Sam knew he was going to make love to Delaney Walker

Delaney’s soft green gaze searched his face. “Are you by any chance psychic?” she asked. “Because if you’re feeling what I’m feeling, then I want you to read my mind.”

Liquid heat slid through his veins. He didn’t need to possess any telepathic talent to know exactly what she was thinking. Yet he hesitated. Something inside him knew that once he took this step—once he was with her—he would never be the same. He would be irrevocably changed…and it scared the hell out of him.

“Why?” he asked, stalling for time.

Delaney stared hungrily at his mouth. “So that you’ll do what I want you to without having to be told.” She closed her eyes tightly. “Because telling you is too hard, makes me responsible and—And tonight I don’t want to be responsible.” She opened her eyes and her beseeching gaze met his. “Tonight I just…want.”

Sam’s thin thread of resolve snapped. “Reading your mind might be beyond my talents,” he said, reaching up and running the pad of his thumb over her mouth. His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “So why don’t I start by reading your lips?”

Dear Reader,

This story was born when I read an article about a woman who thoroughly enjoyed sex, was very uninhibited…so long as the lights were off and her partner never saw her naked. Being a tad modest myself (ahem, vast understatement), this really struck a chord and I started wondering What if…?

What if the heroine was an unbelievably modest lingerie designer who’d been jilted twice? (Bless her heart.) What if she planned to overcome that modesty by giving her fiancé boudoir photos? (Hmm. Gutsy.) And what if the cheating worm dumped her, taking another woman on the honeymoon and leaving our poor heroine with an appointment for boudoir photos she no longer needed? (What an idiot! Good riddance!) So then, what if she decided that men were scum, and she wanted those photos anyway? (Humph. More power to her.) And what if the photographer epitomized sin in the flesh…and then she found herself trapped overnight with him in his loft? (Ooo-la-la!) And what if the photographer was the faithful hero she’d been looking for and he was willing to do whatever it took to make her see he was the one for her? (Yes, yes…yes!)

Picture Me Sexy is the result of all that chaotic wondering. (Ah, the workings of an author’s mind. It’s almost scary, isn’t it?) I had a ball writing Sam and Delaney’s story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much.

Enjoy,

Rhonda Nelson

Picture Me Sexy
Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In this world, there are men and there are heroes.

And if a woman is lucky, she’ll wind up with the latter—a man who will love, protect, guard and defend her at all costs, who will be her best friend and more, a great partner, a great father. My brother-in-law, Tracy Vanderford, is one of these men—a true hero.

I’m so thankful that he’s there for my sister and niece.

You’re a special person, Tracy.

I’m so glad you’re part of my family.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

MEMPHIS LINGERIE QUEEN Delaney Walker jilted—again!

Delaney muttered a soft oath as she stared grimly at the newspaper. Given the state of the economy, the scandal with the Catholic Church, and the recent war, one would think that the River City Herald could feature something besides her pitiful social life on their front page. It was ridiculous really. Journalism and the state of society was at an all time low if her busted love life was considered news. Hell, it wasn’t news, Delaney amended—it was entertainment. She grimaced.

She was entertainment.

The moment she’d gone from being a struggling designer to an overnight success, Delaney had become Memphis’s bad-girl icon. Never mind that the moniker didn’t fit, that the reputation was a complete figment of society’s imagination. She designed hot, racy lingerie, ergo she must be hot and racy. Her lips curled wryly.

Ha. Nothing could be further from the truth.

That mentality coupled with her penchant for dating the occasional baseball star and for her alarming tendency to get engaged and—just as quickly un- engaged—didn’t help matters in the least. Memphis journalists followed her every move with avid interest, got paid to print her humiliations as if her life were merely the next chapter of a running joke. Most of the time, Delaney didn’t care. Any publicity was good publicity as far as she was concerned. She’d always fumed about it in private, then laughed all the way to the bank.

But for reasons she didn’t understand, it was harder to summon the laughter this time, and even harder to laugh her way to the bank.

Delaney suspected that glum realization stemmed from the fact that Roger worked at the bank.

Her spineless ex hadn’t even had the common courtesy of calling off their engagement in person—he’d taken the hi-tech approach and e-mailed her. That had been a first. She’d been dumped over dinner and over the phone, but this was the first time she’d been given the old heave-ho via the information superhighway.

But it would be the last. She was absolutely, unequivocally finished with men.

Delaney read through the article, winced at the accompanying picture. Hogsville. She looked huge. She was no dainty miss by any stretch of the imagination—she’d been an overweight child and still suffered the effects of that mentality—but in all fairness, the photo wasn’t an accurate depiction of her true self. Her lips curled. If that were the case, then Roger would have scales and a long forked tongue, which more accurately matched his character.

“Delaney…I have bad news.”

Delaney looked up from her desk and met the worried gaze of her personal assistant. She blew out a breath and slouched back into her leather executive chair. “I’ve already seen the paper, Beth. You can lose the gloom-and-doom expression. Honestly, I’m surprised that they hadn’t gotten wind of it before now.” She and Roger had been officially un-engaged for almost a week now. Clearly someone at the Herald was losing their touch. The last time she’d been jilted, it only taken a couple of days for the story to break.

Beth shook her head, winced. “It’s not that.”

Delaney hummed under her breath. Interesting. “Am I going to need a Kiss or the Big Block?” she asked, using her own personal uh-oh scale. Amazing how many things could be gauged by chocolate. Some problems could be handled with a mere satisfying Kiss of chocolate. Others—like being dumped for the second time—required a larger dose. That’s where the Big Block came in. She’d consumed quite a bit of chocolate over the past week—the only food weakness she’d allowed herself to keep once she’d finally carved the pounds off she’d hauled around as a child—but she’d vowed to get her addiction under control. Amazing what a new attitude could do.

Beth bit her bottom lip. “Definitely a Big Block.”

Uh-oh, Delaney thought. That didn’t bode well for her peace of mind or her hips. Thank God for anti-depressants and Lycra, she thought with a droll smile.

With a silent sigh, Delaney tossed her pencil aside and donned a friendly expression despite the familiar sensation of dread swelling in her belly. She’d detected a flash of pity in Beth’s tense gaze and instinctively knew that this particular morsel of bad news wasn’t business related—it was personal.

The worst kind.

Nevertheless, Roger had already called off their engagement. Whatever Beth had to tell her couldn’t possibly be any more humiliating than that.

Delaney pulled in a bolstering breath, plucked a block of chocolate from her drawer and sat it on her desk. Still, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared. “Well?”

“You know that trip to the Greek Isles you wanted me to cancel?”

Delaney snorted and rolled her eyes at her assistant’s attempt at tact. “You mean my honeymoon?”

“Er…that would be the one, yes.”

The one that she’d spent months planning, that she’d insisted on paying for herself because her dream honeymoon had been so exorbitantly expensive she’d felt guilty asking Roger’s proud but poor parents to foot the bill. Roger, the tightfisted bastard, had never offered to share the cost with her. Thrifty, she’d rationalized. A good money manager. He’d routinely stuck her with bills that he should have paid all under the guise of not “infringing upon her independent nature.” What a jerk. Delaney mentally tsked and shook her head. How plainly she could see that now.

“What about it?” Delaney finally asked.

Beth shifted miserably. “I, uh, can’t cancel it.”

Delaney blinked, taken aback. “What? Why? I know that it’s last minute, but I still should be able to get a partial refund.” Roger’s cousin owned a local travel agency and had pulled the honeymoon together for them. Considering she’d been the injured party in the breakup, she never expected any problem in canceling the trip and recouping part of her funds. In order to avoid further humiliation, she’d given Beth the job of calling. She should have known she wouldn’t be so lucky. “Get them on the phone,” she sighed. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Believe me,” Beth sighed wearily. “If it was that simple I wouldn’t be in here.”

“But it is simple,” Delaney insisted as an insistent quiver of annoying alarm vibrated in her belly. “I’ve paid for a honeymoon package that I no longer need—being as I’m no longer going on a honeymoon,” she added pointedly.

Beth chewed her bottom lip. “You might not be going on a honeymoon…but Roger is.”

The room dimmed and brightened all in the same instant. The bravado inspired by her new I-hate-men-because-they’re-faithless-disloyal-oversexed-unprincipled-bastards attitude momentarily wavered. “I’m sorry?”

With a sympathetic sigh of regret, Beth made her way across the plush rose carpet and lowered herself into one of the red satin wingback chairs that fronted Delaney’s huge antique desk. She swallowed nervously. “Roger and his, uh, new bride are presently on their way to Greece.”

So she’d been wrong, Delaney thought numbly. Being dumped for the second time just short of the altar wasn’t the most humiliating thing that could happen to her—being dumped, summarily replaced, and having your dream honeymoon stolen from you was much worse.

Curiously, the idea of Roger having married another woman didn’t bother her nearly as much as the stolen honeymoon. A significant revelation lurked in that thought, but Delaney was too upset at present to ponder it. Honestly, would this nightmare ever end? The papers would undoubtedly have a field day with this latest twist in the Delaney Walker saga. Being a local celebrity of sorts was great for sales, but hell on her personal life.

“Well.” Delaney forced a bright smile and envisioned herself serenely denuding Roger’s prized antique roses. Revenge therapy played a significant role in her new attitude. “Just exactly when did the happy couple depart?”

“This morning,” Beth said gravely. “Roger called and asked the travel agent to bump everything up and issue new tickets for his new…for Wendy. Sorry. Yours were nonrefundable.”

Wendy the accounting wonder, Delaney realized with a spurt of undue surprise. Obviously during all of those late-night meetings, Roger had been checking out more than the bottom line of his personal finances—he’d been checking out Wendy’s as well. Delaney ignored the prick of mortification this newest disgrace brought and blew out a disgusted breath. Well, wasn’t that just par for the course? Clearly the temptation of a cost-effective honeymoon—after all, it was hard to beat free, Delaney thought darkly—was too much for them to pass up.

The familiar burn of anger and humiliation roiled through her stomach, flashed up her neck and scalded her cheeks. She instinctively tore into the Big Block, broke off a piece of chocolate and popped it into her mouth. Good grief, she’d thought she’d worked past this. After this last fiasco, she’d taken a good hard look at herself and had decided an attitude adjustment was in order.

With the previous jilting, Delaney had taken the brokenhearted, but proud and dignified approach. She’d laughed when she wanted to cry, she’d been calm when she wanted to scream and she’d never—never—acted anything less than respectable. She’d always tried to be the bigger person, and what had it gotten her?

Dumped again.

She’d been left with another mess to clean up. Had Roger considered canceling the caterers? No. Helped with returning gifts? Uh-uh. Delaney once again mourned the loss of her china, the beautiful Wedgwood Floral Tapestry she’d planned to display in the gorgeous antique china cabinet her grandmother had left her. No, Delaney thought as irritation knotted her insides, Roger hadn’t planned to see to anything. And really, in all fairness, why would he? She’d always been the perfect little fiancée. Too well-mannered and polite to do otherwise. He’d fully expected her to do it.

Because she’d always been a sweet Memphis belle, Delaney thought with no small amount of self-disgust.

Because she was a respected businesswoman with ties to the community.

Because, while she might design some of the most sensual, most erotic lingerie in the business, he’d known that she’d never had the gumption to wear it, much less do any of the wicked, depraved things in the bedroom her creations implied or inspired. Roger, the two-timing, self-serving spineless weasel had known her secret, had known that she was so miserably modest that she’d only do it at night, in the dark, and under the sheets.

Her phobic modesty had been a bone of contention between her and Roger, particularly in the bedroom. But Delaney simply couldn’t help the way she felt. No matter how much weight she lost, no matter what size she finally shrunk herself into, when she looked in the mirror, she still saw the fat, ridiculed child she’d been. No matter how unreasonable it seemed, how bizarre, she couldn’t seem to work past it.

Still, as a way of proving that she could learn to be adventurous, could learn to be the sexy siren he so desperately wanted, Delaney had decided to give Roger boudoir photos as a wedding gift. The shoot was scheduled for this afternoon. At first, she’d planned to cancel it, but upon further consideration, had decided that the first step in becoming a new woman meant getting past old issues. What better place to start than with her modesty?

While she could have had any one of her photographers here at Laney’s Chifferobe—her catalogue lingerie business—do the spread, Delaney had booked an outside business to handle her photos. There were some things that were simply too personal to share with people she saw on a day-to-day basis and required anonymity. Despite present circumstances, her lips curled into a droll grin.

Boudoir photos of the boss certainly qualified.

The photographers employed by Laney’s Chifferobe were accustomed to peering through their lenses and pulling lollipop perfection—stick-thin bodies with big heads—into focus. Delaney’s size ten pear-shaped body didn’t fit the bill. Not just no, but hell no. She’d clean up roadkill before she’d offer her less than perfect form up to that kind of critical scrutiny. She’d had enough of it as a child to make up for a lifetime.

Delaney knew that Roger planned to come back from his honeymoon and find the mess of their broken engagement cleaned up, expected to waltz back into River City Bank and continue to manage her company’s account, and he fully expected her to be the bigger person—translate doormat—she’d always been.

Well, he expected wrong, and would be in for a rude awakening when he and darling Wendy returned.

Once the initial hurt and humiliation had worn off, Delaney had taken a long critical look at herself and decided a change was in order. She’d spent too much of her time trying to be perfect, had wasted too much of her time on men. She was a two-time loser in the game of love. Clearly, her radar was faulty, otherwise she’d have been able to find a faithful one by now, one that hadn’t had an ulterior motive—like soliciting her business. Her last three serious relationships had shared that same common denominator—in one capacity or another, they’d all stood to benefit from her business.

No more.

She’d tried, she’d failed. The end. She’d decided a married happily-ever-after simply wasn’t in her cards. At least with a man. Women by nature were more faithful creatures. Though she knew it was doubtful—she’d always been fascinated with the opposite sex—Delaney had decided to broaden her scope. In an effort to spark some latent lesbian tendencies, she’d begun listening to Melissa Etheridge, had started watching re-runs of Ellen and Rosie. So far no luck, but who knew? She grinned. The right woman might come along and trip her trigger.

To be quite honest, everything that was feminine and maternal had rebelled at the idea of giving up on love—she desperately wanted a family of her own—but she’d reached a point where there was simply no other alternative. A change was in order. Since men seemed to be the problem, she’d simply take them out of the equation.

In the new world according to Delaney Walker, all men sucked.

Her eyes narrowed. And Roger, in particular, sucked. Irritation bubbled through her veins, triggering a finger twitch. It seemed that revenge therapy was in order again.

“Delaney, are you all right?” Beth asked tentatively. “Do you need me to do anything else for you?”

Delaney nodded succinctly. “As a matter of fact, I do. Clear my schedule for the rest of the week and get me a gallon of weed killer.”

Beth’s eyes widened in confusion. “Weed killer? In winter?”

“That’s right,” Delaney told her, warming to her plan. She really enjoyed this form of therapy. It was very cathartic. “And make sure that it has a spray nozzle.”

1

ARMED WITH A GALLON OF fast-acting Weed-Be-Gone and a pair of garden gloves, Delaney wheeled out of the parking lot of her downtown Memphis office and aimed her sporty sedan toward Germantown, the posh upscale neighborhood Roger—the ball-less worm—called home.

While her sorry ex could squeeze thirteen cents out of every dime, there were a couple of areas in which he simply didn’t spare any expense—his home and his lawn. Roger was a master gardener who spent every free minute and every spare penny landscaping his award-winning lawn. He was particularly proud of his turf, an expensive evergreen designer blend that stayed bright and lush even through the harsh winter months.

The word “asshole” written in dead grass would contrast nicely, Delaney thought with vengeful glee.

She pulled into the drive, made quick work with the weed-killer and just as quickly made her escape. The rush of adrenaline triggered a burst of giddy laughter, pushed past the irritation and made her feel absolutely wicked.

Delaney loved feeling wicked. She got the same thrilling rush from designing her lingerie. There was something so intensely satisfying about creating an outfit that inspired such an intimate, sensual act. One she’d spent an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about. Being an overweight child, then overweight teen, had definitely been to her advantage in one way—the lonely hours had inspired her creativity, had essentially led her into her career. She wanted the women who wore her lingerie to feel sexy in it, empowered. Wanted them to revel in their sexuality, their femininity.

Speaking of empowered, who would have ever thought that such an asinine prank would be so satisfying? So mentally beneficial? She chewed her bottom lip and vaguely toyed with the notion of snatching a few of his prized antique roses, but quickly dismissed the idea. She didn’t mind resorting to a little vandalism to smooth her ruffled feathers, but she wasn’t quite brave enough to become a thief…yet.

Besides, she had an appointment to keep. Granted, no one but she and the photographer would ever see her boudoir photos—but she wanted them anyway, knew she needed to take that first step toward progress. Delaney felt sexy while designing the clothes, but couldn’t feel sexy in them because she’d always been so pathetically modest. That had to change. She needed to get past it, needed to garner a little of that feminine energy for herself.

She pulled her car into a parking space designated for Martelli Photography, grabbed her garment bag from the back seat and mentally prepared herself to battle her modesty. Her stomach knotted. She’d find happiness in little victories, she decided as she made her way into the old building. Why? Because men sucked.

The scent of fresh paint hit her the moment she stepped into the old building. She nodded to a couple of workers and ducked under a scaffold in order to reach the antique cagelike elevator. The old Gloria Gaynor song “I Will Survive” played a continuous loop in her head, bringing a smile to her lips and a bounce to her step.

Delaney grinned, pleased with the rush of endorphins this whole new men-suck philosophy had given her. She began to chant it aloud softly—verbal reinforcement—and listened to the words echo as the ancient elevator slowly lifted her to the top floor.

“Men suck, men suck, men suck.” Damn, that felt good, she thought. So good that, since she was alone, she upped the volume and added a little more U.S. Marine oomph! to the suck part. “Men suck, men suck, men suck.”

A deep masculine chuckle reached Delaney’s ears about the same time that a pair of manly bare feet came into her line of vision. As the elevator slowly drew up into what was obviously a penthouse suite, a pair of long denim-clad legs gave way to an extremely impressive bulge centered between a set of impossibly narrow hips. Blue cotton clung to a washboard abdomen, perfectly sculpted pecs and widened into a pair of the most beautifully muscled shoulders she’d ever had the pleasure to pant over.

The man was built like a brick wall, which seemed appropriate, considering she felt like she’d just run into one.

Dark brown wavy hair, a tad too long to be fashionable, framed a sinfully handsome face that attested to pure dumb luck and good Italian genes. His lips were a fraction overfull for a man and presently curled into one of the laziest, sexiest grins she’d ever seen. Dark brown eyes, heavy-lidded beneath slanted brows, glinted with humor, old-soul intelligence, and the promise of unnamed pleasures. Everything about him exuded confidence and strength, and pure sexual heat rolled off him in waves. He was sex with a capital S and to her immeasurable astonishment, she wanted him instantly.

Really wanted him.

The breath stuttered out of her lungs in a whoosh of longing, her womb clenched, her nipples tightened and her very bones seemed to melt beneath the heat of no-holds-barred raw, primal desire.

Mr. Sex anchored one hand at his waist and held a camera loosely in the other. He had great hands, big and tanned with blunt-tipped fingers. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands, Delaney thought absently.

“Men suck, eh?” he asked in a voice that was smooth and deep and sang in her ears like a soulful jazz tune.

Delaney moistened her suddenly dry lips, managed a nod. Yes, they did…and mercy she’d just bet this one would be great at it.

SAM HAD ENVISIONED his first meeting with the legendary lingerie queen Delaney Walker as many things, but he could honestly say that hearing her cheerfully chant “men suck” in that sweet southern drawl as the elevator lifted her up to his loft apartment/studio and then having her stare at him as though he were one of those chocolate bars she purportedly loved to eat, was not one of them.

Sam was accustomed to garnering female interest—he was a Martelli after all, and, among other curious phenomena, his family had never lacked general sex appeal.

But something about the heat in Delaney Walker’s bright green eyes was different from what he typically encountered, went beyond lust, beyond desire. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it made his scalp tight, his skin prickle and, curiously, the very air around him seemed to change as she blinked out of her lust-trance and breezed past him into his loft.

His gut clenched with trepidation as a thought suddenly occurred to him, but he dismissed it as ludicrous. This bizarre feeling couldn’t possibly be what he suspected.

It could not.

Even if Sam had any intention of ever marrying and starting a family—which he most assuredly did not—he didn’t believe in the “quickening”—the supposed almost supernatural ability for a Martelli to choose his mate. According to family history—and the testament of his various cousins, uncles, brothers and father—all of whom had never strayed and never divorced—a Martelli man simply knew when he’d found the one woman he was supposed to spend his life with. Supposed physical symptoms included gooseflesh, tingling skin and a sense of déjà vu…much like he’d just experienced, Sam realized with mounting disquiet.

Nah, Sam told himself, refusing to even consider the idea. He’d made the decision to remain single years ago, when he’d watched his father mourn his mother until the man was only a shadow of his former self. When he’d watched his brothers—big tough, rough, gruff men—become hopelessly besotted fools over their wives, watched them actually cry when their children were born. The idea of losing that kind of control over himself and surrendering said control to another person completely unnerved him. Sam grimaced.

He’d pass, thank you very much.

Clearly some melodramatic Romeo lurked in the Martelli family tree and had passed the story down from one generation to the next. Sam mentally harrumphed. If there was one thing an Italian loved more than a good marinara, it was a good story. Men simply fell in love and, to preserve the family tradition, called it a “quickening.”

Sheesh.

As for fidelity and divorce being non-existent—the most damning evidence to contradict his theory, particularly in this day and age of the quickie divorce—that too could be easily explained. No brag, just fact, but Martelli men were smart. They were loyal, had a strong sense of family. Particularly his. Case in point, his family met for lunch every day at his father’s house and woe be to he who didn’t show up. His father expected them to be there and so far, regardless of how inconvenient, Sam nor his brothers had ever missed the mandatory meal.

Sam told himself that his peculiar reaction to Delaney Walker was only his overwrought imagination. Just a product of nerves. He’d hyped this meeting up in his head for the past couple of months, had been obsessing over it ever since she’d first called and scheduled her appointment.

Frankly, when the tabloids had reported that she’d been jilted again—bless her heart, the woman didn’t seem to be able to get one to actually say “I do”—Sam had fully expected her to call and cancel the appointment. Curiously, she hadn’t. And he’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sam’s portfolio had been sitting in limbo at Laney’s Chifferobe for months now and this meeting offered him the prime opportunity to showcase his talent and possibly secure a job with her company.

Sam loved women. Skinny, fat, short, tall and all species in between. There was something so intrinsically beautiful about the female form. All that soft skin, those gentle swells and valleys, the intriguing curve of a womanly hip, a silky thigh, a well-rounded rump. Women were utterly gorgeous and their bodies had always held a particularly keen fascination for him.

He’d never understand them, of course—what man in his right mind would even try? Everyone knew they were the most fickle creatures God ever created. But he loved them all the same and he had a real knack for capturing them on film.

With luck, Delaney Walker would see that.

Sam enjoyed doing the boudoir photos and the occasional wedding. It helped pay the bills, after all, and supported his rummage sale and estate habit. But ever since Laney’s Chifferobe had hit the lingerie scene, he’d been itching to get a shot at it.

Delaney designed every piece of clothing and personally oversaw the layout of each issue, a monumental job in and of itself. She was a slave to detail and would settle for nothing less than total perfection. He had to give her credit, she was one helluva hard worker. She’d built the company from the ground up and hadn’t simply hired someone else to oversee the details when she’d finally gotten the business operating comfortably in the black. No doubt about it, she had character.

But given that drive for perfection, that keen eye, why on earth did she settle for mediocre photography? It baffled him. The spreads lacked finesse, were almost clinical and not the least bit compelling. Honestly, why even bother with temperamental models? Why not just lay it all out and do still shots? The effect would be the same.

She didn’t know it yet, but she needed him, Sam thought determinedly. Given the chance, with her creative ability and his expertise, they could make her catalogue sizzle.

And speaking of sizzle…Delaney Walker was hot.

Sam’s artist eye quickly roved over her lush Marilyn Monroe body, summarized her finer features. She was small, generously curved in all the right places. She actually had hips, Sam noticed, pleasantly surprised. These days most women starved them off. She had a smooth heart-shaped face, a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth, a dainty chin, bright green eyes, and long hair the color of moonbeams that hung like a silky curtain down to the middle of her back. Anticipation spiked. He couldn’t wait to look at her through his lens.

That curious tingling gripped him again, made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end, and the familiar tug of reciprocated attraction gave a particularly vicious yank. Sam scowled, ruthlessly tamped it down, and made a conscious effort to get back to business. Honestly, gawking at her while she absently roamed around admiring his loft was hardly professional.

“I see you brought your own bag,” Sam said. “How many outfits will you be changing into?”

The graceful line of her back tensed and she pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “Three. Is that too many?” she asked hastily. “Because I can forego a couple of them. I don’t have to—”

Sam chuckled reassuringly. “Three’s fine. I just wondered how many settings we’ll need to line up. We’ll change backgrounds with each one. Any nudes?” he asked casually. Would that he would be so lucky. The rogue thought flitted through his mind before he could check it. Dammit, he had to get control of himself. He couldn’t afford to be attracted to her. Wouldn’t allow it.

Her eyes widened and a flash of outright panic momentarily lit up that bright green gaze. “Er, no.”

Sam mentally frowned and his senses went on heightened alert. With the exception of few, most women who came to him were nervous about putting their bodies on display. They worried about thick thighs, small breasts and that extra ten pounds they’d put on since childbirth. Things that simply didn’t matter to a man who loved them.

Men were visual. That’s why they looked at Playboy magazines, watched the occasional flick, and liked to make love with the lights on. Men liked sexy and naked and, quite frankly, the immediate impulse of the combined two didn’t leave time to log any imperfections. When a man saw a naked woman, the head with the brain instantly ceded control to the head without one. Men were animals. They’d been divinely wired to be fruitful and multiply. ’Nuff said.

Delaney Walker designed some of the hottest, sexiest lingerie on the market. She was a true sensualist. He would have thought that she, of all people, wouldn’t suffer any insecurities about her body. Yet clearly she did, Sam decided as he studied her more closely. What an intriguing paradox. She obviously didn’t have the balls-to-the-wall, wild-child personality her designs—or the local paparazzi reports—implied. He filed it away for future consideration.

“This is a fantastic place you’ve got here,” she said. She’d strolled to the bank of floor-to-ceiling paned-glass windows and gazed at the old downtown Memphis skyline. “Did you do all the renovations yourself?”

“Most of them,” Sam replied. “I did the majority of the cosmetic work, the painting and the floors, but I contracted out the plumbing and rewiring.” He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologize for the mess the building is in. When the owner saw how well my loft turned out, he decided to renovate the entire building.” Sam offered her a smile. “Things are chaotic right now, but it’ll be nice when the work is completed.”

She turned to face him and that sense of déjà vu slammed into him once more. She nodded succinctly. “Without a doubt. Your loft is lovely.”

Irritated with his reaction to her, Sam redoubled his efforts to remain professional and merely nodded. You’ve got a lot riding on this, Martelli, Sam told himself. Don’t screw it up. “So, are you ready to get started?”

She didn’t look ready, Sam noted. In fact, she looked miserable. Indecision vibrated off her tight frame and she tortured that full bottom lip with her teeth. But just when he thought she’d decided against the session, she turned, pulled in a bolstering breath, then smiled and said, “Not ready…but determined.”

He could see that, Sam thought, unreasonably impressed. Delaney Walker had moxie, a trait Sam found both equally attractive and appealing. He nodded, pleased. “Good. If you’ll follow me, Ms. Walker—”

She snorted indelicately. “Call me Delaney. You’re about to see me half-naked. I hardly think we need to stand on formality.”

Sam felt his lips slide into a grin. “Fine. Delaney, it is then. I’m Sam, by the way. The dressing room is down the hall, first door on the left. Go change and don’t forget.”

She quirked a brow and her lips tucked into the shadow of a smile. “Forget what?”

Sam winked at her. “Men suck.”

2

DELANEY MADE HER WAY DOWN the hall he had indicated and felt her muscles marginally relax. She’d needed that bracing thought and decided that, in addition to being one of the sexiest creatures God had ever thought about putting on this earth, clearly Sam Martelli was intuitive as well.

Undoubtedly he’d read about her recent humiliation in the paper, but rather than bringing it up, or embarrassing her by trying to comfort her, he’d instinctively known just what to say. She hoped he carried that keen perception into the studio with him, because she was going to need every single ounce of determination to get through this shoot. Just the idea of putting on some of the outfits she’d brought with her made her entire body clench with dread. Made her throat dry and her palms itch.

But those weaknesses made her every bit as determined to see this through. She stiffened. She would do this shoot. She would wear her lingerie. She could and she would. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she’d attached a tremendous amount of importance to conquering her modesty, to making this personal area of her life work. A new attitude without the actions to back it up was worthless.

Delaney found the dressing room and quietly let herself inside. The room was relatively small, but homey. An Oriental rug covered the dark hardwood floors. A small Duncan Phyfe sofa sat against one wall and a huge, heavily carved mahogany cheval mirror stood in the corner.

Rather than line the wall with hooks for hanging clothes, Sam had attached antique glass doorknobs. The novel idea drew a delighted smile. He’d done a phenomenal job blending the old with the new, and the resulting effect was warm and homey, yet eclectic and very romantic. She couldn’t fault his taste and found herself genuinely intrigued by him. She suspected he was an estate sale/antique mall junkie like herself. Delaney’s antebellum home was stuffed to the rafters with her finds as well. She couldn’t drive past a junk store, yard sale, or antique mall without stopping.

She briefly wondered if a Mrs. Martelli were in the picture, but instinctively knew that wasn’t the case. Of course, it could simply be wishful thinking on her part.

Irritation surged, which was ridiculous since she’d just recently decided to swear off men and possibly change her sexual preference. Honestly, what was wrong with her? She’d been given irrefutable proof—repeatedly—that men sucked. So what if he was possibly the sexiest man she’d ever seen? So what if her nipples still tingled and she still felt the residual heat of that flash fire her body had undergone the moment she laid eyes on him? So what if her wayward sex still throbbed and the moisture hadn’t fully returned to her mouth? Other parts of her anatomy were astonishingly wet.

Delaney angrily jerked off her clothes, slung them over the couch and ripped into her bag. She snagged a white cotton peasant gown pulled it over her head and donned the coordinating thong.

She was 0 for 2, dammit. She couldn’t trust her own judgment when it came to men. Any man. Even that one, though it pained her to admit it. She didn’t need to be wondering whether Mr. Sex out there had a wife or not. All she needed to concern herself with was whether or not he could take a good picture. If his reputation held true, then she should be pleased.

Delaney turned, caught sight of herself in the mirror and wilted like a cheap corsage. Every ounce of self-deprecating anger drained out of her as she stared miserably at the image displayed in the mirror. It was a lovely gown, trimmed with French lace and tiny satin ribbon and she’d even reluctantly admit that it looked lovely on her. The cut was loose, with blousy sleeves, and it hung to mid-thigh. Very romantic. The gown was so utterly feminine, so sweetly sexy, it would flatter any woman.

Still, just knowing that she wore nothing underneath but a pair of thonged panties and her birthday suit was enough to send her heart rate into an irregular rhythm. The familiar weight of dread coalesced in her tummy. She shoved her hands through her hair, watched the long tresses fall over her breasts. Another defense mechanism, Delaney thought, disgusted.

Covering her body with clothes wasn’t enough—she used her hair as well.

Oh, hell. Changing herself in theory sounded great, but could she pull it off in fact, as well? She bit her lip. Could she do this? Could she really do this?

A knock at the door startled her. “Delaney?” Sam called hesitantly. “You about ready in there?”

No, she wasn’t ready by any stretch of the imagination…but like she’d told him, she was determined. Delaney pulled in a shuddering breath. “Yeah, coming right out.”

She squared her shoulders, opened the door and met Sam in the hall. Something about his tall, reassuring presence made her feel marginally better. He briefly appraised her outfit, but his gaze didn’t linger on any particular area. She didn’t know whether to be thankful or perturbed, and decided not to ponder the conundrum while half-naked in the hall.

“The peasant gown.” He nodded. “Nice choice. Follow me. The studio is this way.”

Delaney did as she was told and followed him down the hall. The corridor dead-ended into a huge open area. Where the other end of the loft had been partitioned by walls to make living quarters, this end was one big, spectacular room with lots of space and light.

Several backdrops and props were sectioned along the walls. A bedroom scene, featuring a gorgeous king-size canopied bed with coordinating pieces. A sitting room scene with a beautiful French Rococo style chaise lounge. A bathroom scene, with an antique slipper tub, and another still that featured a gold low-backed sofa and various animal prints.

Sam didn’t simply stop at getting the primary items to accentuate a scene—he saw to the details as well. Everything was rich with color and contrast, with candlelight, lamps, rugs and coordinating accessories. But most importantly, it was sexy and compelling. A thrill raced through her. She wanted to lie on that bed, that chaise, that couch, wanted to sink into that tub.

He’d obviously put a lot of thought, time and money into building this studio, Delaney thought, suitably impressed. In fact, his home studio looked considerably better than the few meager sets she had down at the Chifferobe. Visions of her models in this studio, decked out in various Laney creations began to traipse through her head.

“Is there any particular setting that draws you?” Sam asked in that smooth blues voice.

She laughed, shook her head and gestured to the room at large. “All of them do. This is incredible,” she said appreciatively. “Really incredible. Did you do this all yourself, or hire a decorator?” She knew the answer before she asked the question—the entire loft had the same sensually cohesive feel about it—but wanted to be sure anyway.

He toyed with his camera and shook his head. “No decorator. My tastes tend to run to the eclectic.” He looked up at her and smiled, which resulted in a serious quiver below her navel. To her immeasurable chagrin, heat bolted up her spine. “I don’t think a decorator would get it.”

Well, she most definitely got it and she loved it, recognized him as a kindred spirit of sorts. Her sensuality came through in her designs, his came through in his photography and decorating.

How refreshing to meet a man who seemed to take genuine pleasure and interest in surrounding himself with nice things. Even Roger—who’d possessed a great deal more class than most of the men of her acquaintance—had deferred to a decorator’s judgment when furnishing his house. If he hadn’t, the expensive Georgian home would undoubtedly be decorated with Elvis on velvet and bizarre sculptures made out of beer tabs.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Delaney finally told him. “It’s truly remarkable. Enough old and new to make it interesting.”

“I like antiques. They have character.” He took one last cursory glance at his camera, deemed it ready and looked up. “So where do you want to start?” he asked again, clearly ready to set this shoot in motion. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we’re losing natural light.”

Delaney nodded. “Right. I, uh…” She looked from scene to scene, and tried to make her up mind. She bit her bottom lip. “Well, with this gown, I think the chaise would work best. But I’m not the photographer. What do you think?”

“I agree. The peasant gown has a whimsical feel. It’ll look good against the green fabric on the chaise.”

She wouldn’t look good on the chaise, but the gown would. Delaney ignored the prick of irritation and summoned a smile. She didn’t necessarily want him to find her attractive, still… She was half-naked and he was a man—he was supposed to notice.

While his unimpressed attitude certainly wasn’t doing her self-esteem any good, she could truthfully admit that the familiar claw of desperation brought on by her modesty wasn’t rearing its ugly head. She supposed there was nothing to be modest about if a man wasn’t interested.

“I’m going to put on a little mood music before we get started,” Sam said. “Do you mind?”

Still unreasonably perturbed, Delaney shook her head. “Not at all. Go ahead.” Whatever tripped his trigger. Evidently it wasn’t her. Which was good, Delaney reminded herself again and resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Men were a no-no. Right? Right.

Nevertheless, she found her gaze inexplicably drawn to him. She liked the way he moved, unhurried yet purposeful. Sensual. If the man paid such close attention to detail when it came to his home and his profession, one could reasonably deduce that he’d be an equally meticulous lover. Slow and thorough, leisurely—

Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay” suddenly resonated from hidden speakers, derailing that unproductive line of thought. That smooth, smoky voice moved over her, pushed her lips into a late-blooming smile. Somehow the music choice suited Sam Martelli. He looked like the type who would appreciate Otis. He was a favorite of hers as well.

Sam tested the light around the chaise, and after a few adjustments, deemed it acceptable. “Okay. I’m ready when you are.”

Delaney made her way over to the set, acutely aware once more of how little she wore. So what if it had long sleeves and hit her just barely below mid-thigh? What difference did it make if she felt naked?

“I was right,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “The gown is perfect.”

Delaney felt her eyes narrow as another wave of annoyance surged through her. The gown again. Not her. She was proud of the damned gown—she’d designed it, after all—but honestly. Wasn’t it his job to make her feel sexy?

She expelled a frustrated breath. “Where do you want me?”

Two beats passed as he tweaked his camera again and when he answered his voice sounded a little strained. “Why don’t you lie on the chaise? Pick a comfortable position. A pose that’s natural to you.”

Delay arranged herself on the couch, propped her head up with her hand and curled her legs up close to her bottom. It was comfortable, but she didn’t feel remotely sexy. In fact, she felt ridiculous.

Sam looked at her through his lens, then pulled the camera away from his face. A line knitted his brow. “Is there something wrong?”

“I, uh, don’t feel sexy,” Delaney confessed. “I feel stupid.”

His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “You don’t look stupid.”

“I don’t look sexy either.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “Wrong, you look sexy, but you don’t feel sexy and the two are hopelessly intertwined. I could try to remedy how you feel, but you’re the most miserably modest woman I’ve ever seen and I’m not sure that what I could do for you would help. Any compliments I might give you would be genuine, but they’re going to make you self-conscious. If you start worrying about what you’re wearing—or not wearing—and how you look, then that’s pretty much going to defeat the purpose. You don’t have to look like a sex kitten, Delaney,” he said patiently. “All you have to do is smile. Okay?”

He was right. She was being ridiculous. “Okay.”

“Great.” Sam’s face disappeared behind the camera once more and Delaney conjured the smile he’d asked for. “So, who are these pictures for, anyway?”

Delaney smothered a grunt and rolled her eyes. “My next lover.”

“Next?”

Delaney continued to smile, though she couldn’t contain the edge to her voice. “Right. I’m sure you read the papers. My ex-fiancé and his new wife are currently on their way to Greece on a honeymoon that I paid for.”

Seemingly astonished, Sam lowered the camera. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

She snorted. “I wish.”

“Damn, that’s cold. What a bastard.” Sam refocused, took a couple more shots.

“My sentiments exactly.”

He moved to the left a couple of feet, went down on one knee and fired off a few more shots. “It’s guys like him that give men a bad rap.”

“I know. That’s why I’m finished with them.” Delaney rolled over onto her back and crossed her legs. Strangely, talking to him made her feel less ridiculous and she began to marginally relax.

“With men?”

“Yep.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“So where does the next lover come in?” he asked, sounding faintly amused. Apparently he’d drawn the incorrect conclusion that she wasn’t serious. Evidently he thought she was simply the typical thwarted female making the typical empty threat to swear off men. Wrong. She was an adult woman who’d made a valid, life-altering decision.

She should probably enlighten him.

Delaney curled back onto her side and smiled wickedly. For the first time since they’d started this shoot, she actually felt sexy. She arched an innocent brow. “Who said that lover would be a man?”

The camera clattered to the floor and the blank slack-jawed look he gave her was utterly priceless.

Delaney sat up and made a moue of disappointment. “Damn, that would have been a good shot. You missed it, didn’t you?”

3

HE’D DROPPED HIS damned camera.

Never in the history of his career had Sam ever dropped his camera. When he went into the zone, the equipment simply became an extension of himself. His camera was his baby and he treated it as such—with extreme care.

No doubt about it, over the course of the past few years he’d been routinely shocked. He’d taken boudoir photos of a hermaphrodite, for pity’s sake. Pictures of women that were pierced in areas that went well beyond his scope of comprehension. He inwardly shuddered. In this business, he’d pretty much seen it all and he’d never—never—once dropped his camera.

And yet, all this woman had to do was utter a few choice words about possibly changing her sexual preference…and he’d fumbled a thirty-five-hundred-dollar camera like a freshman rookie a yard from the end zone.

He couldn’t believe it. He simply couldn’t believe it. A litany of inventive curses streamed through his overwrought mind as he bent over and snagged his camera from the floor.

From the very first moment he’d laid eyes on Delaney Walker he’d known she’d be trouble with a capital T. For reasons which escaped him now, he’d thought he’d be safe once he’d gotten her behind the lens—thought he’d be able to treat her just like any other beautiful woman who came into his studio. And there’d been plenty.

In this line of business, any photographer worth his salt, in a sense, had to become desensitized to the female form. Battling a hard-on throughout a session was inconvenient and not conducive to a good shoot. One simply learned how to detach and focus on what lay inside the lens. Sam had mastered the trick years ago, and yet from the very second Delaney stepped out of that dressing room, his loins had been locked in a fiery state of perpetual hell. His blood had been humming with an intense awareness akin to radio static, and his scalp had tingled until he wondered if he might be having some sort of allergic reaction to his shampoo.

He was a wreck.

He didn’t just want her—the driving need gnashing around inside him couldn’t be reduced to any such simple term—he had to have her. Felt like he’d explode, or worse, if he didn’t.

One look at her in that virginal peasant gown—hell, she might as well be in a nun’s habit for all the skin revealed—and something deep, dark and primal had taken over. The hint of curves beneath all those yards of fabric, combined with that sexy mouth and long moonbeam hair and… Sam pulled in a tight breath. She was gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, and the fact that she didn’t realize it made her all the more appealing.

He’d wanted to tell her many times during the first few frames just how incredible she looked, how phenomenally hot, but given her almost phobic modesty, he didn’t think it wise. For his peace of mind, or hers. He’d tried to loosen her up with conversation and the ploy had worked right up until she’d dropped her little I-might-take-a-lesbian-lover bomb.

She had to be one of the most sexually innate creatures he’d ever encountered. She’d let that bright green gaze leisurely roam from one end of this body to the other, had all but measured him for a wet suit, yet she’d suddenly decided to bat for the other team? he thought skeptically. Not likely. He smothered a snort. If she was a lesbian, then he was the damned Easter Bunny.

Delaney’s soft chuckle drew him from his chaotic musings. “I’ve shocked you.”

“Not shocked,” Sam said simply for the sake of argument. “Just surprised. I had no idea that you were a lesbian.” He smiled up at her and tried to project a calmness he didn’t feel. “I’d understood that your fiancé was a man.”

He checked his camera over once more, deemed it unharmed, and once again tried to put things back on an even keel. Maybe if he concentrated really hard, he’d be able to think about something besides the way her gown had slipped down on her arm, baring one delectable shoulder. Besides tunneling underneath acres of white cotton and exploring every inch of her gorgeous body.

With his mouth.

“My fiancé was a man,” Delaney told him, “as was the last one. Men suck. Why not give a woman a shot?” she asked matter-of-factly. “I can be open-minded.”

Sam tsked, lined up another frame. “I don’t think being open-minded has anything to do with it.”

Delaney rolled over onto her stomach, let her hair fall over the end of the chaise. “Why not?”

He fired off another few shots, then paused. “Let me ask you something. Are you, or have you ever been attracted to a woman?”

She pulled a thoughtful face and winced. “No,” she said slowly. “But I’m hoping I can work past that.”

A laugh stuttered out of his chest. “That’s certainly an interesting goal.”

She pulled an offhanded shrug, baring a little more creamy skin. “Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

Sam finished off the roll of film. “Okay, that’s got this set completed. Wanna go change and meet me back in here?”

He’d said it casually, hoping not to lose what little ground they seemed to have gained during this stage of the shoot, but the instant his suggestion registered, her anxiety returned full force. Previously relaxed muscles went tight with tension and a frown wrinkled the smooth line of her brow.

Sam pretended to tweak his camera and eventually she nodded. “Sure. I’ll, uh, be right back.”

Theoretically speaking, if he were an outlet and she a plug, then one could reasonably assume that when she walked out of the room—pulled the plug, so to speak—he would return to normal. The clawing need would subside, his mega hard-on would wilt, and his skin would quit prickling.

To Sam’s disquiet, it didn’t and he grimly suspected that until he had her, it never would.

And having her was absolutely out of the question.

Number one, he didn’t sleep with clients. He’d worked hard to build a reputable business, depended heavily on word-of-mouth advertising. Everybody knew hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. One pissed-off chick with a vicious tongue could literally cost him thousands of dollars. Sam had seen it happen before.

Secondly, even if he were to forget the no-fornicating-with-a-client rule, it certainly wouldn’t be with a woman as emotionally wrecked as Delaney Walker. Sheesh. She’d just been jilted, was so messed up that she was considering becoming a lesbian. He’d have to be the biggest fool on earth to even consider letting something become of this hellish attraction that had blazed between them.

Finally, were those reasons not enough—which they certainly were—he desperately wanted a job at the Chifferobe. Wanted a shot at it so badly that he could taste it. This was his chance, dammit. He couldn’t afford to screw it up by acting on an almost overwhelming attraction. He could handle it. Would have to.

With that bracing thought, Sam turned as Delaney tentatively made her way back into the studio. His mind blanked as every ounce of blood he possessed raced back toward his groin. Every hair on his body stood on end and his breath froze in his lungs.

This gown was a long, sheer black silk wonder that left her shoulders bare beneath spaghetti straps, snugged against the full mounds of her breasts, showcased a mere slip of a waist and the generous curves of her hips. Open eyelet work trimmed with red appliqued roses formed a slinky S that curled provocatively around one breast, over her abdomen, down her hip and finally landed at the floor-length hem.

Other than her arms and shoulders, and a few peekaboo places down the front, she was covered from head to toe, but as far as Sam was concerned she might as well be naked. All that silky light-blond hair lay pooled over one shoulder and she’d tortured that full bottom lip until only a trace of her lipstick remained. He had never in his life seen a more beautiful woman.

Never.

In addition to all of the weird physical sensations he’d been subjected to since the moment he laid eyes on her, another more disconcerting feeling suddenly commenced in his chest, making it hard for him to draw a breath. It grew tight, then swelled with some unnamed emotion.

Delaney smiled self-consciously, making her all the more gorgeous. “Okay,” she sighed. “Now where do you want me?”

His tenuous grasp on control almost snapped. Where did he want her? Anywhere. Right there. Who cared? The only thing that lay between him and her were about ten feet of hardwood and a couple of scraps of clothing. With a little creative maneuvering, he could take her right there. In a heartbeat.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, forced the erection-provoking vision to subside. “What about over there?” He pointed to the animal print set. At the moment, he didn’t trust himself to say more.

Delaney crossed her arms over her chest, inadvertently plumping her generous breasts even more, and moved to the set he’d indicated. She sat stiffly on the couch. “Okay. Now what?”

“Why don’t you tell me about something that relaxes you?” Sam suggested, trying to loosen her up again. The tactic had worked before and perhaps a little conversation would make him quit thinking about tracing that peekaboo lace with his tongue. About bending her over the end of that couch and plunging into her sweet, slick heat from behind.

She forced a smile. Looked nervously around the room. “Chocolate relaxes me.”

He chuckled. So those rumors were true. He’d heard of her legendary chocoholism as well as a couple of interesting tidbits about her office. He’d heard that her inner sanctum was crammed full of antiques, was decorated in shades red, rose and pale pink and had been designed to look like the inside of a jewelry box. He couldn’t satisfy his curiosity about the one, but he could the other.

“Any particular kind of chocolate?” he asked as he lined up a spectacular shot.

“No, just plain unadulterated chocolate. No nuts, no caramel, no nougat.” She grinned and arched a brow. “Just chocolate.”

Sam took the shot and instinctively knew this frame would be his favorite. That gently curved, innocently provocative smile combined with the come-hither brow was awesome. With effort, he swallowed. “That was a gorgeous shot.”

“Really?”

“Really. Tell me about something else that relaxes you.”

She gave him another cheeky grin. “Sorry, don’t know you well enough.”

Sam fired off a few more frames. Despite the whopping erection swelling out of his briefs, he’d finally hit the zone, wanted to keep the momentum. “Forget that you don’t know me. I’m getting some great stuff here.”

She tsked. “I’d hate for you to drop your camera again.”

Irritation rose. Click, click. “I won’t drop my camera again. Move to the other end of the couch.”

Delaney swung her legs around and did as she was told. Her breasts plumped against the arm of the couch. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.” Click, click, click.

She arched her back and a long stretch of leg peeked from a slit up the side of the gown. Another wicked grin played at the corners of her lips and her gaze once more made a slow head-to-toe inspection of his body. “Well, in that case…nothing relaxes me more than good hard orgasm…but those are really too few and too far between to be dependable. Not like chocolate. It always satisfies me.”

Sam stilled. A bead of sweat abruptly broke out on his upper lip and if he hadn’t caught himself, his camera most likely would have tumbled to the floor again. He’d expected her to tell him she liked to cross-stitch, or cuddle up with a good book.

She laughed out loud, a delighted chuckle that bubbled up her throat and hit a chord deep inside him. “Wow. I did it again. I shocked you.” She sounded so damned pleased with herself, it was all Sam could do not to laugh.

He grinned, felt a blush actually creep into his cheeks. He ducked his head and passed a hand slowly over his face. “Yes, you did.”

“I can’t believe I said that,” she marveled, suddenly embarrassed. Her cheeks pinkened adorably. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I’ve done a lot of things lately that have been totally out of character.”

“Well, save them for the next set,” Sam told her. “I’ve run out of film again. You’ve got one more outfit, right?”

Still smiling, she seemed lost in her own private thoughts. “Yeah, one more. I’ll be right back.”

One more. Thank God. Then she would leave and he wouldn’t have to worry about the “quickening”…or possibly ruining his perfectly good reputation for being a professional—or possibly his future—by sleeping with her.

If this torture session didn’t end soon, Sam didn’t know whether he’d be able to control himself. He’d been battling his exaggerated hormones for the past hour, and frankly he was beginning to suspect that this was simply a war he couldn’t win. But it was one he knew he couldn’t afford to lose.

DELANEY CHANGED INTO the final outfit, a blush satin baby doll teddy, as quickly as possible and didn’t allow herself the luxury of looking in the mirror. Her modesty would rear its ugly head again and she’d lose every bit of ground she’d managed to gain during this experience. She was still self-conscious of her body, but nothing like the claustrophobic sensation of dread that she usually suffered from.

Sam had kept her talking so much that she’d barely had time to notice what she was or wasn’t wearing. He’d drawn her out, made her say things that she’d never dreamed would come out of her mouth. Mortification burned her cheeks. An orgasm relaxed her? Where on earth had that come from? What had made her say that? Obviously, she’d tapped into some sort of repressed alter ego when she’d decided to embrace her feelings instead of repressing them. When she’d undergone an attitude adjustment.

And really, why not? What difference did what she said to this man make? Her dirty laundry had been aired to all and sundry for the past several years. What could she honestly say that would embarrass her anymore than what had already happened to her? When she looked at it that way, it was really rather liberating, Delaney decided with a small smile.

Besides, after today, she’d never see Sam Martelli again. The thought struck an odd pang of regret, but she squelched it determinedly. She could have him mail the photos to her. There would be absolutely no harm or repercussions for anything she did or said. She’d sworn off men, so what possible problem could arise out of a little harmless flirtation? Beyond today, what difference would it make?

None.

She’d use this inconvenient attraction for him to her advantage. Shocking him made her feel sexy and looking at him turned her on. The man was art in motion. He moved with a predator’s grace, with an economy of motion. Those heavy-lidded deep brown eyes had a way of making a woman wonder about hidden talents, about tangled sheets and satisfying orgasms. Delaney bit her bottom lip as a chord of longing vibrated deep in her belly. She’d just bet he’d be chocolate-covered sex, the kind she’d regrettably never had.

Oh, hell. Now was not the time to be lamenting her lackluster sex life. With a mental shake, Delaney smoothed her hands over the silky gown and walked back down the hall to the studio.

“Where do you want me now?” she asked and noted that Sam’s impossibly broad shoulders tensed at the question. He looked up, casually glanced at what she wore, and swallowed.

“In bed.”

Delaney frowned. What did— Did he just— She blinked. “I’m sor—”

“On the bed,” he hastily corrected. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a low curse. “Why don’t you lean against the footboard post,” he suggested.

“Sure.” Bewildered, Delaney walked over, curled her arm around the post and assumed what she hoped was the desired position. He clicked a few shots, so she must have done it correctly.

“Okay. Now on the bed.”

Was it just her, or did he seem to be in a hurry? “Uh…okay. Just anywhere?” she asked.

He didn’t bother to look up. “Against the pillows.”

Delaney propped a few pillows behind her, rested her head in her palm and bent her legs toward her bottom. The bed was heavenly. He certainly hadn’t spared any expense when it came to comfort. She blinked sleepily and smiled. Sam moved forward and clicked off another few rounds of film.

“That’s gorgeous,” he said softly. “Simply gorgeous. Hold that pose….”

A thrill raced through her. He’d slipped up again and paid her another compliment. Remarkably, she didn’t feel self-conscious—she felt…sexy. Delaney turned over onto her back and slowly rolled her head to the side and looked at him through lowered lashes.

Mercy, did he ever look good. Her gaze slowly traced the curve of his strong jaw, the slight cleft in his chin. Those big capable hands manipulated the camera with precision and it wasn’t hard to imagine them sliding over her body, doing precisely wonderful things. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes fluttered shut and another warm quiver snaked through her muddled tummy.

“Fantastic… Just a few more.” He fired through several more shots, then the telltale whir of the auto-rewind sounded, bringing an end to her session.

Delaney reluctantly sat up and smothered a sigh of regret. She’d just begun to get into it.

“Okay,” he said as he did some final tweaking to his camera. “I’ll have these ready for you to view in a couple of days, you can tell me which ones you like and we’ll go from there.” He finally looked up at her and smiled. “How does that sound?”

Like more torture, Delaney decided. She’d done what she’d set out to do. She’d gotten through this shoot without too much anxiety. It was a good step, and for now, it would be enough. Besides, she really didn’t want to look at the photos with him. The idea seemed too weird, too personal. “Can’t you just mail them to me?”

He blinked, oddly taken aback. “I, uh…sure. If that’s what you’d like.”

Delaney nodded. “Thanks, I would. You’ve been great.” She gestured toward the dressing room. “I’ll just run and change, then I’ll give you the address and sitting fee when I come out.”

He nodded again, seemingly disturbed about something. “Sure.”

Delaney swung her feet off the side of the bed and the whole place went black. “Uh-oh,” she chuckled. “Who turned off the lights?”

She heard Sam mutter a curse. “Stay there. The building is under renovation. Somebody must have accidentally cut the power. Let me go check things out. I’ll see if I can shed a little light on things.”

She heard Sam’s bare feet pad from the room, and might have remained there calmly if she hadn’t noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A finger of unease tripped down her spine.

Not a single city light shone from the bank of windows that lined Sam’s loft. Somewhere between her first and last change of clothes, dusk had fallen and brought night. From this vantage point, she should have been able to see half of the Memphis night skyline. Not a single pinprick of light disturbed the inky blackness.

“Sam?” she called tentatively.

“Be there in a sec. I’m getting a flashlight.”

Moments later she watched the beam of the flashlight bob into the studio. “Bad news.” He winced apologetically. “Looks like the generator’s on the fritz. We’ll have to wait it out.”

“Wait it out?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “The elevator won’t run without power, and the stairs and fire escape are under repair. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes before they get things up and running again.”

He sounded completely confident that momentarily all would be well, so confident in fact that Delaney didn’t think he’d noticed that the entire city of Memphis seemed to be dark.

“Don’t worry,” he said, evidently interpreting her silence for concern. “It’s happened a couple of times since they started the renovation. The guys working here are top-notch. They’ll have things fixed in no time.”

No stairs and no fire escape? She was trapped here with him for the duration? Oh, hell. She’d never been good at resisting temptation. That’s why she stayed on a perpetual diet. And Sam Martelli definitely qualified as temptation. “Well, they’d have to be good if they are going to get the whole city up and running again.”

“What?”

“Look out the windows,” Delaney told him, panic making her voice shrill. She gestured wildly. “The whole city is black.”

She heard him turn, heard him murmur, “Well, I’ll be damned.” Then in a more dire, almost desperate tone, “Oh, hell.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Delaney concurred, slightly annoyed.

“You’re trapped here,” he said flatly. “In my apartment.”

“Yes, I’d figured that out.”

He walked over to the windows. “God only knows how long it’ll take them to get it up and running again. A major transformer or substation must have gone out. You could be here all night.” From the flat, emotionless tone of his voice, a root canal held greater appeal.

“You seemed to have developed a real penchant for stating the obvious,” Delaney said, unreasonably perturbed. Honestly, he didn’t have to sound so put out. It wasn’t her fault that the damned power had gone out. Wasn’t her fault that she’d been imprisoned up here with him.

Her sarcasm appeared to chastise him because he muttered another soft oath and abruptly turned and made his way back to the bed. “Sorry,” he muttered apologetically and had the grace to sound chagrined. “I’m just thinking out loud. Why don’t we go back to the other end of the loft? I’ll light some candles and we’ll, uh, wait it out.”

Well, it’s not like she had a choice, Delaney thought. She slid off the bed and immediately came up against something hard, warm and decidedly male. He shivered—actually shivered—and she could have sworn she heard him grind his teeth. A tense beat passed before he stepped back.

Suddenly another reason dawned for his almost frantic behavior and a slow feminine grin worked its way across her lips.

On second thought, was there any better way to spend a few hours in the dark? Was there a better-looking man to spend them with? Chocolate-covered sex, indeed, Delaney thought as the night ahead and all its possibilities loomed tantalizingly before her. Dare she indulge?

4

A DISCONCERTING MIX OF furious despair and carnal hunger dogged Sam’s every step as he led Delaney back down the hall toward his living room. She’d slipped a distracting finger through the belt loop at the back of his jeans and followed him wordlessly down the hall. He’d either hurt her feelings by his tactless response to their current predicament, or she’d figured out why he’d acted like such a thoughtless ass at the prospect of her being trapped here for God knows how long with him.

Though he knew she’d gotten more than her fair share of heartache recently—and he particularly hated himself for adding to it—he nonetheless hoped that she’d just lumped him into her men-sucked category and hadn’t discerned the true reason behind his blind panic moments ago.

But the thought of being here with her all night, in the dark, with her in that outfit… Sam pulled in a shallow breath.

Damn.

For reasons he didn’t care to explore, the idea was almost more than he could bear. More than he could conceivably handle.

Something about the disconcerting feelings this woman evoked scared the living hell out of him, had curiously led him into emotional territory best left uncharted. He didn’t like either sensation at all and, though a niggle of doubt had surfaced in his befuddled brain, he absolutely refused to consider the “quickening” as a possible cause.

He’d simply been blindsided by desire in its purest, most veritable form—lust.

He’d taken one look at her and centuries of in-grained civilized male behavior had been stripped away and replaced with nothing but the blind, single-minded drive to procreate. To mate.

With her.

He’d been reduced to little more than a caveman and grimly suspected that if she didn’t get out of his loft soon, he’d undoubtedly grunt a couple of uga-uga’s, club her over the head and drag her back to his bedroom.

Which would be tantamount to professional ruin.

Which meant she was off-limits.

Sam smothered a frustrated growl. Of all the women in this city, why on earth did his hyper-libido have to zero in on her like a damned homing device? What exactly was it about this woman that had turned him into such a damned lust-ridden, dick-driven wreck?

When she’d gone to make that last costume change, Sam had breathed a tentative sigh of relief. Just the one outfit to go, he’d told himself, then she’d change clothes and leave and he would return to normal. The damned gooseflesh would subside, his scalp would subsist with that infernal perpetual quivering, and the raging erection—which, to his horror, had grown clear out of the waistband of his jeans at one point—would quietly wilt with shame and give him a little peace.

But the sigh of relief had been premature.

When she’d walked back into the studio, Sam’s lungs had momentarily forgotten how to properly function. He hadn’t been able to draw a breath, much less expel it.

For one insane instant, he’d thought she was naked.

The pale-pink teddy had so closely resembled the color of her skin that from a distance she’d almost appeared nude. And upon closer inspection, she might as well have been.

Though there was absolutely nothing precisely sexy about the plain unadorned teddy, it looked sexy on her because it revealed more skin than anything else she’d worn throughout this shoot. She’d obviously had to work up to that outfit, had saved it for last. The fabric draped the mounds of her puckered breasts, whispered over her curvy hips and brushed the tops of her thighs, revealing legs that were flawlessly toned and surprisingly long for someone so petite.

Sam knew that he’d been abrupt with her, had watched that sweet brow furrow in confusion. But due to the fact that he was rapidly losing both reason and resolve, Sam had known he had to speed things up and get her out of his studio before he did something unquestionably stupid.

Like seduce her.

Now all that frantic work had been for naught and Sam faced the unhappy conclusion that his torment wasn’t over, because she’d undoubtedly end up spending the night with him. One could hope that power would be restored to his little section of town first, but he sincerely doubted it. He stifled a dark chuckle. Oh, no. He wouldn’t be that lucky.

Instead of wasting his time hoping for a miracle, Sam decided to redirect his thinking and effort where it was needed the most—focusing on restraint. He’d need every ounce of willpower he possessed and then some to keep his hands off her.

Grimly determined to do just that, Sam led her back into the living room where cozy gas logs burned in the fireplace and emitted a little light as well as some much needed heat. He made a mental note to thank his father the next time he saw him for suggesting the gas heat, gas stove and gas hot water heater.

While the electric blower wouldn’t kick on, the logs would still generate enough heat to keep them moderately warm. Given the fact his blood had been boiling with need since the moment he first saw her, Sam knew he wasn’t in any immediate danger of freezing to death. Still, he’d have hot water for a shower, and the stove would still work, so he’d be able to pull together a quick dinner for his unexpected guest. That was something, anyway.

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