A Taste Of Fantasy. Isabel Sharpe

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.

      “So am I.” She grinned back at him and lifted her second beer in a private toast. To Samantha: on her way to moving on from Divorce Hell. To Jack Hunter: Swaggering Butthead and possible Man To Do.

      She smiled as an absurd thought struck her. And to whatever and whoever he was doing tonight—Johnny Orion.

      RICK DROVE HIS Jeep Cherokee into a space opposite Samantha’s driveway and shifted into park. Good. She was home safely. The guy in the bar hadn’t followed her. And she looked much happier than when she left. He’d driven by her house earlier in the evening, wanting to see the space she lived in, to get more of a feel of the kind of person she was, then driven to her office and followed her impulsively when he saw her come out of the garage. Then he’d followed her home—to make sure she was safe and because she enchanted him and he didn’t want to break the connection until he had to.

      He turned on his car radio. An obnoxious pop song came on; he frowned and changed the station to WFMT. The noble music of Bach and Beethoven was better suited to thoughts of Samantha than some prepubescent boy band.

      Tonight had been good. He’d approached her at P.J.’s when she first came in and sat at the bar, not to speak to her, to let her sense him. She had. He could tell by the way her body tensed, by the way she turned her head to see behind her. She was looking for him. Wanting him without even knowing she did. Then that guy had intervened. Jack, he called himself. That was okay. Rick was nothing if not patient. He’d had competition before. It complicated things, yes, but also made them more interesting.

      Lights went on in her house, indicating that she’d gotten safely inside. The overture to Wagner’s Tann häuser swelled on his car radio as if celebrating that fact. Rick smiled at the glowing windows, at the glimpses of Samantha moving from room to room, closing the curtains. He felt like a Peeping Tom, but if ever there was a woman worth peeping at…

      I am not to speak of you—I am to think of you When I sit alone or wake at night alone

      I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again

      I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

      “To a Stranger,” by Walt Whitman. Maybe he should write the poem down and send it to her. She’d like it. But not yet. Sending notes was tricky, risky. If he sent them too soon, she might panic and think he was creepy. He’d know when the moment was right. And he needed to extricate himself from this mess with Tanya, his accuser, first, so Samantha would know he wasn’t some sleazeball. He’d simply miscalculated. He knew how to treat women; he loved and respected them. Tanya was the first one he’d ever read so wrong.

      Whatever. Samantha would see his side. Then they could be together. For now, he’d keep up her sexual interest with the calls for Johnny. Then segue into the deeper, more powerful aspects of their inevitable relationship.

      When the last fabric wall shut her away from him, he gave a long sigh, shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. After tonight, after interference by that Jack guy. Rick needed to pick up the pace, go into higher gear, find out that much sooner everything he could about her likes and dislikes, her passions and tastes and turnoffs. Difficult, yes, but he relished the challenge. Because he knew in the end he’d win.

      He grinned and beeped his horn in an impulsive farewell salute as he sped down her block. Johnny Orion always got the girl.