Hot Shots 1: Test Shot

by Cari Quinn

  “Sawyer Blake, you said?” Con looked briefly at Layla before returning his attention to Sawyer. “I think I’ve heard of you. You were in Skyline Restaurant’s recent series of ads. You played the role of the upwardly mobile, upper-twenties New Yorker perfectly.”

  She blinked. Leave it to Con. While Drew continued to page through the magazine—and from the smirk on his face, he was not looking at the pictures of Sawyer—Con, the business shark, was already cruising through the water with the scent of blood in his nose.

  “Yes, that was me. I did a series of commercials with them as well.”

  “Very nice. Skyline’s a highbrow establishment. Lots of big names dine there. Celebrities.”

  “I dine there,” Drew said under his breath, though no one seemed to care.

  “Yes, a friend of mine owns it. He gave me my start before I moved to New York.”

  “Good friend.” Con cast a look at Layla. Though he didn’t give her the thumbs-up sign, he might as well have. “So now you’ve come to us.”

  “I’ve come to hear what we can offer each other, assuming we turn out to be a good fit.”

  “Smart. And you were in the process of revealing some of your assets when we barged in to ask Layla if she needed our assistance. Should’ve known better.” He smiled. “She always has things under control.”

  “You’re leaving?” Layla asked, that strange little quiver returning to her voice. And right between her breasts.

  “We are. Unless you need us.” Apparently figuring she didn’t, Con gripped Drew’s arm and yanked him toward the door.

  Drew didn’t glance up from the magazine. Unless she was mistaken, he’d found the swimsuit pullout section at the back of Eloquent.

  “Do we need them?” she asked Sawyer, who shrugged as if it was her call. He seemed more at ease now after meeting the guys. Maybe that they appeared to be the epitome of successful young professionals—Con’s rugged lumberjack look aside—had convinced him of the operation’s legitimacy.

  “Guess we’re good,” she said to Con, who was already on his way out the door. “Right,” she added when it clicked shut. “Thanks.”

  She shook her head and groped for her pencil. “There’s always Manda. She could join us if you’d like.”

  “Unless you’re both going to be undressing for me, nope, I’m fine with just you.” His cheeky grin as he popped the button on his jeans and went to work on the zipper helped her to relax. As inane as that was.

  She wasn’t supposed to be nervous. He was the one getting naked. She swallowed and shifted on her chair when he eased his tight jeans down over his ass. It wasn’t as if she’d gone hot and wet. Absolutely not.

  He bent to unlace his boots, then pulled them off and set them by her desk. One toppled over the other like a pair tossed aside by a child. She stared at them, not directing her gaze at him until he’d pushed his jeans all the way down to his ankles. A quick glimpse of his equally tight boxers and she rotated the pencil, inadvertently stabbing herself in the palm with the point. Shit. But she didn’t make a noise, just wailed silently in her head.

  Fuck!

  Face blank, he straightened and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, shimmying them down with the aplomb of a man who didn’t mind in the slightest losing his shorts in front of a stranger. She could work with this. With him.

  God, could she.

  Not looking at his cock wasn’t as hard as she’d expected. He had nice legs, the kind the average, unattached woman could fantasize about hooking her own around. Strong thighs, with just the right amount of hair. Sturdy knees, built for running. Then there was that long white scar running down the inside of one calf. How had he gotten that? Skateboarding? Skiing accident?

  Woman gnawing up his sexy leg as if he were dinner and she’d decided to feast on the nonessential parts first?

  “Ms. Palmer?”

  Her gaze snapped up at his amused tone, but unfortunately it snagged directly below his waist instead of continuing up to his face. She stared at his partially erect cock for a full thirty seconds, relieved that it appeared normal and didn’t seem likely to shoot off gold sparks. She hadn’t been sure for a while there.

  Though he was well-built, he wasn’t intimidating. Aidan’s was bigger, probably. Wider for sure. But Sawyer’s was as long as the rest of him, and just as comfortable under the spotlight. In no time at all he went from half-mast to almost all the way.

  “You’re not minding this part of the interview.” Her attempt at humor echoed in her ears.

  He wasn’t the only one not minding it. If she placed her palm between her legs, she knew her skin would come away damp.

  But no one else would know. Cheating in her brain—whether while she held a vibrator or while she imagined crawling across her desk and crawling all over Sawyer—didn’t count. As long as she kept her legs tightly closed, it wouldn’t hurt anything. It wouldn’t hurt her and Aidan.

  “Sorry.” He shrugged, not sounding sorry at all. “A pretty lady eats me up with her eyes, that’s what happens.”

  In spite of her awareness of how easily lines like that fell from many men’s lips, she couldn’t help the way her shoulders lifted. But she could help her thoughts.

  This was business. Just business. He wasn’t any different than the other men she saw naked on a daily basis. Last night’s solo session and Aidan’s dirty follow-up didn’t change a damn thing.

  Deliberately, Layla leaned back in her chair, determined to act as if this was merely routine. That she wasn’t inappropriately attracted to someone she wanted to represent. That her fiancé hadn’t shoved her toward Sawyer, for reasons she didn’t and couldn’t understand.

  “Turn around,” she murmured.

  “Bossy. I like it.”

  “Watch it, Blake.”

  “And a disciplinarian too. Yes, ma’am.” The grin he aimed over his shoulder dipped his hair into his startlingly clear blue eyes. Something about his pose made her wish she knew her way around a camera. He had a lot to work with. Beefy shoulders, rippling back muscles, summer-streaked blond hair.

  Oh, and the ass. Definitely the ass.

  “You were made for pictures.” She stood and came around the side of the desk, pressing her hip hard into the wood when his gaze pinned her in place.

  The laughter in his expression disappeared, replaced with something a lot sharper. Not desire. Not exactly. Closer to a challenge.

  “Thanks. That’s what my ma thought when she enrolled me in that Gerber baby contest.”

  It made her laugh. “Did you win?”

  “Hell, no. If I had, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be on easy street, kicked back with my golden rattler.”

  “I’m sure.” To make it seem as if she’d gotten up for an actual reason and not just to see if he smelled as good as he looked, she reached for her Day Planner and flipped to the notes section. “You have a book, right? Your portfolio?”

  “Yes. I didn’t bring it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I figured if I didn’t like the looks of this place, it didn’t really matter what you thought of me.” He jerked a shoulder. “Despite my application, I’m not in a huge hurry to sign with an agency. I’ve been a free agent this long with reasonable success, so it’ll take some convincing to get me to decide to link up with someone.”

  Cocky. And smart too, she acknowledged. She grabbed her pencil and directed her attention to the blank page. “You can get dressed now.”

  “So soon?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” She fought a smile and wrote his name at the top of the page. “I need some stats,” she added when he bent to tug up his boxers and jeans.

  “What kind of stats?” He remained stooped, almost as if he knew her focus had lodged on his ass. Yeah, she’d photograph that part of him first. What perfect handfuls. And the leverage they could give when—

  “Your measurements,” she said before her brain could complete the statement. “Height, weight, si
zes.”

  He turned toward her, his gapped jeans hanging low on his lean hips. “Lengths?”

  She ignored him, instead drawing a swirly curlicue under his name. “Normally that information could be found in your book, assuming yours contains the standard requirements. But since you neglected to bring it, you’ll have to run through the details for me.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Palmer.” He shrugged into his shirt and started doing up the buttons. “I’m five-eleven, one-seventy.” He continued on, rattling off sizes and measurements with practiced ease while she struggled to keep up with him. “Oh, and eight inches. Well, most of the time.”

  She pressed down on the pencil and blew out a breath when a curl sprang into her eyes. The piece of hair trembled from the gust of air but didn’t fly back into place. “You have quite the sense of humor, Mr. Blake.”

  “Thanks. You have quite a beautiful pair of eyes, Ms. Palmer.” He walked forward, and she braced her free hand on the desk, shocked to feel a tremor moving down her arm as he approached. Stalked toward her might’ve been a more apt description, if not for the affable smile he still wore. “But if we’re going to be working together, we should probably lose the formalities, right?”

  “I never said I intended to sign you.”

  “And I never said I intended to sign. But until we get to the point of cutting bait, we’re potential colleagues.” With a flick of his fingers, he flipped her errant curl back into place. “So when should I come back and bring you my book?”

  She couldn’t have stopped the smile if she’d wanted to. Nor the quick clench in her chest when she realized he smelled like charcoal and lighter fluid, not some overpriced cologne. “Barbecued for lunch?” she asked instead of answering his question.

  “How’d you know?” He lifted the sleeve of his shirt, still not fully buttoned, and sniffed at the cuff, a smile creasing his mouth. “Yeah. Cheeseburgers and grilled ’shrooms. You know, any model’s ideal diet.”

  “So you’re not part of the city lunching crowd?”

  “With who? I’m new in town. It’s not as if I have a ton of friends yet.”

  Was that loneliness she heard in his voice? Or was she imagining things? “We’ve only been in a town a few months too.”

  “Yeah?” Interest fired in his eyes, making her think he might’ve pursued that line of questioning had she held his gaze. Instead she looked down at her planner.

  “Oh, and just so you know. I did follow it up with a salad. Lunch,” he explained when she glanced up again. “Though I dumped in half a bag of croutons.”

  She laughed and stepped back, needing to put just that little bit of distance between them while she willed her brain to work. “Clearly you’re doing something right. You don’t have an extra ounce on you.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if I can come up with a couple more. Just for you.” Again came that grin as he walked backward toward the door, still buttoning the last couple of buttons of his shirt. “So tomorrow?”

  She almost asked tomorrow what? before she realized what he meant. Inhaling deeply, she flipped through her planner. “Tomorrow’s no good.” She continued turning pages. “How about next Tuesday?”

  “What time?”

  Back-to-back morning appointments and a photo shoot wouldn’t leave her a free moment until early afternoon. Even so, she’d have to squeeze him in before a consult with a new potential customer, an erotic e-publisher looking for cover models. “Does two p.m. work for you?”

  “Sure. Want me to bring sandwiches, or do you actually get to go out for lunch?”

  “I usually meet Aidan for lunch on Tuesdays. My fiancé,” she added, hoping her voice didn’t soften as much on the word as it seemed.

  From the quick flash in Sawyer’s gaze, it must have. “Gotcha. Works for me. Till Tuesday then, Layla.”

  “Good-bye,” she called after him, staring at the spot where he’d been until her eyes blurred.

  Christ, had that been the weirdest meeting of her life or what? She reached for her cell to call Aidan. He’d get a kick out of it.

  Then she stopped, her finger hovering over the speed dial. Maybe she’d better have this conversation in person. It was hard to convey nuances over the phone.

  Like how turned-on Sawyer makes you?

  She swallowed and tucked her phone in her purse. Tonight she would tell Aidan she’d met with Sawyer. There were no secrets between them.

  Not even this.

  * * * *

  Aidan scooped some peas on his plate, then added half a pat of margarine. No more, no less. As a doctor, he didn’t mess around when it came to his fat intake, and he had the body to show for it. The peas went with the grilled salmon and slivers of roasted potato Layla had made to his specifications. She’d made some joke about needing to get more croutons if he insisted on them having so many salads, but he’d only shaken his head at her.

  She didn’t monitor her diet that closely. Hell, she didn’t need to, at least when it came to her figure. Genetics had granted her an amazing metabolism, and she usually enjoyed working out, so she rarely stressed about calories. Unlike other things.

  His Layla was a worrier, always had been, always would be. Lately he hadn’t been doing enough to make sure she didn’t worry because of him. That included leaving his cell in places where he couldn’t blame her for being tempted.

  A year ago, he would have. But now, when he knew how strange his behavior had become, he didn’t hold her curiosity against her. He’d driven her to that point. Still, it had pained him to see that text from his colleague still on his screen this morning, a dual injury this time—both the message’s words and that he’d probably upset Layla. Again.

  For her part, she was doing her best to act normal. She’d kept up a steady stream of chatter while making dinner. He’d mentioned a couple of his students he was particularly excited to teach, and she’d asked all the appropriate questions. The tension between them was subtle, but it existed nonetheless. Something had to give.

  He sat back in his chair as she took the seat opposite him and reached for her glass of soda. No diet for her. She liked full calories and caffeine. Her motto had always been go big or go home. Whether she really meant that would be tested soon.

  “So how was your day?” he asked, keeping his tone nonchalant.

  “Good.” She wiped a stray droplet of soda from her chin. “Busy. Lots of meetings. You know that dating service that always advertises on the L.I.E.? They’re looking for some new models. They want to represent a wide range of ethnicities, which I think is great.”

  “You have some people in mind?”

  “I do. One of them’s Kiana, a Latina model I just signed. I told her about it, and she seems excited. She’s going to break out in a major way, and it’d be incredible if it happened now. She’s only twenty-two,” she added, forking up a few potatoes.

  “That’s great. You’re a real asset to the agency. You’ve always had an amazing eye.”

  “Yeah, I eyed you right quick.” With a laugh, she set down her fork and again picked up her soda. She probably assumed he hadn’t noticed she’d yet to actually eat anything. She was wrong.

  “So…what else? Sign any other models today?”

  He hoped she hadn’t, at least when it came to Sawyer. Whether or not she signed Sawyer in the future was between the two of them. But what Sawyer might mean to them on a personal basis was a different thing altogether. If he could figure out how to broach the topic.

  It wasn’t as if he could just ask if she wanted to have sex with another man—for real. She would deny it instantly, outside of the fantasy realm. Then there was finding the right guy. Going out to meet someone for that sole purpose wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t take chances with somebody they picked up in a club. Not when it came to Layla and her health. They didn’t have many friends in the city yet, and the ones they did have were professors and the like. Hardly the sort of people he’d feel comfortable approaching in this context. Sawyer, at least, was
a professional, and likely took good care of himself. He also had a reputation to consider, so the probability was good that he wouldn’t go blabbing all over town.

  “No, I didn’t sign anyone today. I did meet with a couple people, though.”

  His gaze sharpened at the hesitation in her voice. So she had seen Sawyer. Was that another reason for the heaviness between them tonight?

  “Tell me about them.”

  “One was a guy from Tanzania. Really built. Super nice too. He didn’t laugh when I asked to touch his dreads, but I think he wanted to.” She smiled faintly and played with the edge of her cloth napkin before draping it over her lap. No paper for Layla. “I also met with Sawyer.”

  Finally. “How did that go?”

  “Good. He’s a charming guy. Not at all like you’d expect.”

  Charming was a plus. He wouldn’t let just any jerk near his woman, even if it was only about sex. “Meaning what?”

  “Well, he’s cocky about his looks, no real surprise there. But he seems friendly and natural and not affected by them, though he knows he’s hot. He doesn’t seem stuck-up at all.”

  “What about his body?”

  She didn’t jolt at the question, but she did lower her gaze to the table. “Incredible.”

  “And his cock?”

  Her head reared up. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  He had to smile. Such indignance. She’d reacted just as he’d hoped, which meant she liked Sawyer’s cock well enough indeed. “An important one. Though we both know how a tool is used is as important as the horsepower.”

  Normally she would’ve snorted at that. Not tonight. She yanked her napkin from her lap and tossed it on the table beside her virtually untouched plate. “What’s going on with us, Aidan?”

  “Ah, guess that question hit a little too close to home.” He pushed his own plate aside and rested his arms on the table. “There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone else. Being engaged doesn’t mean you’re dead.”