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
