fastened. She didn’t even try to refresh her gnawed-off lipstick. She was sure, if she did, she would look as if a demented three-year-old had colored all over her mouth.
So finally she was finished. Dressed. Armored.
And absolutely unable to leave the dressing room.
There was no way she was walking back out into that studio. No way on earth she was going to face the world—or Gibson Walker—again.
She was mortified.
And he’d been furious.
What did he have to be furious about?
She was the one who had taken off her clothes! He’d merely asked her to.
What had she been thinking?
Well, she hadn’t, really. That much was obvious. If she had, she’d have realized that a photographer of Gibson Walker’s stature had no interest at all in photographing a silly bumbling twit from Iowa, for goodness’ sakes!
But at the time, with his demand ringing in her ears and the memory of his sister Gina telling her that Gibson might ask her to stand in for a model while he sets lights and things, well, she’d misunderstood! That was all.
Heck of a misunderstanding.
A tiny giggle escaped her.
It wasn’t much of a giggle. The misery of it, the disgrace and embarrassment of it were still too new and raw. But if she was honest, there was a funny side to it.
What on earth would Dave say?
Of course, he’d never know because Chloe was never, ever going to tell him! Dave Shelton, her fiancé, had enough misgivings about this summer job she had taken in the “big bad city.” He still couldn’t understand why she needed to go to New York at all.
“New York? You want to go to New York? What do you want to go out there and get corrupted for?” he’d asked more than once.
“It’s a wonderful city. A fascinating city. There’s so much to see and do. I just want to experience it. I’m not going to get corrupted,” Chloe had assured him.
And she wasn’t! But even so, he didn’t need to hear how she’d paraded around naked in front of her employer!
No one was ever going to hear about that!
Unless—and here she gulped—unless Gibson Walker told them.
He wouldn’t! Would he?
That thought zapped her with another flush, even hotter than the first. Oh, please, no! He couldn’t!
“Kissing, ladies. Purse those lips,” she heard him say.
She put her hands over her face, remembering how she’d looked straight at him and pursed hers. Merciful heavens! She truly might die.
And then, at last, he said, “Okay, that’s it. Thanks a lot. I think we got some great stuff.”
At once she heard the models begin chattering, the redheaded latecomer with the sexy accent—her replacement!—louder than all the rest. It was all “Gibzon thiz” and “Gibzon that.” And Gibson answered, gruff but perfectly matter-of-fact, as if he worked with beautiful naked women every day of the week.
For all Chloe knew, he did!
There was the sound of shuffling bare feet as the models came toward the dressing cubicles and doors opened. Someone rapped on her door.
“I’m...n-not ready,” Chloe managed.
She would never be ready. If she could, she would stay in here the rest of her life.
Her fingers were trembling less. So she finished buttoning up her dress—closing it clear to the neck. Then she ran her palms down her sides, cinched the belt, and drew in a deep and—she hoped—steadying breath.
She tried to look sensible, demure, competent. She did look sensible, demure, competent—if you discounted the disarray of her wavy blonde hair and the hectic blush on her cheeks.
Yet scant moments before she had been anything but!
Beyond the door she could hear the other girls getting dressed. They laughed and chattered. The doors to the dressing rooms banged open.
“Bye, Gib!”
“See you soon!”
“Love you, Gib.”
With a chorus of cheery goodbyes, they departed—until there remained only silence.
And Gibson Walker.
It was, Chloe knew, the moment of truth.
Some would say, Chloe was sure, that cavorting naked around a room was a moment of truth of sorts.
Perhaps it had been. After all, could whatever came next possibly be worse? As far as she could see, she had two options. She could sneak out, never show her face here again, and take the next plane back to Iowa, admitting defeat before she even got started. Or she could face the man on the other side of the door, swear that she would be a good assistant, and buckle down and live up to her word for the rest of the summer.
Put like that, there wasn’t any choice.
Chloe wanted this summer. She needed this summer. She had turned her own and Dave’s lives upside down for this summer. It was on the order of a spiritual journey, she’d told him.
He hadn’t understood. She supposed she couldn’t really expect him to. But if she really believed what she’d told him, she couldn’t go home.
Not now. Not yet.
Chloe took a deep breath, crossed her fingers, and opened the door.
“I’ve got you a plane reservation,” he told her briskly the minute the door opened. “You leave at six, get into Chicago at nine. There’s an hour layover. You’ll get the last flight to Dubuque and be there by 11:15. You can call someone to pick you up.”
He gave her one quick glance—and not only to see if she was wearing clothes and if her breasts still jiggled. Though he couldn’t help noticing that she was and they weren’t. Then he made himself concentrate on the pile of junk that had been accumulating on his desk for the past twelve years.
It seemed suddenly imperative that he sort through it.
When she didn’t reply, he glanced up again, careful to keep his eyes firmly on her face. Unfortunately that was where her lips were. Damn.
She was looking at him with a worried, woebegone expression on her face.
“I’ll pay for it,” he said impatiently, because he was willing to bet she was worrying about the cost.
“It’s...it’s not that. It’s...I can’t go home.”
“What?”
