“I won’t be responsible for you!” About the Author Books by Anne McAllister Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright
“I won’t be responsible for you!”
Chloe looked at him, startled. “Of course not!”
“I won’t fight your battles for you or protect your innocence or mollycoddle you in any way!”
“I never asked—”
Gib’s finger stabbed the air, making his point. “I just want it clear. If you stay, you’re on your own!”
Chloe stood her ground. She even looked mutinous. He thought she might bite his finger.
“Yes, certainly!” she agreed. As he turned away, she asked almost belligerently, “Is there anything else?”
He whirled back. “Yes! You’ll damned well keep your clothes on!”
ANNE McALLISTER was born in California. She spent long lazy summers daydreaming on local beaches and studying surfers, swimmers and volleyball players in an effort to find the perfect hero. She finally did—not on the beach, but in a university library where she was working. She, her husband and their four children have since moved to the Midwest. She taught, copyedited, capped deodorant bottles and ghostwrote sermons before turning to her first love, writing romance fiction.
RITA award-winning author Anne McAllister
writes fast, funny and emotional romances. You’ll be hooked till the very last page!
Books by Anne McAllister
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®
1620—CALL UP THE WIND
1680—CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
1769—THE ALEXAKIS BRIDE
1854—A BABY FOR CHRISTMAS
1890—FINN’S TWINS!
1832—FLETCHER’S BABYI
2005—THE PLAYBOY AND THE NANNY
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Gibson’s Girl
Anne McAllister
For Samantha Bell and Tessa Shapcott
—wise and supportive editors both— Gib and Chloe (and I) thank you
CHAPTER ONE
THERE were six naked women in Gibson Walker’s line of sight. They were slender, lissome women with long legs, smooth thighs, and pert breasts.
And all he could think was, Why in hell weren’t there seven?
He glanced at his watch, tapped his foot, ground his teeth.
“Where is she?” he muttered for the fiftieth time in the past half hour.
How was he supposed to shoot the photos for the brand-new fragrance Seven! if he only had six naked women?
“Can’t we start?” one of the naked women whined.
“I’m cold,” bleated another, hugging herself.
“I’m hot!” purred a third, batting her lashes at Gibson in an all too obvious attempt to make him hot, too.
But any temperature elevation in his body, Gibson knew, would have more to do with the heat of his growing irritability than with any woman’s seductive wiggle. To make that fact clear he glared at her. She immediately edged behind a light reflector to avoid his gaze.
“Gibson, my nose is shiny,” one of them complained now, studying herself in the mirror, tipping her head this way and that and making rabbit faces.
They won’t be looking at your nose, sweetheart, Gibson wanted to tell her. But he knew better. This was Art—in the eyes of marketing, at least. So all he did was say to the makeup girl, “Judi, powder her nose.”
Judi powdered the girl’s nose. She powdered someone else’s cheeks. Sierra, the hair stylist, fiddled for the thousandth time with everybody’s hair.
Gibson tapped his toes, drummed his fingers, yelled at Edith, the studio manager, to find out who the hell she was, this missing female.
Whose fault she was, he meant.
Given a choice Gib always picked his own models—ones he knew, ones he trusted to be reliable, professional, on time.
But he hadn’t picked any of these. The client had.
“We want a little of everything,” the ad rep had told him on the phone. “All beautiful, of course,” he’d added hastily, “but not all...you
