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
