“Of courze I’m zupposed to be here!”
But Gibson went right on. “Then somebody else is not.”
And as one, they all turned to look at Chloe.
She slapped her arms across her breasts and ducked behind the table. Her face—her whole body—was as red as Tasha’s hair. If he’d thought she was blushing before, it was nothing compared to this.
“You’re not a model.” Gibson’s eyes narrowed. He glared at her accusingly.
“A model? Of course not!”
It was the last thing he expected her to say. If she wasn’t supposed to be here, he figured she was at least trying to horn in, to make a name for herself, take advantage where she could. It had happened before.
He scowled now, unprepared for such a prompt denial. If she wasn’t a model, what the hell was she doing here and why had she taken her clothes off?
“Who are you?”
“I told you.” She sounded almost desperate now. “I’m Chloe. Chloe Madsen. Your sister sent me—”
“My sister? Gina sent you?”
Her head bobbed. Behind her hands, he noticed, her breasts bobbed, too. Gib shut his eyes.
When he opened them it was to see her grab one of the robes that had been casually tossed across the table, and drag it on. Then she folded her arms across her chest. “Yes,” she said. “Gina sent me. To work for you. For the summer. To be your assistant.”
“Assistant.” Gib dropped the word like a lead balloon.
“Yes,” Chloe said firmly. “She said you’d agreed. Didn’t you?”
Oh, God. Gib gritted his teeth.
“Probably,” he said through them.
“Just...probably?” Chloe looked doubtful.
Oh, all right. “I suppose I must have,” he muttered.
But only because he agreed to whatever Gina asked him to do. He owed Gina. Their parents had died when Gib was thirteen and Gina was twenty. She’d practically raised him, had given up college to come back and make a home for the two of them. Later she’d seen that he was able to go to university. She’d supported and believed in him his whole life.
He could never say no to the few things she asked.
But sometimes, when he really would have liked to, he let her know from the tone of his voice that he really didn’t want to do it. She’d never pushed it on him.
Until now.
Fury rising—though whether he was mad at Gina or Chloe or himself he couldn’t have said—he yelled at Chloe now. “If you’re supposed to be my assistant, what were you doing taking off your damn clothes?”
“You told me to!”
It was that easy? Gib stared, stupefied. “You mean if I just walked up to you on the street and said, ‘Take off your clothes, Chloe Madsen,’ you’d do it?”
“Of course not!” Her face, he noted with some satisfaction, now turned an even deeper shade of red. “But,” she added after a moment, “when Gina told me I could come she stressed that I had to what you told me, that I was obligated to do whatever was required.” A pause. “Jobwise.”
Their gazes met. Clashed.
But she didn’t look away. Gib had to give her credit. Chloe Madsen was a tryer—and she didn’t back down.
She was breathing so hard he could see her breasts heaving slightly behind the soft terry fabric. He had a memory flash of what they’d looked like bare.
As blonde as she was, Chloe Madsen didn’t have a blonde’s fair skin. Her breasts had been a warm honey color, the peaks a dusky rose. Now she was wrapped in the equivalent of a terry bath sheet. He preferred her naked.
He suspected he wouldn’t get to see her naked again.
Just as well, he thought, still very aware of how the sight of her had affected him.
Definitely just as well.
“Why you use zat girl?” Tasha’s eyes flicked from Gibson to Chloe and back accusingly. “You cannot use zat girl! I am ze Zeven! girl!” She slapped hands on hips and glared at him.
“Tasha...” Gib began to placate her.
She took his face between her hands and planted a kiss on his mouth. “You ztart over, yes? You forgive Tazha for being late, yes?”
“Yes,” Gib said automatically, stepping out of her reach. His gaze flicked back to Chloe who hadn’t moved an inch. She was still looking at him—and he was looking back at her, not making any move to shoot.
“Gibzon,” Tasha said impatiently.
He jerked his gaze toward her. “Huh?”
She tapped her bare foot. “We zhoot now?”
“Uh, yeah. We zhoo-shoot now.” At last Gibson managed to tear his eyes away from Chloe Madsen. “We shoot.” He turned back to the camera. “All right, let’s start again,” he said to the other women. “We’ll take it easy. You know what to do.”
They started to move in the circle again, Tasha sliding into the formation easily, not jiggling, Gib was happy to note.
“What about me?” Chloe asked. “What should I do now?”
Gibson looked at her once more. His mind saw everything the white terry robe covered. His body tightened.
Fortunately so did his resolve.
“Go home.”
Go home?
Go home?
She would never dare to show her face in Collierville, Iowa again!
Not after baring everything else in New York City! Chloe huddled in the tiny dressing room and listened to Gibson Walker’s gruff seductive baritone encouraging the models to reach and stretch and swim. Just the way he had encouraged Chloe to reach and stretch and swim.
Oh, God. She pressed her palms to her cheeks—the ones on her face!—and tried to stop them glowing. Fat chance.
Her whole body was glowing. Burning. From the inside out. If this was what hot flashes were like, she had no desire to hit menopause. Ever.
Not that she would.
She would surely die of embarrassment first.
She pulled on her underwear, then yanked her dress over her head, all the while breathing as if she’d just
