Page 22 of Frost and Venom

Just outside at the front of the barn, where one door was off and one hung precariously, more vines wound their way up toward the eaves and roof, glistening in the early morning sun. The ground below was highlighted with webs that covered holes or entrances to small crevices created by rocks. She’d caught three large rattlesnakes curled up in the denser rocks she hadn’t even spotted or focused the camera on. In the photographs, the snakes blended into the rocks and could only be partially seen. One had to look very closely, which made the photograph all the more intriguing.

“Misha,” she whispered aloud. “This is pure gold. The way the sun is highlighting the frost caught in the webs on the ground, and the snakes are shadowed and hidden in the rocks, is a perfect combination. Frost and venom. That’s what I’ll call it.”

Excitement rushed through her the way it did when she knew she was onto something extraordinary. Her mind immediately began to consider various ways to enhance the photograph while keeping the mystery of the snakes, webs and vines dripping in frost taking over the dilapidated barn.

She lost herself for another two hours, studying the series of pictures to determine which ones she could use and how best to get the effect she wanted for a gallery-worthy photograph. It took Misha crying at her for her to remember to drink water and wander out into the sitting area.

“You can use the doggie door, Misha,” she reminded as she opened the door for her dog. “You’re such a princess. Every other dog in the world uses a doggie door, but not you. You want me to wait on you.”

“And you do.” The male voice was low and held a velvety amusement very much at Harlow’s expense.

She nearly jumped out of her skin. Misha hadn’t even alerted. She glared at the little beagle. “For all you know, he could have been a serial killer.”

“She knows me,” Wilder said, stepping out of the shadows right into her space. “She’s a smart girl. She isn’t going to waste energy barking like a crazy dog. That’s beneath her. Far too much dignity.”

Harlow laughed. “She’s a beagle. I’m not sure beagles have tremendous dignity. She’s a bit of a clown. What in the world are you doing here?”

“Doc told me I needed more exercise, said walking would be good for me. I wanted to walk this evening with you, but you didn’t come back. I figured you must have found something exciting in that camera of yours and hoped you’d let me see.”

Harlow liked that he wanted to see what she was doing. Photography was a huge part of who she was. Her friends were always interested in what she did, but none of them had ever come to her home specifically to see her process, even knowing she was very, very excited about a few of the photos she’d taken.

She stepped back to allow Wilder inside. Her studio was very spacious with all the glass, high ceilings and square footage, yet Wilder somehow managed to take up an inordinate amount of space. Or maybe she just couldn’t breathe properly because he was looking around her studio, taking everything in. Taking her in. Seeing her. This place was all about who she was. What she loved. She hadn’t realized how vulnerable she would feel.

The studio was where she was fully herself. She didn’t put on a mask. Everything in the studio was her. Wilder waited for her invitation to be shown around, but he took in everything with his eyes. She knew him well enough to know he saw everything. No detail would be missed, and once it was in Wilder’s memories, it was burned there for all time.

“Harlow?” He stepped close to her, both hands cupping her face, tilting her head up so she had little choice but to look at him. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. If you’re not comfortable with me being in your studio, I can sit outside and wait for you. I’m not in a hurry, and you can take all the time you need or want to work.”

He was doing it again, disarming her. Stripping her of her hard-won armor. He did it so easily with that gentle, low tone, the intensity of his eyes and the mesmerizing sweep of his thumb against her bare skin. Her body wanted to trust him. Her mind…

She’d lived her entire childhood with nothing but lies. She was an observer and had paid close attention to everything said or done in her household. In the campaign offices. The illusion of the perfect family had held for the public. No one ever seemed to notice the bruises on a small child, or they dismissed them, saying how active she was.

No one working in the household ever protested the strict calorie-counting meals doled out carefully to a small child or wondered why private instructors came daily to insist she learn everything from gymnastics to yoga, practicing for hours on end to maintain the ideal body weight. Most people thought that little girl was privileged and perhaps even envied her for the various skills she acquired.

Harlow found she couldn’t look away from Wilder’s compelling gaze. He wanted truth between them. Well, she could give him that much. “I used to look at the photographers who spent so much time with us, documenting everything my parents wanted them to see. The camera shouldn’t lie if you’re good at your job, but somehow none of them noticed anything wrong.”

His thumb might drive her mad with those soothing, caressing strokes on her skin. It felt too much like genuine caring. When her mother would finally come into her room hours after her father’s tirade, she would gather Harlow into her arms and murmur how she had to learn to behave in public, how lucky she was that her parents loved her so much and gave her so much, but when small things were asked of her, she had to get it right. The tone was always gentle, sounding like genuine caring, as if she were attempting to soothe Harlow, but the words struck like lances. Her father was never wrong for hitting her or calling her names. She was the one at fault because she didn’t live up to his expectations.

“I think from the time I was very young, I wondered why those cameras didn’t see what they should have. How they didn’t capture the monster. Monsters,” she corrected herself. It had always been difficult for her to condemn her mother. She told herself her father was charismatic and she was under his spell, but the truth was her mother was culpable. She was every bit as guilty as her father for the crimes he committed. It was possible Harlow was as well.

Wilder transferred his hold to her nape, curling his palm and fingers around her neck. It should have felt like a collar, but his hold made her feel safe in a way she’d never felt. She didn’t trust it, and she didn’t want to ever fall into the trap of believing in someone who could shatter her fragile self-esteem and hard-won independence. That meant she had to guard herself against longing for a relationship. Or a family. Wilder was a temptation she couldn’t afford.

“There you go, mon rêve, shutting down when we were just getting somewhere. Talk to me about your photography. Your photographs are stunning. I can’t imagine that the lens you’re looking through lies to anyone.”

She stepped away from him and walked into the middle of her space. The high ceilings and spacious interior allowed her to breathe again when she wasn’t in such close contact with him. “That’s a kind thing to say, Wilder. I didn’t realize you’d ever looked at my photography work.”

He hesitated, and she spun around to look at him. It wasn’t like Wilder to be shy about his answers. He was a confident man. Hesitation from him was a little alarming because it was so out of character. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t want to sound like a stalker,” he admitted, giving her a rueful grin.

Her stomach did a little flip at the sight of that sheepish smile. “I already know you have stalker tendencies.”

“I’ve visited every gallery where your work is for sale,” he admitted. “It’s truly incredible.”

Her stomach did that annoying flip again. She ducked her head, afraid he could read her too easily. “Then I’m going to take it as a compliment.” Despite her resolve not to get involved with him, she couldn’t help liking that he appreciated her work. Even that he’d gone to the trouble of finding the galleries selling her photos and visiting them.

Harlow didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth. Over the years, she’d learned to hear lies. She might not always be accurate, but she was close.

“Babe, you can show me around when you feel more comfortable. This is your sanctuary. I want to see your studio because this space is all you, but you have every right to ask me to wait. Or not show it to me at all.”