Bared

by Jill Shalvis

  And she knew little about chemistry. Or she had known little, until the past few weeks when she’d gotten quite the lesson.

  She had more to learn, a lot more. Could she go today and somehow get Rafe to show her the rest? And did she really think she could handle the rest, and then walk away?

  Because she would walk away, she would have to. It wasn’t that she didn’t want a man in her life—she just didn’t know what to do with one. Or how to hang on to one. Sure, she could turn heads, but that was exterior stuff. She’d never be able to keep a man like Rafe satisfied for long.

  But she didn’t need long. She only needed a day.

  An hour.

  Her body tingled at the thought. When it was time, she rose from her chair and grabbed the directions to the day’s shoot.

  Her knees knocked together as she headed over there. They would have sent a car for her, but she wanted her own car there so she could leave when she was ready.

  Her mode of escape.

  Rafe lived in the Glendale Hills above LA. After following a series of long, winding streets, she came out on a cul-de-sac with stunning views of the city.

  His house was on the end, a Tudor-cottage style, cream with dark blue wood trim and shutters. The yard had a green lawn that needed mowing and was lined with wildflowers that had taken over all the tree beds, as well. It was large but homey, and she liked the way the gardens didn’t have a manicured look to them. She’d bet if Rafe didn’t take care of this place, no one did, and she found herself trying to picture him out here on his days off. He’d be shirtless, of course—

  “Meow.”

  Before she could knock on the door, a cat appeared out of nowhere. A small, scrawny brown-and-gray cat with odd tufts of fur sticking up here and there. “Hello,” she said softly, and reached out to pet it.

  The cat went very still, as if not quite sure if he—or she—was going to allow the touch, but once Emma scratched beneath its chin, it came a little closer. Emma knocked on the front door, then squatted to pet the cat, who was now rubbing against her ankles, eager for more chin scratching.

  The door opened, and high above her stood Rafe. As in her earlier fantasy, he was shirtless, wearing only a pair of khaki cargo shorts, and she felt her mouth fall open because up close he was even better than any fantasy.

  Research, she reminded herself. You’re here for the research.

  And fun. Let it begin.

  He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and eyed her. “Emma.”

  “Yes.”

  He let out a breath, apparently unsure if Emma being the model for the day, was a good or bad thing. “You didn’t get the message, I take it.”

  “Message?”

  “The shoot is at four o’clock instead of one. Is that cat…purring?”

  They both stared down at the feline, whose eyes were half-closed, face slack with pleasure as Emma continued to scratch it beneath the chin. A rusty, sporadic rumble sounded from its throat.

  “I think so.” Emma smiled. “Is it yours?”

  “No, but I think I’m hers.” Rafe pushed away from the doorjamb and hunkered down before the cat, which brought all the broad expanse of bare, tanned, sinewy flesh far too close to Emma for comfort. He smelled like fresh air and soap and male.

  “She showed up on my doorstep a few weeks ago and hasn’t left since.” Rafe seemed baffled by this as he reached out to scratch the cat’s back. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I was hoping to get a puppy after this last shoot is over and I can’t exactly do that with her hanging around.”

  He wanted a puppy. Why did that make her want to melt into a boneless heap on the floor?

  Ecstatic at his touch, the cat did as Emma had nearly done—fell to the ground with a loud “oomph” and exposed her belly.

  With a soft laugh, Rafe stroked her, laughing again when the purring got louder.

  As for Emma, she couldn’t laugh, she could hardly breathe. It seemed so juvenile, but she couldn’t tear her eyes off his bare chest, which was hard, tough and oh-so-touchable. And then there was his six-pack stomach and, man oh man, she wished he’d do as the cat had and lay down so she could stroke him.

  Embarrassed at the thought, she covered her mouth as if she’d spoken out loud. She stared at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Giving her a funny look, he rose and put out a hand to pull her up, as well. At the connection of their fingers, she’d have sworn she felt a jolt to her toes.

  “‘Nothing’ doesn’t make you slap a hand over your mouth,” he noted.

  “It’s because I have a habit of thinking out loud,” she said through her fingers. “It’s the hazard of working alone—you start talking to yourself.”

  “Ah.” He eyed her. “Were your thoughts that bad?”

  “Um.” She bit her fingers. “Define ‘bad.”’

  “‘Bad’ as in…I don’t know. You’re here against your will, you can’t stand the sight of me, you can’t wait until we’re done…Pick one.”

  Slowly she shook her head. “I’m not here against my will,” she said. “And I can stand the sight of you, fairly easily, actually. That’s the problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “You’re…different today.”

  “I’m not feeling the need to kill your sister for a change.”

  “Oh.” She smiled.

  And so did he. “I guess for the first time you’re seeing the real me.”

  She liked the real him, too much not to be honest. “You should know, I came for the research.”

  His gaze met hers, dark, hot. “Research?”

  “I need inspiration for…a particular storyline. I thought modeling for you could help. And it has.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “Because when I go home afterwards I’m…in an inspired sort of mood.”

  “Could you define ‘inspired sort of mood’?”

  “Hot.”

  “Hot,” he repeated in a funny voice, but she didn’t dare look.

  “Yes,” she said. “And bothered.” Let’s not forget that. “I’ve written the best storylines ever in the past few weeks, and all because of working with you.” She opened her eyes. A mistake that, as she found herself looking at two perfectly formed pecs lightly dusted with dark hair.

  “Emma,” he said, still with that tight voice.

  “Yeah?”

  He slid his fingers to her jaw and lifted her gaze to his, which was filled with that heat and also a good amount of reluctant humor.

  “I need to stop you right now and tell you. I have this thing against being attracted to women in my business world.”

  “I’m only pretending to be in your business world.”

  “You’re a writer. A Hollywood soap opera writer who lives for her work.”

  “What does that have to do with my research on…hot stuff?”

  “Is that all this is?” he asked softly, his hand still on her face, his broad shoulders blocking her view of anything but him. “Research?”

  “What else could it be?” She felt breathless, because there was no denying what a small part of her wanted to hear. As crazy as it sounded, she wanted him to say these sensations meant far more than research.

  His finger stroked her jawline all the way to her ear, which he slowly rimmed, drawing a shudder from her.

  “I have no idea what else it could be, but I do know one thing. I want to touch you. I never want to touch my models, but I want to touch you.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m not really your model.” His eyes met hers. “You know I’m not.”

  “But you are for today.” He sighed. “Hell. Look, let’s just get this shoot done. I have the bathing suit and all the gear.”

  “But I’m too early. What about the crew?”

  “I think we know what we’re doing by now, don’t you?”

  Well, she knew he knew what he was doing. Her body was still pulsing
from just a light touch to her ear. But as for her, no. She had no idea what she was doing.

  “Come on, Emma,” he said silkily. “Let’s do this. All in the name of your…research.”

  Right. All in the name of research.

  10

  RAFE LED EMMA through his house. He’d gotten used to the mostly bare rooms that were waiting for him to make them his own. He wondered what she would think.

  Emma was quiet as they walked through the empty living room, but when they passed the equally empty dining room, she said, “You do live here, right?”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s hard to tell. That’s going to change after this calendar.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m getting off the circuit.”

  “You’re retiring?”

  “From Hollywood, yes.” He took her down a hallway, stark except for a stack of framed pictures leaning against the walls that he’d taken over the years but hadn’t yet hung.

  When they got to the den, she smiled. “Ah. I can see you’ve claimed one room, at least.”

  She was right. Here, in the large room with the high, opened-beamed ceiling, he had a big-screen TV and sound system against one wall and the largest sectional couch on the market against the other—one on which he could make his six-foot-two-inch frame comfortable.

  The other two walls were all windows, looking out his backyard and pool, which he’d hosed down and cleaned earlier in anticipation of this shoot. The previous owner had grown a lush garden of wildflowers and trees bordering the grass, with brick paths and stone benches surrounded by pots of more flowers.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, going to the glass. “I can see why you wanted to shoot here.”

  “The calendar calls for a pool shot.” He walked up behind her and took in the same view. “I figured, why not here.” Her hair tickled his nose and the scent of her filled his senses. He knew he was tempting fate to do this without a crew, but he had wanted to see what would happen, if, after a couple of weeks of this teasing, he’d still feel attracted.

  He did. “Are you ready to do this?”

  When she nodded, he retrieved the Nordstrom bag he’d had on a kitchen table.

  She swallowed. “The costume?”

  “The costume,” he confirmed, and reached into the bag.

  When he dangled the black crocheted bikini from his fingers, she swallowed again but took it from him, her fingers entangling with his for one brief moment.

  Holding on, he squeezed hers. “When you look at me like that, you drive me crazy.”

  “Look at you like…what?”

  Vulnerable and unsure, yet sexy as hell. He just shook his head. “You realize you could just walk away. This is Amber’s problem, not yours.”

  “Where should I change?”

  “Emma—”

  “I’m doing this, Rafe. I promised I would, and—”

  “And…?”

  “And I want to.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. After all, he didn’t want her to back out. He showed her to the bathroom and then went outside with his camera, not wanting to think about what he had to do, which was look at her in a bikini for at least an hour.

  He tinkered with his equipment, setting up near the edge of the pool, with the hills in the background. There was a metallic silver float drifting on the water. He wanted her there, face down, hands together beneath her chin, legs slightly apart, drifting away from him. He’d pictured it long before he’d ever met Emma, knowing how perfect, how mouthwatering the shot would be.

  What he hadn’t known was how exciting Emma would be, personally. He had the camera on the tripod and was playing with his settings when he heard the sliding glass door open behind him.

  His pulse tripled but he kept his concentration on the camera, telling himself this was ridiculous, he’d taken hundreds, thousands of shots of supermodels across the globe, and not one of them had ever moved him personally.

  There was a light breeze, which maybe would cool him off. His hair lifted from his damp forehead as the water slapped against the tiles.

  Just another regular day of work.

  He heard the pad of her bare feet as she came close, and with a little grimace, he lifted his head.

  Any cooling effects from the breeze vanished.

  The black crocheted bikini fit her as if it’d been made for her, lovingly cupping her full breasts, between her thighs, the yarn stretching, giving him peekaboo hints of creamy skin beneath.

  She stopped about five feet away. Too far to touch her or smell her. Too far to see the pulse at the base of her neck, to judge if she was as affected as he.

  But the puckered tips of her nipples, almost but not quite poking through the black string of her top, told him the truth.

  Even as it nearly killed him.

  He knew from that day in Kauai, when she’d worn nothing more than damp white silk, exactly how gorgeous she was; how full and high her breasts were even without support; how the color of her nipples was that of a perfect rosebud. When those nipples were aroused, as they were now, they made his knees weak.

  Just standing there looking at her, he felt his body tighten. Painfully so.

  He also knew from that day on that lush, wet island, when she’d worn nothing but a tiny strip of a thong, that she’d had to have either shaved or waxed her bikini line. He pictured her doing that this morning in preparation for this shoot, but the thought nearly undid him and his cargo shorts became a torture chamber.

  Was she as wet as he was hard? If he tugged those bottoms loose from her body, preferably with his teeth, would he see just how wet?

  “How’s this?” she asked, sounding just breathless enough to make him want to groan.

  “Good.” His voice came out hoarse so he cleared his throat. “Damn good. So good I’m not sure I’ll remember how to use the camera.”

  She put a hand to her belly as if nervous. “You probably say that to all your models.”

  He shook his head.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. I’ve never had any trouble concentrating on a shoot before,” he told her. “But I’m having trouble now.”

  She dragged her bottom lip across her teeth. “It’s probably wrong to admit this, but seeing as we’re being so open…I like that you’re having trouble.” Her breathing wasn’t close to steady. “I should be taking notes, writing down all my jumbling emotions and body’s reactions to you for my research, but honestly, I can’t think clearly enough for that.”

  Research. Right. Grateful for the reminder that she was here for that, he pointed to the metallic float. “That’s the prop.”

  “What about makeup?”

  “You’re going to be facing away from the camera.” He tossed her a bottle of baby oil. “Slick up first so the water will bead off you.”

  Eyes on his, she opened the bottle and squirted the oil onto her palm. Slowly she began to spread it onto her skin—her legs, her arms, her belly, her chest, her back.

  “Hair?” she whispered, straightening.

  “Wet. All of you needs to be wet.” He had to look away from her when her pupils dilated. “Just slick your hair back from your face when you get in the pool.”

  Turning away from him, she waded in, sucking in a breath as the cool water lapped at her calves, her thighs…between them. Craning her neck, she kept her eyes on his as she sank in a little deeper, to her breasts, and then ducked entirely under.

  He let out a shaky breath.

  When she surfaced, she slicked back her hair and reached for the float.

  “On your stomach,” he said.

  She pulled herself up until she was lying flat on her belly. Water sluiced off her, running in little rivulets down her slim spine, off her long legs. Between them.

  His mouth went dry. “Arms bent a little, so that your hands, fingers flexed, float on top of the water.”

  Following his directions to the
letter, she did as he asked.

  “Eyes closed,” he instructed. “Lie on one cheek, chin up slightly, hair to one side.”

  She was now sprawled out, water beading on her, looking like a goddess. He let out a slow breath. “Spread your legs a little.”

  She went utterly still, then slowly, very slowly, spread her legs an inch or two.

  “More.”

  This time she didn’t hesitate, digging her toes into opposite corners of the float. The picture of her lying there, body offered up, wet and shiny, arms and legs spread, had him staring, mesmerized.

  “Rafe?”

  Blinking, he put his eye to the lens and sucked in another breath. “Yeah. Perfect.” He took a few shots, his body tight as an arrow. “Are you thinking about your research?”

  “I told you, I…I can’t.”

  “Because of the jumbling emotions and your body’s reactions.”

  “Yes.”

  He kept snapping the shutter. “What are they? The jumbling emotions.”

  She turned her head and glanced at him with a question in her eyes.

  He managed a smile. “Maybe I can remind you later, when you’re trying to write it all down.”

  “Oh.” She lay her head down again. “Mmm, the water feels nice. That’s my first emotion—pleasure. Then there’s the power.”

  “Power?”

  “Yes.”

  Since her head was turned to the side, he could see only half her face. Her mouth curved slightly, and it was so feminine, so wily and sure that he felt it all the way to his toes, but he kept taking pictures.

  “When you talk to me in your professional mode,” she said softly, “when you’re being The Photographer, your voice is cool, calm. Even.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh, yes. But sometimes, like now, you talk to me in that low, throaty voice that tells me you’re not thinking cool and calm. You’re not thinking work. You’re thinking…”