Читать книгу Picture me Sexy - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 8

ARMED WITH A GALLON OF fast-acting Weed-Be-Gone and a pair of garden gloves, Delaney wheeled out of the parking lot of her downtown Memphis office and aimed her sporty sedan toward Germantown, the posh upscale neighborhood Roger—the ball-less worm—called home.

While her sorry ex could squeeze thirteen cents out of every dime, there were a couple of areas in which he simply didn’t spare any expense—his home and his lawn. Roger was a master gardener who spent every free minute and every spare penny landscaping his award-winning lawn. He was particularly proud of his turf, an expensive evergreen designer blend that stayed bright and lush even through the harsh winter months.

The word “asshole” written in dead grass would contrast nicely, Delaney thought with vengeful glee.

She pulled into the drive, made quick work with the weed-killer and just as quickly made her escape. The rush of adrenaline triggered a burst of giddy laughter, pushed past the irritation and made her feel absolutely wicked.

Delaney loved feeling wicked. She got the same thrilling rush from designing her lingerie. There was something so intensely satisfying about creating an outfit that inspired such an intimate, sensual act. One she’d spent an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about. Being an overweight child, then overweight teen, had definitely been to her advantage in one way—the lonely hours had inspired her creativity, had essentially led her into her career. She wanted the women who wore her lingerie to feel sexy in it, empowered. Wanted them to revel in their sexuality, their femininity.

Speaking of empowered, who would have ever thought that such an asinine prank would be so satisfying? So mentally beneficial? She chewed her bottom lip and vaguely toyed with the notion of snatching a few of his prized antique roses, but quickly dismissed the idea. She didn’t mind resorting to a little vandalism to smooth her ruffled feathers, but she wasn’t quite brave enough to become a thief…yet.

Besides, she had an appointment to keep. Granted, no one but she and the photographer would ever see her boudoir photos—but she wanted them anyway, knew she needed to take that first step toward progress. Delaney felt sexy while designing the clothes, but couldn’t feel sexy in them because she’d always been so pathetically modest. That had to change. She needed to get past it, needed to garner a little of that feminine energy for herself.

She pulled her car into a parking space designated for Martelli Photography, grabbed her garment bag from the back seat and mentally prepared herself to battle her modesty. Her stomach knotted. She’d find happiness in little victories, she decided as she made her way into the old building. Why? Because men sucked.

The scent of fresh paint hit her the moment she stepped into the old building. She nodded to a couple of workers and ducked under a scaffold in order to reach the antique cagelike elevator. The old Gloria Gaynor song “I Will Survive” played a continuous loop in her head, bringing a smile to her lips and a bounce to her step.

Delaney grinned, pleased with the rush of endorphins this whole new men-suck philosophy had given her. She began to chant it aloud softly—verbal reinforcement—and listened to the words echo as the ancient elevator slowly lifted her to the top floor.

“Men suck, men suck, men suck.” Damn, that felt good, she thought. So good that, since she was alone, she upped the volume and added a little more U.S. Marine oomph! to the suck part. “Men suck, men suck, men suck.”

A deep masculine chuckle reached Delaney’s ears about the same time that a pair of manly bare feet came into her line of vision. As the elevator slowly drew up into what was obviously a penthouse suite, a pair of long denim-clad legs gave way to an extremely impressive bulge centered between a set of impossibly narrow hips. Blue cotton clung to a washboard abdomen, perfectly sculpted pecs and widened into a pair of the most beautifully muscled shoulders she’d ever had the pleasure to pant over.

The man was built like a brick wall, which seemed appropriate, considering she felt like she’d just run into one.

Dark brown wavy hair, a tad too long to be fashionable, framed a sinfully handsome face that attested to pure dumb luck and good Italian genes. His lips were a fraction overfull for a man and presently curled into one of the laziest, sexiest grins she’d ever seen. Dark brown eyes, heavy-lidded beneath slanted brows, glinted with humor, old-soul intelligence, and the promise of unnamed pleasures. Everything about him exuded confidence and strength, and pure sexual heat rolled off him in waves. He was sex with a capital S and to her immeasurable astonishment, she wanted him instantly.

Really wanted him.

The breath stuttered out of her lungs in a whoosh of longing, her womb clenched, her nipples tightened and her very bones seemed to melt beneath the heat of no-holds-barred raw, primal desire.

Mr. Sex anchored one hand at his waist and held a camera loosely in the other. He had great hands, big and tanned with blunt-tipped fingers. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands, Delaney thought absently.

“Men suck, eh?” he asked in a voice that was smooth and deep and sang in her ears like a soulful jazz tune.

Delaney moistened her suddenly dry lips, managed a nod. Yes, they did…and mercy she’d just bet this one would be great at it.

SAM HAD ENVISIONED his first meeting with the legendary lingerie queen Delaney Walker as many things, but he could honestly say that hearing her cheerfully chant “men suck” in that sweet southern drawl as the elevator lifted her up to his loft apartment/studio and then having her stare at him as though he were one of those chocolate bars she purportedly loved to eat, was not one of them.

Sam was accustomed to garnering female interest—he was a Martelli after all, and, among other curious phenomena, his family had never lacked general sex appeal.

But something about the heat in Delaney Walker’s bright green eyes was different from what he typically encountered, went beyond lust, beyond desire. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it made his scalp tight, his skin prickle and, curiously, the very air around him seemed to change as she blinked out of her lust-trance and breezed past him into his loft.

His gut clenched with trepidation as a thought suddenly occurred to him, but he dismissed it as ludicrous. This bizarre feeling couldn’t possibly be what he suspected.

It could not.

Even if Sam had any intention of ever marrying and starting a family—which he most assuredly did not—he didn’t believe in the “quickening”—the supposed almost supernatural ability for a Martelli to choose his mate. According to family history—and the testament of his various cousins, uncles, brothers and father—all of whom had never strayed and never divorced—a Martelli man simply knew when he’d found the one woman he was supposed to spend his life with. Supposed physical symptoms included gooseflesh, tingling skin and a sense of déjà vu…much like he’d just experienced, Sam realized with mounting disquiet.

Nah, Sam told himself, refusing to even consider the idea. He’d made the decision to remain single years ago, when he’d watched his father mourn his mother until the man was only a shadow of his former self. When he’d watched his brothers—big tough, rough, gruff men—become hopelessly besotted fools over their wives, watched them actually cry when their children were born. The idea of losing that kind of control over himself and surrendering said control to another person completely unnerved him. Sam grimaced.

He’d pass, thank you very much.

Clearly some melodramatic Romeo lurked in the Martelli family tree and had passed the story down from one generation to the next. Sam mentally harrumphed. If there was one thing an Italian loved more than a good marinara, it was a good story. Men simply fell in love and, to preserve the family tradition, called it a “quickening.”

Sheesh.

As for fidelity and divorce being non-existent—the most damning evidence to contradict his theory, particularly in this day and age of the quickie divorce—that too could be easily explained. No brag, just fact, but Martelli men were smart. They were loyal, had a strong sense of family. Particularly his. Case in point, his family met for lunch every day at his father’s house and woe be to he who didn’t show up. His father expected them to be there and so far, regardless of how inconvenient, Sam nor his brothers had ever missed the mandatory meal.

Sam told himself that his peculiar reaction to Delaney Walker was only his overwrought imagination. Just a product of nerves. He’d hyped this meeting up in his head for the past couple of months, had been obsessing over it ever since she’d first called and scheduled her appointment.

Frankly, when the tabloids had reported that she’d been jilted again—bless her heart, the woman didn’t seem to be able to get one to actually say “I do”—Sam had fully expected her to call and cancel the appointment. Curiously, she hadn’t. And he’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sam’s portfolio had been sitting in limbo at Laney’s Chifferobe for months now and this meeting offered him the prime opportunity to showcase his talent and possibly secure a job with her company.

Sam loved women. Skinny, fat, short, tall and all species in between. There was something so intrinsically beautiful about the female form. All that soft skin, those gentle swells and valleys, the intriguing curve of a womanly hip, a silky thigh, a well-rounded rump. Women were utterly gorgeous and their bodies had always held a particularly keen fascination for him.

He’d never understand them, of course—what man in his right mind would even try? Everyone knew they were the most fickle creatures God ever created. But he loved them all the same and he had a real knack for capturing them on film.

With luck, Delaney Walker would see that.

Sam enjoyed doing the boudoir photos and the occasional wedding. It helped pay the bills, after all, and supported his rummage sale and estate habit. But ever since Laney’s Chifferobe had hit the lingerie scene, he’d been itching to get a shot at it.

Delaney designed every piece of clothing and personally oversaw the layout of each issue, a monumental job in and of itself. She was a slave to detail and would settle for nothing less than total perfection. He had to give her credit, she was one helluva hard worker. She’d built the company from the ground up and hadn’t simply hired someone else to oversee the details when she’d finally gotten the business operating comfortably in the black. No doubt about it, she had character.

But given that drive for perfection, that keen eye, why on earth did she settle for mediocre photography? It baffled him. The spreads lacked finesse, were almost clinical and not the least bit compelling. Honestly, why even bother with temperamental models? Why not just lay it all out and do still shots? The effect would be the same.

She didn’t know it yet, but she needed him, Sam thought determinedly. Given the chance, with her creative ability and his expertise, they could make her catalogue sizzle.

And speaking of sizzle…Delaney Walker was hot.

Sam’s artist eye quickly roved over her lush Marilyn Monroe body, summarized her finer features. She was small, generously curved in all the right places. She actually had hips, Sam noticed, pleasantly surprised. These days most women starved them off. She had a smooth heart-shaped face, a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth, a dainty chin, bright green eyes, and long hair the color of moonbeams that hung like a silky curtain down to the middle of her back. Anticipation spiked. He couldn’t wait to look at her through his lens.

That curious tingling gripped him again, made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end, and the familiar tug of reciprocated attraction gave a particularly vicious yank. Sam scowled, ruthlessly tamped it down, and made a conscious effort to get back to business. Honestly, gawking at her while she absently roamed around admiring his loft was hardly professional.

“I see you brought your own bag,” Sam said. “How many outfits will you be changing into?”

The graceful line of her back tensed and she pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “Three. Is that too many?” she asked hastily. “Because I can forego a couple of them. I don’t have to—”

Sam chuckled reassuringly. “Three’s fine. I just wondered how many settings we’ll need to line up. We’ll change backgrounds with each one. Any nudes?” he asked casually. Would that he would be so lucky. The rogue thought flitted through his mind before he could check it. Dammit, he had to get control of himself. He couldn’t afford to be attracted to her. Wouldn’t allow it.

Her eyes widened and a flash of outright panic momentarily lit up that bright green gaze. “Er, no.”

Sam mentally frowned and his senses went on heightened alert. With the exception of few, most women who came to him were nervous about putting their bodies on display. They worried about thick thighs, small breasts and that extra ten pounds they’d put on since childbirth. Things that simply didn’t matter to a man who loved them.

Men were visual. That’s why they looked at Playboy magazines, watched the occasional flick, and liked to make love with the lights on. Men liked sexy and naked and, quite frankly, the immediate impulse of the combined two didn’t leave time to log any imperfections. When a man saw a naked woman, the head with the brain instantly ceded control to the head without one. Men were animals. They’d been divinely wired to be fruitful and multiply. ’Nuff said.

Delaney Walker designed some of the hottest, sexiest lingerie on the market. She was a true sensualist. He would have thought that she, of all people, wouldn’t suffer any insecurities about her body. Yet clearly she did, Sam decided as he studied her more closely. What an intriguing paradox. She obviously didn’t have the balls-to-the-wall, wild-child personality her designs—or the local paparazzi reports—implied. He filed it away for future consideration.

“This is a fantastic place you’ve got here,” she said. She’d strolled to the bank of floor-to-ceiling paned-glass windows and gazed at the old downtown Memphis skyline. “Did you do all the renovations yourself?”

“Most of them,” Sam replied. “I did the majority of the cosmetic work, the painting and the floors, but I contracted out the plumbing and rewiring.” He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologize for the mess the building is in. When the owner saw how well my loft turned out, he decided to renovate the entire building.” Sam offered her a smile. “Things are chaotic right now, but it’ll be nice when the work is completed.”

She turned to face him and that sense of déjà vu slammed into him once more. She nodded succinctly. “Without a doubt. Your loft is lovely.”

Irritated with his reaction to her, Sam redoubled his efforts to remain professional and merely nodded. You’ve got a lot riding on this, Martelli, Sam told himself. Don’t screw it up. “So, are you ready to get started?”

She didn’t look ready, Sam noted. In fact, she looked miserable. Indecision vibrated off her tight frame and she tortured that full bottom lip with her teeth. But just when he thought she’d decided against the session, she turned, pulled in a bolstering breath, then smiled and said, “Not ready…but determined.”

He could see that, Sam thought, unreasonably impressed. Delaney Walker had moxie, a trait Sam found both equally attractive and appealing. He nodded, pleased. “Good. If you’ll follow me, Ms. Walker—”

She snorted indelicately. “Call me Delaney. You’re about to see me half-naked. I hardly think we need to stand on formality.”

Sam felt his lips slide into a grin. “Fine. Delaney, it is then. I’m Sam, by the way. The dressing room is down the hall, first door on the left. Go change and don’t forget.”

She quirked a brow and her lips tucked into the shadow of a smile. “Forget what?”

Sam winked at her. “Men suck.”