Primal Instincts. Jill Monroe

so he wouldn’t be biased in one direction over another. He’d spent the flight to Oklahoma reviewing the doc’s work that she’d turned in to Miriam. The writing style was abysmal. Something between technical anthropological jargon and absolute incoherence.

      The sex stuff was the only thing that seemed remotely promising. But discussing it with a grandma-like Margaret Mead stretched before him and seemed as tantalizing as many hours of cuddling and spooning.

      Finally, he parked in the red brick garage he’d found, paid his five bucks and hiked the few blocks to her warehouse loft apartment, lugging his camera, minirecorder and laptop. He looked down at the paper in his hand confirming her address. Top floor. Of course. She buzzed him in, and he headed for the elevator. He hated elevators. Every family member he had insisted on living on the top floor. He’d rather be chased to the border than be trapped in a metal box suspended by a string.

      This kind of elevator was awful, one of those large service lifts. He’d have to pull the top and bottom gate closed. He’d take the stairs. He’d hiked through worse, and with all his equipment strapped to his back.

      There was no mistaking which apartment was the doc’s. A brown ceramic snake stood beside the front door. A snake with large breasts and fake red flowers coming out of its mouth. Weird.

      This photo shoot and discussion was going to be worse than he’d first imagined. His sister owed him something good after this. She’d have to send him someplace dirty. Somewhere he could trudge through swamps and fight off rebels as he followed a band of radicals, a camera in one hand, a knife in the other. Ah, good times.

      He knocked on the door. A strange exotic scent lingered in the air, tantalizing his nose. Subtle, yet almost…arousing. He took a few more sniffs of the air, then realized the scent came from underneath the door. At least the doc would smell better than the radicals.

      Impatient, Cole knocked again. He already hated the assignment. And the doc. Now she wasn’t even here to greet him. He’d make his sister cook for that. She hated cooking. He was about to leave when he heard a noise behind the door. Then some strange, elemental music. Was that drums?

      The knob twisted and the door opened.

      “Welcome,” said the woman in front of him, a smile forming along the red fullness of her lips.

      “Pay—” he managed to get out then stopped.

      He’d had a thought. It was there just a second ago.

      The woman took a quick step backwards, the smile fading from her face. “I thought you were someone else.”

      “Paint.”

      Her eyes lowered, following the elaborate swirls and colors that adorned her skin. Paint and nothing much else. He tried to swallow. He’d obviously prejudged this assignment too harshly.

      Her eyes met his squarely. Not a trace of embarrassment or awkwardness in her body language. “Yes, the Wayterian people would adorn themselves in paints before their wedding, signifying their past. After the ceremony they rinse off in each other’s presence, starting clean and fresh together.”

      Her expression became neutral, and the light he’d spotted in her green eyes as she talked faded.

      “But you’re probably not interested in that. As I said, I thought you were someone else.”

      He made out a few words. Paint. Rinse. Together. This woman had an amazing husky voice to go along with her amazingly painted body.

      She made to close the door.

      Whoa. Time to get with the program. He stuck his foot out to block it. “Wait. You’ve been waiting for me. You’re Dr. Simms. Right?”

      The door opened a fraction wider, and the doc poked her head out. “Who wants to know?” she asked, her expression growing guarded. Maybe she should have thought about looking through her peephole before opening the door nearly naked. Maybe he should volunteer to give her a few instructions on personal safety.

      “I’m Ian Cole. Of Cole Publishing.” He held up his tripod. “See? Totally legit.”

      “I thought Miriam would be coming. Is she with you?” She stood on her tiptoes to see behind him. Lots of luck, she only came to his chin.

      “I’m her brother.”

      The woman in front of him nodded, a hint of recognition now in her green eyes. “Ah, yes. You do the reports from the war zones. Gripping photos. I did some research on Cole Publishing.” The smile returned to the doc’s face, and she opened the door. “I thought this painting ritual might be something good for the book.”

      With the door open, the full impact of the doc’s body crashed into him once more. Paint and a loincloth. That was basically the composition of the outfit.

      Cole wasn’t a man who was easily surprised. But Ava Simms stunned the hell out of him.

      Vibrant colors of blue, green and black in fancy swirls, circles and lines touched every inch of her body. Her breasts stood bare, although entirely covered in paint.

      He’d seen his share of naked breasts in his time. Excellent ones. In all shapes and sizes. Large breasts that spilled out of his hands. Small, high breasts that begged to be kissed. But his favorite had to be the ones before him, covered in paint, fully exposed, yet completely covered. Totally erotic.

      She seemed to be waiting for something. With an effort he’d brag about later, he dragged his eyes slowly up her body once more.

      “Would you like to join me?” she asked.

      Hell, yeah.

      And reveal his giant hard-on. No.

      The doc turned, and Ian almost groaned. He’d always thought of himself as an ass man. And the doc’s ass confirmed it. Firm, as though she’d performed quite a few of those dances she’d described in her manuscript.

      Covered in some white piece of cloth that looked as if it had been ripped and tied around her waist. Paint from her body had smudged the cloth in a few places. He couldn’t imagine the men of the Wayt—the Wabr—the Whateverian would stay in a shower, washing off paint, when they could be screwing. Had he ever seen such a beautiful pair of breasts?

      Heaving the gear on his shoulders, he followed the doc inside her apartment. He’d send his sister a thank-you card later. Coles were always polite and followed proper etiquette. They learned it from the cradle.

      Ava pointed to her coffee table, covered by tubs filled with paint. “I was thinking that in the book we could give demonstrations on how to paint your lover’s body. That’s not totally in the Wayterian tradition, but we could still include the shower.”

      He didn’t spy any paintbrushes. Images of sliding paint on this woman’s body with his fingers, of her running her paint-smeared palms against his skin, then warm water cascading down their naked bodies together left him speechless.

      The doc turned and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think men would find the ritual interesting?”

      Well, interesting was one word for it.

      He’d expected boring and painful when he flew to this assignment. Boring was out. He adjusted his pants, but it was going to be painful. Definitely painful.

      Dr. Ava Simms was nobody’s grandma.

      3

      “SO WHY DID YOUR sister send you? I thought she was coming herself.”

      A look of unease crossed Ian’s face. Ava saw his lips move. Did he just mumble? It almost sounded like he muttered something about cowardly sisters.

      “Mr. Cole?” she prompted.

      “I’ll be taking the photos for the book, and revising the manuscript.” He hunched down to his equipment bag.

      Bringing in a photographer was a given. The rituals she wanted to explore were also very visual. Men were