âLetâs talk about you.â
âFine,â Rafe said, his head whirling. Did sperm live for a full day? He was pretty sure it was possibleâ¦but the odds werenât on his side.
Werenât on his side? Was he mad? He should have been relieved. He didnât really want to be a father, did he? Did he?
He looked at Isabel and realized he did. With her, anyway.
The realization took his breath away.
He reefed his eyes away and stared down at the pool. Stared and stared and stared. And then his eyes flung wide. Who would have believed it?
âRafe? Rafe, whatâs wrong? You look like youâve seen a ghost or something.â
âPLEASE, Rafe. My reputation for reliability is on the line here.â
Rafe sighed. Les had to be really desperate to ask him to do this. His ex-partner knew full well the one job heâd hated when theyâd been in the photographic business together was covering weddings. Where Les enjoyed the drama and sentiment of the bride and groomâs big day, Rafe found the whole wedding scenario irritating in the extreme. The pre-ceremony nerves got on his nerves, as did all the hugging and crying that went on afterwards.
Rafe was not a big fan of women weeping.
On top of that, it was impossible to be seriously creative when the criterion was simply to capture every single moment of the day on film, regardless. Rafe, the perfectionist, had loathed having to work with the possibilities that the weather might be rotten, the settings difficult and the bridal party hopelessly unphotogenic.
As a top-flight fashion and magazine photographer, Rafe now had control over everything. The sets. The lighting. And above allâ¦the models. When you shot a wedding, you had control over very little.
âI presume you canât get anyone else,â Rafe said, resignation in his voice.
âThe weddingâs on Saturday, exactly a fortnight from today,â Les explained. âYou know how popular Saturday weddings are. Every decent photographer in Sydney will already be booked.â
âYeah. Yeah. I understand. Okay, so what do you want me to do?â
âThe brideâs due at your place at noon today.â
Rafeâs eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was eleven fifty-three. âAnd what if Iâd refused?â
âI knew you wouldnât let me down. You might be the very devil with women, but youâre a good mate.â
Rafe shook his head at this back-handed compliment. So heâd had quite a few girlfriends over the years. So what? He was thirty-three years old, a better-than-average-looking bachelor who spent his days photographing bevies of beautiful women, a lot of whom were also single. It was inevitable that their ready availability, plus his active libido, would keep the wheels turning where his relationships were concerned.
But he wasnât a womaniser. He had one girlfriend at a time, and he never lied or cheated. He just didnât want marriage. Or children. Was that a crime? It seemed to be in some peopleâs eyes.
Rafe wished his married friendsâlike Lesâwould understand that not everyone wanted the same things out of life.
âJust give me some details before the bride actually arrives,â he said a tad impatiently, âso I wonât look a right Charlie.â
âOkay, her name is Isabel Hunt. Sheâs thirtyish, blonde and beautiful.â
âLes, you think all your brides are beautiful,â Rafe said drily.
âAnd so they are. On the day. But this one is beautiful all the time. Youâre going to enjoy photographing Ms Hunt, I promise you. Or should I say, Mrs Freeman. The lucky girl is marrying Luke Freeman, the only son and heir of Lionel Freeman.â
âIs that supposed to mean something to me? Who the hell is Lionel Freeman, anyway?â
âTruly, Rafe, youâre a complete philistine when it comes to subjects other than food, the Phantom and photography. Lionel Freeman was one of Sydneyâs most awarded architects. Poor chap was killed in a car accident a couple of weeks back, along with his wife, so tread easily with the groom when you finally meet him.â
âPoor bloke. What rotten luck.â Rafeâs own father had been killed in a car crash when Rafe had been only eight. It had been a difficult time in his life, one he didnât like dwelling on.
âOh-oh. I just heard a car pull up outside. The bride-to-be, I gather, and right on time. I hope sheâs just as punctual on her wedding day. Now what about money, Les? What do you charge for a wedding these days?â
âA lot less than you could command, my friend. But Iâm afraid youâll have to settle for my fee. Itâs already been agreed upon and the full amount paid up front. If you give me your bank account number, Iâllâ¦â
âNo, donât bother,â Rafe broke in, not caring about the money this once. Les might need it. He wouldnât be running around covering too many weddings with a broken leg. âYou can owe me one. Just donât ask again, buddy. Not where a wedding is concerned. Must go. The doorbellâs ringing. Iâll call you back after the brideâs gone. Let you know what I thought of her.â