he’d plunged his knife into her while she’d screamed.

She poured the soup into the spout and covered it, ignoring the shivers chasing themselves up and down her spine. Seventy-nine. Just a number, she repeated to herself again and again. Just a stupid number. One day she’d be able to see it and not think about Sandra. Someday. Just not today.

Je t’aime, Serena. Je t’aime. Kevin’s words flowed through her as she waited for the photos to develop. He’d said them every time they’d made love since San Diego. He’d said them again as he helped her into her car as she headed back to Baton Rouge.

She’d wanted to return them. Had wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him senseless, then tell him how much she loved him too. But she wasn’t ready. Didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.

I love you. I love you. I love you. The last time she’d said those words it had been to her sister. The last time she’d heard them Sandra had been screaming them at Damien as he killed her.

I love you! Why are you doing this? I love you, Damien. I love you! Why won’t you stop? I love you! Why? Why? Why?

Sandra had died before she’d gotten the answer.

When Kevin had said those words, she’d been nearly overwhelmed with the need to run, to hide. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want the pain or the responsibility that came with holding someone’s heart. Didn’t he know this was supposed to be casual? Had to be casual—her relationships always were. Couldn’t he see what a bad risk she was, how she was too screwed up to love anyone?

She poured water into the spout for sixty seconds to stop the film from overdeveloping, then added a fixer so she could view the images in normal light. The second time he’d told her, she’d been nearly as frightened. Scared for him. She was going to hurt him. She didn’t want to, but she would just the same. She was always the one causing the pain when a relationship got too serious and she had to end it. She didn’t want it to be like that for Kevin. Didn’t want to see pain in those beautiful eyes.

She pulled the lid off the tank and ran cold water into it for a few minutes before adding a clearing agent and stirring the mixture around. Then she washed the film one more time, wishing that she could cleanse herself as easily. Wishing she could stand under a shower and just rinse away all the parts of her life she didn’t like—the parts she didn’t want to remember. The parts she couldn’t live with anymore.

She pulled the film out, careful not to touch the surface of the negatives as she hung them up to dry. As she fastened the last clip, she was caught by the final image on the roll. Kevin walking toward her, his muscles rippling with fluidity and grace. His hands were outstretched and the look on his face nearly took her breath away. He was completely focused on her, love and concern already laid bare for the world to see. She stared at the tiny negative for a long time, until it blurred and she was forced to blink unexpected tears from her eyes.

What was she going to do about him? A headache began to creep up the back of her neck and she took yet another deep breath to try to calm herself down. The sharp chemicals of the darkroom assaulted her nose and the resultant coughing nearly brought her to her knees.

Did she love Kevin? Did she love him the way he deserved to be loved, the way he said that he loved her? The questions chased themselves around her mind throughout the day as she worked at a frenetic pace. Developing film. Looking for strong pictures in the finished project. Even blowing up a couple of pictures of Kevin she couldn’t live without.

When morning bled slowly into afternoon, she still didn’t have the answers.

* * *

She was in there—just a few steps away. He could feel her through the walls, through the closed door. All that passion and life just waiting for him to take it. To take her.

Not yet, he cautioned himself. Things weren’t in order yet. It wasn’t time.

Oh, but how he wished it was.

He ran a hand over the supple leather of her couch, tangled his fingers in the silver throw she had resting across the back. With a groan he buried his face in the soft velvet—it smelled of her. Honey and heat and ripe, warm woman.

Lust slammed through him, made his hands clench against the soft fabric until it was balled tightly within his fists. He took a deep breath and forced his trembling hands to relax before smoothing his careless marks away. The fabric was delicate, easily damaged—much like Serena herself.

He would have to remember that, have to keep his temper under control lest he mar her too severely. Yet it galled—bitterly—the knowledge that some other man had so recently been where he would soon be. He didn’t take other men’s leftovers, didn’t like the idea of taking a woman who had so recently had some other man’s dick in her mouth, in her cunt. His scent and filth all over her.

But Serena was special—he would make an exception for her. Eleven long years he’d waited to be with her. And once he got her he would cleanse her until she was pure again. It took all of his willpower to tamp down on the excited laughter that wanted to bubble out of him at the thought of her purification. Of the fire—the burning—of her re-baptism. His dick stirred to life and he palmed himself absently through his pants.

But first she must atone for her sins. Suffer for letting that bayou rat touch her, lick her, come inside her where no man but he belonged. Laughter and excitement bubbled through him at the image of her begging forgiveness. His forgiveness.

Of course, he would grant it to her. But not for a while. Not before she’d paid.

And she would pay.

Soon she would pay and pay and pay.

Today was only the beginning.

* * *

Her stomach grumbled and Serena glanced at her watch as she surfaced from her frenzy. It was four-thirty and she’d worked straight through lunch. No wonder she was hungry. With a heavy sigh, she washed her hands in the darkroom sink before grabbing her purse and heading for the door. She’d take a break, grab something to eat and maybe take a walk. Then she’d go home and work late. If she was lucky, she could head back to Kevin’s in the morning. Or late tonight, if she really pushed it.

Her heart jumped at the prospect of being in his arms again, despite all the warnings and worries she’d sorted through while she worked. Serena closed her eyes on a sigh—it seemed like she was going to be totally impractical when it came to Kevin. She could only hope they would both survive her folly.

She locked her doors and turned toward her driveway. It wasn’t until she was nearly at her car that she realized that something was wrong.

* * *

He was bored. He, who never tired of his own company. He, who found women attractive, interesting, and utterly forgettable. He, who could spend days in his studio with no human contact whatsoever.

He was bored. And—for the first time in his life—lonely.

Kevin groaned, swiped a hand over his face as he contemplated another night spent alone. He missed Serena. A lot. He missed everything about her, from her cool smile to her hot eyes. From her buttoned-up shirts to her silky lingerie. And he most definitely missed the incredible sounds she made just as she was about to cl**ax.

He put down his blowtorch and studied the sculpture in front of him. He’d been working night and day on it since they’d come back from San Diego. Though he had started it before they left, the true image for the piece had come to him in the Museum of Photography as he’d been buried deep inside Serena. In that moment after he’d come, when he’d gotten his first inkling about his true feelings for her, he’d gotten a clear picture in his mind of what he wanted for this piece. And as he studied the nearly completed sculpture he saw that the vision was as close to perfection as he could ever hope to achieve.

The heat of the furnace was getting to him, so he grabbed a cold beer and headed outside. Not that it was much cooler outside, but at least a breeze fluttered by occasionally, cooling the sweat from his skin.

He opened the beer and took a long swig before settling himself on the porch steps. It had been four days since he’d seen Serena—what he was rapidly coming to think of as the four longest days of his life. He’d worked sixteen-hour days in the studio, surfed the Net endlessly, even cleaned his house in the middle of the second night, though he had a housekeeper who came twice a week. He’d even chopped more wood, adding to the gargantuan pile he’d created when she’d left the first time. And he still couldn’t walk into his room without smelling her. Couldn’t sleep without dreaming about her. Couldn’t close his eyes without seeing her face on the back of his eyelids.