LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t bother to look up from her viewfinder. “I just bet they do.” She rattled off the shots until the air cleared. “We’ve got to get you moving again.” She snapped her fingers. “But hold on a sec.” She looked for the same lanky techie who had helped her out earlier. “Why don’t you rustle up a pair of skates for me? Size eight.”

      Jason stopped making lazy eights with his stick. “You skate?”

      “It’s been a while, but I think I’ll be good enough.” Claire looked around the rink. The last time she was on skates was when she was a teenager. She’d been in Holland with Big Jim. They’d just come back from Thailand, and as Big Jim exclaimed—Big Jim never just said anything; he always had to announce it to the world—“It’s colder than a witch’s tit.” In Big Jim’s mind that meant it was prime time for drinking and outdoor sports. The exact order of which tended to get a little fuzzy. “We’re here in Hans Brinker country, Claire-y,” she remembered him proclaiming. “We’ve got to skate on the canals.”

      And skate they did, along with scores of Dutch parents and their laughing children. The hours on the frozen ice were followed by hours in a pub, with Big Jim putting away endless bottles of beer and regaling the clientele with a bottomless well of tales.

      “You sure you’re up to it?” Jason’s voice penetrated her memories.

      Claire looked over. “No problem. Look, here comes Elaine.” She nodded toward Trish’s assistant and slid across the rink. At the bench, she quickly laced up. Her feet felt uncomfortable as she wiggled her ankles. “Well, here goes nothing.”

      Claire’s first steps on the ice were tentative. Then she relaxed her knees and quickly built up a rhythm of pushing off and gliding, an easy rocking from one skate to the other. She circled in a wide arc near the entrance to the rink, picked up speed and skated back to the center of the ice where Jason stood in the face-off circle.

      Jason watched her as she approached. “Not bad.”

      “I’m no Sonja Henje, let alone Wayne Gretzky, but it’ll do.” She picked up her camera in both hands. “Listen, ditch the jersey.”

      Jason held the uniform top by the V-neck. “This?”

      “That’s right.” Claire made a throwing motion with her hand.

      “You’re the boss.” Jason slipped it over his head, leaving only the tight black T-shirt—and very little else—to the imagination.

      An “ohmygod!” was audible from where Trish was standing by the boards. Then a clump. Claire looked over and saw her bending to retrieve her cell phone.

      “Just think what could happen if I went further?” Jason dipped a hand under the bottom edge of his T-shirt and started to lift.

      Claire caught a glimpse of his granite-smooth stomach muscles. She swallowed with difficulty. “No, I think you’ve gone far enough. I wouldn’t want Trish to end up face forward.”

      “I’m fully qualified at CPR. Trish would be in good hands.”

      And she was sure that Trish would be only too willing to take a dive to test out his claim. Which, come to think of it, was just what she had in mind originally. So why did she find herself wanting to see Jason practice his life-resuscitating skills on her, instead of her best friend? Down, girl, down, she admonished.

      “Hold that thought. You can play doctor later,” she said. “Guys—” she motioned to the crew “—spread the lights up and down the rink, away from the boards. And, Jason, I want you to skate straight down the ice, not too fast. I’ll skate along with you. I want you to be handling the puck. Look ahead, like you’re planning a shot on goal.”

      He took off slowly. “Like this?”

      “You can go a little faster. Good. That’s it. Keep looking ahead. You can talk if you want.”

      He handled the puck deftly. “So how come you didn’t ask me to take off my shirt, but you gave Clyde Allthorpe the go-ahead?”

      “I didn’t have to ask.”

      Jason stopped abruptly, the edges of his blades leaving a layer of white powder. “He was already au naturel?”

      Claire kept her eye in the viewfinder. “Don’t stop. Keep going. And no, he was not au naturel, as you put it. He was swimming with his fiancée, Donna. And he was wearing swimming trunks—little tiny ones. Bright blue. Very cute.”

      “I can imagine.” Jason didn’t sound all that pleased.

      “No, don’t look at me. Straight ahead. That’s it. Great. Anyway, like I said, they were just getting out of the pool when I took the photo. They’d been swimming together, very happy. Over the top, actually. Their wedding was the next day. In fact, I was there to shoot their wedding.”

      “You were on assignment?”

      “Not exactly. I’d met Clyde when he was on an aid mission to Ethiopia. We hit it off, and he asked me if I’d shoot his wedding. It was all very hush-hush, no announcements. When the press got a whiff of it, Clyde and Donna decided the best thing would be to make arrangements to release photos to just one magazine. I talked it over with them, contacted Trish, and of course she jumped at the idea.” She stopped to reload, and Jason pulled up next to her.

      “I bet she did.” Jason looked over at Trish, who was chatting up Vernon but still managed to keep a cell phone plastered to one ear. Her blond hair sparkled in the glare of the lights, giving her sophisticated beauty an ethereal glow. It was Tinker Bell with sex appeal.

      “So what’s this about Trish needing a husband? I would think she’d be able to pick and choose. Wait a minute—she doesn’t need a husband because she is in the family way, so to speak? I’m not risking a paternity suit.”

      “No, she is not in the family way, so to speak, and don’t look so panic-stricken. Besides, I didn’t say she needed a husband. I said she needed a fiancé.” Claire pursed her lips. “Listen, let’s skate down the middle of the ice toward the net at the other end. I want to get a shot of you head-on.” She started to skate backward, looking through the camera. “That’s it. Skate toward me. No, don’t look at me. Look over my shoulder, like you’re scoping out the defense. That’s it. That’s great.”

      Jason timed his longer strides to her shorter ones. “So why does she need a fiancé?”

      “She doesn’t need a fiancé exactly, more like a pretend fiancé. You see it’s like this—we have to go to this wedding of a former boyfriend of hers, and she doesn’t want him to know she’s unattached. It’s a pride thing.” She kept clicking the shutter. “That’s it. Breathe a little harder through your mouth.”

      “Ah, the heavy-breathing thing again.” He puffed out dramatically. “And this ex-boyfriend is supposed to believe that Trish and I are passionately in love?”

      “We’ll say you two met on this story and suddenly felt this overwhelming attraction. I mean, look at the two of you. Beauty and brawn.”

      “I presume I’m the beauty.”

      Claire rolled her eyes. “Glamorous careers. Jet-setting lifestyles. It’s perfect.”

      “So do you need a fiancé, too?”

      Claire kept her head behind the camera. “Nope. No problems with prior attachments.”

      “Any plans for the future?”

      “No, I’m a free agent, and I’m happy just the way I am.”

      “But you’ll be there? At the wedding, I mean?”

      “Of course. Who do you think the wedding photographer is?”

      “I should have known. Have camera will travel. You know, I gotta warn you.” He sped up his skating.

      “Not too close. I can’t focus that close with this lens.” It wasn’t just

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