Eleanor sucked in a breath, but she couldn’t really object, not with Serrano standing right behind him. The photographer had obviously been given strict instructions to clear the scene.
One by one we trailed into the house.
“Damn that Roos. Now we can’t see anything either,” Eleanor grumbled as I pulled the door to the kitchen closed behind us. “What a spoilsport. And why the hell did you have to be so efficient and cover up all the windows, Daisy?”
The tastefully remodeled carriage house had the same heavy ceiling beams as the garage, but the whitewashed walls and exposed stonework were softened with paintings of rustic subjects like a folk art pig, and there were top-quality Persian area rugs covering most of the stone floors. It was a simple layout. A huge sleeping loft and a sitting room above, and a good-size living room, dining room, and kitchen with walk-in fireplace downstairs.
Ruth Bornstein, the owner of this estate, was standing at the maple wood kitchen counter making a fresh pot of coffee. She had more connections than a crocheted shawl and had talked the photographer into doing the shoot for a cut-rate price. The gorgeous fieldstone building served both as his studio and temporary living quarters.
She grinned at our downcast expressions. “Don’t despair, my friends. All is not lost.”
Ruth made a beckoning motion, and we followed her to an alcove off the kitchen that was set up as an office. It also housed a closed-circuit TV system. She poked the power button on the computer monitor and it flickered into life, showing a quadrant of pictures of the front of the house, the back door, the main gate, and the interior of the garage.
There was quite a bit of pushing and shoving so everyone could get into a good viewing position before the show started.
We didn’t have long to wait.
Serrano didn’t bother going back to the changing area to don a robe or a towel like the other guys. He simply pulled off his tie right where he stood and stripped off his shirt while we held our collective breath.
Even in a grainy black-and-white image, the hard-muscled body was awe-inspiring.
“Good God,” Martha said.
The nighttime gray hues accented the rippled stomach and strong biceps that flexed as he moved, like a prowling mountain cat that wastes no energy, but is a focused, tightly coiled killing machine.
I swallowed, but there was no moisture left in my throat.
As Serrano slowly reached for his belt buckle, he glanced in the direction of the security camera, and it seemed as though his eyes met mine. Roos triggered the strobes to test the light meter near Serrano’s face, and the resultant flash made my heart bounce.
With shaking fingers I turned the monitor off, suddenly ashamed of myself.
Serrano was my friend, above all else, and not only was I betraying our friendship, but his hard-won trust in me with such giddy, schoolgirl behavior. “We shouldn’t be spying on the man like this. We’re just a bunch of sick old women getting our jollies.”
“And you’re jolly annoying.” Eleanor pouted and slumped back in a chair, crossing her arms over her narrow chest.
“Daisy, why don’t you come up to the house with me and visit with Stanley while the shoot is going on?” Ruth urged.
“Okay.” My heart was still racing.
“We’ll clean up here when it’s all over, dear,” Martha said to Ruth. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
As we left the room, I thought I could hear the whir of the monitor starting up again.
I grabbed my coat from the kitchen, and Ruth and I walked the short distance up the curving driveway toward the magnificent main house.