Page 46 of Highland Games
‘It?’ asked Rory.
‘Your hair!’ said Zoe, flushing to her roots.
Fiona grabbed a chair and Rory sat down with a thump.
‘I don’t think even I could tame this,’ she said, spraying on water, then deftly arranging his hair with a wide comb, whilst he sat woodenly, staring out into the middle distance. ‘He’s all yours, Zoe,’ said Fiona, stepping back and taking Liam off her.
Rory stood. ‘Right. Let’s get this over and done with.’
Zoe looked at her camera for moral support. ‘Okay. Let’s begin by having you by the window.’
His features beat any landscape hands down. The cool north light coming in from outside accentuated the sweep of his strong jaw, the bump on the bridge of his nose, the long lashes framing his luminous eyes. Every line, every curl, every part of him was a work of savage art, the imperfections creating a perfect whole. The more photos she took of him, the more she knew this was right. He personified the castle.
She moved him to one of the thrones at the end of the hall, removing the second one and placing him in the middle of the dais. She had him sit, his legs apart, the fabric of the kilt resting between his enormous thighs. The look she was going for was undiluted confidence and power. The fact his shirt was undone and he had work boots on only added an extra layer of sex. She knew the images were pure filth. If he saw them as she did then he would never allow her to use them, but she was going to take the chance anyway.
She moved him into different poses and got Fiona to bring up the sword. When Rory took it and pointed the blade into the floor, casually resting his hand on the hilt, Zoe let out a squeak, unable to contain her visceral reaction. ‘Watch the floor!’ she said breathlessly.
She took more photos, then the three of them climbed up to the castle tower, Rory carrying the flag and the sword, Fiona carrying Liam. At the foot of the tower the steps got older, narrower and more uneven.
Fiona stopped. ‘You two go on, I don’t want to take Liam up there.’
‘Okay, we won’t be long,’ said Zoe and she made her way up the tower after Rory, holding the cold stonework for support.
They exited through a trap door onto the flat roof of the turret. A pole was the only decoration, a tattered flag with the MacGinley coat of arms at the top, fluttering in the breeze.
‘Okay, what now?’ Rory sighed.
‘I want to do similar shots to what we did in the hall, then we’ll bring the flag out and have a play around with that.’
Despite his grim expression he was the perfect model, anticipating what Zoe might need and improvising when she wasn’t sure. She unfurled the flag and had him standing, looking out over the battlements, holding it in one hand, the sword in the other. The breeze lifted the flag and his curls, giving life to a man who was so strong he could have been part of the tower.
Zoe put her camera down and paused.
‘Do you want me to take off my shirt?’ he asked.
Zoe dropped her head. ‘Only if you don’t mind,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Are you going to laugh again if I do?’
Zoe nodded. ‘Probably. It’s nothing to do with you, it’s just the stress of the situation. You’re a very, er, fine example of a man,’ she muttered to her feet.
Rory grinned. ‘I’ll take that. Coming from you, fine is the best compliment I could ever hope for. It’s a big step up from hobo.’
In her peripheral vision she saw a white shirt land on the ground and her heart sped up so fast the pounding in her ears was deafening. She willed her shaking fingers to be still and brought the camera up, only looking through the lens, never at Rory directly.
Even through the tiny viewfinder, he was larger than life. No classical statue could ever compete with the godlike perfection of his body. At the base of his torso, indentations ran from each side to vanish into the top of the kilt, a small line of brown hair following them down from his navel.
Zoe’s breathing became more uneven and a hiccup burst out of her.
Rory raised his head to the clouds. ‘Come on,’ he said, resignedly. ‘Let it all out.’
Zoe began wheezing as she inhaled, trying to get air in when all she wanted to do was laugh till she collapsed. She bent over, trying to protect the camera. Rory stepped forward, taking it from her and pulling the strap gently off her curls.
She dropped to her knees, clasping her sides as if trying to relieve a stitch. Rory crouched down beside her and touched her shoulder. ‘You okay?’
She shook her head violently and put her hand out to signal him to go away. He stepped back to give her space. Eventually, the laughter petered out, and her breathing slowed. ‘It’s gone now. I’m sorry.’
Rory looked at her wryly. ‘I’ve never had this effect on a woman before, but now I’m kind of used to it.’
