Читать книгу A Taste Of Fantasy - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

From: Tess Norton

Sent: Friday

To: Samantha Tyler; Erin Thatcher

Subject: re: Readiness

YOU GO GIRL! You aren’t going to look pathetic, you’re going to look gorgeous and sexy and oh, so ripe. BE PICKY! You can have any man you want, and what you want is someone who can get it up and keep it up until you’re damn ready to call it a night. Check his feet, his hands, and if they’re short and stubby, move on. If they’re long and thick and his lips are perfect and his…oh, um, sorry. I was thinking about Dash. Here’s the bottom line, kiddo. This is a present to you. Don’t be stingy. Give it all you’ve got.

Love, Tess

P.S. I want DETAILS

From: Erin Thatcher

Sent: Friday

To: Samantha Tyler; Tess Norton

Subject: re: Readiness

Well, hell! It’s about time. And I gotta say it’s good to read a more upbeat you. And, no. You will not look pathetic. Available is one thing. Available is good. Available will have men flocking. And you’ll get to pick and choose your fantasy. If I hadn’t already found mine, I think I’d be totally envious! Don’t worry about right and perfect and all that relationship crap. Just go find a piece of body candy and spend the night smacking your lips. Oh, and make sure he smacks his!

Love you! Erin

Samantha finished reading the notes, grinned and launched into a new message. Details? She’d give them plenty.

From: Samantha Tyler

Sent: Saturday

To: Erin Thatcher; Tess Norton

Subject: Last Night!

I did it! I went! I met someone! (Is that like I came, I saw, I conquered?) He’s totally gorgeous and a Swaggering Butthead to boot. Thinks he’s brilliant and is obviously used to the chicks falling at his feet (okay, I was one of them, I couldn’t help it). He’s a photographer and he wants to photograph me one night next week. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more!

I feel so good! Like I’m coming out of a coma. I love this. I couldn’t fall for this guy in a million years. He’s perfect.

I’m so happy!

By the way, have you guys gotten into When Amber Burns, yet? Sheesh! No wonder I had sex on the brain. Which guy do you think Amber’s going to go for at the end, Adam or Mark—or both at once (ha!)?

Somewhat deliriously,

Samantha

Samantha hit the send button to blast the e-mail off to Erin and Tess, and spun her computer chair to face her home office, arms stretched blissfully wide, an entire Saturday at her disposal. In this mood, staying home doing work wasn’t going to cut it. She’d already begun investigating the latest sexual harassment case by interviewing Tanya Banyon, a temp employed by ManForce who brought charges against Rick Grindle. The woman had been convincing, certainly, but Samantha should spend the day preparing for her interview next week with the accused to get his side before she made any decisions.

Samantha rolled her eyes. Lighten up, woman. She’d done a million of these cases. Who needed to give up a Saturday afternoon preparing for the expected? She wanted to go out! She wanted to live! She wanted to…shop!

Frankly, her hot-night-out wardrobe was about five years old. She and Brendan had very sensibly dated for two years before they got married, and he’d made it clear she didn’t have to dress sexily to be sexy to him. At the time it had seemed so honest, so genuine, so beautiful. Until she recognized it as part of the pattern of suppressing her personality to please him.

God how insidious those little things became when you looked at them as part of the whole.

She liked getting dressed up. She liked wearing clothes that flattered her figure. Not like she was trampy. But if she felt good about her clothes and the way she looked, she felt good about herself. If that made her shallow and insecure, tough. She’d made friends with her flaws. At very least, they were loyal company.

Onward! She jumped up and grabbed her purse and keys.

Three hours later, she burst back in through her side door. Success! A black tiny-strapped skintight top with built-in bra, tight stretchy black jeans, and a clingy hot-pink sweater. She hadn’t felt this good in ages. Not only clothes, but she’d taken herself out to lunch and the cute guy in the next booth had flirted with her.

She danced into her kitchen, dumped the bags on a chair and grabbed her cell phone to check messages, so full of energy she very nearly got the urge to scrub the floor. This was serious. Maybe she should take some medication.

Her cell phone display showed one missed call; she crossed her fingers, imagining Jack’s deep voice, dialed up her voice mail and crossed to get her new clothes out of their bags, so she had something to do if it wasn’t him.

“Hello, Johnny Orion. It’s Kate. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Samantha froze. What was the deal with these women and their faulty dialing habits? And for Pete’s sake, how good could one man be?

“I worked all day to cook that dinner for you. But the look in your eye when you came in…God, I wasn’t hungry for food after that.”

Samantha walked to the window, new black camisole clutched in her hand, and stood watching her garden as if she could somehow see the caller in the overgrown bushes if she stared hard enough.

“I’ll probably never get the sauce out of the rug. My mom will never forgive me for Aunt Ruby’s broken china. And I still have no idea where my thong is. But ohhhh, Johnny. You were worth it.”

Samantha pursed her lips in a silent whistle. An instant picture came into her head. The door opening. Johnny Orion standing there—looks by Hugh Jackman, body by Russell Crowe, smoldering intensity by Colin Firth. Male perfection. Slamming the door behind him, head tipped slightly forward as he moved, so his eyes would shoot passion from under lowered brows, so he’d have the appearance of a dark, charging bull.

“I’m still sore, I’m still ragingly horny, I still want you, Johnny. Call me.”

He’d walk forward, and without speaking lift her in his arms, clear the dining table of its carefully laid meal with one sweep, clear her body of its carefully arranged outfit with another, and go to it with hands, mouth, tongue and—of course—the industrial-sized penis.

Mmm.

Passion. Sex. Wild passion. Wild sex. She and Brendan never quite got there. There was always something polite in the way they treated each other. Always something slightly apologetic about their lovemaking, as if they felt bad about those pesky animal instincts, and were making do as best they could, since escaping their own humanity was impossible, darn it.

Wild messy passion. Wild messy sex.

She leaned back against the counter, rubbed the shiny camisole top over her body, then downward so it bunched into a soft ball between her legs and she could push against it. Jack might do that for her. The way he’d looked at her in the bar, like he wanted to devour her…

She’d let him.

The top slid between her fingers to the floor; she undid her jeans and pushed her hand inside. Jack Hunter. Right now, in this crazy hormone-charged mood, she wanted him. Badly. She wanted to get naked for him, feel that glorious sense of female power, that explosive chemical reaction at the beginning of an affair, when just the sight of her body would send him into a state of mating-readiness. When the toss of her hips, or the slide of her hands on her own thighs could turn him into a stiff groaning mess of desire. When just the touch of her fingers on his bare skin was enough to get him ready.

She wanted Jack to be her Johnny Orion. To come to her and take his fill of her, giving as much as he took. She wanted that. She wanted it.

Her jeans crept down farther on her straining legs; she rubbed herself harder, breath accelerating, imagining that beautiful meal spread on her dining table, Jack sweeping it to crash on the floor and spreading her on the dining table, stripping her, taking her.

“Oh.” The orgasm hit, hot and hard and she rode the wave, keeping the image of Jack’s naked thrusting body firmly in her mind until she came down, legs cramped and stiff, zipper straining open.

Blanche and Fudge chose that moment to investigate the kitchen and demand dinner in loud no-nonsense yowls.

Samantha blinked and burst out laughing. God what a sight she must be. Masturbating in her own kitchen, fully clothed, in front of her cats. But it didn’t feel pathetic. It didn’t feel pathetic at all. She pictured Jack again and smiled, doing up her pants, pushing the hair back from her face, body still glowing.

It felt damn good.

“CAN WE GET THE wrinkle out of the left shoulder there?” Jack pointed to the digital image of a Watson Sports T-shirt his assistant Beth handed him. “And try getting the folds to run left to right instead. Maybe straighten that seam a little more. I like the look, but the client won’t want the logo distorted. That should do it. Let me know when it’s set and I’ll shoot it.”

“Done.” Beth pointed to another table where a prop stylist was lovingly adjusting Watson golf shoes on a small mat of Astroturf. “They’re ready for you to check the shoes.”

Jack wandered over, hands in his pockets, whistling carelessly through his teeth, eyed the shoes critically and nodded. “Looking good—I like the angle. Let me see a test when it’s ready.”

He strolled back past the T-shirt table, still whistling, a rambling melody completely at odds with the techno-pop assaulting the studio’s airspace, and stopped to check the next shot—a putter to be shot on outline, against a neutral color for the client to fit into its own background.

Unfortunately, with no one else at the table demanding he do his job, no matter how hard he focused his eyes, his brain refused to take in the concept of “golf club.” Thoughts of her invaded immediately, as they’d been invading all weekend no matter how hard he tried either to push them away or sort out the dilemma to a workable solution.

He should call her today. He probably should have called her over the weekend. Samantha was perfect for the human dining table series. Tall, slender, not overly curved. More than that, she had the perfect look. Class, innocence, sensuality, all built into the striking planes of her face, so that even immobile and deadpan, those qualities would come through in the shot.

So why hesitate? He absently adjusted the head of the putter, which a barely conscious part of him knew didn’t need adjusting.

Because he wanted her. Because in her classy innocent sensuality, she represented a danger to the control he held tight to. Since Krista he’d been careful to find models who fit the shots but held little or no appeal for him personally. He wasn’t going down that road again.

But something about this woman called strongly to him. Made him plenty aware that being alone with her in a studio—even on a closed set with a hair and makeup stylist on call—while Samantha had on next to nothing would bring temptation home.

More than temptation. Torture.

He should avoid her. Listen to the voice in his head shouting, “Run, you idiot, run.” He didn’t need to mess up his life again, now that he’d clawed his way back on track. If he slept with her, as he was pretty sure she wanted him to by the signals she was sending out, and if he got away with it this time, then what would stop him the next time someone offered, and the next? Until he hooked up with another Krista and had his career nuked again. He might not be able to start over a third time and get anywhere he or anyone else could respect.

Jack glared at the putter and unnecessarily adjusted the grip this time. What scared him was that in spite of the well-known, acknowledged, been-down-that-road-before risks, he wanted Samantha in his studio and in his series. He missed the game, the chase, the thrilling, orgasmic victory. He wanted to be tempted by her. Wanted to feel the intense rush of excitement as he had in the bar. A rush he’d denied himself for so long.

He felt like a recovering alcoholic face-to-foam with a big frosty mug of beer. Lifting it, inhaling the sour yeasty scent, bringing it to his lips so the bubbles tickled his—

“What the heck is with you?” His studio manager Maria lifted a dark pierced eyebrow. “You’ve been whackyed-out all day.”

“Whackyed-out?” He smiled at her tough hands-on-hips stance, so incongruous on her tiny frame. But he sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her temper. “How have I been whackyed-out?”

“All day you’ve been wandering and whistling. Usually you’re like a headless chicken running around.”

“Wow, Maria, thanks.” He sent her a look of fond exasperation. “It really pumps me up to be compared to barnyard animals.”

“No problem.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “So what’s this woman’s name?”

Jack tried very hard to recover from extreme shock without giving himself away. “What woman?”

Maria’s eyes narrowed. “The one who has you whackyed-out.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Ha! Cut the crap.” She leaned forward and impaled him with her nearly black eyes. “You can fool some people sometimes, but Maria never. I know you have a woman and she’s crazying up your head. My brother Paulo looks just like that about ten times a year. If my Miguel looks like that even for half an hour, bam!” She made a decisive chop on her open palm.

He grinned and shook his head. “And if I tell you it’s none of your business?”

“I’m making it my business.” She cocked her head so the studio light sparkled off the diamond piercing her nostril. “She better be worth you. Is she?”

He pictured Samantha’s blond hair draping her shoulders, her soft-looking, slightly rosy skin, clear eyes dancing with life. She was probably worth about ten of him. “I don’t know.”

“Then you better find out.” She made a circling motion with one finger next to her multi-earringed ear. “Or you’ll stay wacky forever.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that right.”

“I’m serious.” Her eyes widened in outrage. “This obsession won’t go away by itself. Like a splinter, she will dig in deeper if you ignore her. Take her out. Examine. You can’t get free any other way.”

He rolled his eyes, still grinning. Since the dawn of time, there had never been a more determined matchmaker. “I think you’re reading a little too much into it.”

She shrugged. “If you don’t give love a chance at the obvious time, it’ll come back and bite you in the ass.”

“Love?” He stared at her incredulously. Over the top, even for Maria. “This isn’t love we’re talking about.”

“Oh, right, matters of the dick.” She waved at him dismissively. “I’ve seen you lusting plenty of times. This is different. You watch. You’ll see. In one year, I’ll be dancing at your wedding, thumbing my nose at you.”

Jack laughed. As much as he sometimes wanted to use dynamite to budge her from her strongly adhered-to opinions, Maria lit up the studio like a 2K hot light, and he adored her. “My wedding, huh?”

“You betcha. You blow this you’ll end up alone in a cold apartment with a shriveled you-know-what, eating cold ravioli out of a can.”

“Well, if you put it that way, I better give it some serious thought.” Jack rubbed his thumb along the side of his jaw, pretending to be giving it some serious thought. All kidding aside, and he owed Maria thanks for bringing him face-to-face with the truth this morning, he’d spent the last few days fooling himself thinking he was trying to decide. He’d made his decision about ten seconds after he saw Samantha sitting in the bar, rigid with nerves over being out by herself. She was too perfect for the shoot not to call.

At the same time, he was smart to recognize the rush of fight or flight energy, like a swimmer seeing shadows in the water under him, not knowing if they were coral reefs or hungry sharks. No question he had a struggle ahead to keep the relationship professional.

“Well.” He sighed, long and loud. “If you’ve made up your mind, Maria, then it’s obvious what I have to do.”

Maria nodded firmly, her lips starting a smile that reflected his mischief. “Damn right.”

“I guess…” He shrugged in exaggerated helplessness and let his hands slap down on his thighs. “I guess I have no choice but to call her.”

“MS. TYLER? SORRY TO keep you waiting. I’m Rick Grindle.”

Samantha looked up from the file she’d been studying in the reception area of Eisemann, Inc.

Yikes.

Her nice-to-meet-you smile immediately threatened to slide off her lips and she had to use extra muscle to bolster it back up. Whatever she’d expected Rick Grindle to look like, this wasn’t it. The man was well over six feet and built like a linebacker. The way Tanya, his accuser, had talked about him, Samantha had expected something closer to Elmer Fudd.

His eyes were an intense pale gray set off by the pure white of his shirt and the deeper-gray charcoal of his perfectly tailored suit. The black-and-white impression was marred by a crimson tie that made a silk blood-swath down into his neatly buttoned jacket. His hair had started to go the way of bald things and he kept what was left buzzed military-short. Unlike some guys, the lack of hair reinforced his virility and completed the picture of the imposing giant.