A Taste Of Fantasy

“And?”

“It’s a go.” He grinned, still watching her intently. “Have you ever done any modeling?”

She let one eyebrow slide halfway up her forehead, while her insides started to jitterbug. Oh. Wow. This could be it. “No.”

“I think you might be right for a project I’m starting soon. Interested in doing a test?”

She let her lids lower suspiciously. “What makes me right where a professional model wouldn’t be?”

“Hard to say. Call it instinct, call it artistic selection. I could easily be wrong, but I think a camera would love you. I think you have exactly what I want.”

His voice was smooth and low, his eye contact direct and no-nonsense. Samantha shrugged and took another sip of her beer, which was pretty amazing considering she felt like gasping and slumping onto the bar. Wow. Unless she was totally wrong, this was the photographer’s equivalent of asking her to come see his etchings. What were the odds she’d find the perfect Man To Do the very night she was finally ready? If she wasn’t so cynical, she’d consider another attempt at believing in Fate.

“I see.” She tipped her head to the side and pushed her hair behind one ear in a consciously seductive gesture, pleased when his eyes followed the movement. “What kind of project?”

“I’m doing a series of photographs of women as pieces of furniture.”

Samantha nearly burst out laughing. Ha! What could be more Swaggering Butthead-y than that? Women as objects! He was getting better all the time. “Furniture?”

“Chairs, dining tables, that kind of thing.” He grinned an I-know-what-you’re-thinking grin.

“Charming. Do you seat men on them? Smoking cigars and flicking burning ashes on their skin?”

“Hmm. No.” He tilted his head and rubbed his chin. “But now that you mention it…”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “Oof.”

“It’s a concept. It has no bearing on how I feel about women. I could just as easily use men.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because women’s bodies are more interesting to me. A man’s body impersonating a wooden object is less of a draw. But take the soft strength of a woman, her beauty, her living grace, and transform that into something without life, something utilitarian. That’s such a clear contradiction, a clear paradox. And beautiful visually.”

“I see.” She swung her legs toward him and away on the bar stool. Something about that furniture thing bothered her. And something about hearing him talk about women’s bodies really bothered her. But in an entirely different way. One that had her wondering if his etchings might be something she’d really like to see.

“So…”

She turned toward him again. “So?”

“Are you interested?”

“In being your dining table?”

That slow grin spread itself across his face. “In coming to the studio for a test.”

She knew what that meant. Knew what it would mean if she said yes. And staring into his dynamite eyes, that were sending signals she didn’t need a translator to decipher, she thought maybe Jack Hunter, Swaggering Butthead extraordinaire, was exactly what she needed. “I think I might be.”

“You think?”

She looked back down at her beer and hooked a finger through her necklace, moving it back and forth. Men were lucky. Fatal Attraction type psycho-females aside, they could generally rely on their physical power to stay safe. Women were more vulnerable. “I just don’t know if you…I mean I don’t know you.”

He nodded. “Understood. Here’s my card. The studio is on West Walton street, not too far from here.”

She accepted the card and studied it. Nice address. If he was legit, he was probably doing well for himself.

“My clients include Henderson, Algram and Cairns, Stoering Medical Systems, the French designer Paul Justin and Watson Sports.”

Samantha tried not to look impressed in spite of the fact that she was. Henderson, et al. was one of the biggest if not the biggest advertising agency in the city; Paul Justin was sweeping the nation designing everything from watches to socks, and the other two companies were just shy of the Fortune 500 list.

Of course successful people could be creeps, too, but somehow in her book it made him less likely to be into tying her up, torturing her, and dumping her into Lake Michigan. Maybe it was false security, but she liked the feeling. And he was definitely the sexiest guy she’d encountered in a long time. Or ever.

She threw him a sidelong glance, designed to get him hot and bothered, which boomeranged unexpectedly off his mega-male presence and got her hot and bothered instead.

To hell with security and common sense. When was the last time she’d encountered chemistry like this? Not since she met Brendan. Maybe not even then.

She was going to do it.

She tucked the card into her purse and smiled at him, pushing back her hair again, as if she thought it had any hope of staying behind her shoulder. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll do it.”

He thumped his fist on the bar and laughed as if he’d been holding in tension waiting for her answer and was finally able to let it out. “Good. I think you’ll be perfect for the project. How does next week sound?”

Samantha determinedly kept the smile on her face while her stomach bottomed out. He really did want to photograph her? It wasn’t just an excuse to get her alone tonight?

“Uh…”

“You should know, though—” He rubbed his chin again. “I can’t do this on regular studio time or use my staff, so it would have to be kind of late. Say eight o’clock.”

Samantha’s determined smile started to feel more natural. “I see.”

“And I should warn you ahead of time…” He quirked an eyebrow and leaned closer as if to whisper. “That the women in these pictures aren’t suffering from an overabundance of clothing.”

Samantha’s stomach resumed its regularly scheduled functions and poured in an extra dose of adrenaline. Late evening shoot. No staff. Barely any clothes.

All was not lost.

He could still be her Man To Do. Just not tonight. Which was actually okay. Guys with true evil on their minds would be more likely to jump on her right now, not wait until a convenient time slot turned up. This way would feel a lot safer, even if it lost something in the passionate spontaneity department. And she could put in some serious fantasy time over the next week.

“I think I could handle that.”

“I think you could.” His grin spread extra slowly; his eyes held hers until she had to look away and fish clumsily in her purse for a business card. “Here’s my work number.”

“Good.” He accepted her card and turned it over in his strong-looking fingers. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Not even a fraction as much as she was.