those green eyes boring straight into her soul.
She was close enough to pick up his scent—lime-spice aftershave, fresh air and starch. His shirt was stiff, the sleeves fiercely creased. He’d ironed it? Masculine, but deliciously domestic. Mmm.
She flipped through breathtaking wildlife and landscape shots—mostly Southwest, mostly desert, mostly color, though there were a few dramatic black-and-whites. Subtle emotions played over every print. His work was technically brilliant with an artistry that made even the familiar seem new.
“These are wonderful, Rick,” she said, “but I take specialty portraits, as you can see.” She motioned at the framed prints that surrounded them.
He thrust his résumé at her.
She looked it over. Freelance work for several magazines. He’d also been an automobile mechanic and had served in the army. His references included the photo editor at Arizona Highways, whom she knew.
“You can see my work’s mostly landscape and wildlife,” he said, “and I’d like to add some portraits to my portfolio. Glamour sells.” He shrugged, as if that were an obvious motivation.
“But there wouldn’t be much photography if any. I’m just growing my business. I’m only paying minimum wage.” She extended the résumé, but he didn’t take it, just held her gaze, something flaring in his eyes. Attraction spun hot between them and made the air seem to crackle.
“I’m flexible,” he said, a sexy edge to his words.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she blurted, surprising herself. He stood arrow straight, but there was an animal grace to him that made her want to see him in motion. She felt light-headed and a little weak. “But still…”
She just didn’t see him doing this job.
Now, doing her…that she could definitely see. He’d slipped into her fantasies as easy as a night swim in August. What about making them real? She tugged on her locket, sliding it back and forth on its chain, pondering the idea.
Ask him out. You want him. He wants you. Simple.
Mona claimed Samantha used Bedroom Eyes as an excuse to back-burner her love life. Mona thought she was chicken.
Brrock, brrock.
So prove her wrong. This is the man. This is the place.
Still watching her, Rick braced a hip on the counter. When it shifted under him, he turned to jiggle it. “I could fix this. Someone could get hurt.” He winked. Hire me. You know you want to.
“I can’t offer you the job, Rick,” she breathed, “but how about dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Or maybe just dessert.” She’d blurted the words before she’d absorbed the utter surprise on his face. He evidently hadn’t been flirting so much. Oh, God. She’d gotten so caught up in her imagination, she’d assumed they were doing that sexy subtext repartee she loved in the movies…and her fantasies.
“Just kidding. Heh-heh.” She laughed a fake laugh, madly grinding her locket along its chain, embarrassed as hell.
“Uh, that sounds…tempting….” He nodded a little, awkward, opened and closed his mouth, as if not sure what to say next.
The door buzzed and they both turned to watch Bianca Sylvestri rush in, her timing either perfect or rotten, Samantha wasn’t quite sure which.
Bianca, a chubby dynamo, wore a knitted dress of multicolored nubby yarn with a matching pillbox hat. Her own creation, no doubt, since her ankle boots were trimmed in the same wool. Bianca loved to knit and was about to open her own yarn shop.
“You have to help me, Sammi,” she said with breathy drama. “My niece Angela and her new husband Joey are desperate for a photo.”
“I’ve got a client right now, Bianca. Misty’s here.” And I just asked a man out for dessert. Dessert, can you believe that?
Even mortified to her roots, Samantha wasn’t done fantasizing about Rick. Even now she could picture drizzling chocolate over his naked chest and flat belly, could see him licking her own swells and dips absolutely squeaky clean.
“Misty? Bless her heart, she does need you. But Joey’s going to Chicago for three whole months and Angela needs a picture to keep her warm while he’s gone. They’ll be here in a blip. Joey doesn’t know and we can’t give him a nanosecond to think. Strip-sit-click, you know, before he starts whining.”
“I’d love to help, Bianca, but Misty’s waiting for me.”
“Is she in the fairy-tale room?”
Samantha nodded.
“Great, because we need the exotic studio. You just go on and finish up with Misty.” Bianca waved her away with diamond-heavy fingers. “I know exactly what we want and I’ll set up for you.” Bianca had helped with several friends’ shoots, so this wasn’t unusual behavior.
“I don’t know…” Samantha said.
“I can help her.” Rick said. “So you can finish.”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Rick.”
“Sure you can,” he said, low and steady, coaxing her.
“Perfect!” Bianca sang out. “Rick, is it? You’re a lifesaver.”
“Anything I can do,” Rick said, keeping his eyes on Samantha, still angling for the job.
He could save her time. Plus, moving props on Bianca’s command would undoubtedly prove to him he didn’t want the job.
Now dessert…that might still be on the table. She’d have to wait and see.
2
MAYBE JUST DESSERT? Damn. Rick followed the hot photographer deeper into her studio, figuring his next move. He’d meant to be friendly and helpful—a Boy Scout, not a horn dog—but his attraction to her obviously showed.
Now the woman didn’t want to hire him; she wanted to screw his brains out. He’d been close to saying, How about dinner and dessert? As if he regularly traded sex for a W-4.
He was rusty at this.
Granted, the old Rick would have been happy to share dinner, dessert, a midnight snack and breakfast in bed with a woman like her. Not the new Rick and certainly not the Rick who was on duty.
He hated undercover work, despite the prestige. He hated wearing a different persona, keeping his lies in order, cozying up to suspects and scumbags. He liked things clean and straight and honest and simple. But his photography background made him ideal for the assignment, so here he was.
And he’d struck gold already, whether or not Sawyer hired him. He was about to question the wife of the mobster they were after. Darien Sylvestri owned this building and had set up Sawyer and her friends in business.
Exactly what kind of
