DON’T TEMPT ME…
Dawn Atkins

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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To Renata,

for generously sharing your gifted eye

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Coming Next Month

1

“LEATHER SHOUTS, lace whispers,” Samantha Sawyer said to her new client, who’d flung off a red silk cloak to reveal her outfit for the portrait Samantha was about to snap of her.

The black leather bustier, red fishnets and glitter-flecked stilettos did not flatter the softly feminine woman before her. In that god-awful platinum flip, Misty looked like a plus-size dominatrix from a 1950s sci-fi movie.

“From what you told me earlier, I believe you want to lure Tony to bed, not chain him to the headboard and whip him into submission,” Samantha said gently.

“But Tony loves leather. Leather clothes, leather furniture, leather everything.” Misty swirled diamond-heavy fingers through the air.

“Tony loves you, Misty. And your body screams for lace.”

“It screams for air, that’s for sure. I can’t breathe.” Misty unhooked the top two grommets and exhaled in deep relief.

It saddened Samantha that instead of showing off her zaftig curves, Misty had crammed them into torturous fashions. Too many of Samantha’s clients did the same—wore too-small clothes, stripped their hair of natural color and turned their faces into exhausted masks with chemical peels and BOTOX shots.

“What did Bianca wear?” Misty asked. “However you fixed her, fix me. My Tony is…wandering.” Her summer-gray eyes went murky with worry.

“Let’s see what set feels right,” Samantha suggested, determined to cheer the woman. “And we’ll choose an outfit that suits you.”

“Okay.” Misty loosened a third grommet with a whooshing exhalation. “Bianca told me you’re a miracle worker. She says Darien’s a new man.”

Bianca Sylvestri, who’d sent Misty here, believed the boudoir photo Samantha had taken of her had saved her marriage and since then had referred a dozen family members, friends and associates for photos. In fact, her grateful husband Darien had offered Samantha a killer lease on the ground floor of his empty building and now she had Bedroom Eyes, plus shops for three friends—a massage studio, a hair salon and a lingerie boutique.

Samantha led the way to the velvet love seat in the corner of the anteroom, and Misty sat beside her, corset creaking like a saddle. Samantha put The Book of Fantasy in Misty’s lap. Her portfolio featured tasteful erotic shots in a range of settings from exotic harem to medieval castle to country meadow.

Samantha believed the shots had special appeal to her clients because they came from her own sexual fantasies. Fantasies she planned to bring to life once she found the time. And the man.

Six months ago, she’d made the decision to break out with her photography and her personal life. At the ripe age of twenty-seven, it had dawned on her that her strict upbringing had cramped her style more than she’d realized.

Enough already. She’d launched Bedroom Eyes and soon enough she’d go for some heart-stopping, take-me-now sex.

Her first step to a bolder Samantha had been giving herself permission to have sexual fantasies: elaborate ones with exciting lovers—pirates and princes and highwaymen and cowboys and cops—in imagined settings similar to the ones Misty was slowly flipping through, pondering each with a smile, a sigh or a closer look.

Misty studied the woman on the tiger chaise in a revealing dress of liquid velvet. This came from Samantha’s fantasy of willing ravishment—being gently tied and invited to surrender to passion by a lover who knew her white-hot core as well as his own. Her personal favorite.

Next, Misty came to the shadowed nude—Samantha’s friend Mona, owner of the massage studio, with her head thrown back, a faint smile on her face, light falling provocatively on her lush curves. Despite its simplicity, the shot required the precise use of fill and reflector to create a sensual, but modest, effect that suited Mona perfectly. Samantha matched pose, set and costume to personality, which gave her photos their special magic.

Misty flipped past that one fast. She didn’t have the confidence for nudity. Not yet, anyway. Samantha’s mission was to help her clients honor their natural beauty, but she never pushed them beyond their comfort level.

Two pages later, Misty gasped and put her fingers to her mouth in delight. Light zinged from her diamonds, as if from a magic wand. “This is it. What I want.”

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty. I love this one.” In this fantasy, Samantha was awakened by the kiss of a prince who’d searched the world over, risked his life to possess her with his hot mouth, tender fingers and thrusting—

Stop it.

Soon, Samantha would live these scenes instead of imagining them. Once she’d hired her assistant—which she’d just decided to do—she’d have more free time for her manhunt. She had to take action soon, before the ache between her thighs became a permanent charley horse.

“I know the perfect costume for you,” she said to Misty, closing the portfolio and pushing to her feet. “Come on.”

Samantha led Misty to the dressing room, with its two changing stalls, elevated try-on area with mirrors, lit makeup table and racks of fantasy clothes for men and women. Exotic shoes—spike heels, marabou slides, elaborate platforms and boots—were stored on racks along one wall. Hats, tiaras and headdresses rested on foam heads lining the top cupboards.

The overall impression was that of backstage at a theater—in fact, she’d scored most of her costumes, props and furniture from a defunct theater company. The lingerie, stockings and garters were on consignment from Valerie’s lingerie shop.

For Misty, Samantha flipped past the red teddy, black silk kimono and white peignoir and grabbed the pink satin camisole with an organdy robe that would flatter her curves. Clear acrylic kitten heels and a satin cone hat with a sheer train completed the princess effect.

Samantha swept the robe around the teddy, held it under Misty’s chin, then turned her toward the mirror. “Gorgeous, huh?”

“Very nice,” she said with barely a glance.

“You’re nervous you won’t look how you imagine?”

Misty nodded.

“That’s normal, but don’t worry. The lights I use, the angle, the costume and, mostly, who you are, Misty, will shine right through.”

“Really?” Misty’s don’t-dare-hope smile filled Samantha with renewed fire. Her very best work shored up an uncertain woman’s sense of her own sexual power.

“Absolutely.” Samantha grasped the locket she always wore, the talisman reminding her of her mission. “You’ll have fun, I promise.” She thrust the clothes at Misty. “Change and meet me in the first studio on your left.”

Misty headed for the dressing stall and Samantha took off for the fairy-tale studio to bring Misty’s fantasy to life.

One day soon, she’d do something about her own. She had a whole mental checklist of sexual adventures besides her fantasies—drizzling chocolate on naked bodies…sex in a hot tub…sex under the sky…beneath the stars…in an elevator…in a rainstorm. Tons of ideas. For when she had time.

Her focus so far had been on launching Bedroom Eyes. She had a five-year plan with firm benchmarks and steep targets. Specialty photography required a huge client pool to survive and her corporate accounts and catalogs could only sustain her so long. If she did well, she would consider expanding, perhaps adding a second photographer when the time was right.

The unexpected bounty of having Darien offer her the entire floor had complicated things. Managing the space had proved time consuming. For one thing, construction seemed continual. Darien was a nut about storage. The lingerie shop could hold Valerie’s inventory twice over and extra cupboards were being hammered into place in the hair salon right now.

Because she’d talked her friends into opening their shops here, she felt responsible for handling the tenant snafus. She’d dealt with the phone-line crash in Val’s lingerie shop, but she still had to look into the plumbing problem in Blythe’s salon and the AC glitch in Mona’s massage studio.

She planned to hand off the property management duties to her assistant, too. Just yesterday she’d slipped a help-wanted sign in her window and ordered a classified ad for next week’s paper.

Now she checked the digital Canon for image space—plenty. She used the digital for test shots to show the clients, but made prints from the richer film images. Ensuring the Hasselblad on the tripod held a full roll, she pulled down the castle backdrop, dragged the bed into position and was draping a garland of white silk roses over its canopy when the front door buzzed.

Damn. She had no time for a walk-in now. Maybe it was just Valerie wanting to pin down the details for the afternoon—Samantha had promised to help her arrange her stock and dress the mannequins in her windows. Her artist eye and all.

But it wasn’t Valerie at her counter. It was a man. Handsome and tall, wearing a chambray shirt and 501s, with crisply cut black hair and a stance as square as his jaw, he was so masculine he made the studio look as froufrou as a dollhouse. And he seemed so familiar….

She knew immediately why. He was the spitting image of the weather-beaten cowboy in her fantasy—the sexy loner who smelled of wood smoke and leather and tenderly ran his rough palms over her delicate skin.

He set a scuffed leather portfolio on the counter and gave her a wicked smile. Maybe he was more like the highwayman risking arrest to enter her bedchamber by moonlight and possess her utterly.

“May I help you?” she asked, managing to sound normal.

“Rick West.” He held out a hand so big it swallowed hers up. No calluses, so forget the cowboy. And his expression was strong and no-nonsense. More like the hard-bitten cop catching her speeding, then patting her down and losing all restraint.

“Samantha Sawyer,” she managed to say, fighting her urge to add, Have I done something wrong, Officer?

He was clearly not here for a photo. Men’s men only came in when they were dragged by the women who’d conquered their hearts. Rick West was alone. And without a ring.

Stop it.

“I’m here about the job,” he said, giving her a blast of remarkable green eyes that made her want to say yes, yes, oh yes. He unzipped his portfolio, biceps tightening. “I’m a photographer.”

“A photographer?” Not the cowboy, highwayman or cop. He was the artist, slowly peeling away her clothes so he could capture her on canvas or film or in clay. “But I’m only looking for an assistant.”

“No problem. I can assist. Hold reflectors, deliver negs, answer the phones.” He snatched her gaze up tight. “Whatever you need me to do.”

Would you wear leather chaps? How about handcuffs? His eyes were a rare green. Not as bright as emerald or as subdued as jade. Nature’s green—a Scottish hillside, a particular moss she’d seen on Oak Creek’s red rocks.

“It would be a lot of errands, some marketing calls, low-skill stuff,” she said, but he’d flipped open the portfolio to get his résumé, and she went close enough to peek at his pictures, bumping the counter, which wobbled. She had to ask Darien’s crew to attach it properly to the floor.

“Wow,” she said. The first photo was a startling shot of a big-winged bird that seemed to dance over a hillock of gold-and-yellow desert poppies. “Is that a falcon?”

“No. Turkey vulture.”

“But it’s so elegant.” She glanced up at him.

“Yeah.” He smiled mysteriously, as if the grace of the bird were his private secret. She could picture that wicked grin beneath a Zorro mask, with him all in black and her in a low-cut peasant blouse. Tell me what you desire of me, mysterious outlaw.

Your breasts, your thighs, your silky skin, your fiery soul.

He turned the portfolio at a better angle, so she could flip through it. Misty was waiting, but Samantha could at least glance at what he had. The second shot held racing clouds dusted by gold over an up-jutting desert promontory in an iridescent blue sky. “Gorgeous.” She glanced up at him.

“Canyon de Chelly,” he said, a flicker of pride in his Scottish-moss eyes. Forget the Zorro mask. She’d want those green eyes boring straight into her soul.

She was close enough to pick up his scent—lime-spice aftershave, fresh air and starch. His shirt was stiff, the sleeves fiercely creased. He’d ironed it? Masculine, but deliciously domestic. Mmm.

She flipped through breathtaking wildlife and landscape shots—mostly Southwest, mostly desert, mostly color, though there were a few dramatic black-and-whites. Subtle emotions played over every print. His work was technically brilliant with an artistry that made even the familiar seem new.

“These are wonderful, Rick,” she said, “but I take specialty portraits, as you can see.” She motioned at the framed prints that surrounded them.

He thrust his résumé at her.

She looked it over. Freelance work for several magazines. He’d also been an automobile mechanic and had served in the army. His references included the photo editor at Arizona Highways, whom she knew.

“You can see my work’s mostly landscape and wildlife,” he said, “and I’d like to add some portraits to my portfolio. Glamour sells.” He shrugged, as if that were an obvious motivation.

“But there wouldn’t be much photography if any. I’m just growing my business. I’m only paying minimum wage.” She extended the résumé, but he didn’t take it, just held her gaze, something flaring in his eyes. Attraction spun hot between them and made the air seem to crackle.

“I’m flexible,” he said, a sexy edge to his words.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she blurted, surprising herself. He stood arrow straight, but there was an animal grace to him that made her want to see him in motion. She felt light-headed and a little weak. “But still…”

She just didn’t see him doing this job.

Now, doing her…that she could definitely see. He’d slipped into her fantasies as easy as a night swim in August. What about making them real? She tugged on her locket, sliding it back and forth on its chain, pondering the idea.

Ask him out. You want him. He wants you. Simple.

Mona claimed Samantha used Bedroom Eyes as an excuse to back-burner her love life. Mona thought she was chicken.

Brrock, brrock.

So prove her wrong. This is the man. This is the place.

Still watching her, Rick braced a hip on the counter. When it shifted under him, he turned to jiggle it. “I could fix this. Someone could get hurt.” He winked. Hire me. You know you want to.

“I can’t offer you the job, Rick,” she breathed, “but how about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Or maybe just dessert.” She’d blurted the words before she’d absorbed the utter surprise on his face. He evidently hadn’t been flirting so much. Oh, God. She’d gotten so caught up in her imagination, she’d assumed they were doing that sexy subtext repartee she loved in the movies…and her fantasies.

“Just kidding. Heh-heh.” She laughed a fake laugh, madly grinding her locket along its chain, embarrassed as hell.

“Uh, that sounds…tempting….” He nodded a little, awkward, opened and closed his mouth, as if not sure what to say next.

The door buzzed and they both turned to watch Bianca Sylvestri rush in, her timing either perfect or rotten, Samantha wasn’t quite sure which.

Bianca, a chubby dynamo, wore a knitted dress of multicolored nubby yarn with a matching pillbox hat. Her own creation, no doubt, since her ankle boots were trimmed in the same wool. Bianca loved to knit and was about to open her own yarn shop.

“You have to help me, Sammi,” she said with breathy drama. “My niece Angela and her new husband Joey are desperate for a photo.”

“I’ve got a client right now, Bianca. Misty’s here.” And I just asked a man out for dessert. Dessert, can you believe that?

Even mortified to her roots, Samantha wasn’t done fantasizing about Rick. Even now she could picture drizzling chocolate over his naked chest and flat belly, could see him licking her own swells and dips absolutely squeaky clean.

“Misty? Bless her heart, she does need you. But Joey’s going to Chicago for three whole months and Angela needs a picture to keep her warm while he’s gone. They’ll be here in a blip. Joey doesn’t know and we can’t give him a nanosecond to think. Strip-sit-click, you know, before he starts whining.”

“I’d love to help, Bianca, but Misty’s waiting for me.”

“Is she in the fairy-tale room?”

Samantha nodded.

“Great, because we need the exotic studio. You just go on and finish up with Misty.” Bianca waved her away with diamond-heavy fingers. “I know exactly what we want and I’ll set up for you.” Bianca had helped with several friends’ shoots, so this wasn’t unusual behavior.

“I don’t know…” Samantha said.

“I can help her.” Rick said. “So you can finish.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Rick.”

“Sure you can,” he said, low and steady, coaxing her.

“Perfect!” Bianca sang out. “Rick, is it? You’re a lifesaver.”

“Anything I can do,” Rick said, keeping his eyes on Samantha, still angling for the job.

He could save her time. Plus, moving props on Bianca’s command would undoubtedly prove to him he didn’t want the job.

Now dessert…that might still be on the table. She’d have to wait and see.

2

MAYBE JUST DESSERT? Damn. Rick followed the hot photographer deeper into her studio, figuring his next move. He’d meant to be friendly and helpful—a Boy Scout, not a horn dog—but his attraction to her obviously showed.

Now the woman didn’t want to hire him; she wanted to screw his brains out. He’d been close to saying, How about dinner and dessert? As if he regularly traded sex for a W-4.

He was rusty at this.

Granted, the old Rick would have been happy to share dinner, dessert, a midnight snack and breakfast in bed with a woman like her. Not the new Rick and certainly not the Rick who was on duty.

He hated undercover work, despite the prestige. He hated wearing a different persona, keeping his lies in order, cozying up to suspects and scumbags. He liked things clean and straight and honest and simple. But his photography background made him ideal for the assignment, so here he was.

And he’d struck gold already, whether or not Sawyer hired him. He was about to question the wife of the mobster they were after. Darien Sylvestri owned this building and had set up Sawyer and her friends in business.

Exactly what kind of business the organized-crime task force hadn’t yet pinned down. Money laundering, stolen goods or bookmaking, if Sylvestri stuck to his Chicago specialties. Pornography? Possible, considering Darien’s in-town associates and all the strippers and hookers prancing through the Mirror, Mirror Beauty Center, the complex that housed the studio, salon, lingerie shop and massage place.

Something was definitely happening in Bedroom Eyes, they knew. Just before Sawyer had opened shop, the task force had triangulated a juicy call between Sylvestri and an associate. The photo studio’s prime, he’d said. We’re all set with the tenant…. God bless Bianca. The caller had said something garbled about a shop and some deliveries, then they’d lapsed into small talk. That was enough to move on the building.

Whatever was going on, Rick’s job was to expose it from the inside as an employee. Which meant he had to get the damn job. Say whatever he had to say to get Sawyer to hire him.

He’d have to work the attraction angle. Just enough to get the connection going. Keep a tight rein on his reactions, of course. Go by the book, but he could be friendly, couldn’t he?

She’d caught him off guard with that offer. Very direct. She almost seemed to have surprised herself.

She was hotter close up than she’d seemed from the surveillance. Smarter, too. And more intense.

Interesting.

He followed her down the hall, scanning every detail of the place in case this was his only chance to check it out.

Sawyer stuck her head into the first room. “Go ahead and pick out a CD to play, Misty, and I’ll be right back.”

Misty Simone, Rick knew. He and his partner Mark had watched her enter the studio earlier. Her husband Tony was small potatoes compared to Sylvestri. So was Joey Balistero, Sylvestri’s son-in-law, whose shoot Rick was about to help with, but the more they knew about everyone who frequented the center, the tighter the case would be.

He wondered how deep in Sawyer was with Sylvestri, who’d relocated from Chicago a year ago, supposedly to retire, making a few quiet property purchases—a big house in Paradise Valley, a small commercial lot in Scottsdale, some horse acres outside Cave Creek and this two-story office building in a faded Phoenix strip mall.

Sawyer’s help-wanted sign had been the first solid way onto the scene. Infiltrating the cleaning crew had failed—Sylvestri’s people handled that—and trying for a lease or posing as shop customers was too short-term. Once he got hired, he could freely search the building, get to know the players, locate the action.

In a few minutes, he was about to see Balistero stripped to Skivvies. Not a pleasant prospect, but if it helped with the case, he’d hold the guy’s, uh, belt for him.

Glancing into the first studio as he passed, Rick caught sight of a medium-format camera on a tripod pointed at a castle backdrop, a couple of lights on stands, a three-panel reflector, and Misty, who gave him a shaky smile.

Dressed in a pink nightie and a party hat, the woman was obviously not there for a porn shot. Probably didn’t even know her husband was dirty. The wives were always the last to know.

Farther down the hall, Rick noted another studio to the right, followed by a service door to the parking lot, then a tiny office, which he was staring into when Sawyer stopped short.

He bumped into her full on, enjoying her firm backside, and got a blast of flowers. Her thick red-brown hair snagged in his chin stubble.

She turned and looked up at him, her burned-in blue eyes wide with surprise. “Well, hello there,” she breathed, trying to act cool, but flustered. Very flustered.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be.” Her eyes gave him a once-over, her pink tongue peeking out. “It was nice.” She dragged a medallion on a chain, which drew his gaze to her spectacular set of nature’s own.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Yeah. Very nice.”

For just a second, case or no case, he wished he’d met her before he’d decided to settle down, start a family, back when he was content with an occasional night with a warm and willing female.

“Here’s Bianca,” she said, waving him into the next studio, where Sylvestri’s wife was rummaging around in the fake fur, pillows and vases on shelves. The room looked like backstage at a strip club, with elaborate furniture in animal prints and a black metal arch, along with photo equipment and three rolled backdrops.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Samantha asked him, her eyes twinkling. “It’s nothing like snapping a sunlit vista, you know.”

“I’m up for anything,” he said, letting the sexual undertow tug at the sand beneath their feet. He would have to tactfully backpedal if she went for what he was hinting at, but for now he had to keep her interested.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Set up two reflectors and the tungsten. I’ll bring in the Hasselblad when I’m finished with Misty.”

“You got it, boss.”

She held his gaze for a second, turned away, then glanced back at him, biting her lip, as if she was in over her head. Pretty charming and he found himself smiling at her back as she walked away.

Maybe that was what had happened with Sylvestri. She just got in too deep. Wanted a studio and closed her eyes to the crimes that made it possible. It was a shame when bright people turned their talents to bad ends. Genetics, upbringing or something big went south in their lives. It wasn’t his job to feel sorry for the perps, though. It was his job to stop them.

“Grab that chaise, Rick, will you?” Bianca said, calling him back to the task at hand. Right now, he’d learn what he could from Sylvestri’s wife. He moved the chaise to where she wanted it, then two plaster columns, which were so heavy he felt like Samson in that old movie tearing down the pillars he was chained to.

Bianca tossed two velvet pillows at him. “Fluff those up and arrange them, please. See if you can wrap that red silk around the arch like a curtain, hanging down, but swept back.”

Good Lord. If Mark and his squad could see him now—fluffing pillows and draping curtains. He wanted to laugh.

When he’d finished, Bianca surveyed the results. “Not bad.” Then her gaze landed on him and stuck. “So, Rick, you’re a friend of Samantha’s?” She looked him up and down, like she was checking out a daughter’s prom date.

“Actually, I applied to be her assistant. This is kind of an audition, I guess.”

“So you need me to put in a good word.” She tapped her lip. “I’m glad she’s so busy she needs an employee. I’ve sent in all my friends and family to get their pictures taken.”

So the mobster’s wives and mistresses trotting in for photos over the last few weeks had been referrals from Bianca. The task force had assumed they were doing business for Darien out of the studio. Maybe not. Hmm.

“Samantha took a photo of me that saved my marriage.”

“A photo can do that?”

“When Sammi takes it, you bet. That woman knows how to yank out your beating heart and wave it under your nose.” She smiled. “That sounded positively Aztec, I know, but what she does is a pure miracle.” She sighed, adjusting a pillow.

“I can imagine,” he said, thinking she had to be exaggerating. It was just film, angle and light, after all.

“We still need something,” Bianca said, eyeing the set. “I know. Put the fat candles around that table, which should go there.” She pointed at each item in turn and Rick moved things as indicated.

As they worked, Rick asked questions and Bianca was happy to explain that she and Darien had come from Chicago to retire and that the “dear, darling man” was setting her up in the knit shop she’d always wanted.

Before long, Rick knew about the horse property they’d purchased and the electronics store Darien wanted to open on the second floor of this building. He memorized everything as best he could, wishing he’d requisitioned a mini recorder. First chance he got, he’d slip away to take some notes.

Mark ribbed him about how scrupulous he was about notes and reports, but being thorough and organized kept his head straight when he was undercover, helped him remember who he was, kept the lies in order.

Again, Bianca stepped back and examined the set, then beamed at him. “Nice work, Rick. I’ll definitely tell Samantha how helpful you were. And so easy to talk to. I’ve blabbed on and on….” She pondered him, speculating. Wondering why he asked so many questions? He braced himself to deflect her suspicion.

“Would you do me a favor, Rick?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Convince our Sammi not to work so hard. She needs to get out more. My Darien has a nephew who would be perfect for her—handsome and successful…he’s in vending machines and concessions, I believe. There was a tiny misunderstanding with the authorities, but that’s been straightened out.”

“Sounds interesting.” And criminal, actually. The mob was all over the vending world. He wondered if Bianca even knew she was surrounded by wise guys. She seemed completely guileless. People were always harder to read close up, when you saw things from their side, heard their rationalizations, their hopes and dreams and plans to change, to go straight….

“So, with you taking over some of the work, maybe Sammi can go out with him. I’m not thinking marriage necessarily, but…you understand.”

“You bet. But first I have to get the job. If you could help her see I’m the guy she needs…” That hadn’t come out quite right.

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” she said, another speculative look on her face, as if she’d read a little too much into what he’d said. “For now, we need to light the candles.”

He patted his pockets. Pointless, since smoking was a habit he’d quit along with so many others when his brother Brian had died.

The door buzzer sounded.

“That’ll be the happy couple,” Bianca said. “You get matches from Samantha and I’ll get them in here. Hurry back. I might need you to convince Joey to cooperate.”

God, would he have to hold the guy down and strip him? Samantha was right. This was nothing like snapping sunlit vistas. Wildlife didn’t primp and preen and prance around in costumes. Getting a load of Joey in his undies sounded like a bad breakfast.

He headed for the studio where Samantha was photographing Misty Simone. The woman’s breathy gasp made Rick wonder if they were shooting porn after all, but once he stepped inside, he saw that she was watching a slide show on a computer monitor.

Each image appeared, then faded, accompanied by music. In the shots, Misty lay on her side on satin sheets, her robe slightly open, looking remarkably hot. Not shy or silly or even overweight, and the goofy hat looked like it belonged on her head.

“How did you do that?” Misty asked Samantha, her voice faint with amazement. “I look sweet and sexy…not even fat.”

“Lights and angle and you. That’s all there is to it.”

“Tony won’t believe it’s me.”

“Sure he will. He’ll see you clearly again. He’ll remember why he fell in love with you.”

Sawyer was so damned earnest, Rick was ready to believe that Tony Simone, as sensitive as the longshoreman he’d been in Jersey, would drop to his knees at his wife’s feet and beg her forgiveness for being a neglectful prick.

The last photo faded, the music stopped and the screen went black.

“Bianca was right,” Misty said. “You do make miracles.”

“I just capture what’s there.” Samantha caught sight of him. “Yes, Rick?”

“Uh…oh, I—” He realized he was standing there like a dick-dragging idiot. Why had he come again? “Matches. We need some.”

“There’s a lighter on that shelf.” Sawyer nodded at the spot. “Everything ready in there?”

“Lights and set anyway. Bianca went after Angela and Joey.”

“They won’t know what hit them.”

“No kidding. She’s something else.” They shared a smile that felt comfortable, so he pushed a little. “She thinks you should hire me to give you more free time.”

“She does, does she?” She tilted her head at him.

“I think she’s right.”

“You do?”

“I’ll make your life easier, I swear.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, searching him out, prying, asking him about the heat simmering between them. He knew what she meant, but he had a job to do. He had to keep her guessing for a while, at least.

“Hire me,” he said with a wink. “You know we both want it.”

He watched a tremor pass through her and felt an answering quiver in his own limbs. Get a grip. He felt so rusty at this flirting thing. He’d been kind of isolated lately. His wife hunt had been going way, way slow.

Or maybe it was something about Samantha.

Probably being undercover. He hated undercover.

Samantha watched Rick go back to Bianca, admiring his muscular behind in well-worn jeans. He’d flirted with her. At least that. But he also wanted the job. How about the job and dessert?

She could hardly date an employee. Assistant by day, fantasy man by night? Too weird, even for Samantha the Bold. Rick was either her assistant or her date, not both, and the next two hours would tell her which.

She said goodbye to Misty and sent her off to change, warmed by her parting words: This means more than you know, Samantha. Even if Tony doesn’t change, I’ll never see myself the same again. Mission accomplished. Samantha was thrilled.

In studio two, however, things weren’t going so well. The newlyweds, sitting on opposite ends of the chaise, looked miserable. Joey slumped, fully clothed, hanging his head like he awaited a prostate check. Angela sulked in a red lace teddy, arms folded, legs crossed, foot wagging angrily.

Bianca flung up her arms. “I give up, Sammi!”

“Joey’s ruining everything,” Angela cried.

“I’m not taking off my pants,” Joey said. “I am no fag.”

“Don’t say fag,” Angela said. “Being gay is perfectly okay. Have some respect.”

“You have some respect and don’t make me into a fool.”

Angela bickered back, but Rick cut through her words in a take-charge voice. “Just do it, man.”

Everyone stared.

“Look, if your lady wants a shot of you in a bird suit with feathers sticking out your ass, put on the damned suit. Hell, if it makes her happy, cluck a little.”

There was a pause, then Bianca spoke into the stunned silence. “Well said, Rick. Wasn’t that well said, Sammi?”

“I’ve seen her work,” Rick continued. “You’ll look good.”

She could almost read Joey’s mind. If this guy thinks it’s not gay… “Okay…but just the shirt.”

“But I like those boxers,” Angela whined.

“The shirt’s enough,” Samantha said, deciding to go with a simple clinch and just two positions, not her usual six. She’d use the digital, which hung from her neck, and move the camera, not the couple, to maintain Joey’s tentative goodwill. “Angela and Joey, find a comfortable position lying down. Bianca, you’ve done all you can. How about you wait in the lobby for us?”

“Whatever you say, hon,” Bianca said. “Smile nice, you two.”

While Joey uneasily unbuttoned his shirt, Samantha hit the CD player’s remote, filling the room with soft music. “Grab that stepladder,” she said to Rick, winking at him as a thank-you for getting Joey’s cooperation.

“Whatever you need,” he said, winking back. There was that snap of heat between them again, that tug of man-woman connection and her embarrassment from earlier was completely erased.

Rick braced the ladder while she climbed. She felt his eyes on her body, was aware of the strength and warmth of his arms almost touching her thighs. It was a good thing he held the ladder or she’d have wobbled right off the rung.

To steady herself, she focused in on her subjects, lying hopelessly tense on the chaise beneath her.

“Look into Angela’s eyes, Joey, and forget we’re here,” she said in the low, even register that worked best with self-conscious clients. “Let Angela be all you see.”

“This is so lame,” Joey said.

Angela grabbed the back of his hair.

“Ouch. Okay, okay.”

“Won’t you miss me?” Angela asked in a little girl’s voice.

“Sure I’ll miss you, baby,” he said slowly.

“Like the moon?” she coaxed. “And all the stars?”

Sweetness softened Joey’s hard features. “Every friggin’ twinkle,” he said, sinking into the rhythm of what must be a lover’s ritual they shared. He leaned down and kissed her.

Samantha sighed. She loved when couples got tender with each other.

“This is all you’ll have of me while you’re gone,” Angela murmured, holding Joey’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he said, getting into it now. “So it has to be good. It has to last.”

Samantha took a shot. Perfect. When she shifted, she accidentally bumped Rick’s forearm, remembering he was there, which was strangely reassuring, even as it put her on sexual alert. After a few more snaps, she needed to get down the ladder to try for some shots from beside the couple.

She turned toward Rick, signaling her descent, and he moved slightly. Her butt brushed his chest as she lowered herself, and, once on the ground, she turned, hesitating in the cave of his arms.

He struggled, too, for a moment, and almost seemed to force himself to step away from her. Whatever was percolating here was definitely mutual. She took a shuddering breath and went to crouch beside the couple.

She looked up at them, framing their faces between their forearms. Nice shot.

Rick moved to the Hasselblad and in a few seconds, he snapped a picture, setting off the strobe. She smiled her approval. She’d have two camera perspectives after all. Twice the photos in the five minutes they had before Joey lost interest.

“Imagine you’re saying goodbye,” she said to pull a little more emotion from the couple.

Angela pulled Joey in for a kiss.

“Baby,” Joey murmured.

Click. Perfect. Samantha looked over at Rick, who’d fired off more frames, and they smiled at each other. They’d made the most of a delicate moment, working as a team, in wordless sync. Which was surprising considering they were virtual strangers. Rick had potential as an assistant.

But what about as a dinner partner?

She watched her couple, moved by the way Joey cupped Angela’s cheeks with his entire palms, as if he couldn’t touch enough of her, and how Angela pointed her toes between Joey’s feet, utterly thrilled to be in his arms.

Samantha wanted this intimacy, too. Eventually. After she’d been wild and free and wanton for a while. She would know when she was ready. In a couple of years. Maybe three. She had a lot of fantasies to live out.

She caught Rick looking at her. He seemed puzzled, as if she’d somehow surprised him. What was that about?

“Maybe we should go for a different position,” Joey said. “Move around, try some poses, mix it up?”

In the end, Samantha had to stop him before he asked for a wind machine and baby oil to make his muscles gleam.

She loaded the digitals on the computer, invoked the slide show and stepped back so the couple could admire themselves in peace. Rick stood beside her, looking on, too. She glanced at his profile, with its straight, masculine lines. He was deliciously male.

She could picture him with her on the big bed in the fairy-tale studio. She would pretend to be asleep. He would wake her with a kiss. Or maybe they’d be on the tiger chaise in this studio…her hands tied with a red silk sash…no, the black velvet one. Please…don’t…stop…. More…more…

“And bigger. More and bigger, right?”

Samantha jerked back to the moment. “Bigger? Huh?”

“And matte, not glossy,” Angela said. She meant print size, quantity and finish, Samantha realized. Whew.

All three people were staring at her. Hell, she’d lapsed into a fantasy in the middle of a shoot. It was Rick’s fault. He was the living embodiment of her fantasy man standing right here beside her, so broad and tall and handsome.

And he wanted her to hire him.

This could be a problem. Or a gift. He could help her in the studio and the bedroom.

“Many clients prefer matte,” she said, but she had to clear her throat to get out the words. “Less glare, but it’s up to you.” She babbled on about the proof book and the order, but she was thinking about Rick.

Could he want more than the job? He seemed mysterious to her. Which was partly why he was so hot. He could be anyone she wanted him to be.

Bedroom Eyes was the most important thing to her, right, and he could be a good assistant. She hadn’t counted on photography experience in her employee, but it could only help. Maybe she should give him the job and forget dessert altogether.

She and Rick walked the couple out to Bianca. Joey and Angela strolled arm in arm, looking at each other every few seconds as if they couldn’t believe their luck. Like a bride and groom faltering in the middle of their vows, awed by the power of their symbolic act, appreciating each other anew.

Samantha was so glad she’d given them this reminder of their love. Maybe couple shots were the best of all.

The clients gone, Samantha turned to Rick. “So what do you think?” she asked, knowing his words would tell her what to do.

“I’m impressed. You got those two from divorce court to a Hallmark card in two minutes flat. The digitals were great.”

“The prints will be better. I combine flash with tungsten so the golden highlights are warm, not cloying.”

“It’s more than the lights, Samantha. You have a gift.”

He wasn’t about to let her hide behind her gear. She liked that.

“There’s a lot you can teach me.” He stood a little closer, drawing her out, stretching the tension between them like a fine, tight wire.

There was a lot he could teach her, she’d bet. Naked. “You did a good job of getting Joey to cooperate.”

“Probably would help you to have a man around for that,” he coaxed.

“We did have a nice rhythm going.”

“Yeah. A nice rhythm.” And heat. They had heat going. His irises flickered with gold—candles shining out of all that green moss—telling her he wanted her.

Her knees turned to flan.

“It’s mostly clerical, Rick. Really. You might have to clean out drains and change AC filters for my tenants.”

“I don’t mind. Like I said, anything you—”

“Need. Right. You said that.” She held his gaze, her knees of flan jiggling beneath her.

“And I meant it.”

Did he really? Could he possibly? Could they work together and sleep together? Insane idea or time-saver?

“Okay. We try it for a week,” she said, trying to be firmer than her custard knees. “But if it doesn’t work out—”

“It’ll work out.” His eyes burned through her. He looked dark and dangerous, with stubble just emerging from his firm jaw, and he was so big. He’d have to bend down to kiss her, even if she went on tiptoe, and when he wrapped her in his arms, she’d be overpowered, overwhelmed, swept away.

“How can you be so sure?” she breathed.

“I am. Trust me.”

“We give it a week,” she said firmly, showing him who was boss. But there was a flicker of something in his green eyes that made her think that maybe she wasn’t quite as in charge as she should be.

3

SCORE. HE WAS IN. He had the job.

Of course, he’d practically sworn to be Sawyer’s love slave with the looks and dripping hints he’d delivered. The worst part was that it had come out so easily. Like butter, like cream, like sliding into bed with a hot, hungry woman.

Something about her dug at him—the yes-no vibe she gave off. Flirting, then backing away, as if she’d stepped too far out on a tightrope on a dare.

He wanted to reassure her. Yeah, you’re hot. Yeah, I’d jump you if I could.

He liked her. She had this bizarre business, but she seemed sincere. Forget liking her. He had to keep personal reactions under control. Constant awareness, attention to detail and neutral detachment were the secrets to successful undercover work. The less personal he got, the better.

Except she wouldn’t trust him if he didn’t connect with her, so he had to engage in some repartee. Within reason. Work it for the case. He’d given her mixed messages, too, which wasn’t fair and hadn’t helped.

God he hated being undercover.

It made him feel out of control. He hated checking the rearview, doubling back over every story for consistency and cracks. Hated pretending to be someone he wasn’t, hated living with his lies. For now, he contented himself with his success.

Telling Sawyer he needed a bite, he headed out to his Jeep to phone his partner, grab a burger, then return so she could go over his duties.

He crossed the lot, liking when the mild October breeze kicked up, promising change, just like the case. Adrenaline rushed his pulse and he felt primed for action. Easier to ignore that lust-pumped charge he’d gotten over the fact he’d be hanging around Sawyer for a while.

Lot of good that did him when he had to avoid dessert at all cost.

He climbed into his Jeep and took off for Jade’s, the squad’s favorite bar and grill just down the street.

“Got the job,” he said when Mark picked up his call. “Tell the lieutenant.”

“You lucky dog.”

“What are you talking about, Trudeau? You’d hate this assignment. Gloria’d hassle you about the overtime and you’d miss your kids.”

“But Sawyer’s hot,” Trudeau said.

“So?”

“I’m just saying, if the case calls for you to get sweaty with her…”

“Are you nuts?” The idea sounded so damned good he had to sit down. He could picture those muscular legs wrapped around his ass, that curly hair falling over his face, that snapdragon mouth against his, that pink tongue doing things…

“I’m trying to live through you,” Mark said. “Except you don’t do jack shit worth hearing about, letting alone tracking with binoculars.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve got a great life. And a wife you don’t deserve.” Mark was deeply devoted to Gloria, despite the studly bullshit he trotted out for the squad. No one bought it, but it made Trudeau feel invincible, when, in fact, he could be felled by a mere blink of his wife’s lashes.

“I’m saying, make an effort, West. Quit hanging with us so much. Or at least bring over a woman when you do.”

“I will, don’t worry.” He’d dated two women since he’d decided to look for a wife. Laura, then Theresa. Both nice enough, but the minute he’d dropped them off after a date, he’d felt the relief of a duty done, and they’d slid from his mind like minnows down a creek.

Lately, he’d spent his free time throwing back brews with squad mates at Jade’s or over at Mark’s. Gloria made the best rib sauce and a terrific pecan pie. Their place was homey and Rick loved their kids. He should get back to the wife search, though. He’d do that. Sure. One of these days soon.

“Alex wanted me to tell you he beat the top boss on Dragon of Doom 3.”

“He didn’t download the cheats, did he?”

“Nope. Worked it out on his own. Couldn’t disappoint Uncle Rick with his rules for every flippin’ thing, including video games.”

“Good for him. I’ll check it out when I’m over next. This weekend, maybe?”

“What are you, thirty? You act like an old married drone. When I was your age, it was a different woman every weekend. If Gloria hadn’t gotten pregnant, I’d have—”

“You’d have begged her to marry you. She’s the best thing that ever happened to your sorry ass.”

Maybe that was what was missing in Rick’s search for a wife—a woman who made him feel the way Trudeau felt. The man nearly glowed when Gloria came into a room, even if it was just to rip him a new one, which she had to do from time to time. The man was in sore need of female guidance.

Truth was that Rick wanted what Trudeau had—a settled place in the world, a wife and kids to work for, someone to help him sort out what mattered from what didn’t. Something Brian had never had the chance to have.

“So now that I’m in,” he said, getting back to work, “I’ll be checking out all the shops, verifying IDs, seeing who’s connected. Looks like some of the photography customers came from the wife, not Darien, and are straight photo shoots, nothing crime related.”

“Interesting. It’s good you’re inside. We can figure this out a hell of a lot faster.”

“That’s the idea.”

“And on that other thing, you’ll be surrounded by naked women, West, so drool a little. Pretend you got a pair.”

“The equipment’s intact, not to worry,” he said. His reaction to Sawyer was proof. He grimaced, especially because he got a rush when he thought about getting back to her now.

He hung up with Mark and headed into Jade’s, determined to keep his mind on the job and forget how hot Sawyer was, no matter how many ways she reminded him with her twisty hip-walk and her teasing smile and flirty remarks and her tight backside, and that great set of—

Stop it.

Maybe he’d learn something from her, like he’d said, though he hated how personal portraits got. Samantha Sawyer sure knew what she was doing in the studio. She’d turned the shoot with that lowlife Balistero into a tender moment. And Rick couldn’t see her shooting porn, not from what he’d seen so far.

On the other hand, sociopaths were skilled liars, so he’d stay on guard. Remain clearheaded, neutral and completely controlled. Evaluate all evidence, examine all options, ask and answer all questions.

And stay way clear of dessert.

“IS THE BOOKKEEPER spelled T-A-B-O-R or E-R?”

“O-R,” Samantha said on a sigh. “I promise I won’t quiz you later.” Since Rick had returned from his lunch break, he’d asked a million questions about the center, dragging the twenty-minute orientation into a ninety-minute ordeal. It was as if he thought he’d have to run the place without her. Just now he’d honed in on the fact that Darien loaned Samantha his bookkeeper.

“Let’s get going, Rick,” she said, “so I can introduce you to the other shop owners.” The day was nearly over and she’d promised to help Valerie after work.

On the way out the door, Rick paused to rattle the loose counter. “I’ll bolt this first thing tomorrow.”

“The construction crew should handle it, but thanks.” He was obviously trying to reassure her of his usefulness. His tone had changed over lunch. When he’d left, there had been flirtation in the air, but he’d returned all facts and figures.

Which was best, she realized as the time passed. Rick’s role as her assistant—and a photographer at that—was far more important than any sex they might share. Samantha would find her fantasy lover elsewhere.

She led the way to Healing Touch, Mona’s massage studio, where there was an AC problem. The delicate bell over the door tickled Samantha’s ear as always, pouring calm through her. She associated the sound with her once-a-month gift to herself of a Mona massage.

Mona’s was the smallest shop, consisting of a tiny reception area, two small massage rooms, a restroom and overlarge closets—Darien and his storage space.

Mona emerged from the first massage room. “Hello,” she said, smiling at them. Short and curvy with open brown eyes, she moved in an eddy of palpable warmth that Samantha loved. Her massages melted worries and fears, along with knots and kinks, and it was worth every word of her usual lectures about Samantha accepting herself as she was to experience Mona’s tension-melting skill.

“This is my new assistant, Rick West. Rick, Mona Munro. We’re here to deal with your air problem.”

“An assistant already? How wonderful.” Mona shook Rick’s hand, then slanted Samantha a look. She hadn’t believed Samantha would actually hire anyone. She thought Samantha was clinging to the excuse of being too busy. If you’re going to break out, sweetie, break out.

“I act fast when the time’s right,” Samantha said, returning her look. Now she had an assistant. Soon, she’d find a man. Hit a brunch at the Phoenician or cruise a singles watering hole and reel one in. No problem.

“It’s this way.” Mona led them to the second massage room.

Samantha breathed in the lemon–ylang-ylang of the candle burning on the counter beside the CD player in the cozy, golden-hued room that featured a massage table covered in saffron sheets.

“The air just sinks. No movement,” Mona said to Rick, waving her arms through the air above the table.

Rick looked up, studying the register, arms akimbo. “I’ll see what I can do.” He scooped off his shoes and climbed onto the table, reaching up to twist something on the vent, which made his forearm muscles tighten and glide.

And look at that backside, so tight and round. Why, Handyman Rick, I think my wiring needs tightening, my pipes need, well, what pipes need. Fix me quick with your special tool. Samantha sighed.

Rick banged the vent slats with the heel of his hand.

“So, an assistant and a handyman,” Mona murmured.

Samantha looked at her friend, Rick’s body rising between them. “He’d do whatever I need him to do,” she said.

“Oh, well. That’s wonderful.” Mona grinned.

Samantha blushed and changed the subject. “So how’s Mr. Regular?”

It was Mona’s turn to blush. “Still regular.” Chuck Yardley, aka Mr. Regular, came for a massage five days a week, feigning rugby strains, but really to get to know Mona, who refused to budge on her no-dating-clients rule.

Samantha understood her reluctance. Sleazy massage parlors gave legitimate therapists a bad name. Samantha had a similar problem with callers who asked for vulgar photos, using words she preferred not to think, let alone hear.

But Mona could easily send Chuck to another therapist and go out with the guy. She claimed her people instincts went amok once chemistry kicked in and she had a rat of an ex-husband to prove it. So poor Chuck forked over hundreds a week in unnecessary rubdowns in a vain effort to coax his reluctant sweetheart that he was safe to date.

Rick tested the outflow, then looked down at them. “That should do it.”

Mona tilted up her face. “Mmm, feels better already.”

While Rick climbed down, his back to them, Mona mimed licking her finger and touching it to Rick’s behind, then yanking the digit away as if burned.

Samantha fought a laugh.

Rick reached the floor and turned. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Mona said, her eyes twinkling. “I just mentioned how nice it is that you’re so handy. I mean besides being an assistant.”

“Whatever Samantha needs,” he said, winking at her, teasing, turning her nerves to hot wires.

“Yes, she mentioned that.” Another look from Mona.

Samantha had to clear her throat to speak. “Rick’s also a photographer. He helped me with a shoot earlier.”

“Even better. Photographer, assistant and handyman. Ideal in every way.” Then Mona quit teasing and honed in on Rick’s back, studying it with a clinical eye.

“I hope to learn a lot,” Rick said, glancing from Mona to Samantha, clearly puzzled by Mona’s change of focus, but when she grabbed one of his shoulders and ran a knuckle down his spine, his eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

“I’d guess mostly Swedish with a little shiatsu,” Mona pronounced, prodding him with a bent knuckle. “Maybe some trigger-point work. You’ve got a slight curvature…. That sore?”

“A little, yeah. I was in a car wreck in high school.”

“That explains it. Makes the intercostals go into spasm.” Mona grabbed both of his arms, bent at the elbow and pulled them to first one side, then the other. “Get a lot of kinks?”

“Some.”

She manipulated his shoulder and he said, “Ohh…yeah,” his body sagging with relief. Watching Rick’s ramrod-straight frame dissolve into relaxed pleasure made Samantha want to melt.

“Better?” Mona released him.

He turned from side to side, testing his range of motion. “Yeah. Better.”

“I’ll get my book.” Mona glided out of the room.

“She’s getting her book?” Rick asked.

“To schedule you a massage. That felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…”

He seemed so flummoxed by the idea she had to smile. “Then imagine a whole, entire hour.”

Mona returned with her dog-eared planner. “How about four tomorrow?”

“We’ll be too busy, I’m sure,” he said, looking at Samantha for a way out.

“There’s always time for a massage, Rick. Consider it an employee benefit, since I don’t offer insurance.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” Rick said, twisting at the waist to prove it.

“Mona won’t settle for fine. By the time she’s done, you won’t know your own name or even where you are.”

When he blanched, she almost laughed, but she hid her reaction and turned to Mona. “Also, Rick will be following up on the wedding-planner mailing. Do you want me to include a coupon?”

“Sure. I’ll put something together.” She turned to Rick. “I’m glad you’re on our team.”

“Yeah. Me, too. And if you have any other problems, let me know. I’ll drop in regularly, see what else needs doing.”

“Sounds great,” Mona said.

Samantha thought it was nice how he was taking charge, accepting responsibility for extra duties already. Maybe a little too conscientious, but, so far, a good hire.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Rick said as soon as they were outside the shop. “I can pay for the massage.”

“Mona gives me a discount. And you’ll need it. I’ll be working you hard.” She put her hand to her mouth and stood stock-still.

Rick chuckled. “I’m going to let that one alone.”

She smiled her gratitude, liking the wicked look on his face all the same.

“I don’t know that I like the idea of Mona making me forget my name or where I am,” he mused.

“Why not? Haven’t you ever been swept away?” she asked.

“Not on a massage table,” he said in a tone that made her heart pound.

“I know what you mean,” she said, though she really didn’t. She’d never been that lost in a physical moment. She wanted to be. With Rick. Forgetting everything but him and what he was doing to her. Rick, Rick, oh, Rick.

She sighed, then realized they were standing outside Valerie’s display windows, which held the naked mannequins she’d agreed to dress.

“Venus in a C-cup, huh?” Rick said, reading the shop name from above the nude figures. “This whole place is something else.” He shook his head, as if mystified by it all. Again she had to wonder why he’d wanted this job.

The atmosphere was so not Rick.

For a moment they stood side by side staring at the naked women with their plaster hips thrust provocatively forward, fingers extended, inviting, teasing. In her mind, she saw Rick staring at her instead of them, sliding his hot, green gaze over every trembling inch of her naked and needy body.

“I’d ask what you’re thinking, but I bet I’m better off not knowing,” he said, his low tone vibrating through her.

She turned to him. I’m thinking, you…me…naked…now.

But she was spared that bold response or a clever retort when Val burst out the door of the shop. “Thank God you’re here! My inventory finally arrived.” She stopped short at Rick.

“Meet my new assistant, Rick West. Rick, Valerie Sumner. He’ll be helping you with any tenant issues. We’re heading over to the salon right now to—”

“Terrific. You can both help. The shipment barely got here and I cannot under any circumstances miss Lindsay’s twirling tournament. Plus, you have the windows to do, Sammi.” She nodded at the displays.

Samantha looked from her frantic friend to Rick to her watch. It was already four. “You don’t need to stay, Rick. Blythe’s plumbing can wait for tomorrow.”

“I’m happy to help,” he said.

“That’s excellent,” Valerie said. “Come on.”

They followed her through the shop to the back room where men were adding a pallet of goods to the towers of boxes and crates that jammed the space.

Val named the items in each column and then indicated where in the store they belonged. “Lingerie sets there. Garters and stockings on hooks on the walls. Single thongs and panties in rows on that counter, folded. Expensive vibrators in the display case. Edible underwear, oils and genital jewels on the counter.”

Genital jewels? She and Rick exchanged startled looks.

“I’ll finish checking the order, bring out the boxes and handle the inside table displays,” Val finished. “Holler if you have questions.” She was already heading for the back room.

“Do you have questions?” Samantha asked Rick, opening a box and lifting out a red nylon bra with the nipple area cut out. She held it by its straps.

“Just one. How do you stand these things?” He held the matching thong by its thinnest strap.

“You get used to it,” she said, going for breezy, feeling hot and excited and very nervous. She’d only begun wearing thongs in the last few months.

“Looks like a match,” he said, dangling the panties below the bra, which she realized she held in front of her own breasts. “Very nice,” he added softly.

“Cut it out,” she said, fighting the warmth of his words. Heavens to horny, she had to get a grip. She thrust a two-part hanger at his chest and gave him the sexy bra. “Clip them together and hang them here.” She brushed a hanger on the circular chrome rack, setting them all to clanging.

“You’re the boss.” He grinned.

They set to work and she decided chitchat would keep her from lapsing into any more fantasies. “So, you were in the army? Did you like it?” she asked him.

“Huh? The army? Yeah, sure.”

Sounded like mixed feelings to her. “I imagine the discipline would be difficult.”

“It was good for me. Made up for my misspent youth.” He smiled.

“You were wild in high school?”

“No more than most, I guess. How about you?”

“I was your standard Goody Two-shoes. I lived in a little town with little ideas and parents who fit right in.”

“Small towns can be nice.”

“Not to me. I couldn’t wait for college.”

“To go wild?”

“Exactly.” But she laughed. “Only it didn’t work that way. I met a guy and before long you’d never know I’d left Copper Corners. All we did was study and watch TV.” Spending time with Barry had been no more exciting than League Night at the Copper Corners Bowl-A-Rama, but she’d let herself get sucked into living life his way for too long.

“No more, though,” she said. “I’m not letting life trickle through my fingers. I intend to splash around, make big, messy waves that practically drown me.”

She realized Rick was watching her closely. Almost as if he were taking mental notes on her. Unnerving. And flattering, too. “What kind of waves are you interested in making?” he asked.

Sexy waves that peaked and crashed and climaxed, of course, but she couldn’t say that. “With my work, for one thing. And my personal life, too.”

“If your personal life’s anything like your work…wow.” His moss-green eyes heated to a sparkling emerald. He was hinting, but she couldn’t quite read his intentions.

How should she respond? Yeah, baby, I wear out my men like paper plates. Wanna be next? But that was way over the falls.

“Yeah. Well…these things take time. I only started taking boudoir shots six months ago.”

“Sure.” He paused, taking in her answer. “So how’d you get into that?”

She was relieved he was going with chitchat. “Boudoir work? Or photography? I always loved taking pictures. Begged for a thirty-five-millimeter for Christmas when I was seven and after that spent all my allowance on film and developing. Puzzled the hell out of my parents.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“They thought getting in people’s faces was too pushy. When I won awards in high school, they were impressed, but bewildered.” It had broken her heart that they were so lukewarm about her passion. “How about you? How’d you get started?”

“I was young, too. When my pop would go hunting, I’d tag along to shoot pictures. He thought it was peculiar, but he liked the company when my older brother was too busy.” He was quiet for a minute and crushed the boxes he’d emptied, sending his wintry scent to her on a puff of air.

“So when did you go professional?” she asked, hanging up a black satin underwear set.

“I fell into it. Needed money, saw an ad in a magazine. Put myself out there and assignments came my way. How about you?”

“It was a hobby until late in college.” She put a white satin ensemble on the rack. “I thought I’d be a psychologist or social worker, until I took this portrait-photography class on a lark and it was like lightning and thunder striking at the same time. It was a way to combine my curiosity about people with my interest in art. I was absolutely electrified by the idea. I never looked back.”

“I can see that.” I see you. He had an unnerving way of pulling her in tight. Nice, really, and it made her feel like they’d known each other longer than the couple of hours that had passed since he’d shown up at her counter. “Photography can take hold of you for sure,” he added.

“You love it, too, huh?”

“Half the time when I was freelancing, I’d forget to bill the magazine.” He smiled wistfully.

“It shows. Your work is remarkable. That vulture shot…”

“Yeah. I waited all day for that one.”

“All day? That would kill me.”

“That’s how it is with wildlife. You have to be patient. You have to know the animal’s habits and you have to be willing to wait.”

“That’s positively brutal. And unpredictable. I like to plan out a shot, get everything just so, full control.”

“But what about the surprise factor? You know the shot at Canyon de Chelly?”

“With the surreal blue sky and gold light?”

“Yeah. For that my batteries were almost drained and I had one frame, but the scene stopped me dead. That one ran in Arizona Highways.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He gave her an unguarded grin of pride. “I was lucky.”

“No. When you’re good, you make your luck.”

They looked at each other, connected by the shared love of taking pictures. She’d never dated a photographer before. Interesting….

You can’t date him. You hired him.

“So, how did you get into sex shots?” This question came out a little hard and startled her.

“Boudoir shots,” she corrected. “Or intimate photos. If you’re going to work with me you need to use the right vocabulary.”

“Sure. Do people ever ask for something more?”

“You mean like Joey? He was ready to strip, huh?” She started to laugh, but he interrupted her.

“I mean more graphic.” His eyes dug in, diamond-sharp with focus, and she felt stung.

“You mean, do I shoot porn?” Angry, she slid her locket back and forth hard on its chain. It was bad enough she got those awful calls, now her new employee was asking her the question. “Absolutely not. I believe the human body is beautiful. Sex, too. And I won’t exploit either one. I would think that you would already get that. And let me add that if that’s what you’re looking for, then—”

“Sorry. No. That’s not what I want. And I get it. I’m sorry I asked.”

He wore the strangest expression, as if she’d just passed some test she didn’t know she’d been given. He looked relieved.

So strange. He’d insulted her and he was relieved she’d snapped at him.

Worse, she was glad. She wanted him to like her. Part of her wanted to slip into a comfortable intimacy with this man. Part of her held back, sensing there was something he wasn’t telling her that she needed to know.

And the rest of her just plain wanted him.

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