Ian turned slightly toward her. “So … you don’t feel like drinking and you don’t feel like dancing. What do you feel like doing?”

Kissing you.

That thought popped into her head instantly, and she was glad that the words hadn’t popped right out of her mouth. But it was the truth. She wanted to kiss Ian and be kissed by Ian. She wanted to be in his arms. She wanted the simple pleasure of holding his hand. She had given a pretty good speech the night before about being “just friends,” but her heart wanted a much deeper connection with Ian than that. She wanted to ignore the flashing warning signs—bad timing or not, her heart was attaching itself to Ian.

The One He’s Been Looking For
Joanna Sims

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JOANNA SIMS lives in Florida with her husband and their three fabulous felines. Joanna works as a therapist for the public school system during the day, but spends her evenings and weekends fulfilling her lifelong dream of writing compelling, modern romances for Mills & Boon. When it’s time to take a break from writing, Joanna enjoys going for long walks with her husband and curling up on the couch to watch movies (romantic comedies preferably). She loves to answer any questions or provide additional information for her readers. You can contact her at joannasims2@live.com.

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Dedicated to Martha:

Thank you for being a special part of my life.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Excerpt

Chapter One

Jordan Brand opened the throttle of her jet-black Ducati motorcycle and shot through the intersection just before the light turned red. She leaned forward as she aimed her bike between the two cars in front of her, determined to make up time by creating a third lane for herself. Jordan ignored the loud honking as she zipped in between the two lanes of traffic. She couldn’t care less if the other drivers didn’t like her shortcuts. This was California. No one had the right to cast stones.

Jordan cut off a canary-yellow Escalade as she made a right turn onto Broadway. She ignored the posted speed-limit sign. After all, sometimes tiny little rules needed to be broken. Jordan accelerated as she made another right onto Sixth and drove in the wrong direction up the one-way street. After dodging an oncoming car, she invented a parking spot in a no-parking zone and jammed on the brakes. She dropped the kickstand and shut off the engine.

“What lunatic actually thought it was a good idea to give you your license back?”

After she removed her helmet from her head, Jordan smiled broadly at the large, heavily tattooed man standing outside the tattoo parlor. “Which one of us has a better shot at makin’ it to old age, Chappy? Me with my driving, or you with your cigarettes?”

Chappy grinned right before he took another drag from his unfiltered cigarette. “It’s too close to call.”

Jordan swung her leg over the seat of her bike, tucked her helmet under her arm and walked over to where he was standing. She reached up, pulled the cigarette out from between his lips, dropped it on the sidewalk and then crushed it beneath the heel of her boot.

“I just added a week to your life.” She smiled up at him.

Chappy ran a beefy hand over his shaved, tattooed head. “If you come a little closer and give me a hug, I’ll forgive you.”

After she gave him a quick hug, Jordan asked, “Is Marty inside?”

“He’s been waitin’ on you, as usual. Got the client in the chair already. Don’t you own a watch?”

Jordan stepped away from him with an easy laugh and pulled a rolled piece of paper from the inside pocket of her motorcycle jacket. “I have the drawing right here. When have I ever let you down?” She stopped just before she pulled open the door to the tattoo parlor. “You know, for social degenerates, the two of you are really uptight about punctuality.”

* * *

“No.” Ian Sterling slipped the top photo from the large stack of pictures in his hand and dropped it onto the floor.

“No,” he said again, and the second photo followed the first. He sifted quickly through the pile as he paced around his photography studio. “No. No. No. Dammit. No!”

Ian dropped the rest of the photographs onto the floor. He pulled off his reading glasses, marched over to his phone and stabbed at the intercom button with his finger. “Chelsea.”

Dylan Axel, who was leaning casually against the desk, asked, “Is there a problem?”

Ian ignored him. “Chelsea. Come in here, please.”

The door leading to the reception area opened and a tall, rail-thin brunette hurried in. “Yes, Mr. Sterling?”

Ian jerked his head toward the photographs strewn across the polished concrete floor. “Shred those.”

Chelsea looked temporarily stunned but snapped out of it quickly. She lowered herself to the ground in her skintight pencil skirt and began to pick up the discarded pictures.

“I’m starting to think that you don’t approve of the models I found.” Dylan sauntered over to where Chelsea was teetering on her stiletto heels and offered his hand to her. “I’ll take care of it, Chelsea. Thank you.”

Chelsea’s eyes shot to Ian before she allowed Dylan to help her to her feet.

“What I want,” Ian said in frustration, “is just one model who doesn’t have the same face that I’ve seen a million times before!”

Ian walked over to his receptionist. “Take Chelsea, for instance.”

Dylan bent down and scooped up the head shots of the models he had found. He stood up and looked at his friend with apprehension. Usually he could count on Ian to be diplomatic, but lately, he’d become a loose cannon.

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Ian said to Dylan before he turned to Chelsea. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you.” Chelsea’s smile brightened. Receiving a compliment from Ian Sterling was like winning the lottery for an aspiring model.

“But there’s nothing new here, there’s nothing special here. I’m looking for a face that I’ve haven’t seen before, a face that makes me feel...inspired. Is that too much to ask?” Ian looked from one to the other of them questioningly.

His receptionist looked crestfallen and her smile faded. The color drained from her face as she spun on her heel and headed toward the door. She reached for the doorknob and slipped out. Dylan could hear the drawer of her desk being slammed shut. If she came back, he’d have to smooth things over with her.

“I don’t know, Ian....” Dylan frowned at his long-time friend. “Is it too much to ask for you to be polite every once in a while?”

Ian glanced up, surprised to discover that Chelsea had left. He stared at the closed door for a second before he rubbed the back of his neck. He had been trying to make a point to Dylan, not insult Chelsea.

With a sigh, Ian said, “I’ll talk to her when she gets back. I’ll apologize.”

“I know you well enough to know that you’ll try to make it right, Ian. But here’s a novel thought—let’s get back to the days when you weren’t regularly insulting folks. Let’s bring that Ian back. I miss that guy.”

Ian’s jaw set. “I wouldn’t waste my time thinking about that if I were you.”

“Maybe you think it’s a waste of time.” Dylan dropped the head shots in an unceremonious pile on the desk. “But I don’t.”

When he didn’t respond, Dylan continued. “Look. I get that you were handed a raw deal here, okay? Even when I try to imagine what you’re going through— Honestly, I can’t. But let me ask you this—what good does it do you to take it out on everyone around you?”

“I said I’d apologize and I will,” Ian said tersely. “But don’t go holding your breath for the old Ian to come back, okay? He’s dead.”

Not waiting for his friend’s answer, he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the walls of his studio, unlatched the plantation shutters that blocked out most of the natural light, and yanked them open. When the bright sunlight streamed into the room, he quickly covered his eyes with his hand. When he was twenty-eight, he had been diagnosed with a type of macular degeneration called Stargardt disease. Not only was the condition destroying his central vision, it had made his eyes sensitive to bright light.

“Dammit!” Ian grabbed his sunglasses from the inside pocket of his blazer and slipped them on quickly. The sunglasses worked double-duty—they had special lenses that helped him cope with light sensitivity, but also protected his eyes from UV rays that were destroying his central vision in the first place. Rain or shine, the sunglasses had become his constant companion.

Ian stood still for a moment, breathed in deeply until the pain in his eyes subsided. After a moment, he slowly, cautiously opened his eyes and looked down sullenly at the movement on the street below.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asked.

“I’m fine,” he said roughly. It was a lie and they both knew it. But sometimes the lie was easier to handle.

Dylan shook his head. He felt powerless. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t figure out how to help Ian and make things more...tolerable.

Ian continued to stare out at the city street below. He hated the pity he heard in his friend’s voice. Pity was the last thing he wanted. And that nerve-grinding sound of pity was exactly why he had worked so hard to keep his condition a secret. But keeping the secret was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day. The truth was he had been living on borrowed time. Many people with Stargardt disease were legally blind by his age. He had been diagnosed later than most and the progression had been slow. The central vision in his left eye was completely blurred, but he still had his right eye. For now. But Ian couldn’t ignore that changes were coming, just as he couldn’t ignore that life as he knew it was about to drastically change.

The doctor who had unceremoniously broken the news to him that Stargardt was a “no treatment, no cure” one-way trip to legal blindness, had encouraged him to continue to exercise regularly, eat healthy, avoid foods rich in vitamin A and quit drinking alcohol ASAP. He’d referred him to a low-vision specialist and a psychologist to help him prepare for the changes to come. But how could anyone really prepare him to lose everything he loved: his career, his business...photography? Hadn’t he earned the right to be angry?

“This book is part of my legacy as a photographer,” Ian said in a controlled, quiet voice. His back was still turned to Dylan. “When all is said and done, and I can’t see my own hand if I hold it up in front of my face, I’ll know that this book exists. That my work lives on in it. That...I live on in it. Which means...I need a woman who can breathe life into every single shot. I need a woman who can help me make this book the best representation of Ian Sterling photography.” He glanced over his shoulder at Dylan. “So excuse me if I feel a sense of urgency. We start shooting in a month and I haven’t found her yet!”

Dylan jammed his hands into the front pockets of his tailored slacks. He understood why Ian was so driven to create a perfect book. He understood his focus, and even his foul mood. Ian felt he was on the brink of losing everything that he loved, and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. No one could.

“What I need,” Ian continued under his breath as he stared down onto the street below, “is a woman who’s fearless, edgy, unique...someone with a personality. Not some California bleached-blond bimbo, or an Orphan Annie waif who needs a couple good meals. I want a woman who isn’t afraid to be different. I want...” He paused for a moment as his eyes settled on a black motorcycle parked illegally and facing the wrong direction on Sixth Street. He could tell that the woman swinging her leg over the back of the bike was tall and lean. His heart began to quicken as he leaned forward and turned his head slightly to the left so he could focus in on her with his stronger eye. The minute she pulled off her helmet, he had a visceral response that felt like a punch in the gut.

“Her.”

“What?” Dylan asked.

“Her,” Ian repeated loudly. “Down there. I want her.”

* * *

“Mom. Mom! Will you come up for air, please? What’s the problem?”

“I just saw the pictures on your Facebook page, Jordan! What have you done to your beautiful hair?”

“Cut it.”

“I can see that. What did you do to the color?” Barbara Brand’s voice had a shrill quality that made Jordan move the phone away from her ear for a minute.

“I changed it,” she said nonchalantly when she brought the phone closer again.

“Jordan Carol, save your witticisms for your friends. Obviously I can see that you’ve changed the color from the pictures!”

“Mom.” Jordan pushed on the door to leave the tattoo parlor; she smiled and winked at Chappy, who was tattooing a navy-themed design on a young man’s arm. “If you’re going to keep on freaking out every time I post a picture, I’m afraid we won’t be able to be Facebook friends anymore.”

Barbara ignored her daughter’s teasing remark. “Your hair was so naturally beautiful, Jordan. Do you know how many women would pay good money to have hair like that? And look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve ruined it!”

“Mom. It’s hair dye. It’s not permanent.”

“Not permanent?”

“Okay, let me rephrase that...it’s not forever.”

“Your father thinks that it looks like a clown exploded on your head!”

“Uh...wow! I can’t believe Dad said that! I’m not going to tell Amaya. She can be very sensitive about her work. It wasn’t easy for her to get just the right blend of fire engine red, magenta madness and tangerine bliss.”

“Amaya? Amaya did that? She isn’t a hairstylist!”

“True,” Jordan said of her roommate. “But she is a trained ice sculptor, among other things. We figured they were related disciplines.” Jordan laughed as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

After a short pause, Barbara added, “And here your dad went to all that trouble to get you an interview with the head of the art department at Montana State so you can finally finish your master’s degree. What in the world are they going to think of you with that hair?”

Jordan stopped in her tracks and looked up at the sky in frustration. “Oh, my God, Mom! We’ve already discussed this like a thousand times! I am not...and I repeat...I am not moving to the middle of nowhere Bozeman, Montana. I’d rather die a slow and painful death!”

“What’s wrong with Bozeman? It’s a college town!” Barbara seemed genuinely surprised. “And you can paint anywhere after all. What’s more inspiring than Montana in spring?”

“Mom. I have my first gallery show coming up. Do you know how insane it is that a gallery is actually willing to sponsor an unknown artist?” When her mother didn’t respond, Jordan added, “Mom. I love you. But you’ve gotta accept that I’m not moving back to Montana.”

Just as her mom was about to continue making her case, Jordan spotted a San Diego police officer standing beside her motorcycle. He was writing down her tag number.

“Hey! Wait!” she called out to the policeman. “Mom, I’ve gotta go. RoboCop is writing me a ticket.”

“Jordan!”

She made a kissing sound into the phone. “I love you. Give Dad a hug for me!”

Jordan tapped the end call button and jammed her phone into her pocket. “Officer, wait. I’m gonna move it right now!”

The man had naturally golden skin, coal-black hair and the muscular frame of a guy who spent most of his spare time in the gym. He looked up at her and she saw that his eyes were the rich color of a Kona coffee bean. “Is this your motorcycle?”

“Yes.”

“License, registration, proof of insurance.” He was all business.

“Officer, please. I was just about to move it. I was late and—”

“License, registration, proof of insurance, ma’am.” He was unmoved by her explanation, she could see.

Crap!

Jordan rested her helmet on the seat of her bike, pulled the license out of her back pocket and handed it to him.

The cop looked at the license and then said, “Registration, proof of insurance, Ms. Brand.”

“I don’t have it on me.” Jordan inwardly cursed her own carelessness. How could she have left the house without her wallet?

“Wait here,” the officer said before he walked back over to his own motorcycle.

Jordan followed him. “You don’t understand. I just got my license back—”

“Stay with your vehicle, ma’am!” The cop stopped in his tracks and made a gesture that let her know he wasn’t in the mood for any further argument or explanation.

Jordan took in a deep, frustrated breath as she walked back to her bike. She sat sidesaddle on the seat and stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her faded jeans.

As she watched the officer call her information in, all she could think of was the negative balance in her checking account. The money she’d just made selling customized tattoo designs to Marty needed to go into the account pronto if she had any hope of breaking even. It was a financial reality that occasionally selling tattoo designs and bartending on weekends at Altitude weren’t enough to keep her right side up. But by her calculation, all she really needed to do was keep afloat until the gallery show. Then she’d be in the black. Well, that plan was looking like a real long shot now that RoboCop was about to blow up her flotation device.

Jordan was still calculating how screwed she was financially when her eyes were drawn to a man walking with long, determined strides in her direction. He was tall with a lean build, broad shouldered, and he walked with the natural swagger of a successful man who was wealthy and knew he was good-looking to boot. Just the type of man Jordan avoided like the plague: cocky, egoistical, narcissistic and way too GQ pretty for his own good.

“Wolf.” The man spoke in a deep, authoritative baritone voice that was just as pleasant to the ears as his chiseled facial features were to the eyes. He didn’t look her way as he stepped off the sidewalk and strode over to the officer. “Logan Wolf?”

The officer looked up from his notepad.

“I thought that was you.” The well-dressed man didn’t bother to take off his amber-colored sunglasses as he extended his hand. “Ian Sterling.”

“Sterling Silver?” The policeman smiled and shook Ian’s hand. “It took me a minute to recognize you. How the heck are you?”

“I’m good. Scouting a shoot.”

“Around here? I’ve seen you on TV a couple times and I thought, ‘not bad for a guy the senior class voted as most likely to get arrested.’”

Ian smiled briefly. “If I remember correctly, you tied me for that honor.”

Officer Wolf laughed. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that, in light of my current profession.”

Jordan listened to the exchange between the two men with growing impatience. She was tired, hungry and she wished that GQ and RoboCop would have their little frat-boy reunion on someone else’s time.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I made you get out your pad for nothing,” Ian said.

“What do you mean?”

She was just about to interrupt their little reunion party when Ian gestured to her. “She’s one of my models. I asked her to park here, and she shouldn’t get a ticket for something I asked her to do.”

“You asked her?” The cop sounded skeptical as he glanced over at her.

“That’s right,” Ian said smoothly as he tried, unsuccessfully, to read the name on her license. “And I’d really appreciate it if we could just call this a warning.”

RoboCop didn’t look totally convinced as he tapped his pen on the ticket pad. For whatever reason, this Ian character was attempting to help her beat the ticket, and she fully intended to do her part in order for him to succeed.

Jordan pushed away from the motorcycle, walked straight over to Ian and said, “You’re late, Mr. Sterling.”

GQ looked down at her and examined her from behind his sunglasses, just as if he was examining a bug trapped in a glass jar.

“I’m sorry about that. A conference call held me up,” he said. Jordan had the distinct feeling that giving an apology, even a fake apology, left a bitter taste in this man’s mouth.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Officer Wolf released her license from his clipboard and extended it to her. “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, Ms. Brand.”

Jordan let out her breath, which she hadn’t even realized she was holding in, and plucked the license from his gloved fingers.

“Thank you, Officer.” She slipped the license into her back pocket.

“Thanks, Wolf. I owe you one.”

Logan Wolf gave a slight shake of his head as he sat down on his motorcycle. “You bet, Sterling. Just make sure she moves the bike ASAP.”

“Will do.” Ian reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. “It was good seeing you again. Let’s catch up sometime.”

Logan took the card and tucked it into the front pocket of his uniform. “Sounds good.”

The minute the officer drove away, Jordan turned on her heel and headed back to her bike.

GQ followed her. “My name is Ian Sterling.”

Jordan picked up her helmet and slipped it on. “So I’ve heard.”

Ian held out a business card to her. She didn’t take it. Instead, she swung her leg over the motorcycle seat and sat down.

“I’m a photographer,” he added.

She pushed the motorcycle upright. “Congratulations.”

She couldn’t see his eyes, but she read the slight tightening around his sculpted mouth as displeasure with her response. No doubt he was used to getting his way with women all the time.

“I want to photograph you.”

Jordan gave a sharp laugh as she slipped the key into the ignition. “Uh...wow! That was a genuinely pathetic pickup line.”

“I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m a photographer.” Irritation had crept into his tone. He pointed to the old Lion Clothing building that had been converted to lofts. “My studio’s right up there.”

“Listen, mister, just because you helped me out with RoboCop doesn’t mean I owe you a massage with a happy ending. Got it?”

Before Ian could reply, the brass bell attached to the tattoo parlor door clanged loudly as Chappy shoved the door open. “This joker bothering you, Jordan?”

Most people had the good sense to be intimated by the burly biker. Ian, Jordan noticed, remained unimpressed, and didn’t take a step back from her.

“No.” She started her bike. “I was just leaving.” She revved her engine for a second before she shifted into gear. “A parting word of advice, GQ. Get some new material.”

Jordan slid the visor of her helmet into place and pulled out onto Sixth Street. Ian watched her as she disappeared up the road; no question about it, he wanted her for the book. From her striking cheekbones to her a lovely heart-shaped face and those shocking cat-shaped blue eyes, Jordan was perfect. The interesting angles of her features and her “in-your-face” attitude made her...fascinating. He knew instinctively that she was the one he’d been searching for. She had everything he wanted: energy, intensity, beauty.

“You got some sorta problem, Jack?” Chappy glared at him.

Ian slipped his business card back into his wallet. “None that are any of your business, Jack.”

As he headed back to his studio, his thoughts were fixated on the beautiful woman on the Ducati. And thanks to Wolf and the biker, he knew her first name and her last name. Now all he had to do was track her down.

Chapter Two

Jordan stepped out onto the narrow foyer of her condo and pulled the door shut. The early-September ocean breeze blowing in from the harbor brushed across her skin as she stepped out onto the curb. There was a chill in the air that made her glad that she had chosen her skinny jeans and ankle boots over her favorite microminiskirt. Jordan crossed Island Avenue and headed toward the trolley station. As she walked along First Avenue, a black Bentley parked in the lot directly across from her condo caught her attention. She watched as the chauffeur got out, hurried around the front of the vehicle and opened the door for the passenger to exit. It was an odd place for the Bentley to be parked. As Jordan walked directly in front of it, the passenger stepped out from behind the chauffeur. She recognized him instantly.

Ian Sterling!

Shocked, Jordan stumbled on a break in the sidewalk. She paused temporarily before she started to walk at a hurried pace toward the trolley. This wasn’t a coincidence. GQ was actually stalking her! Jordan quickened her steps as she reached in her pocket; her fingers wrapped around a small, pink, lipstick-size container of mace. He might be bigger than her, but she wasn’t about to go down easily or quietly.

“Jordan!”

She heard the leather soles of Ian’s shoes slap the cement as he pursued her. Jordan lengthened her stride, but wasn’t naive enough to believe that she could outwalk him.

“Jordan!”

Irritated and unnerved, she stopped in her tracks and spun around. “What?” she asked in a shaky voice. “What do you want? Why are you following me?” She pulled out her phone and prepared to hit speed dial for 911.

In three long strides, Ian was in front of her. “I’ve got business to discuss with you.”

Jordan shook her head in disbelief. “How did you find me? Do you have any idea how frickin’ nuts this is?” She continued to shake her head. “You know what? Forget it! I’m calling the cops right now unless you get lost pronto, buddy. And if I so much as see you anywhere near my house again, I’ll file a restraining order against you so fast your pretty-boy head will spin! Are we clear?”

Ian held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Jordan. I’m trying to hire you.”

“Did I ask you for a job?” she snapped. “No. I don’t think I did! But what I am asking is for you to leave me alone. Am I speaking in tongues? Why are we having a failure to communicate?”

Jordan spun around and began to walk with purposeful strides away from Ian. She glanced over her shoulder once and was grateful that he hadn’t moved from his spot.

“Jordan,” he called after her. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.” He paused, and then added, “Please.”

There was a raw sincerity in his tone that made her halt in her tracks; she slowly turned back to him. The sun was waning, but the man still had his sunglasses on. She could barely see his eyes behind the dark amber lenses.

“What do you want, GQ? Really. What do you really want from me?”

Ian took one small step forward. “Like I said the first time we met...I want to photograph you.”

“And why, might I ask, would the great Ian Sterling want to photograph me?”

Her question made him pause for a split second before he stated, “You know who I am.”

Jordan narrowed her eyes, angry that she had let it slip out inadvertently that she had looked him up on the internet. She was caught red-handed, so there was no sense denying it.

“I did a Google search. Ian Sterling...” She waved her hand in front of her body as if she was drawing a large rainbow. “Photographer to the stars. Yes. I know who you are, and the question still remains, why would someone like you want to photograph someone like me?”

Ian took another step toward her and answered her question seriously. “You have the face I’ve been looking for.”

Jordan kept her hand wrapped tightly around the small bottle of mace in her pocket while she thought about his words. She just couldn’t figure out his angle. He seemed sincere, but that didn’t mean that he was. She hadn’t spent much time researching him, but from what she had read, Ian was internationally known and highly respected.

He took another small step forward. “Listen...all I want to do is test you for my next book. I promise you—the offer’s legit.”

Before Jordan had a chance to reply, her phone rang. She slipped her hand off the mace and pulled the phone out of her pocket.

“Hey,” she said as she kept her eyes trained on Ian. “I’m just about to hop on the trolley. I’ll be there in a sec.”

She clicked off the phone and said, “Listen. I’ve gotta go.”

“What about my job offer?”

Jordan paused for a moment and then shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not a model, Mr. Sterling. You’ve got the wrong woman.”

“If you test well, I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars for your time.”

Once again, Jordan stopped in her tracks. She slowly pirouetted until she was facing him again. “What did you say?”

This time, he stayed rooted in place. She could see that he was done chasing her for the moment. “You heard me. Five thousand up front. Twenty when we’re done shooting. Plus expenses.”

“Please.” Her arched brows drew together. “You can’t be serious.”

“Try me.”

Jordan tilted her head slightly to the side. “Are you willing to put that in writing?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She chewed on her lower lip and narrowed her eyes as she mulled over the offer. Twenty-five thousand dollars could buy a heck of a lot of canvas and paint. She’d be swimming in art supplies, not to mention that her rent would be paid for months in advance. Her money worries would be over, at least temporarily, and she could concentrate full-time on the paintings for her first gallery showing. And for what? Posing for a couple pictures? Smiling pretty for the camera? She’d be a fool to say no. And yet...

Ian interrupted her train of thought. “My car’s right over there. If you’re late, I can take you anywhere you need to go. We can talk on the way.”

Jordan shook her head at him disbelievingly. “Just because I haven’t maced you yet doesn’t mean I’m crazy enough to get into a car with a complete stranger and be taken God knows where! It still hasn’t been determined that you aren’t a very nicely dressed serial killer.”

“You yourself said that you know who I am.”

“Please.” Jordan laughed. “Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean that you’re not a total freak. In fact, being famous is a huge strike against you, in my opinion.”

“Is that a ‘no’ to my offer?”

Jordan turned and headed toward the station. “That’s an ‘I don’t know.’”

Ian waved his hand at the driver before he caught up with Jordan.

“I have to catch this trolley. I’ll think about it.” She quickened her pace as the A trolley pulled in.

Ian stayed with her and, as the doors to the vehicle opened, followed her to her seat and sat down on the bench across from her. He spread out his long legs in front of him and draped one arm over the back of his seat. Jordan would have thought he would look out of place sitting there in his dark gray pin-striped suit and his deep purple shirt, but surprisingly, he looked just as relaxed and in charge on the trolley as he did standing next to his Bentley.

“Ride the trolley often, do you?” Jordan asked drily.

“Never,” he admitted easily. He was so ridiculously handsome, so well made, that it was hard for her to stop staring at his face. She wasn’t certain she had ever met anyone quite as perfectly good-looking as Ian Sterling. Of course, he was totally not her type. She was chronically attracted to scruffy musicians and moody out-of-work artists. It was a bit of sickness, really. Lately she had been thinking that it was time to change her brand of men.

“What’s up with the sunglasses anyway? Are you going for Michael Jackson circa 1982?”

“I’m sensitive to light,” he answered smoothly. It was the truth and made it easy to explain why he wore sunglasses even on cloudy days or at dusk. Most people accepted it or just didn’t care.

“Okay.” Jordan scoffed sarcastically. “Sure.”

She saw Ian work his jaw before he reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. He narrowed his eyes against the light and looked at her. Although the vision in his left eye was fuzzy and blurred, he was able to see Jordan’s face with his right eye. Focusing on what he could see with his right while ignoring his left was a skill he had mastered early on in the diagnosis. To look at him directly, no one would suspect he was slowly losing his ability to see.

For the first time, Jordan was able to see Ian’s intense blue-gray eyes as he stared back at her. A jolt of instant recognition coursed through her system as she locked gazes with Ian. There was something so familiar about this man. She just couldn’t put her finger on it. As the trolley pulled away from the station, she drew out her phone and held it up to his face. She pressed a button.

Ian frowned at her. “Did you just take my picture?”

“Yes.” Jordan dropped her head as she punched more buttons on the device.

“Why?” His voice sharpened on the question.

Jordan was certain he was used to getting his way very quickly when he used that tone. She ignored him and finished her chore before she answered. “What? Oh, I’m sorry. Did that bother you? Was that an invasion of your privacy? I mean, God forbid that should happen to you, a famous photographer. I mean, what’s the big deal? I just took a picture, it’s not like I tracked you down at your private residence or followed you onto a trolley....”

Ian didn’t respond, but she could see by the stony expression on his face that she had made her point.

“I just sent your picture to all of my friends. If anything happens to me, the police will come knocking on your door first,” Jordan said smugly. Then she leaned back on her bench and stared at him curiously. “How’d you find me anyway?”

He dragged his fingers over his closely cropped brown hair. “I know someone who’s good at finding people.”

She looked out at the darkening downtown skyline and muttered, “Privacy is obsolete.” Jordan glanced quickly at his strong, masculine profile. Her gut was telling her that Ian wasn’t a psycho and he wasn’t out for anything other than a photograph. In fact, she suspected that he didn’t see her as a woman in the sexual-object sense of the word; his examination of her was much too...clinical for that. He wasn’t really looking at her, but seemed to be taking an inventory of her features.

“Were you serious about the money?” she asked in a lowered voice.

Ian didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Jordan leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. The bangles on her arm slipped forward and jangled on their journey down to her wrist. “But why? Why would you give some woman you spotted on the street that much money?”

“Some of the best models have been discovered exactly that way.” He paused for a split second and then added, “And it’s not all that much money.”

“Maybe not to you.” Jordan wrinkled her brow. “Either way, I’m no Gisele Bündchen.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be,” Ian replied. “But interestingly, Gisele was discovered in a McDonalds by scouts, so...”

Jordan knew that he had wanted to make a point with that comment, and the truth was he succeeded. It wasn’t a secret that many famous models were discovered on the street or at a mall. She hadn’t known that about Gisele, but it didn’t really surprise her. In fact, this wasn’t the first time she had been approached. She was five foot ten by the time she was fourteen, so she had been asked to model before. The problem was that she wasn’t what one might call photogenic. And even though the money was extremely tempting, Jordan was convinced that she couldn’t pull it off. She simply photographed badly. Always had. Every single one of her school pictures was hideous and she had always been the one blaring flaw in the yearly Brand family portraits.

“Listen, I appreciate the offer, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the money sounds good, but I can’t model for you.” Jordan watched the muscle in Ian’s jaw clench as he listened to her. He was completely unaccustomed to the sound of the word no. “And even though I think that it was totally out of line for you to stalk me, I’m still sorry you wasted your time.”

“I’m a little confused about why you won’t even agree to test for me. Is it the money?”

“As in, not enough money?”

Ian gave a slight nod; Jordan laughed. “No, it’s not the money. Trust me—the money’d be great right now.”

She had the distinct feeling that if she had said it wasn’t enough money, he would have immediately offered her more.

“Then what?” Ian appreciated the way Jordan’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. She laughed as if she really meant it.

Jordan sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “Look. I’m going to be honest with you so we can drop this subject for good and you can go find a different model for your book.”

“All right.”

“I’m not photogenic,” she said simply.

“I don’t believe that.”

“I’m telling you the truth. Whether or not you believe it is your business. You’re not the first person who’s tried to turn me into a model. But for whatever reason—” Jordan waved her hand in front of her face “—this doesn’t look the same in a photograph as it does in person.”

As the trolley pulled into the next station, Jordan stood up. She extended her hand. “Well...it’s been interesting.”

Ian stood, as well. Jordan hoped that he didn’t intend to follow her off the tram.

Instead of taking her hand, he slipped a business card into her fingers. “When I photograph you, you’ll be able to see yourself as I see you. Pure avant-garde beauty.”

Her heart gave a quick, hard thump at his words. This man had a way of twisting a woman right around his well-manicured pinky.

Jordan took the card. “If you can make me look good in a picture, you would be the first.”

“Come to my studio tomorrow and let’s find out,” he said.

“What do I have to lose?” she asked out loud, more to herself than to him.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The trolley doors slid open. “Touché, Mr. Sterling.”

“Ian.”

Jordan stepped down onto the curb. “Touché, Ian.”

“You’ll come to my studio, then.”

She turned to face him as he stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, sunglasses back in place. Tall, broad shouldered and built for a woman’s appreciating eye. He appeared to be perfectly at ease on the surface, but Jordan picked up a tension in his jaw that belied his relaxed, confident stance.

“What time?”

“Eight in the morning.”

“Too early.”

“Ten, then.”

As the trolley door began to slide shut, Jordan flashed Ian a peace sign and said, “I’ll be there around eleven.”

* * *

“Rise and shine, lazybones.”

The next morning, Jordan was rudely awakened by the sound of her twin sister’s “cheerful early riser” voice. She groaned and stuck her head under the pillow as Josephine pulled open the blinds and let sunlight flow into the room. Jordan squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to ignore the sound of the thick plastic blinds slapping against each other as they settled back into place.

Josephine plopped down on the bed next to her and began to shake her shoulder. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up....”

“Oh, my God, Jo!” Jordan grumbled loudly. “Knock it off!”

“Not a chance.” Her sister laughed as she grabbed the pillow and pulled it off her head.

Jordan made a frustrated noise as she dragged the covers over her head. She hadn’t planned on being awake for at least another hour or two. “Go away!”

Next, Jo started to bounce up and down. “Get up. Get up. Get up!”

Jordan finally kicked the blanket and sheets off her body and glared up at her. “Holy crap, Jo, you’re annoying! What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be learning how to sue people?”

Josephine, whose friends and family called her “Jo,” was her identical twin. They were mirror images of each other in appearance, but exact opposites in life. Jo was an “early bird gets the worm” student working on her law degree, while Jordan had dropped out of graduate school five weeks into her masters. Jo loved to shop, was a political junky, recycled religiously and thought that it was perfectly normal to date a young environmental lawyer named Brice. Besides the recycling, Jordan could live without all those things—especially a boyfriend with a country-club name.

Jo smiled at her sister’s trademark early-morning grouchiness. “I’m meeting Brice and his parents for brunch in Van Nuys. I thought I’d drop by for a quick visit.”

Jordan pushed herself up and leaned back against the headboard. “I find you to be rude and offensive on all possible levels.”

“You love me.” Jo smiled broadly.

Jordan squinted at her sister through sore, puffy eyes, wishing she had the motivation to get up and shut the blinds again. The bright sunlight was only making her pounding hangover headache worse. To look at the two of them, someone would be hard-pressed to make out that they were twins at all. Josephine always looked like the healthy girl next door with her flowing, sun-kissed hair and glowing, sun-kissed skin. Jordan, on the other hand, was a rebellious night-owl artist with a multicolored faux hawk and pale skin that barely saw the sunlight. In a lot of ways, they were truly night and day.

“How you can date someone named Brice is beyond me,” Jordan said as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Much less have brunch with his parents.”

“Quit being such a snob. He didn’t choose his name,” Jo teased. “By the way, you look hungover.”

“That’s because I am hungover, Nancy Drew.” Jordan squinted at her. “Joelle had a pink-champagne fountain at her bachelorette party. Who does that?”

“You could’ve said no.” Jo went into the bathroom; she grabbed a glass of water and two aspirin. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Jordan popped the pills in her mouth and then chugged down the water.

“I thought you liked Brice anyway.” Her twin perched on the edge of the bed again in her pretty forest-green wrap dress.

“I like him in theory.” Jordan put the empty glass on the nightstand.

“Whatever that’s supposed to mean....”

“It means that he seems like someone who’d be perfect for you, but he’s not because he’s actually a total knuckle-dragger.”

Jo raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows at her before saying, “Subject change.”

“Agreed.”

Jo pulled her phone out of her purse, flipped through her text messages and then held up a picture for Jordan to see. “I’m dying to know... How’d you end up with a picture of the Armani guy on your phone?”

Jordan stared at the picture she had taken on the trolley. He looked handsome, of course, and ticked off. “That’s Ian. He’s a photographer.”

Jo looked at the image with a shake of her head. “Well, then, he must have been a model before he was a photographer, because I’m telling you, that’s the Armani guy. How you could have your fantasy man sitting right in front of you and not recognize him is a total brainteaser.”

“I didn’t recognize him because it isn’t him,” Jordan said as she climbed out of bed. She pulled on a pair of jeans that had been crumpled up on the floor. “I need emergency coffee.”

The twins climbed up the narrow spiral staircase to the second-floor kitchen and dining area. Amaya was sitting at the small dining table eating sushi with finely carved black-and-gold chopsticks.

“Coffee?” Jordan asked her roommate at the top of the stairs.

Amaya nodded and pointed to the kitchen. Jordan grabbed a cup of coffee for herself and one for Jo before she headed to the table.

“What time did you get in?” Amaya asked in her Cambodian-accented English. She had twisted her silky blue-black hair into a thick topknot at the crown of her head and she still had a smudge of purple eye shadow above her dark chocolate eyes from the night before.

Jordan slumped into her chair and gratefully took a sip of piping-hot coffee. “Three, four. I’m not sure, really.”

Her roommate swallowed a bite of food before she said, “What’s up with that picture you sent to me last night? Who is that guy?”

Jordan dropped her head onto her arms with a groan. “He’s a photographer. Wants me to model for him.”

Jo’s eyes widened. “The Armani guy wants you to model for him? You didn’t tell me that!”

“Jesus...he’s not the Armani guy. His name is Ian Sterling.”

“Seriously, Jordy? I can’t believe you didn’t recognize him.” Her twin shook her head as she searched for something on her phone. Once she found what she was looking for, she held up the device triumphantly. “Take a look at this, sis. Tell me that isn’t the same guy.”

Chapter Three

Jordan’s forehead wrinkled as she stared at the photograph on Jo’s phone. It took a split second for her to recognize Ian in the Armani ad. His hair was longer and his face thinner, but there was no doubt it was Ian. No wonder he looked so familiar to her! She had this exact ad hanging up in her room...framed. How had she missed that?

“Ho-ly crap.” she muttered. “He’s the frickin’ Armani guy.”

“Told you,” Jo said smugly.

“What am I missing?” Amaya asked.

“Jordan had this ad hanging above her bed when we were in high school—she used to kiss the guy’s picture every night. Swore she was going to marry him,” Jo said, before she blew on her coffee.

“Do you think that might have been an overshare of my personal information?” Jordan asked her sister.

Jo ignored her and continued, “As it turns out...” She turned the phone toward Amaya. “This guy and the guy from last night are one and the same.”

“Freaky.” Amaya studied the picture. “He’s seriously hot.”

“Yes,” Jordan agreed, as her high school fantasies flooded her brain. “He is.

“Does he really look that good in person or was he edited to look like that?” Amaya asked before she took another bite of her sushi.

Jordan shook her head. Ian Sterling didn’t need to be edited. He was damn near perfect. “No. He really does look like this.”

She groaned as she dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. How could she have missed this when she’d found him on Google? How could she have missed it when she’d sat across from him on the trolley? And now she was supposed to go to his studio—the Armani guy’s studio—looking as if she had been on a week-long bender? Unimaginable.

“Start from the beginning—tell us everything,” Jo said, her blue eyes sparkling.

Jordan lifted her head and took a deep breath in through her nose and then blew it out. She told them everything—from Ian saving her from a ticket to him tracking her down at the condo and offering her a job.

She finished her story with, “I’m supposed to go to his studio today for a test shoot.”

Jo smiled at her as she reached out and shook her arm. “It’s serendipitous! You always make fun of me when I tell you stuff like this happens. But come on.... What are the chances?”

“Slim to none,” Jordan admitted as she stared at the Armani ad.

Amaya asked bluntly, “And you’re sure he’s not a wacko who’s gonna chop you up and stuff you in his freezer, right?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not a psycho.” Jordan said.

“Then this is great news. You’re saved! Rent’s due in a week and I can’t cover the spread for both of us again this month.”

“Why did she have to pay your rent last month?” Jo asked, concerned.

“It’s not a big deal.” Jordan brushed off the question before she responded to Amaya. “I don’t think I can do it. I feel like death warmed over and...”

Amaya gave her an incredulous look. “Let me get this straight. You’ve got a hot photographer wanting to pay you to take your picture, and you don’t know? Are you nuts? You’ve gotta pull it together, Jordy, and go make bank. If you don’t, you’re gonna have to take up panhandling, or even worse, go crawling back to your family. You don’t want that, do you?”

“God, no!” Jordan knew her roommate was right. She was almost broke and the last thing she wanted to do was run back to her parents for money, not with her mom’s one-woman campaign to get her to move back to Montana.

Jo continued to stare her down as Amaya took her plate to the kitchen. “What?” Jordan asked defensively.

“Why didn’t you make rent, Jordy? What happened to the money you get from Grandpa’s trust?”

“That stopped once I dropped out of graduate school. I won’t get the balance until I’m thirty.” She shook her head.

“And you couldn’t ask Mom and Dad? I know they’d help out.”

Jordan sighed in frustration. “Of course they would. But there’s always strings attached with Mom, and you know it. And for some reason, ever since...Daniel, she’s fixated on the idea of me moving back to Montana. She already has Tyler at the ranch with her—why is she hell-bent on having me there, too?”

“You’re the baby.”

“By ten minutes!” Jordan exclaimed. Her mother had had five children. Luke, the eldest son, had had an identical twin named Daniel, who had died in the Iraq war. Tyler, the middle child, was being groomed to take over Bent Tree, the family ranch, once their father retired. And then there was Josephine, and finally herself—the baby of the family.

“You know she only wants what’s best for you,” Jo said as she finished her coffee.

“I know.” Jordy agreed easily. “But she’s driving me crazy—and this time she’s just flat-out wrong.”

“Well, sis, if you’re gonna keep a roof over your head or have the occasional meal, it looks like your best bet is to take Mr. Armani Ad up on his offer.”

Jordan stared at her twin for several seconds and let her words sink in. She couldn’t deny that her levelheaded sister had a point.

“Crap.” Jordan finally dropped her head into her hands yet again. She had no doubt this was going to shape up to be a horrifying day.

* * *

Jordan arrived at the Samuel Fox Lofts at 12:30 p.m. She made certain that she parked legally before heading up to the third floor. She pulled Ian’s business card from the back pocket of her skintight black jeans and looked for the apartment number. At the end of the hall, she found the loft door adorned with a small plaque that read Sterling & Axel Photography.

Jordan opened the door and stepped into a small reception area decorated with high-fashion photographs featuring models and actresses alike. There wasn’t a receptionist sitting at the desk, so she walked over to the next door and opened it slowly. She poked her head in and was greeted by a long, narrow room with high ceilings. The floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with closed plantation shutters, the concrete floors were stained and polished, and exposed-brick structural columns separated the open space into two halves. Just to the left of the door was a large sitting area with a modern, black leather, U-shaped couch. Two leggy females, models, presumably, were sprawled out on it. Both couch loungers inspected her with unsmiling, sullen faces.

“Are you Jordan?”

She was startled by the sound of another female’s voice. Jordan swiveled her head and looked down at a petite, curvy Latina who had just walked up behind her carrying a cup of coffee.

Jordan had to step into the loft in order to make room for the woman. “Yes.”

“I’m Violet Rios, Ian’s makeup artist.” She brushed past Jordan and then stopped. “Dios mío, you’re late! I didn’t think you were gonna show, and Ian’s pissed. Close the door and come with me. I doubt that he’s gonna want to shoot you today. If a model’s late, he never uses them.”

Jordan followed her into the loft, thinking she wouldn’t mind a bit if he changed his mind about photographing her. Her head was pounding and she had an acrid taste in her mouth that no amount of gargling had been able to combat. The sound of the rapid-fire clicking of Violet’s heels on the concrete floor bounced off the high ceilings and only intensified her headache. Those multiple glasses of pink champagne were hanging on for dear life. What a mistake!

Violet led her to a small room near the kitchen. “Wait in here.”

The woman took a quick sip of her coffee before she put the cup down on her makeup table, dropped her large red hobo bag on the floor and disappeared.

Jordan sighed heavily as she slouched into the director’s chair, which faced a brightly illuminated oval mirror, and stared at her reflection. Her coloring was sallow, her eyes were bloodshot and there was no mistaking that she was hungover. She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. She could only pray that Ian was so fed up with her that he booted her out of his studio. Of course, that would leave her without her share of the rent for the month. It was a lose-lose situation.

She didn’t lift her head up when she heard the annoying clack of Violet’s heels and the deep, silky baritone of Ian’s voice just outside the door. Like a child, she was hoping that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

“You’re late.” She could feel the heat of the photographer’s body on her arm. She breathed in and caught the spicy scent that could only be coming from his warm, tan skin.

Slowly she lifted her head and squinted at him through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Instead of apologizing, which she knew she should do, because that was what she was raised to do, she defaulted to sarcasm. He made her nervous, and when she was nervous, the sarcasm flowed unchecked.

“Would you mind keeping it down? My head is killing me.”

“I’ll bet.” Ian didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.

He was standing directly in front of her, arms crossed over his defined chest. He was dressed more casually today in a fitted T-shirt and jeans, which only seemed to add to his appeal. Her heart picked up its pace when she looked up into his face. How could a real live human actually be that good-looking? Yes, the angles of his face were more defined, his hair was cut close to his scalp and there were lines etched in his forehead and around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. But there was no mistaking that Ian was the man she’d had hanging on her wall in high school. The man she’d fantasized about for years. He unnerved her now, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her feel that way.

His eyes swept her face in that clinical manner of his. He knew she was hungover; she waited for him to say the magic words: get lost. But they never came. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.

Instead of giving her the boot, Ian ignored her and addressed Violet, who was standing to his left with the corners of her glossy, full lips pressed down into a frown. “Give her a nude mouth, emphasize the eyes, but don’t overdo it.... I want her to look fresh. Natural. And for God’s sake, try to do something with the dark circles and the bloodshot eyes. She looks like she’s been up for a week.”

“What about the hair?”

Jordan didn’t appreciate them speaking over her head as if she was an oversize stuffed doll they were dressing up.

“Twist it back off her face. I don’t want anything to detract from her face. Keep the jeans, but lose the combat boots and the T-shirt. Put her in a white tank.” Ian turned to her and asked, “Do you have on a bra?”

“Excuse me?” Was the Armani guy from her high school wet dreams asking her about foundation garments?

“Do you have on a bra?”

Jordan glanced down at her barely there bust and shook her head. “Lifting and separating has never been a concern.”

“Get her a bra if she wants one. And have her fill out the release form before you bring her in.” Ian said to Violet before he exited the room without glancing Jordan’s way again.

Violet worked quickly and silently, and within in a short time Jordan had been transformed, much to her surprise, into a woman who actually resembled a model. She leaned forward and examined her reflection.

“That’s cra-zy,” she exclaimed. “How’d you do that?”

Even to her own critical eye, she looked like a solid eight on a ten-point scale.

Violet ignored her question and held out her hands for the filled-out release forms. “Come on,” she said in her bored, bossy tone. “He’s waited long enough for you today.”

Jordan followed her to the back of the studio, to a small area surrounded by reflectors and tall, bright lights. Ian was setting up one of his cameras.

“She’s all yours,” Violet said before she turned on her heel and headed back to her room.

Ian spun around and strode over to where Jordan was standing; he examined her hair and makeup. She stood perfectly still and held her breath for some ridiculous reason. Why should she care if he approved? But she did.

His eyes finally stopped and locked onto hers. “You clean up well.”

Typically, she would have a snappy comeback, but at the moment her mind was a blank. She felt as if her legs had turned to cement, and she was feeling a bit nauseous again. She was completely out of her element.

This wasn’t a seedy, dark artist’s dungeon filled with disenfranchised, unemployed kindred spirits. This was frickin’ ridiculously handsome Armani-model photographer-to-the-stars Ian Sterling’s studio. She didn’t fit in here. What had she been thinking?

“Blink if you can hear me,” Ian said in a lowered voice that was meant for her ears only.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” The honesty bubbled out unchecked. She must be more freaked out than she’d thought.

He reached out and placed his palms on her bare shoulders. His large, warm hands engulfed them as he moved his mouth closer to her ear. “You’re here for the money.”

The sensation of his breath on her skin released a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. She nodded her head slightly and tightened her abdominal muscles in an attempt to get the stupid things under control. This was the wrong time to get all stirred up. She needed to focus on what the man was saying, not the sensation his breath was creating as he was saying it.

Focus, Jordy! Focus!

After a moment, she was able to refocus her brain on Ian’s words. The man had made perfect sense and his point was undeniably valid. She was here for the money. She didn’t understand why she was being such a chicken, but the thought of not being able to make rent snapped her out of it. With a renewed sense of purpose, she squared her shoulders, rolled them out from underneath Ian’s hands and elevated her chin.

“What now?” she asked.

“Now? You pose, I shoot. Simple.” He walked over to a table and reached for one of the cameras placed there. “Are you ready?”

“Sure.” She said it with a bravado she didn’t really feel.

The minute Ian picked up the camera, she saw him transform. He had the same look on his face that she imagined she had on hers when she set up a brand-new canvas and opened up a fresh tube of paint. Holding the camera in his hand seemed to electrify him. It was strange, but this was first time he’d actually seemed truly alive. The man obviously loved his job.

“I want to be flexible today, but I definitely want to get a beauty shot of you. Do you know what that is?”

“I’ve watched modeling shows on television before.”

Ian smiled at her. “So you’re practically a pro.”

For the next several seconds all she could do was stare mindlessly at his perfectly straight, perfectly formed white teeth.

“Those have to be veneers.” She heard herself speaking her thoughts aloud like a freak. Was she still drunk? Had she developed sudden-onset Tourette’s? What was she talking about?

“What?” he asked.

“What?” She answered his question with a question, and pretended that she hadn’t said a word. She forced herself to drag her eyes away from his mouth.

For an awkward minute, they looked at each other curiously before Ian moved on from her odd comment and explained, “A beauty shot simply means that I’ll be focusing on your face. But don’t let your body get stiff—relax and move.”

“Relax and move,” Jordan repeated.

“And the most important thing for you to remember is to keep the intensity in your eyes,” Ian continued. “The eyes sell the shot...which is why a beauty shot can be one of the hardest for a model to master.”

“Shouldn’t you let me ride with the training wheels on first?” she asked. They had drawn a crowd. Everyone in the loft, including the two famished models from the couch, were standing at the edge of the set.

Ian gestured for her to move over until she was standing in front of a large white screen. “You ride a Ducati, so you don’t need training wheels,” he said as he aimed his camera at her.

Standing in front of Ian now, Jordan felt completely vulnerable and exposed in the filmy white tank top. She made a good show of being a rebel with a cause, but underneath it all, she was just a conservative girl from Montana.

“Okay.” He seemed oblivious to her discomfort. “Let’s get started.”

He took a couple more shots to test the lighting. He checked the computer monitor and then nodded. “Lighting’s good.... Now focus on me, Jordan. Forget everything else.” The gravelly quality of his voice as he said her name sent a shiver racing right up her spine.

Jordan breathed in deeply and tried to put the audience out of her mind, but she could see the praying mantis twins burning holes into her flesh from the corner of her eye. Another flash popped.

“Look straight into the camera. Chin up just a little bit. Relax your mouth. Good, Jordan. Very nice.”

She tried to relax, but instead just felt stupid and awkward.

“Look at me through the lens. Nice. I like it, Jordan. Hold that, please.”

The flashbulb popping drew her attention back to Ian again and again. But no matter how hard she tried to follow his direction, the crowd in her peripheral vision was a major distraction. She just couldn’t focus. Not like this.

Ian must have realized from her frozen expression and her stiff limbs that she wasn’t able to overcome the prying eyes. He turned away from her and waved his hand at their audience.

“Clear the studio,” he said to the spectators. But because Ian never asked for privacy, no one moved.

“Now!” he barked loudly.

Jordan watched, relieved, as the crowd disappeared behind the divider. Violet emerged from her room with a curious look on her face.

“Take the rest of the day,” Ian said when he noticed her standing at the edge of the set.

“For real?” Violet asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Do me a favor. Make sure everyone leaves. I want it quiet and private. Got it?”

“Got it.” Violet slid one last suspicious, slit-eyed look at Jordan before she spun on her spiked heels and disappeared.

Ian waited until he heard Violet’s echoing heels reach the door. When it shut behind her, he turned his attention back to Jordan.

“Now,” he said as he walked toward her. “No more excuses.”

“Thanks for that.” She felt herself immediately relax. She would’ve thought that having others around would make her feel less nervous around Ian, but now that they were alone together, she felt more at ease.

“I take it you don’t do that very often,” she added.

“I’ve never done that,” Ian said as he scanned through the photographs he had already taken of her. “Not for anyone.”

“Then why’d you do it for me?”

He walked over to where she was standing, and she liked his natural, long-legged swagger.

“I’m going to be blunt so we can move this along, okay?”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug.

“You interest me. Individually, your features are...ordinary, but together...” He paused as he studied her face. “But together, they are extraordinary. And I feel compelled to capture that in a photograph. Fair enough?”

Jordan wrinkled her brow and gave a small shake of her head. “Was there a compliment in there somewhere? ’Cause it sure didn’t sound like it...”

“You seemed like someone who’d rather get it straight. Was I wrong about that?”

“No. You’re right. I’d rather get it straight.”

“So...is there a problem?”

Jordan put one hand on her hip and felt her proverbial hackles rise. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Good.” Ian nodded his head. “I’m glad to hear it. Time is money and I’d like to get back to work.”

“Sure.” She frowned at him. “Why not? It’s your time to waste. Good luck with getting a usable shot....”

“When it comes to getting the shot,” he replied with the confidence of a man who didn’t often fail. “I don’t need luck.”

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