Her First Knight - The Beginning: Storm Lake (Under-Cover Knights Book 2)

by Livia Quinn

  Buffy sucked in a breath and a tight knot formed in her belly as he pulled his shirt out of his pants. His chest wasn’t shaved like many of the models she’d seen and she could imagine how good he’d look once it was, oiled and gleaming.

  His tanned upper body showed a disciplined workout and diet regimen, with well-defined pecs and abs. Buffy knew well the workouts necessary to get a body like his. No inches to pinch here. He let the shirt dangle around his elbows while whistles of appreciation sounded all around her. Workin’ the crowd, which showed good marketing skills. She approved.

  “I don’t see his picture in the program,” one of the women next to her said to her companion.

  Tucker finished removing his shirt and gave a sexy circle with his hips ending in a gentle thrust. The women went wild, standing, shouting his name, until he made a show of meticulously folding the garment before tossing it. The shirt flew a couple rows before landing in the lap of a disabled fan seated in a wheelchair. The ladies cheered and patted the lucky lady on the back.

  Buffy cocked her head and studied him more closely. The man was pure gold. More than just a handsome face—handsome! the face was to die for with his black five o’clock shadow, the deep, penetrating eyes, angled cheekbones that spoke of either Italian or perhaps Greek heritage, and that beautiful body. He also knew the importance of engaging the women on a personal level, and had shown compassion for one fan who couldn’t equally compete for the prize. He was…perfect!

  The shape of his shoulders and chest made a woman want to run her hands over them, stroke those wide photogenic pecs, test the strength of his biceps… feel the steel under the ridges on his abdomen… She had to have him.

  She glanced to the side, relieved she hadn’t spoken out loud, and revised her mental thoughts. She must have him for her new venture. Whatever his image was on…book covers, trailers, ads… would be a lock. His full lips, high cheekbones and the smoldering sensuality of those dark features were exactly what she wanted… needed, damn…was looking for… in a model.

  As if feeling her intense scrutiny, his long lashed ebony eyes lifted and found hers. She hadn’t realized she’d been staring at him until his head turned in her direction and his lips quirked in a sexy, confident, satisfied, almost sarcastic smile. Arrogance? Yum.

  She kept her gaze cool and picked up the program as another title rang out. The participation had kicked up a notch with the addition of Tucker to the stage. The next winner picked Eric who was still in his jeans. Not to be outdone and exhibiting a fresh desire to win, he held his index finger aloft.

  Watching from the back, Buffy could see all the heads in the room angle up toward his hand and follow it down, down his abdomen, down to the waistband, using his time to full advantage until everyone’s attention focused on the slowly lowering zipper. The crowd waited. Buffy glanced at Tucker only to find his gaze on her, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then returning his attention to the stage, he joined Huey and the crowd in a chant of, “Take ‘em off. Eric. Eric.”

  When the lucky “grabber” of Eric’s jeans sat down, Buffy took a minute to consider Eric. He was well built, of course. Nearly all of the cover models she’d known had an intense workout regimen, which was essential to their career. His thighs, in particular, looked like those of a runner. She’d expected fitness, but he was a smaller man than Tucker, both in height and frame, and his golden hair, although pretty… well, that was just it.

  The man she wanted…scratch that… the model she was looking for must have a more rugged international appeal. Not someone with a contrived persona but the real thing, a man who lived in that skin inherently, with a personality to match. A real man who used his body in his line of work, like some of the models she’d worked with in the past who hadn’t started out as models but in careers that required their fitness—soccer players, football players, athletes, a few MMA fighters though they often had too many imperfections caused by their sport for her intentions.

  She shifted her concentration to Huey. While he was almost as tall as Tucker, his muscles were smoother and less bulky. He would show well in some of the Regency era shoots with his curly wave of brown hair, polished air and those stunning green eyes. But neither of the other men had it.

  The man she chose would give her business instant recognition. He would be the face of The Calloway Agency. She couldn’t wait to see him holding a female model, depicting a scene chosen by her or one of the producers, the two of them on a bed of red satin sheets. He’d be perfect.

  It was just like her grandmother had always told her, “Lana, you’ll know when the right one comes along. All the Calloways do.” This wasn’t the same thing, of course, but Buffy did know what she wanted. She’d been dreaming of this moment ever since she left her modeling career behind.

  She sucked in a breath as Tucker followed instructions and dropped his trousers. The women went crazy.

  The man had Van Damme-like legs with powerful thighs and calves, shaped like the finest of the ancient statues. If she were still modeling she could picture him, that sculpted body, twined around hers, the muscles in his jaw working as desire flashed in his eyes. His flesh would be like silken steel. Her hands would trail across his skin; squeeze his biceps. Roam down his ridged abdomen. She’d trail her fingers along the thin line of black hair…

  Buffy’s glance shot to his and found him watching her, yet again. She flushed, afraid he could read her mind. But then, she was merely planning how she would use her art to create a masterpiece with him as the focus.

  The tendons in his legs flexed as he turned around showed off one fine pair of cotton-covered cheeks; same great view no matter the direction. The wide shoulders bunched and his back narrowed to his waist. Oh, yeah. If she had only enough cash for one hunk, it was going to be him.

  She referred to the conference program. This guy wasn’t listed. Was he a substitute? What amazing luck that she could only attend this one conference to find her man, and a nameless fill-in captured her attention. It must be fate.

  Sally Freeman stood at the front table preparing to call another title. “After the final two rounds we’ll determine the winner of this year’s Strip Bingo. And the best news—he will accompany whoever won the raffle for ‘Dinner with a Hunk’ to an all expense paid dinner for two at their choice of fine D.C. restaurants. All right. The next title is Chained by Their Desires by Cathy Lenton.”

  Ridge had been having a riot. It didn’t seem to take much to make this crowd happy. They’d come for a good time and their enthusiasm had infected him. Obviously. He skimmed over the crowd to the woman that had been watching him from the minute he jumped onto the stage. Well, they all had, so perhaps it was just that he’d tuned in to her in particular after seeing that poster.

  Now that the contest was drawing to a close—at least he assumed it was since they were about out of clothing “donations”—Ridge had a problem. It would only be a problem if he won, which wasn’t even a possiblility, but on the off chance that an error in the “voting” occurred and he was chosen, what was he going to do? They’d probably want to verify his credentials, match him up with this Tucker fellow who had yet to arrive.

  And worse—he could kick himself—the real Tucker might show up any minute and he would have a five-egg omelet on his face. He’d be jeered, embarrassed and thrown out of … well, he was probably over-reacting a bit. The point was he needed to carry his half-dressed behind out of there as soon as the party was over.

  Fortunately for him, he understood that the best-laid plans didn’t always go as you hoped.

  Unfortunately for him, just as he’d lost the last piece of clothing he was willing to lose, his trousers, he spotted a man at the door in an animated discussion with the gatekeeper of the party. She apparently thought the guy was a party crasher. Ridge suspected the worst. Then an irritated blue gaze met his. He’d just been exposed.

  Yeah, and not just his skin. The jig was up.

  Chapter Three

  “Tu
cker. Tucker. Tucker.” The calls drew his attention back toward the audience. A brief glance at the door and the newcomer, whose eyes narrowed on Ridge every time the name was shouted, told him he’d better get his plan together. And just how was he going to get to his room without being arrested for indecent exposure?

  He really hadn’t thought this through. Which was totally out of character for him. He looked down at the cufflinks in his hand, contemplating. What the hell? He tossed them out to the audience and donned his jacket as the woman on stage announced, “The winner of our Annual Independent Romance Reader Writer Strip Bingo contest is, “Tucker!” She raised his arm up like the referee in a boxing match— winner by TKO…

  Ridge had no choice but to stand there in his jacket, tie and his tighty-whities while the crowd cheered. Eric and Huey both shook his hand, and jumped down to retrieve their jeans—they’d thought ahead—which left Ridge to face the music.

  The woman at the gate—the door—looked from the real Tucker to Ridge and laughed. So they obviously weren’t going to arrest him for impersonating a stripper. Maybe he could convince the guy he should thank him for winning the contest. Now he’d get to accompany one of these ladies to dinner at a fine D.C. restaurant. Ridge was too busy.

  As he gave a slight bow and waved to the crowd, his eyes caught those of the pretty model in the back. Then his thoughts moved on to remedying his lack of clothing and getting to work on the problems he’d pushed to the back of his mind during the bingo party.

  Buffy watched the drama unfold at the door and on stage. No one in the audience paid any attention but since her seat afforded her a view of the entire room, stage and the double entry doors, she ran several scenarios through her head. The man at the door was a jealous husband of one of the women in the room? A vendor upset that his venue wasn’t ready? Nah. Then she saw him exchange glances with Tucker and quickly she reached down to get her program.

  One of Tucker’s cufflinks had lodged between her purse and tote bag. She picked it up and inspected it. Mounted next to the initial “R” was a rather large red stone and Buffy didn’t think it was paste. She palmed the cufflink and flipped through the guide.

  Yes, she’d guessed correctly. The man at the door was the real Tucker. Her gaze went back to his… substitute? As her head tilted in wonder at the curious turn of events, the winning contestant, whoever he was, shook hands with Huey and Eric. Buffy was tempted to laugh at the sight of the gorgeous man in a suit coat and jockey shorts, but he could wear an apron and a tutu and look just fine. Finally, the applause died.

  As the women started collecting their belongings and exiting the room, Buffy searched her purse for the little treasure she’d been so unenthusiastic about until just thirty seconds ago. Clasping the raffle ticket from the award ceremonies the night before, she approached the stage. He had disappeared. She’d won dinner with a hunk and the hunk had taken a hike. Well, she’d just see about that. She marched up to Sally.

  “He’s gone, honey,” Sally Freeman said. To make up for it, she offered to arrange for her to have dinner with any or all of the cover models.

  Though she was disappointed, Buffy did have dinner with all three and interviewed each one while she was at it, but she vowed to find the fake ‘Tucker’. She stopped by the desk after dinner and searched for an agreeable clerk, one who might give her the information she wanted. They were officially forbidden, but she was counting on human nature and shared appreciation to get her the information she needed. Seeing two young attendants near the elevators she approached them and asked if they’d seen a handsome gentleman in a black suit. She described him and showed them his cufflink. The second one said, “Oh, I’ve seen him, leaving the hotel every morning early. He either calls a cab or walks down the street to catch the Metro.

  Buffy made a plan. The man had to go out through the front door, so she rose at 4:30 a.m. the next morning and once dressed, headed to the street level where she would stake out the lobby. The Health Bar sat catty-cornered from both entrances, so she grabbed a spot by the promenade and waited.

  She was rewarded when he appeared, the Post tucked under his arm, striding toward the exit. She followed him out the front door and when he turned, he recognized her. How about that? His hand went to his neck and his eyes closed. In a gesture that spoke of resignation to his fate, his hands dropped to his side. “Look,” he started, “I’m sorry.”

  Buffy chuckled under her breath. “I’m not. I really don’t give a fig for what went down in that conference room. Don’t care who you are or what you do.” That was such a lie. “What I do care about is that you owe me dinner.” She held up her raffle ticket, which of course was worthless unless you counted the three interviews she’d conducted with the real Tucker, Eric and Huey over dinner, not at a swanky D.C. restaurant but in the Health Bar after the strange turn of events at the bingo contest.

  Mystery man squeezed the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

  She noticed his broad hand was elegant and steady. He was again dressed in an expensive business suit and she marveled at the fact that he’d freely given away his costly garments the day before. One cufflink would have been enough to support a writer in her struggling artists’ lifestyle for months.

  When she’d questioned the clerk earlier, she’d said, “the man” had asked to have a message delivered to the woman in the wheelchair. Buffy supposed he got the reader’s name from Sally who had the attendees memorized.

  What had been his intention? To get his shirt back? Buffy knew some men who would have hunted the fan down and demanded his shirt back or given her an autograph for it, in his case, a fake autograph.

  “You owe me,” was all Buffy said. She handed him a card. “Call me when you get back from your… business meeting? I’ll be here for two more days.”

  “Why don’t you look up the real Tucker?” he asked.

  “I did. I had dinner with all three models last night.” Her delicate eyebrow took wing and she said, “I want you.”

  Her words nearly caused him to miss his Metro stop. He’d accepted her card, sprinted across the street and barely connected in time to make it to the Capitol for the hearing.

  I want you. Her eyes had meant business. With one hand on the train car’s safety bar, he fished her card out of his pocket. Buffy Calloway. The name wasn’t familiar but something about her was, probably because he hadn’t been able to get that picture of her and the guy in the kilt out of his head. He didn’t know any authors or publishers but he’d seen her somewhere.

  He shoved the card into his pocket and felt the crunchy lace of the garter he’d brought along. Why? For luck? Realizing he’d been muttering to himself, he looked around at his fellow passengers to see if they’d noticed. He closed his eyes and tried a brief meditation, filtering out the sounds of the noisy train on tracks, people chatting, babies crying, the station announcements on the overhead speaker. Two meetings of vital importance today, and he’d risked not being prepared for a fling, a lark.

  His lip curled up in a smile, when he thought about Sally raising his arm and declaring him the winner. She’d followed that with a stern admonishment about fraud, never losing the glint in her eyes. He’d given her a donation to her Wounded Warrior fund and tears had filled her eyes. As a thank you he received a copy of her book, Seal’s Last Stand. She hadn’t been able to speak after that, just shook his hand and then patted his cotton-covered ass.

  As he was walking away she called out, “You’d better change hotels if you don’t want to be mobbed,” and winked when he looked over his shoulder.

  He didn’t change hotels, but at 4 a.m. he slinked down for his workout and caught a good ribbing from Tucker, Huey and Eric who now saw him as a competitor in their fitness regimen. He wasn’t about to tell them they’d worn him out. They clued him in about the back way to his room and the rear exit.

  Once again he had to steer his focus back to business. He had a lot of details to remember and didn’t want to rely on th
e copies he’d prepared for the members of the congressional committee.

  Thursday afternoon Buffy sat in a table by the promenade with her sparkling water, fingering the cufflink like a worry bead. She was worried, just a little. She opened her palm and looked closely at the lovely accessory with its masculine flourish of an “R”—just the one initial—and the stunning ruby on the tail. What did the “R” stand for?

  She was still kicking herself for letting him go without getting his name. What if he didn’t call? She didn’t even know what kind of business he was in. Not a cover model… her gut feeling. Remembering his enjoyment on stage, she smiled. He’d be a natural. Her camera would love him.

  Her day was spent making calls, networking with authors and surveying readers. She took one of her friends, a successful LA photographer to lunch. He’d been full of advice, chiefly, “Set up in a large town where the talent is easier to come by—preferably a film town”.

  She’d argued with him passionately about that. Louisiana was the second largest film producing state. It was fast becoming known as the “South’s Hollywood”. Buffy—Lana—hadn’t put all her resources and time into this endeavor for the last five years just to give up on it the minute someone’s advise, even someone she respected, didn’t match up with her dreams. She believed in her dream with her whole being. She’d never questioned it. All she needed was the rest of the funding, and the model, a face besides her own for the franchise.

  She rolled the cufflink on to the table. “R” was that face. She’d decided to wait in the patio bar located near the front entrance just in case she saw him. She didn’t want to come across as a pest, but without his name… she couldn’t afford to take the chance. Though, if he intended to avoid her, what could she do about it? What should she do? No one wants an associate that doesn’t want to work for him or her, right? And she’d been telling herself all along she wanted someone trained, someone who knew the business.