Look, But Don't Touch. Sandra Chastain

In return, she’d select the sites and photograph the models for his male underwear catalog. To make that happen, she’d forget about Jesse James Dane, Texas Ranger, trouble in every sense of the word.

      At least he didn’t know her name.

      THE ELEVATOR DOOR slid open with a whisper. She realized that they were exiting into a private corridor. The bellman wheeled his cart past the main set of double doors down the corridor and unlocked a smaller door.

      Cat entered the room, caught sight of the elaborate fruit bowl and flower arrangement and knew immediately that this had to be a temporary arrangement. No catalog photographer was provided with such luxurious surroundings.

      “Are you certain this is where I’m supposed to be?” she asked.

      “Oh, yes, ma’am. Mr. Szachon left instructions for us to take you to your room. The top floor houses his personal living quarters, his office and his executive staff. He owns the hotel, you know.” He unloaded her bag and camera equipment, adjusted the drapes, pointed out the television and gave her the special elevator key needed to reach the top floor. She gave him a tip and he excused himself.

      Well, maybe, she decided, but until she met Mr. Szachon she would leave her bags packed. This room made her uneasy. Until she signed the contract, this wasn’t a done deal. And staying in her employer’s quarters was unacceptable, even if the rest of the staff did enjoy the same privilege. She made a list of what she needed, including a sample case of his underwear and an assistant, preferably female.

      By ten o’clock she’d eaten the fruit. By midnight she reined in her frustration at being ignored, pulled off everything but the flannel shirt and her panties, and went to bed. She’d get a good night’s rest and meet with the underwear king in the morning at her convenience.

      But sleep was elusive. She tossed and turned, trying to empty her mind of distractions. It wasn’t her meeting with Szachon but her physical collision with Jesse Dane that kept intruding. He simply marched into her mind and took control.

      He hadn’t taken anything she hadn’t given, but nothing about their lovemaking had been ordinary. It was almost as if she had been the victim of one of those fancy new drugs but she’d had nothing to eat or drink and she didn’t have to be told that Jesse was true-blue and full of propriety. Jesse was a ranger and by definition, followed the rules. A man like that tended to be her least favorite type, unless the man was following her rules.

      And she hadn’t set any.

      She hated to admit it but no man had ever affected her so strongly. Her body still strummed its need for more. She didn’t understand the lingering aftermath of heat.

      She understood control. It was something her father had valued. Control was a state of mind, a kind of self-protection for someone who lived by the book. There were rules of order and, just as her father had done, she was certain Jesse kept every one of them. Except where women were concerned. Apparently he had different standards for one-night stands with perfect strangers. Still, like her, the ranger seemed to be out of sync at the end. Considering he lived by the rules, she was surprised he hadn’t escorted her back to the hotel. For a moment there, she’d been disappointed that he hadn’t.

      Cat forced her attention away from Jesse James Dane to the man who was hiring her, Sterling Szachon, nicknamed Zon by the press when they dubbed him one of the twenty-five richest bachelors in the world. Cat had done a little research of her own. The press could well be right. Mr. Szachon owned a large, successful hotel chain, a major league baseball team, real estate, at least one ranch and a local Texas cable service. But the thing that made him different was that people seemed to genuinely like Zon. With his golden opulence, the women certainly did.

      He had the Midas touch; every new project turned to gold. She could only hope that his underwear business followed that pattern. Shooting his catalogs would be a feather in her cap. And though she’d never admit it to Bettina, she was ready to stay in one spot for a while—so long as she had her photography to use as her get out-of-jail card when she wanted to go.

      Finally she began to relax. Sleep would come. But it wouldn’t be Sterling Szachon who invaded her dreams, it would be a dark-haired Texas Ranger wearing jeans low on his hips, an Ice Man who slept under a down comforter, a man whose kiss still seared her lips.

      Cat was aware of the sudden slowing of her breath. Of the shimmering reminder of what she’d shared with a stranger. She took a great gulp of air and breathed in the ever-present scent of Jesse that still clung to his shirt. With a moan of loss, she caught hold of the sheet and pulled it up to her chin.

      Her last thought before she fell asleep was, What the hell happened to her?

      3

      THE INSISTENT RING of the phone roused Cat from a deep sleep. It took her a minute to remember where she was: the employee quarters of Sterling Szachon’s penthouse suite.

      She reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

      “Ms. McCade, this is Austin, Mr. Szachon’s executive assistant. Mr. Szachon would like you to join him for breakfast in his quarters.”

      Cat sat up and glanced at the clock—7:00 a.m. “Breakfast?”

      “Yes, ma’am. Will thirty minutes be enough time for you to get ready?”

      “It won’t take me that long.”

      Still wearing Jesse’s shirt, she pulled on a dry pair of jeans, brushed her teeth and ran a brush through her hair. The last stroke of the brush brought her palm to the collar of Jesse’s flannel shirt. She tilted her head, pulled the fabric to her nose and inhaled a deep breath. Now the shirt smelled like both of them. Funny what turned a woman on. Maybe she was crazy but this time it wasn’t just a man’s body she smelled—the scent triggered a memory, pulling her back to the night they’d shared. There ought to be other memories like that, memories of shared pleasure with other men. But there were none that mattered.

      Until Jesse. And that had to stop. Always before, she’d walked away. This time she couldn’t. This time she didn’t want to go. This time she was scared.

      But business before pleasure. “Remember, Cat, your business is your pleasure. You just have an itch you haven’t quite scratched yet.” If her boss wanted to call a business meeting in his quarters, she could wear the flannel shirt.

      She tossed the brush on the counter, pulled on her running shoes and headed for the door. The penthouse corridor was empty. As she reached the end of the corridor, the door opened and a grandfatherly looking man with silver hair stood there. “I’m Austin, Ms. McCade. This way, please.” Through a glass window off the foyer, she could see a table set for a meal. Beside it stood the man she recognized as her potential employer.