the perfect costume for you,” she said to Misty, closing the portfolio and pushing to her feet. “Come on.”
Samantha led Misty to the dressing room, with its two changing stalls, elevated try-on area with mirrors, lit makeup table and racks of fantasy clothes for men and women. Exotic shoes—spike heels, marabou slides, elaborate platforms and boots—were stored on racks along one wall. Hats, tiaras and headdresses rested on foam heads lining the top cupboards.
The overall impression was that of backstage at a theater—in fact, she’d scored most of her costumes, props and furniture from a defunct theater company. The lingerie, stockings and garters were on consignment from Valerie’s lingerie shop.
For Misty, Samantha flipped past the red teddy, black silk kimono and white peignoir and grabbed the pink satin camisole with an organdy robe that would flatter her curves. Clear acrylic kitten heels and a satin cone hat with a sheer train completed the princess effect.
Samantha swept the robe around the teddy, held it under Misty’s chin, then turned her toward the mirror. “Gorgeous, huh?”
“Very nice,” she said with barely a glance.
“You’re nervous you won’t look how you imagine?”
Misty nodded.
“That’s normal, but don’t worry. The lights I use, the angle, the costume and, mostly, who you are, Misty, will shine right through.”
“Really?” Misty’s don’t-dare-hope smile filled Samantha with renewed fire. Her very best work shored up an uncertain woman’s sense of her own sexual power.
“Absolutely.” Samantha grasped the locket she always wore, the talisman reminding her of her mission. “You’ll have fun, I promise.” She thrust the clothes at Misty. “Change and meet me in the first studio on your left.”
Misty headed for the dressing stall and Samantha took off for the fairy-tale studio to bring Misty’s fantasy to life.
One day soon, she’d do something about her own. She had a whole mental checklist of sexual adventures besides her fantasies—drizzling chocolate on naked bodies…sex in a hot tub…sex under the sky…beneath the stars…in an elevator…in a rainstorm. Tons of ideas. For when she had time.
Her focus so far had been on launching Bedroom Eyes. She had a five-year plan with firm benchmarks and steep targets. Specialty photography required a huge client pool to survive and her corporate accounts and catalogs could only sustain her so long. If she did well, she would consider expanding, perhaps adding a second photographer when the time was right.
The unexpected bounty of having Darien offer her the entire floor had complicated things. Managing the space had proved time consuming. For one thing, construction seemed continual. Darien was a nut about storage. The lingerie shop could hold Valerie’s inventory twice over and extra cupboards were being hammered into place in the hair salon right now.
Because she’d talked her friends into opening their shops here, she felt responsible for handling the tenant snafus. She’d dealt with the phone-line crash in Val’s lingerie shop, but she still had to look into the plumbing problem in Blythe’s salon and the AC glitch in Mona’s massage studio.
She planned to hand off the property management duties to her assistant, too. Just yesterday she’d slipped a help-wanted sign in her window and ordered a classified ad for next week’s paper.
Now she checked the digital Canon for image space—plenty. She used the digital for test shots to show the clients, but made prints from the richer film images. Ensuring the Hasselblad on the tripod held a full roll, she pulled down the castle backdrop, dragged the bed into position and was draping a garland of white silk roses over its canopy when the front door buzzed.
Damn. She had no time for a walk-in now. Maybe it was just Valerie wanting to pin down the details for the afternoon—Samantha had promised to help her arrange her stock and dress the mannequins in her windows. Her artist eye and all.
But it wasn’t Valerie at her counter. It was a man. Handsome and tall, wearing a chambray shirt and 501s, with crisply cut black hair and a stance as square as his jaw, he was so masculine he made the studio look as froufrou as a dollhouse. And he seemed so familiar….
She knew immediately why. He was the spitting image of the weather-beaten cowboy in her fantasy—the sexy loner who smelled of wood smoke and leather and tenderly ran his rough palms over her delicate skin.
He set a scuffed leather portfolio on the counter and gave her a wicked smile. Maybe he was more like the highwayman risking arrest to enter her bedchamber by moonlight and possess her utterly.
“May I help you?” she asked, managing to sound normal.
“Rick West.” He held out a hand so big it swallowed hers up. No calluses, so forget the cowboy. And his expression was strong and no-nonsense. More like the hard-bitten cop catching her speeding, then patting her down and losing all restraint.
“Samantha Sawyer,” she managed to say, fighting her urge to add, Have I done something wrong, Officer?
He was clearly not here for a photo. Men’s men only came in when they were dragged by the women who’d conquered their hearts. Rick West was alone. And without a ring.
Stop it.
“I’m here about the job,” he said, giving her a blast of remarkable green eyes that made her want to say yes, yes, oh yes. He unzipped his portfolio, biceps tightening. “I’m a photographer.”
“A photographer?” Not the cowboy, highwayman or cop. He was the artist, slowly peeling away her clothes so he could capture her on canvas or film or in clay. “But I’m only looking for an assistant.”
“No problem. I can assist. Hold reflectors, deliver negs, answer the phones.” He snatched her gaze up tight. “Whatever you need me to do.”
Would you wear leather chaps? How about handcuffs? His eyes were a rare green. Not as bright as emerald or as subdued as jade. Nature’s green—a Scottish hillside, a particular moss she’d seen on Oak Creek’s red rocks.
“It would be a lot of errands, some marketing calls, low-skill stuff,” she said, but he’d flipped open the portfolio to get his résumé, and she went close enough to peek at his pictures, bumping the counter, which wobbled. She had to ask Darien’s crew to attach it properly to the floor.
“Wow,” she said. The first photo was a startling shot of a big-winged bird that seemed to dance over a hillock of gold-and-yellow desert poppies. “Is that a falcon?”
“No. Turkey vulture.”
“But it’s so elegant.” She glanced up at him.
“Yeah.” He smiled mysteriously, as if the grace of the bird were his private secret. She could picture that wicked grin beneath a Zorro mask, with him all in black and her in a low-cut peasant blouse. Tell me what you desire of me, mysterious outlaw.
Your breasts, your thighs, your silky skin, your fiery soul.
He turned the portfolio at a better angle, so she could flip through it. Misty was waiting, but Samantha could at least glance at what he had. The second shot held racing clouds dusted by gold over an up-jutting desert promontory in an
