by Livia Quinn
“She was appointed—payback that went awry.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Buffy let him into the kitchenette of the suite. She noticed his narrowed glance at her equipment in the front room—screens, drapes, and the rack of costumes. He frowned, eyes meeting hers briefly and she asked, “Having second thoughts?”
He poured himself a scotch and took a sip. “Remind me why I’m doing this…”
She used it. That thing she’d said she was glad she didn’t have to rely on anymore, but this just showed it was part of her persuasive arsenal. She let him see her attraction and admiration for him then walked over to him, ran her hands up the silk of his shirt to his shoulders.
“For fun, remember.” She slid her hands under his jacket and pushed it off his broad shoulders. “Think of it as R and R. Shoot, I’ll bet you’ve never taken a vacation in your life.”
His eyebrow hiked, “Why would you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Could it be because you’ve been inventing, going to school, in the military, running your companies and working for veterans with every breath, every day of your life since you were… born?”
“Somebody’s been nosy.”
She frowned. “Someone has been fascinated, intrigued, admiring what you’ve accomplished and thinking—this someone should show you how to live a little, for Ridge. Let go and relax this evening. It’ll be good for ya.”
He looked like he was rethinking even staying at that point. Quickly Buffy said, “Hey, I know what it’s like to start working during your adolescence and lose yourself to a life that’s not entirely your own. It takes conscious retraining, handsome. Have another whiskey and put that hearing behind you. You’ve got a date with a cover model tonight.”
A glimmer of a smile took over. “A date, huh?”
“That’s right, honey. Someone’s got to teach you how to appreciate your God-given assets, and I’m just the woman to do it.” She reached toward him. Heat flared in his dark eyes while he waited for her next move. As he lifted his glass to his lips, she started loosening his tie.
Chapter Eleven
Buffy suddenly found her hands shaking a little. She’d never wanted to tear a man’s clothes off before, not that anyone would believe that, but the intensity in Ridge’s gaze had sent her temperature soaring and her insides quivering. She’d better take a step back.
“Okay, I’m…um… going to let you do that while I get the camera ready. Let me get you a costume. I guessed at forty-four long, was that close?”
Ridge nodded, “Exactly. Guess that comes from photographing a lot of guys.” Being around a lot of guys he started to say.
Ridge never lacked confidence in himself when it came to business. It came from always being prepared. When it came to women he went for satisfying a need, not becoming emotionally involved. He steered clear of relationships though he had a good relationship with the women in his business and in his personal life.
He’d never been in this spot before—where his body, or his face, might be used to sell something, including romance. He didn’t think of himself or anyone else in terms of whether they were good looking, or whether his looks would help him get a woman. People were people. They looked how they looked. It wasn’t something he keyed in on.
There was one exception to that. Hadn’t he spotted her on that magazine cover because of the way she’d looked? What if it was more than that? What if he’d seen, by the way she held herself, the look in her eyes, the interviews he’d watched, the real woman—Buffy?
He was still standing there in his shirt and pants when Buffy put her hands on her hips and said, “Okay. Get down to the briefs and put this on. You might as well get over the modesty; believe me, I had to the first day.”
“I’m not really modest. A body is a body—a man’s anyway.” She looked at him like he had no clue. She asked him to unzip her dress, turning around and holding her hair off her neck. His mouth went dry. And when he spied that long line of creamy skin, he went hard. Her picture on the cover of Vanity Fair slapped his memory in the face and he said tightly, “Okay. I’m going to go put on the Redcoats uniform now, right?
He turned away before she could see his response to her. He should have known this would be a problem, having fantasized about this woman for years. And here he was, in a room, half naked, with her. But she wasn’t just the woman on the cover, she was Buffy—and as down to earth as her Louisiana roots. He wanted to put his best foot forward, for her.
He slipped on the red costume, black tights and boots, which were a little tight but allowed a decent fit. When he came around the makeshift dressing area she was waiting in a lavish, full-skirted royal blue dress, and she’d pinned her hair up off her shoulders. She turned so he could zip her up and he caught a whiff of her perfume. He recognized it. He’d bought a bottle for his mother just last year. “I love that scent and now that I’ve met you the name makes sense. Dreams come true.”
She smiled. “Yes. You have to remind yourself of your dreams any way you can. Now, I’ll set the timer. If you would go stand in front of that backdrop, turn your body to the side, but look toward me.” He did as she instructed watching the photographer at work. It was obvious she knew what she was doing, changing out lenses and adjusting the angle until she was satisfied.
After a few minutes of setup, she walked to him and positioned him with his arms around her. “Turn your chin just so. That’s good.” The camera went off several times with her demanding “emotions” from him, turning him, angling herself over his arm, which gave him a perfect view of the creamy flesh above the bodice of her blue dress. “Okay, time to change.” When it came time to let her go, he was disappointed. She felt good in his arms. He grit his teeth, real good.
She removed a hanger from the rack returning with his next costume and his eyes widened, “No.”
She giggled, “Oh, yeah. We have to break down that barrier you’ve put up, genius.”
He scowled, closed his eyes and let out a long breath, then with one eyebrow raised he held out his finger and let her hook the hanger on it.
Buffy said, “I promise, I’ll make it completely painless.”
“Uh-huh. Is this all there is? Just one piece?”
“Don’t forget the sporran, and the plaid socks, under the kilt.” She smiled.
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” he grumbled, but it was half-hearted. He was surprised to find he was enjoying himself, liked seeing her in her element. Inhaling her scent, watching her move—she had such a fluid, graceful way of gliding. Her hips did that little tilt with each step, and yes—holding her. That was allright, he thought, entirely worth humiliating himself in a kilt.
Making sure he didn’t have the dam—dern thing on backwards, he came out of the makeshift dressing area. She was standing there, hands on slender hips, waiting for him.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Whoo-eee, you make one fine Highlander.” She reached up and ruffled his hair, “ We have to make it look like you’ve been walking near the lochs.” She stepped back and smiled. “Looking good,” her voice lowered and she waggled her eyebrows. “Now, put these on,” she said retrieving two wide leather bracelets from a table and handing them to him. When he was done, she pulled a long phony claymore from behind her back.
He shook his head. “Do we have to go there?” he asked.
She winked, “Oh, baby, I’ve never known a Highlander to be caught without his sword.”
“And you’ve known a lot of them, have you?” he asked. Okay, it was official; he was having a good time. He swung the lightweight “sword” a couple of times. “Are you going to change?” he asked.
“Nah, we’ll pitch this set as Highlander and his English lady or something, but I can get a little different look if I do this.” She lowered the dress off her shoulders exposing more of that velvety smooth skin. Unlike the airbrushed pictures on the fashion layouts, her skin was sprinkled with a light dusting of peach colore
d freckles. Another reason he hadn’t recognized her right off. Let’s face it; he couldn’t have conceived of winding up in the same city as Lana Maisel, much less the same room, so it just hadn’t registered.
“Okay, ready? Let me just get this.” She struggled to life a large brownish gray “rock”.
“I’ll get it,” he said but when he reached for it, found her eyes lit with humor. “What?”
“You’re quite a gentleman, you know that?” She tossed the “boulder” at him. He caught it, surprised.
“These props look surprisingly real to be so lightweight. Where do you want this?”
She pointed near the edge of the stage. “Now, turn away from me and prop your foot on the rock.” With a few more directions like how to hold the sword, and keep the kilt “judiciously placed”, she was ready to start “shooting him”. She took several shots of him alone and then set the camera on timer and moved into his arms.
He could get used to that, her small hands grasping his biceps, the silky feel of her shoulders.
When she looked up at him and placed her hands on his bare chest, his heart stopped. His brain went dead too, and he went hard so fast his vision blurred. She was killing him.
Shit, woman, kiss me.
Chapter Twelve
“You know, for a business man, you have a wonderful physique. I, and quite a few of your admirers at the conference, remarked on it.” She grinned, “Are you blushing?”
He sighed. “You’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise… out of me.” He looked down. So did she.
Her eyes went wide and she nodded. “I see, it’s working.” Her hands moved over his chest, along his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing his biceps. He groaned, “Buffy, if you keep that up…”
“What?” Her eyes seemed to turn up like a cat’s. “If I keep this up…” she placed her fingers over his flat nipples “…what?” She wasn’t smiling.
She licked her lips, and he imagined her tongue running over his skin. “I’m getting distracted here…” she said. “Could you maybe… just kiss me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said. He cupped her head in one big hand and lowered his mouth to hers. For him, she was like the name of her fragrance, a dream come true. Only better. This woman was sexy, but she was also warm, and real. And he wanted her. Knowing her had actually made it worse. He was already missing her…
The kiss went on and on, her arms wrapped around him, clutching his shoulders to press herself tight against him. Her mouth was sweet, and hot and his tongue delved in sliding along hers. Then a thought flittered through his muddled senses, but he resisted letting her go. He withdrew from the kiss, sucked her bottom lip into his mouth then released it.
He put his forehead against hers, breathing hard, “I think we should go on to the next costume, don’t you?” he croaked.
Her hands roamed across his back, and her hips moved against him. She bit his nipple.
“Ahh, honey, you’re killing me. I need to change,” he whispered and wanted to give himself one swift kick. What was he thinking? She wanted him, and he’d wanted her for years. If she gave him another chance… He eased off the stage, jumping wasn’t an option, and grabbed another outfit from the rack. It was labeled, Navy Seal. Hell. What was wrong with the Rangers? Seals got all the glory, and the women. Or so people thought. Buffy walked over pulled a hanger from the rack.
When he finished putting on the minimal costume, and returned to the stage, she was dressed in low-slung cargo pants and a torn t-shirt, showing a lot of bare skin. The women they’d rescued had never looked like this. “Not going for realism here, right?” he smiled.
She just said, “Look at me.”
“I’m looking, sweetheart,” he said, dragging his eyes down and poking a fingertip gently into her exposed navel. She squirmed, her hips rocking. “Okay, now, ten seconds. Look at me as if we nearly bought it in that fire-fight and you’ve been denying the attraction, but now it’s safe and you are thinking about kissing me… her.”
He was thinking about kissing her…
“Three, two…” Her eyes were amused as the camera flash went off. “Okay, again, every 10 seconds. More heat, you can’t wait to show her how much you’ve missed her.” His mouth moved across her jaw, over her eyelids, “You want her,” she panted, “now, not later, dammit.”
Those blue eyes darkened as she looked up at him. He felt the warmth of her in his hands, saw her lips part, her tongue darted out to moisten them, and he pulled her closer. Flash… Flash… Flash
She was just as beautiful up close. Her skin was flawless, and reality blasted every wet dream he’d ever had of her into smithereens. Who was he kidding? Instead of posing, if she’d asked him to wash her car or be her slave for a day, he’d have been helpless against her. He’d bought so many magazines with her on the cover or in an ad since he’d seen her in Vanity Fair but she’d always been beyond his reach—merely a fantasy.
There’d been something about her in the interviews though that allowed him to see the woman behind the model. He should’ve put it together sooner, but she looked different. Softer. He knew what it was. She wasn’t calling attention to herself; no longer needing to be on all the time. Now she could be normal. He could relate to that.
“Kiss me, Ridge, please.” Those famous blue eyes looked up into his and the heat and longing were unmistakable. He could drown in those blue pools. Hesitating too long she threaded her hands through his hair and tugged his lips down to hers.
He watched them part, watched as the light caught the moisture and her tongue darted out to flicker across his lower lip. “Lana.”
“Buffy.” She pulled back, looked up at him. I’m Buffy.” He smiled and nodded. She was Buffy, and very different than her public persona. This woman was real, substantial, and yet there was still something of both before him.
“Now… might be a good time for me to admit to uh, buying a certain Vanity Fair magazine and going to sleep fantasizing, knowing I was not in your league.”
“Well, it’s funny you should say that, because I was worried this morning you might be out of mine. So let’s take it for what it is and see what comes. I’ll confess that I had my first thought of putting my hands here,” she splayed them on his chest, “when you took your shirt off during the strip bingo contest.
He dragged his tongue over her lip, captured it between his teeth and lip and released it slowly as a knock sounded on the door. “You should probably get the door,” he said, adjusting his pants.
She said, “Let them wait,” and nipped his chin. The knock came again. She sighed and let go of him, hurrying to the door. The bellman rolled the tray in with food and drinks and a pitcher of ice-cold water. Buffy plucked a chocolate covered strawberry from the bowl and bit into it. She closed her eyes savoring the flavor. It would never lose its appeal. She’d had to deny herself chocolate for most of her adult life, but no more.
She took the next bite, inhaling the luscious scent and when she opened her eyes, he was there looking every inch a Seal, his eyes on her mouth. He looked like he wanted to taste her, settling his large hands on her shoulders. He leaned over and licked a piece of chocolate from her lip.
“Mm, you taste good. More.” Her lips parted and he angled his head to settle it over hers, his tongue rimming the seam of her lips as she opened to him. His tongue dived in tasting the strawberry and chocolate, nipping then slowly withdrawing from the kiss to look into her softly glazed eyes.
“If we don’t take those pictures I’m going to lay you down right here and eat you from those luscious lips to your manicured toes. I don’t want to stop now, do you want me to?”
Buffy swallowed. She knew what she wanted but it could wait a few more minutes. She let out a shaky breath. “Let’s finish your shoot. She gave him a slow hot kiss but kept her body out of his clutches, doubting her ability to stop again? She instructed him into several classic and familiar poses—the guy on the recruiting poster and a couple
of others by himself. She said shots like those could be paired with a female’s image and, “No, she was not selling or publishing his pictures without his permission. Relax.”
She promised—next time, he could be a Ranger. Next time…
She’d told him do about twenty pushups to “prime his muscles” and get a little sweat going before putting on the Seal uniform—half uniform. He smiled. Her eyes had widened when it took seventy-five to achieve that result.
“Whew, you made a hot Seal, darlin’. But now for the fun pictures.”
Ridge’s belly tightened when she directed him to the last costume on the rack. She handed him a hangar with a long black leather coat and black pants and quickly threw hers over her arm. He got a glimpse of leather and lace that sent a shiver of anticipation through him and had him pretending calm he didn’t feel as he went to change.
When he emerged from his side of the screen, he froze. He studied the thigh high stockings, the tight black shorts and bustier and the long cape that fell past the high-heeled black boots. She looked like a cross between a dominatrix and… Wonder Woman in black.
His eyes moved up her long silk covered legs to her narrow leather wrapped waist. Above the bustier her modest breasts plumped inviting him to lick his way across that peachy flesh, then run his hands down her legs and around her leather clad hips.
She pointed at the backdrop, then reached up and ran her hands through his hair shaking it loose again. Ridge walked over to the screen and turned, trying to get into the scene. She didn’t make it hard, well she was making it hard, but the scene wasn’t too bad. He’d do anything to get her back in his arms. His eyes told her just that. “Get over here, my seductive Dom.”
Her smile was sly as she snapped his picture. It almost didn’t register, so focused was he on her and his desire to have her, soon. She glided toward him, stopping in front of the screen, placed a hand on his chest. He sucked in a breath at the brush of her hand across his nipple, spreading her fingers wide over his chest as the camera flashed. Her gaze rose to his. His heart pounded, and his body went hard, hard as granite while her fingers trailed over his skin.