Daring in the Dark. Jennifer Labrecque

discarded it. Nah, Elliott had a thing about her dressing up, even if they were staying in. And even though she wasn’t entering a beauty contest, her Southern upbringing drew the line at having anyone over and wearing that.

      She laughed at herself. And no, she still couldn’t bring herself to wear white after Labor Day or before Easter. She might be living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side but she’d always be Tawny Edwards with Savannah, Georgia, sensibilities. Funny, she’d come to New York to find out who she was and what she was about. She smiled. Wouldn’t her mother be surprised that the rebellious Edwards family screwup still adhered to the rules of white?

      She settled instead on a halter wrap. Casual but sexy. And more important, cool—a major plus considering how stinking hot it was outside. She finished dressing and closed the closet door on the discarded clothes littering the floor. She pulled her hair up and clipped it haphazardly with a giant barrette underneath. Even with the air-conditioning cranked, the sweltering heat seemed to seep inside.

      She spritzed perfume behind her ears and, on a defiant whim, sprayed it between her breasts. Simon might not like her, but dammit, he’d at least like the way she smelled.

      She sang along with a Roberta Flack remake playing on the radio in the other room. She loved the evening program—Sensual Songs and Decadent Dedications—which offered a nice mix of old and new love songs. And who cared if she was off-key?

      She tugged at her shorts. She’d skipped her run this morning and she felt it in their snug fit. Some women were blessed with svelte, slender bodies that actually fit into sylphlike fashions. She, however, didn’t belong to that club. She’d learned long ago that eating half of what was on her plate and exercising every day was the only thing that kept her from resembling the Pillsbury Doughboy in drag. Petite and curvy all too easily slid into short and fat.

      Tawny made the mistake of double-checking her behind in the mirror while she sang about him killing her softly with his song. Ugh. It was still there…all of it and then some. Elliott was right. The last time they were in bed, he’d mentioned that her butt had gotten bigger. Not exactly what she’d wanted to hear, but she supposed the truth sometimes hurt.

      She’d seriously considered having her ass liposuctioned with her last bonus, but what if those fat cells relocated to her thighs or some other equally heinous body destination? Unwilling to risk fat-cell transference, she did an extra set of butt-killing donkey lifts every other day. And from the looks of things, it was time to make that a daily habit.

      An outraged yowl in the other room diverted her attention from the shortcomings—or rather the over-abundance—of her behind. She went into the kitchen and dumped a measure of cat food into the empty bowl by the refrigerator.

      “Uh-huh. You’re as close to wasting away as I am.” She laughed and snatched Peaches up for a quick hug before he squirmed out of her arms. “But I understand. I’m hungry, too.” She put him down in front of his food bowl.

      Peaches, a five-year-old declawed Maine coon abandoned by his former owner and promptly rescued from the animal shelter on his last day before the big E—as in euthanasia—in no way resembled a peach in either coloring, countenance, or personality. However, Tawny had named him that because it reminded her of her Georgia roots without bringing home too close. Which probably made no sense to the rest of the world but perfect sense to Tawny.

      One might reckon that Peaches would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.

      The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.

      She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.

      On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice, about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.

      She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.

      She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”

      “Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.

      She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”

      “I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.

      Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”

      His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.

      “How was your photo shoot?”

      “Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.

      The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.

      A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.

      He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.

      During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.

      Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.

      “I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good at what you do.” Whoa. Instant image of him bringing her to orgasm in her dream. “I mean, you’re good with your camera.” She closed the door. Tawny, honey, find a brain cell and grab on to it. She sounded like a dithering idiot.

      “You’re very photogenic. You have a great smile and good bone structure,” he said.

      He spoke very matter-of-factly. He could’ve been discussing the weather. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to pound as if he’d just claimed her beauty equal to that of the legendary Helen of Troy. She felt as gauche as she had when she’d been a third-grader and Henry Turner had pulled her braids. Except she’d liked Henry Turner. And while she might have toe-curling dreams about Simon, she wasn’t altogether