“Why the hell can’t people just leave me alone?” The man stumbled angrily toward the front door, irate at being forced to wake from his prescribed midday nap because some damn fool kept hammering on his door. He stubbed his bare toes on the deacon’s bench in the darkened hall and filled the air with a string of seething expletives, his fury echoing the crashing thunder of the approaching summer storm. The discolored scar over his right temple pulsated a staccato beat as he yanked open the door and glared at the impudent intruder.

The woman jumped back nervously; her hand had been raised to knock a fourth time.

He continued to stare at her from the shadows. “What the devil is it?” he barked. “Can’t you read?” He pointed to a Do Not Disturb sign fastened to the heavy oak barrier.

Ignoring his outburst, the woman forgot her momentary alarm and smiled serenely as she gazed upon his glowering countenance. “Matthew Duncan! What a pleasure finally to see you in person. I’ve waited so long, and now at last it’s come true. I’ve only seen your book jacket photographs.”

He sliced the air with an abrupt movement of his strong hand, signaling his agitation. “Well, I can’t say I’m glad to see you.” He swore silently. All he needed, on top of everything else, was a dimwitted groupie . . . or a would-be model willing to do absolutely anything for a chance at a job. Well, he’d take care of his unwanted caller in short order. He never lost control in any situation, and most were more challenging than this one. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

She continued to smile confidently; sure he would apologize for his abrupt manner as soon as he learned her identity. Besides, she had traveled too far and too long to be stopped now. “I’m Wilhelmina Theodore, Mr. Duncan,” she answered calmly. “Didn’t you get my last letter?”

An expression of annoyance coupled with tension flashed across his lean features as he thought of the stack of unopened mail on his desk. He had ignored everything these past few weeks, especially since his assistant was no longer there to help him wade through his correspondence. He’d have to field this one alone. “Look, Ms. Theodore.” Why did that name sound vaguely familiar? he wondered. “I don’t know you, and I certainly would remember any letter from a strange woman.” He purposefully emphasized the word strange. He was not above using intimidation to get rid of her.

“I’m your new intern.” She had the decency to blush at his gasp of disbelief. “I signed all my letters Billy Theodore,” she added quietly.

Billy watched in detached fascination as the light of recognition shone from Matthew’s hooded eyes. He lifted a well-defined brow, distorting an angry-looking scar at his temple. More ruggedly handsome than his photographs revealed, at close range his face was a roadmap of every disappointment, each challenge, and all his struggles against the odds. She wanted to photograph him . . . in natural light, she decided suddenly, simultaneously wondering what had caused his recent injury. Then the moment of quiet contemplation was past.

“You’re Billy Theodore?” His roared question was accompanied by a sharp crash of thunder.

She forced herself to stand her ground, but her body trembled with the combined force of human and natural elements. Her voice would not waver, she vowed. “Yes.”

Again his dark brow lifted, this time with suspicion. “What’s your little game, Ms. Theodore? I don’t use female assistants. Surely you knew that.”

“Of course I knew that,” she replied, taking a step forward, actually entering his personal space, but he didn’t flinch or step back. If ever there was a time for her to be strong and assertive, she thought, this was it. “I decided it was my turn to have an internship with the best photographer in the country. Maybe the world. Don’t you see, Mr. Duncan?” she asked persuasively. “It’s so clear. You approved my portfolio. You liked my work. You encouraged me to travel halfway across the United States for a three-month internship because you believed I was advanced enough to learn what you could teach me. I’m so eager to work--”

“No, I do not see your point!” he shouted, interrupting her in mid-sentence. “And the only thing that is clear to me is that you’re a little sneak. You’re just a girl who’s used lies to invade my peace and solitude.”

It was Billy’s turn to look disdainful. She drew herself to her full height and took a deep breath for control. But her blazing cat eyes narrowed, ready and alert for the ensuing battle. “I am not little, Mr. Duncan. Surely you noticed. I’m almost as tall as you. And I am no longer a girl. I’m a thirty-year-old woman. And a damn good photographer,” she added, lowering her voice a full octave. She would not fall victim to that neat chauvinistic trick of getting her to wail like a fishwife.

“You can’t deny my credentials,” she went on firmly. “You thought it would be a great opportunity for me to study with you. I still believe that. You can’t close your eyes to my skills simply because I’m a woman. I’ve fought that archaic attitude most of my life, and I’ve earned this chance to study with you.” Her voice carried the force of her determination to win this point. Pulling in another deep breath, she stood quietly before her idol, wait-ing for his rebuttal.

Matthew Duncan tried hard to control the grin tugging at his straight, serious mouth, but he was not totally successful. He could not deny that he admired her spunky, pugnacious spirit. Her attitude was reminiscent of his own during the long battle for artistic recognition. When a sudden gust of moist wind ruffled his thick, dark hair across his forehead, it carried with it the distinct essence of her musky fragrance. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the heady perfume, and he had to admit, at least to himself, that she interested him . . . as a student who had the will and desire to learn, but also because something had begun to stir in him as a man. She was a woman different in some way from any other he had met in the past. Again the wind blew across his face, carrying with it not only her scent, but the first mist of the storm.

“Get inside, wildcat,” he ordered. “This cloud-burst is likely to put out your blazing temper.” He turned around and walked away, tossing another command over his broad shoulder, which strained against a soft blue polo shirt. “Close the door and follow me.” He led the way into the living room and immediately sat down in a large, comfortable chair.

Billy trailed behind him, muttering under her breath, scorning his ungentlemanly behavior. But her disapproval evaporated the moment she entered the spacious cathedral-ceilinged living room. Quietly she circled the great room. The only sounds were the wind and rain lashing against the building and the gentle riff of her worn corduroy jeans as she walked. She felt his intense gaze tracking her until she moved behind him. She stopped at the large window facing west and looked out over the rolling Ozark Mountains, watching the lightning flash across the lush valleys while the accompanying thunder caused the sturdy log walls of the house to vibrate. The view was breathtaking. The house hung on the very edge of the mountain peak.

Turning back to the room, Billy admired an imposing native stone fireplace located on the opposite wall, surrounded by an overstuffed couch and three chairs that were anchored by heavy oak tables and brass lamps. Muted-colored braided rugs which looked to be handmade covered sec-tions of the wide-planked floor. The stuccoed walls were accented by large oak-framed Matthew Duncan photographs, several of which Billy counted among her favorites. Raising her eyes, she followed the rough-hewn crossbeams to their source, where they supported an open loft area. She could see a cozy sleeping area, a spartanly furnished study, and a closed door she suspected was to a bathroom. Back on the main floor to the left, French doors curtained in beige homespun fabric opened to an invitingly large old-fashioned kitchen. Another area at the front of the house was dark, but she surmised that this hallway led to the master bedroom. Her tranquil observation of the house’s interior came to an abrupt end when Matthew sighed with agitation.

“Well, do you like it?” His question carried both a demand for her honesty and a wistful note of anticipation.

She circled the room again, coming to a stop by the fireplace. “It’s lovely,” she replied in a breathy whisper that somehow caused the dark hair on Matthew’s forearms to stand to electric attention. “Your home is rustic, but it’s comfortable. It all blends, just as the house itself seems to fit into the surrounding wooded land. You had a fine architect and interior designer.”

He couldn’t keep the pleased expression from his face. Even in the half-light she could see his smile. “I did both myself.” He motioned quickly with his right hand. “Sit down over there on the couch.” When she was seated he asked if she had any difficulty finding his place.

“Not a bit,” she answered, chuckling. “Of course, every shopkeeper and service station attendant in Eureka Springs knows where I was heading. You really are hidden away.”

“I like it that way. It keeps away the pests of the world.” When she didn’t answer, he asked if she was comfortable.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she told him calmly. This was no time to feel ill-at-ease, even if she was travel-weary, and her jeans and gold cotton shirt were rumpled from the long hours behind the wheel of her van.

His dark eyes burned into her until she began to feel truly uncomfortable! His face was shadowed and she couldn’t see his expression clearly. Why didn’t the man turn on some lights? she wondered. He was trying some sort of psychological maneuver, she decided, so watch it, she told herself. Then she actually jumped in surprise when next he spoke.

“All right. Start at the beginning . . . and no more lies.”

“I don’t lie, Mr. Duncan,” she countered indignantly. “You didn’t ask my sex. And I didn’t volunteer the information. It’s as simple as that.”

He grinned again and nodded his head in recognition of her ability to support her position. “A little issue of omission then,” he agreed. “Point taken, Billy. Now tell me the rest of it.”

He remembered when he’d begun his climb to success. Magazine editors and advertising agency moguls were so smitten with his photographs they hadn’t bothered to ask where he’d gotten his training, and he hadn’t volunteered that he was self-educated. He’d read almost every book on photography in the St. Louis public library and had haunted the best photographic supply houses in town, gleaning free advice from the proprietors whenever he could. At night he waited tables at an exclusive downtown restaurant, using a small part of his wages and tips to survive and the rest to buy equipment and supplies. Yes, he could understand her reasoning, and he relaxed into his chair . . . and waited.

When Billy saw that he was at least going to give her the opportunity to state her case, she slid back on the tweed cushions. She sensed this would be her one and only chance to convince him to let her stay. She had to make the most of his decision to listen.

“You’ve already seen samples of my work,” she began. “And you know I graduated with honors from the California School of Photography in San Diego a year ago. You may wonder why I earned my degree at a later age than most.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“I put my younger sister through college first,” she explained. “She’s a teacher now for handicapped children.”

“And she’s a damn good teacher, I suppose,” he commented in a teasing tone, echoing her earlier statement about herself.

“Andy is one of the best,” she said with pride, missing his gentle jab. “Her students love her.”

He chuckled, delighted at her lioness’s protective stance over her cub sister. Sister? he thought suddenly. “What kind of weird streak runs in your family anyway? You call yourself Billy and your sister is Andy? Strange!”

She matched his humor with a sensual laugh that sent shivers along Matthew’s spine in retaliation. “Not so strange, Mr. Duncan. Each time my mother got pregnant, my dad looked forward to a boy. You know, the need for male heirs and all that. So when Andy and I arrived on the scene, Mom cheered him up by giving us diminutives of first his name, William, and then her father’s name, Andrew. It was Dad who nicknamed us Billy and Andy. Of course, we think Mom expected that solution all along.”

“Did your parents ever give you a brother?”,

“Nope. We’re the whole family.”

“And quite a handful at that, I suspect.”

She rose at once to his bait. “Unfair, Mr. Duncan. My sister and I are very nice people.”

He flashed that perfect smile again, but ignored her defense. “I think you’d better start calling me Matthew. You’re making me feel like an old man.”

“You’re not old. You’re not even forty.”

“You slipped up on your research, babe. I went over the hill a few months ago. When’s your birthday?” he asked.

“I was thirty last week . . . and I know I’ve still got a long way to go.” A humble comment wouldn’t hurt, she thought.

Although Matthew would never admit to an interest in astrology, he did some quick calculations and knew she was a Leo. Usually tall, sensual, with tawny eyes and regal bearing, their hair was often sun-streaked and thick. Interesting, he thought. “Do you like being called Billy?” He moved to a more comfortable position in his chair, unaware that his faded jeans strained across his muscled thighs, drawing Billy’s attention to his strong legs and bare feet.

She shrugged her shoulders and forced her eyes back to his chiseled features, still trying to see through the shadows to read his expression. “It’s my name.” Suddenly struck with a new thought, she added, “You know, we have something else in common besides an intense interest in photography. We have the same kind of names.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, but leaned forward with interest just the same.

“You have two first names. Matthew Duncan. I have two first names. Wilhelmina Theodore. That’s very good luck. Did you know that?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard about it.”

“Your first name means gift of God . . . and come to think of it, that’s what my last name means too. Your last name means bold warrior.”

“And what does your first name mean?”

“Resolute, purposeful, determined, bold, and faithful.”

“I might have known,” he muttered softly.

“Anyway, Mom always said anyone with two first names would have the best of luck,” she concluded, smiling at her belief in her good fortune.

Matthew wanted to argue with her, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Right now he believed luck was the dirtiest four-letter word in the dic-tionary. “You speak of your mother in the past tense.”

“She died last year. A heart attack,” she answered shortly.

“I’m truly sorry, Billy. And your father?”

“He died when Andy and I were teenagers.”

“So both your parents are gone.”

She straightened her shoulders and looked sadly past Matthew, out the window at the flashes of lightning in the sky. “Yes.”

“And that’s why you sacrificed your own studies in favor of your younger sister’s.” He thought he sensed a great deal more than she was aware of revealing.

“I didn’t sacrifice a thing, Mr. D--Matthew,” she said. “I’m right where I want to be.” She pulled her eyes back to his relaxed form. “Can we please get on with this interview? I want to stay with you. I want to learn. I have the ability to assimilate everything you’re willing to share with me about dark-room procedures or technique and style. I’ll work hard, Matthew. I promise you I’ll work harder and learn faster than any assistant you’ve ever had.” Her voice rang with conviction.

But Matthew’s mind was dwelling on other things. He could still occasionally detect a hint of her essence. The entire room seemed to carry her scent. It wasn’t an overpowering fragrance. It tantalized. And her voice was low and cultured, yet carried with it a thread of determination and strength. His mind had fastened on one short sentence in her long speech-I want to stay with you.

With an intensity that shook him to the core, he knew he wanted her to stay too. He chided himself for opening his secluded life to a woman who would have to live upstairs in his loft, so near .... He pushed the warning of sensible thought away. Right now, at this difficult time in his life, he needed someone like Billy. Someone who could take away some of the pain of his recent disruption. He continued to stare across the space at her. He could hear the thunder rumbling off into the distance, and the sun broke through the clouds as the storm passed overhead. The slanted beams of light warmed the back of his neck on their way to a blazing sunset behind the far mountains.

“Have you ever modeled, Billy?”

Taken aback by his out-of-left-field question, she answered hesitantly. “As a matter of fact, I have. I earned extra money as a photographer’s model.”

“What kind?” His voice was sharp with curiosity.

“Portrait.”

“Oh!”

She laughed as the full meaning of his questions sank into her spinning brain. Her full-throated chuckle raised the hair on the back of his tanned neck and he frowned in consternation.

“Strictly head shots,” she volunteered. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if you were experienced.” Only his quick mind saved him from embarrassment over his unaccountable feelings of jealousy and possessiveness, and he wasn’t at all sure he’d fooled her. When she laughed even harder at his reply, he backtracked and realized his blunder. “Damn! I wasn’t interrogating you about your personal life, Billy.” He sputtered, floundering for his usual easy banter. “I just wanted to know if you’d had any experience as a model. I might want to use you.”

She pounced on the words. “You mean I can stay?”

Matthew could not believe the enthusiasm in her voice, how much she wanted this opportunity to learn at his side. But could he do it? Now, when life had dealt him such a rotten hand? “I don’t know yet. I want to see your bone structure. Come over here where the light is better.”

She got up quickly and came to stand before him. He lifted his face to look into hers. Drat, she fumed silently. His face was still caught in dark-ness while hers was illuminated as if the setting sun were a key light. She wanted to ask if she could turn on the nearby table lamp, but she didn’t want to break his concentration. Her main concern was convincing him to let her stay to study with him- the master, in her eyes.

She bit the inside of her cheeks when he asked her to come down to his eye level. How appropriate! she thought. Kneeling at the master’s feet was exactly where she wanted to be, ready to listen to his words, willing to give all her energies in her commitment to his lessons.

“Give me your hands,” he ordered her quietly. It never occurred to her to refuse. “You have strong hands, Billy.” He stroked her long, tapered fingers and tested her grip. “They’re a woman’s hands, but filled with strength and sensitivity.” In one fluid movement he sat straighter in his chair and placed her hands on his denim-clad thighs, pressing them firmly against the taut fabric.

“Now, let’s have a look at your bone structure. Yes, this is very good lighting for your face,” he said, gently beginning to trace her hairline and run his strong fingers through her heavy mane. “You have thick, lustrous hair. Silky. That’s always a plus.” Tenderly he cupped her face from her cheeks to her forehead. “Just as I thought. You have exquisite bone structure.” His sweet, warm breath flowed over her skin, mesmerizing her with his touch while he spoke a litany of her features. “Wide, intelligent forehead. Well-defined brows.” She was forced to close her eyes when he touched her lids. He sighed in satisfaction. “Ah, cat’s eyes. Marvelous. And sculpted cheekbones. Your nose is just pert enough so your features can’t be described as totally classic. I like that.” She bridled at his words, but he only held her face a degree more firmly and continued his examination. “You have a strong jawline. You must come from very good stock.”

“I feel like a horse being put up for trade,” she snapped. “Do you want to see my teeth now?”

“Shhh!” He reprimanded her softly. “Not yet.” He drew one finger in a gentle touch across her full, sensual lips. Involuntarily they parted on a sigh. What was happening here? she wondered. Alarm bells rang in a distant part of her whirling brain. Somehow he was intruding upon her tranquil inner self with his wondrously sensitive fingertips.

She had to say something-anything-to break the spell he was weaving around her.

But it was just at that moment that he lifted his hands back to her eyes, making her close them again. “You have very long, thick lashes. They pho-tograph well, as a rule.” He then moved on to her ears. “Small and well-shaped. Good.”

She couldn’t stand the strain another moment. Unaware that she had taken hold of his thighs in a fierce grip, she blinked her eyes open and blurted a waspish retort. “Just don’t think I don’t hear every word my teacher says . . . the first time.” She was determined to end this disquieting experience and get back to the subject at hand. “Please, Matthew. Don’t send me away. Please say I can stay.”

In uncharacteristic dejection he dropped his hands to her shoulders and pressed his fingers tightly into her flesh. “I don’t know if I can. Billy.” She continued to search his shadowed face, trying desperately to read his guarded features. She watched as he looked into the distance. The alarm bells were clanging in an almost deafening cacophony inside her head. What was it? What was the matter?

Fate stepped in at that moment and showed her the truth. The setting sun suddenly bounced off the brass lamp near her side, reflecting a sharp, glaring light directly into his line of vision. He didn’t move his head, nor did he squint against the brilliant flash. Billy’s insides shriveled and convulsed. Groping for his hands, she brought them swiftly to her lips, crying out in a soft voice full of primal pain.

“Oh, dear God! You’re blind!”

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