Free Just North of Bliss by Alice Duncan Page A

bawling
or anything, so Win guessed he wouldn’t reprimand Garrett. Anyhow,
he’d learned the hard way that parents didn’t appreciate
photographers administering disciplinary instructions to their
precious brats.
    Not that these two were brats. He hated to
admit it, but Belle had been right about them. It was late, they’d
been through an exciting and exhausting day, they’d just finished a
huge meal, and they needed to get to bed. “This won’t take long,”
he assured them all. “Stay still now, you two, and I’ll take the
picture.” He ducked under the black curtain, pulled the chain, the
flash powder exploded, and both children jumped, then squealed,
then giggled.
    “Good job, you two!” Win was quite satisfied
with them, as they’d waited until after the flash to move. “I think
the one shot will give me an idea as to how the two of you look in
a photograph. You can come down here and sit with your parents
now.” He braced himself and turned to face Belle. With the sweetest
smile he had in his repertoire, he said, “Your turn, Miss
Monroe.”
    “Very well.” After heaving a sigh that told
Win exactly how much she was looking forward to this ordeal—about
as much as she’d look forward to thumb screws or the rack—she
marched up to the platform, climbed the one short step, and turned
to face him.
    She reminded Win of a general facing
rebellious troops. He endeavored not to grimace or in any other way
convey his doubts about her. Those doubts grew larger by the
second, though. She was going to have to relax if his vision was
ever to come to fruition. “Um, can you put your handbag down, Miss
Monroe? You can set it down on the log, if you will.” She was
squeezing it to death, actually.
    With ill grace, she complied with his polite
request. When she turned to face him again, she lifted her chin,
set her lips, and stood as straight as a string. Win suppressed
another sigh with difficulty.
    Plastering an encouraging smile on his face,
he said quietly, “What I need for you to do now, Miss Monroe, is
pretend I’m not here.”
    The look she gave him at this suggestion
confirmed Win in his opinion of her as a self-conscious prig. He
didn’t give up. “Perhaps you can turn slightly, so that I have a
three-quarters view of you.”
    She did it reluctantly, but she did it. Win
decided to accept small gifts and hope they’d grow in time and with
enough verbal fertilizer. “And now, if you could bend over just a
little bit—as if you were tucking a beloved child into bed at
night.”
    Turning to face him again, she looked for a
moment as if she might rebel. Win braced himself. He got help from
an unexpected source.
    “You do that all the time, Miss Monroe. You
tuck us in every night. And you love us, don’t you?”
    Belle’s expression softened so suddenly and
unexpectedly that Win caught his breath. “Of course I do, Amalie,
darling.”
    “That’s it!” Win cried in mounting
excitement. If he could only get this woman to cooperate with him,
this series of photographs would be fantastic. It would be the
making of his career as an artistic photographer of international
repute. “That’s it exactly! Now, turn around again, the way you
were before, and bend over slightly.”
    After shooting him a scowl, thereby ruining
the expression Win had hoped to capture, Belle did the first part.
He wanted to stamp his feet when she didn’t bend over slightly—or
even at all. Restraining his impatience and irritation, he
requested once more, “All right. That’s the perfect angle, now bend
over slightly.”
    Still she refused to comply with his
request. A suspicion began forming in his mind. It was confirmed
only seconds later when Belle muttered through what looked like
seriously clenched teeth, “I can’t bend over, slightly or
otherwise. I can’t bend over at all.”
    Slumping with disappointment, Win grumbled,
“Corsets.”
    She spun around precipitately. “Well,
really! There’s no need for