![]() ![]() I was bent backward over Claude's right arm, my invisible (to the camera, anyway) left hand desperately clutching the back of his black frock coat, my right arm raised to rest gently on his left shoulder. Maria-Star Cooper took a quick step in front of the camera to rearrange a stray strand of my long blond hair. The photographer was a heavyset black man with graying hair and mustache. ![]() "Maria-Star, reach in there and pull that lock of hair back," Alfred Cumberland directed from behind the camera. Bosomy and blond was not Claude's ideal tough, rough, and brooding, with maybe a little whisker stubble, was what lit his fire. Unfortunately for me - and all the other women of Louisiana - Claude batted for another team. In a jiffy, you would've thought Claude was going to hike up my long rustling skirt and yank down my low-cut push-up bodice and ravish me until I begged for mercy. "Or, um, Edward James Olmos." I was rewarded by the beginnings of a hot glow in those long-lashed eyes. "Think about Charles Bronson," I suggested. I pictured Claude's last lover, a bouncer at a strip joint. The dark brown eyes still regarded me with remote interest. I was draped over the arm of one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen, and he was staring into my eyes. ![]()
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