Chapter One
As one of the most successful landscape photographers in the world, Chance Hathoway was used to capturing the unexpected. A guy had to be ready when Mother Nature decided she’d show you the full extent of her power, because that fickle deity didn’t approve of slackers. He was admittedly addicted to those rare, magical moments when he was granted a glimpse into the inner sanctums of pure beauty.
The evening he saw the woman walking out of Orchard Lake, water streaming down her smooth, naked skin, Chance figured Mother Nature had outdone herself.
He stood at the periphery of the forest photographing the setting sun over the wooded lake. The meadow grass and yellow daisies close to him provided ideal perspective and contrast texture to the calm water. Forty-five minutes ago the water had been peppered with falling rain, making it look like the lake was on a low boil. Presently, it was as smooth as glass. A hushed, soft silence prevailed in the aftermath of the storm. Sunlight clung in the humid air. The quality of the light could make a magnificent scene boring and a mediocre scene brilliant. The southern Illinois forest lake was pretty enough, but it was the saturated quality of the light that would make for some truly worthwhile images. Hopefully, anyway, Chance thought as he attached a wide-angle lens and began clicking off photographs.
He first saw her through the lens of his camera—a pair of lithesome arms breaking the liquid-mirror surface of the lake. He paused in his photo taking. The back of his neck tingled, and Chance knew instinctively that a special moment was about to unfold. He pressed with his finger repeatedly as she neared the shore. She drew close enough for him to make out the shape of her glistening calves and thighs as she kicked, propelling herself forward. He caught a glimpse of her buttocks, two round, pale globes skimming just beneath the surface of the water, breaking the surface every once in a while and teasing his senses. He felt his cock stir but continued to work with focus, capturing the essence of unexpected beauty.
When she got within thirty feet of the shore, he deftly changed his wide-angle lens to a telephoto and seamlessly resumed his photography. Something about her graceful, unhurried movements held him spellbound—a woman lost in the simple delight of a solitary summer swim, feeling the cool water licking her naked skin and the warm evening sun falling on her back.
She stood in the shallows, the water streaming down her dark hair, sloping shoulders and full breasts. Chance’s intense focus fractured. He just stared through the camera lens, his forefinger held still, his breath stuck in his lungs. She walked slowly toward shore, taking her time, her skin gilded by golden sunlight and gleaming with moisture.
His finger moved as if of its own volition, attempting to capture her image . . . her essence.
Does nature actually make women like this anymore? he thought, stunned. She was like a 1950s film goddess—large, shapely breasts with luscious-looking, dark pink nipples; a small waist; taut, smooth belly and round hips. Was she mad, walking around naked in the forest with a body like that? Chance considered himself a modern man, but blimey . . . If anything could bring out the caveman in a male, it would be her. It was a little hard not to think of totally inappropriate things in that moment, like tossing her over his shoulder, laying her down in the grass and claiming her female glory in the most ancient, primal way a man could.
Something about her vulnerability admittedly excited him. As she rose from the lake, he saw that the dark pubic hair between her long, shapely thighs had been trimmed very short.
Without telling himself to do it, he zoomed in. Blood pounded into his cock, making him hard and ready in an instant, when he saw drops of water clinging to pubic hair and plump sex lips. What would it be like to see them dripping with juices of arousal?
As she came within feet of the shore, he clicked off more photos. Her full breasts struck an erotic contrast to her delicate, narrow rib cage. They trembled slightly as she moved through the water. He knew in a rational sense that he was invading her privacy, but the moment wasn’t abo
ut logic or political correctness. Chance was a photographer. He could as easily have stopped himself from breathing as he could still his finger on his camera with such a miracle of unguarded feminine beauty standing before him.
His arousal mounted as the water level hit her knees and then her calves and more and more of her goddess-like form was revealed. He didn’t normally photograph humans. They were so contrived in comparison to landscapes and wild animals. But this woman—this magnificent creature—was an exception. She epitomized natural grace. Sex was a primal, crucial part of nature, after all.
And she was sex walking.
She stood in the shallows, panting softly from her exercise, and brought a tail of long, dark hair around her right shoulder. She squeezed, releasing the excess moisture. He could hear the water dripping into the lake, see the droplets sprinkle on her heaving breasts. She slid her hand over the back of her head and released a restraining band. Wavy wet tendrils of hair fell around her shoulders and chest, coming within an inch of her voluptuous breasts.
He knew the precise moment when she realized she was being observed. Had she heard the click of his camera? She went still. He focused on her face. Her wet pink lips parted in dawning surprise. Her eyes were large and brandy-colored. They were trained directly on him.
He stood and looked at her with his naked eye. About thirty-five feet separated them. He’d photographed many a wild animal in locations across the globe. It was always an intoxicating, almost eerie moment when an animal first noticed him and, for a second or two, their awareness—human and beast, object and subject—melded.
Meeting this woman’s stare sent a thrill through him unlike anything he’d ever known. What would she do? Rush over to him and yell at him for his presumption? Scream? As far as he knew, there wasn’t anyone near the deserted location in the woods. The recent storm had chased most of the hikers and fisherman out of the forest. Perhaps she’d run. Something about her almost preternatural stillness reminded him of an animal before it took flight.
But then her arms fell docilely to her sides and her spine straightened, causing her breasts to thrust forward slightly. Otherwise, she remained immobile, her gaze never leaving him. He didn’t know why, but her open, unmoving pose triggered something in him. He didn’t know for certain if her posture was an invitation. It felt like it, though.
He bent to the camera and doggedly continued an impossible task—to capture the essence of a goddess.
* * *
Sherona Legion had grown up in southern Illinois, and she knew Orchard Lake like she intimately knew every inch of her diner and every inhabitant of the tiny town of Vulture’s Canyon. Or at least she thought she knew her comfortable little corner of the universe. It was suddenly transformed into a mysterious, vast, exciting world when she walked out of Orchard Lake after her swim and saw the man at the edge of the forest photographing her.
For several seconds she stood stock-still, her muscles tensed and her heart starting to beat a throbbing alarm in her ears. She was easy prey. Thoughts of grabbing her clothing and making a dash for the forest raced past her consciousness, but then the man stood. He was a stranger to her. He was tall with shaggy, sandy blond hair. His skin was golden brown next to the white crewneck T-shirt he wore along with long army green canvas shorts and brown hiking boots. He apparently spent a lot of time outdoors, given that tan. His hips were narrow, but his chest and shoulders looked powerful. His athletic build, long legs and muscular calves told her loud and clear who would likely win if it came to a race.
A thrill of excitement went through her at the thought of him chasing her through the woods . . . catching her.
She blinked, shocked by her unexpected train of thought.
His hand remained on his camera, reminding her of the possessive, sure touch of a lover. Who was he? His clothing was outdoor casual, but along with his elaborate camera spoke of some degree of affluence.
All of these jumbled, anxious thoughts came to her in an instant as she stood there, naked and dripping with water, while he scored her with his stare. She should dress and demand he destroy the photos. Her gaze dropped over the front of his canvas shorts, and her breath burned in her lungs. Even from this distance, his arousal was obvious.
Heat rushed through her, the degree of it stunning her. She was vulnerable and naked. For some reason, his observation of her, the fact that he’d claimed her image both with his camera and naked eye, struck her as bold on his part. Dominant . . . exciting.