by Cari Quinn
Besides, she knew Dr. Kilmartin. Both of them. Husband and wife, both physicians, both friends of Aidan. Tricia was beautiful, but Layla had never seen sparks between her and Aidan. As for Josh—
She stopped short. As for Josh what? He was Aidan’s friend. Just his friend. Aidan didn’t swing both ways. He wouldn’t touch a colleague, male or female.
But he’s not in Nebraska anymore. Josh and Tricia are no longer his colleagues.
Biting her lip, she rinsed out her glass and set it in the dishwasher. Put away the bottle of wine, closed the curtains she’d opened to let in the moonlight. And climbed the stairs to crawl in bed beside the man she loved with all her heart.
She slipped into bed and smiled at the soft “Lala,” he murmured before slipping away into dreamland again.
But the last thought she had before dropping off into an exhausted sleep wasn’t of nicknames. It was of what she’d do to keep the man she loved.
Absolutely anything.
* * * *
He’d always been drawn to a pretty face. This, however, was the first time he’d been drawn by a pretty voice.
Sawyer Blake stood outside the tall, boxlike building on Brooklyn’s Lower East Side and clamped down on the urge for a cigarette. His ma had ingrained in him years ago what a bad habit it was, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish now and then he was a little less responsible.
If he decided to let go of a few of his inhibitions, there was always that appropriately seedy-looking bar, JJ’s, right next to the office building. Even from the sidewalk, he could see the dim lighting within bouncing off the shiny balls on a pool table in the corner.
Pool would settle his nerves some. So would a cool longneck, tipped back against his throat to ease the sweltering mid-September heat. Or maybe it was nerves making him so hot. Either way, an icy brew would take his mind off what waited for him on the third floor of the Nelson Building.
So would going up there and facing Ms. Layla Palmer, junior agent and dirty picture purveyor.
With a grin, he pushed a hand through his hair and headed inside. He bypassed the elevator and took the stairs instead, ending up in front of the polished oak counter that bore the words Hot Shots in record time. Plush rose carpeting stretched as far as the eye could see, a soothing counterpoint to the glossy glass-covered black-and-white modeling shots that adorned the cream-colored walls. The pictures were head shots mostly, with the occasional lifestyle photo thrown in for contrast.
The place definitely didn’t look seedy, though he’d guesstimated it wouldn’t from his online research before he applied to an ad in the Brooklyn Beat, an alternative newspaper that specialized in things off the beaten path. In this case, way off the beaten path. He’d never heard of an erotic talent agency before. Nor had he ever pictured himself considering applying to one.
“May I help you?”
Sawyer dragged his attention front and center. A crystal chandelier dripped prisms of light over the front desk, spotlighting the beautiful woman sitting behind it.
Holy shit, was this Layla?
“Well, hello there,” the woman purred, leaning up so that her emerald green blouse gaped just enough for him to glimpse white satin. “You have an appointment, sugar?”
Damn, the voice was off. Layla had been all business on the phone, though she’d had enough of a lilt to her voice to make him wonder what she was wearing. Slacks and a man-styled shirt, hot pants, and a little lacy top, maybe a flirty sundress?
Or more likely, a pinstriped business suit with a discreet hint of blouse peeking out between her lapels. If she wore glasses, that’d be a bonus.
But this woman didn’t seem the spectacle-wearing type. In fact, she seemed like she’d be just as comfortable wearing nothing at all.
“Yes, I do. Sawyer Blake,” he said, extending a hand. “And you are?”
Please let me be wrong. Please let this be Layla Palmer in the luscious flesh.
“Manda Destin, agent trainee. Aw, where’d you come from? How’d that Layla snag you first?”
Disappointment coursed through his veins even as his smile widened. He loved the Texas in her voice. It reminded him of home, though his hometown was a few states north. Still, Texans were his kind of people. Real, honest folk, even when what they were being honest about included the blatant blur of lust in Manda’s jewel-bright green eyes.
Before he could answer, she shoved a form across the desk. “Disclosure statement saying you’re eighteen and able to work legally in this country. Sign it.”
He scanned the short form and signed it, then passed it back to her. “Trainee, hmm?”
“Yes.” She gave him a bright smile. “I wouldn’t mind taking you on.”
“Hands off my find, Manda.” A redhead strolled around the desk, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. “Mr. Blake? I’m Layla Palmer.” She pumped his hand while he continued to size her up. He’d called the glasses correctly and whoa, she wore the sultry librarian look well. “Come on back to my office,” she added.
“Our office,” Manda called as Sawyer followed Layla down a short hallway lined with several doors.
Layla shot Sawyer a blinding smile over her shoulder while she pushed open door number three. “Mine while she’s out front.”
“Ya’ll share an office?” Sawyer asked, grimacing at both the idiocy of the question and the drawl that had crept into his voice after speaking to Manda.
He had a bad habit of picking up accents, just like he tended to mirror the nervous gestures of people around him. Too much time spent studying actors and models and trying to become the perfect mimic. He’d had to pretend to sun himself on a summer beach while forty-mile-an-hour winds sheared him to the bone just enough times to know how to fit, chameleonlike, into his current environment. Whatever that happened to be.
And right now, Layla’s environment was…warm. Comfy. As if he’d entered the domain of a woman who could as easily haul out a rocker and some knitting as ask him to disrobe for a camera or just her ridiculously long-lashed brown eyes.
“Sawyer?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
Man, his mind was not in the game today. Probably another way of distancing himself from what he was about to do. For money. Working just for the cash was a level he’d vowed never to sink to, no matter how much he struggled. His ideals were worth it.
Too bad ideals didn’t pay the rent. Or give him enough to send home, which was a big part of the reason he’d aimed his crappy Datsun east to begin with.
“Manda and I share this space. Her side is over there.” Layla gestured to a messy desk piled high with an assortment of stuff he’d never seen in an office before. Namely, sex toys. In plastic wrap, but still. “This one is mine,” she said, dropping down behind a glass-topped desk that held approximately three items: a phone, a Day Planner and a filigreed heart-shaped photo frame of a smiling couple. “She says the only reason I’m so neat is because I haven’t settled in yet. I’ve been here four months, so I know she’s full of shit.” This was said with a grin so broad he felt like he had no choice but to respond in kind.
“This you?” he asked, picking up the frame.
“Think it looks like me?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, still smiling. Smart-ass. If he had a weakness for breasts cupped in white satin such as those belonging to the lady out front, he had a damn near fixation on women with a sense of snark.
He let his gaze roam over the picture, his attention squarely on Layla’s features. Ginger hair, faintly curved rose lips, and cinnamon freckles sprinkled over vanilla-latte skin. She wore one of those pinstriped suits he’d imagined, with her arm linked with a tall guy who smiled for the camera while she smiled at him.
“Boyfriend?” he asked, rubbing his thumb absently over a smudge that blotted the guy’s face. Did she pick up the picture often or was it her nosy office visitors who’d left their fingerprints on her man?
She crossed her arms across her open Day Planner. “Fiancé.”
> “Ahh.” It figured. The wholesome type always married young. And, well, from the white doctor’s coat her fiancé wore in the photograph. “He approves of your career?”
“You could say that.”
“A doctor approves of his fiancée booking deals for models who’ll spend a good part of their time in front of the camera naked?”
“Not all Hot Shots’ jobs require nudity, and even if they did, I’m an agent, not a performer. Besides, he’s secure in our relationship.”
Sawyer set down the picture frame. “Glad to hear it.”
“I’ve spent the last couple of days checking out your body of work.” Coolly, her gaze swept up and down Sawyer’s body. She wanted to see him naked, of that he had no doubt. But were he to guess, she’d judge his goods about as dispassionately as she might the ripeness of a cantaloupe at the supermarket. “You’ve built up a rather significant portfolio in a short amount of time.”
He shrugged. “I like to keep busy.” Plus he needed the money, but she didn’t need to know that. At least not yet.
“You’ve done a lot of underwear modeling.”
“I have.”
“So you’re not averse to possibly going beyond that if the price is right?”
He scratched his clean-shaven jaw, taking her measure. Despite her assiduously professional demeanor, he could sense nervousness bubbling under her skin. “Depends what you’re offering, Ms. Palmer.”
Abruptly, she pulled back. Not just physically, but a shield dropped down in front of her eyes, as well. “I don’t mean to rush this along, but I have two more appointments this morning, so we may have to set up another meeting.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m a bit behind schedule.”
“Because of me.”
“Well, you were a little late.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“I allot each new prospective client twenty, so you’re already running over.” Her sunny smile didn’t hide the darkness clouding her eyes. Whether it was due to his tardiness or another reason, he didn’t know.
But he wanted to. For a guy who was careful to keep his professional entanglements strictly business, his curiosity toward her was already straining. It had started with her phone call. She’d phoned him late in the evening several nights ago, and since then, he hadn’t been able to get her voice out of his head. It was made for the radio. Not for something as classless as phone sex. Maybe as a narrator for one of the audiobooks he bought by the dozen for his commuting trips to potential jobs. She hadn’t once strayed into anything but polite, neutral territory, but he couldn’t help his terminal interest in peeling back layers.
And Layla Palmer, he would bet, had plenty of them.
Manda was attractive and fun, the kind of woman who didn’t require deep thoughts or expect any. The same couldn’t be said for Layla. He didn’t doubt that he’d pegged her correctly as wholesome, though appearances could be deceiving. Especially considering where she worked. So were the glasses and confident manner a ruse? Was she really a wildcat in tailored clothing?
Maybe he just needed to get laid. Clearly he was thinking way too much.
“Since we’ll probably need to schedule another appointment, you’ll have time to compile as many questions as you’d like,” Layla continued, oblivious to his internal debate. “First I need to know your comfort level, straight out. Judging from your earlier comment about naked modeling, I’m assuming you’ve had time to research what kind of agency Hot Shots is.”
“I wouldn’t have sent in my résumé otherwise.”
“And you still showed for our meeting, so I’m guessing that’s a good sign?”
“I’m willing to hear what’s on the table.”
With a brisk nod, she tapped a pencil on her Day Planner. She’d tucked any signs of nerves away, as if she barely cared that he was about to drop trou in her office. Was she really that blasé? And God, could he ever be as unruffled as her man if she were his fiancée? Knowing she was staring at strange nude male bodies day after day. Seeing it as work, no more, no less.
“Handy, since I’m willing to see more of what you’re bringing to the table as well.” She cocked her head, her mile-long lashes dipping down to hide her eyes for a moment. “So, ah, Sawyer Blake, do you want to do this with just you and me? I can call in one of the other agents if you’d like. In fact, I’ll need to if you decide to sign with us.”
Something about the way she used his full name made him grin. She might as well have been a naughty kindergarten teacher who spent her evenings participating in wet T-shirt contests. “Need to verify my talent, hmm?”
“You could say that.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a couple of folders before shoving some papers across the desk. “There are disclosure agreements you should sign, for your protection and ours. Plus they’ll probably make you more comfortable with our procedures here.”
“I signed one already. Otherwise I’m good to go.” To prove it, he reached up to undo the buttons of his shirt.
Her throat bobbed, and the involuntary reaction pleased him inordinately. Finally she was looking at him as more than a piece of man flesh up for inspection. For this instant, he’d become just a man. As she was just a woman.
“Sawyer, I can—”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, tugging his shirttails out of his jeans. “No disclosures needed. Or any other agents.” She leaned back in her chair and rested her small hands over her stomach. Her gigantic diamond engagement ring winked in the sunlight, drawing his focus to her fingers, then upward to her attire. She wore a dove-gray turtleneck sweater that highlighted the soft rise of her breasts and the rapid inhalations she was trying to hide. He didn’t stop his perusal until he registered the open fascination in her eyes. They’d warmed to dark chocolate brown, and he’d happily lose himself in them while he stripped for her.
“Okay,” she said. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Chapter Two
Layla startled at the suddenness with which Sawyer started to undress, but she tried not to look rattled. She’d already shuffled around her normal procedure for him. Crass or not, Sawyer’s hot-as-hell body and soulful face might as well have been imprinted with dollar signs. So his lateness didn’t really matter in the scheme of things.
What about that you touched yourself to his picture last night? Where does that rate?
Nope, not going there.
So far, nothing about this day was ordinary. Not her fiancé’s behavior, nor the way this meeting had gone. Normally she started with more conversation to break the ice, followed by a brief run-through of the model’s history, but she figured if he couldn’t strip with relative ease, they wouldn’t have much to discuss.
Though many of Hot Shots’ bookings didn’t require complete nudity, it saved a great deal of time to assume they would. The last thing any of the agents wanted to deal with was someone who initially seemed okay with the idea, then balked when a client’s time and money were on the line.
But Sawyer’s reaction was something else. As unnerved as he’d seemed when he’d walked into her office—and as unnerved as he’d made her, because she read his feelings as clearly as if he’d telegraphed them—now he didn’t seem to have a care in the world. His odd reaction fit, considering Aidan’s equally strange behavior.
Then Sawyer opened his shirt, and she forgot about everything but him.
Damn, he had one hell of a chest. If she’d thought it lick-worthy in a magazine, when he was just a few feet away, it blew her mind. Each muscle defined to the nth degree, covered in golden skin free of any tattoos. Even the dark blond hair dusting his chest somehow emphasized exactly how built he was.
His nimble fingers moved to the button of his jeans, and her breath actually tripped. If her chair had arms, she would’ve gripped them.
The door opened, and she jumped so fast her knee banged the underside of her desk. She grabbed hold of her throbbing kneecap and tried not to wince as Con and Drew, the owners and senior agents of Hot Shots, st
rolled into the room.
“Clearly we’re interrupting something.” Even from this distance, Layla could see the speculative glance Drew tossed over his shoulder at Con, who still lingered close to the doorway.
“You’re not interrupting. Guys, this is Sawyer Blake, a model I’ve been eyeing”—she stopped and took a cleansing breath—“a model I’ve had my eye on since I saw his Eloquent photo shoot.” She opened her desk drawer and held the magazine out to Drew. “Pages twenty-three to twenty-six.”
“Twenty-seven,” Sawyer corrected smoothly, arching a brow at her when she flung him an annoyed glance.
Touché.
“We apologize for interrupting your interview.” Con strode forward to shake Sawyer’s right hand. The left still toyed with the button of his jeans. “I’m Conrad Becker, one of the co-owners and senior agents of Hot Shots. This individual beside me is my partner, Drew Cole—”
“—also known as his favorite person in the whole world,” Drew added with a grin.
“Not hardly, unless you grow some vital new equipment between those tree trunks you call thighs.”
“That’s what he says in front of mixed company.” Drew winked. “Truth is, he’s not fussy.”
Con slid his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. His casual attire was the exact opposite of Drew’s tailored suit, sans tie. “I’d say it in front of any company, but today you’re not my type.”
“So I’ve got a chance tomorrow?”
“You’ve never got a chance, pal.”
Layla rolled her eyes at the guys’ typical antics. That Sawyer merely grinned at them increased her irritation. Clearly she’d been the only one ensnared by inappropriate lust.
Which was just as well, since she wasn’t supposed to be aroused by her potential clients. Then there was that whole engaged-to-be-married thing, even if the person she was engaged to had almost seemed eager to encourage said lust.
Something she still wasn’t interested in thinking about. At all. Nor was she dwelling on friendly texts from random doctors.
After midnight, a person was allowed to do things they normally wouldn’t. She’d made a mistake in looking at Aidan’s phone, but she wouldn’t do it again. And she wouldn’t borrow trouble by seeing things that weren’t there.