A Taste Of Fantasy

He paused for her reaction. She gave him none. “It’s unreasonable to expect two people to be able to stand each other’s neuroses for all eternity. But there you have it every day.” He gestured with his hand and let it slap onto the bar. “People standing at the altar, sure that mindless infatuation bound to deteriorate is something special and mystical and everlasting. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

He looked surprised, as if he’d only been baiting her in his best Swaggering Butthead manner, and was anticipating a surefire reaction of hysterical female outrage. “You agree?”

“No. You’re right, I didn’t ask your opinion.”

He blinked once, then clutched his chest as if she’d shot him. “You got me.”

“Easy target.”

“I guess.” He signaled the bartender, pointed to their glasses and held up two fingers. “Can I buy you another beer?”

She rolled her eyes, secretly enjoying his high-handedness. Swagger on, baby; you’re doing just fine. “Apparently you can.”

A couple moved away from two stools behind him at the bar; a trio of thirty-something guys wedged themselves into the space. Jack Hunter slid off his stool, pulled it closer to her and slid back on, acknowledging the thanks of the men behind him.

“So.” He grinned, his knee nudging the side of her thigh.

“So.” She gave him an offhand look, hoping he’d think the flush on her face was from the warm bar and the beer. “What do you do?”

“Guess.”

“Hmm.” She pretended to look him over carefully, as if she hadn’t been doing that already from the second they met. Nicely dressed, linen pants and a loosely woven cotton shirt. No jewelry, early thirties she’d guess. But describing his clothes didn’t begin to capture his real look. The male confidence, the killer eyes that were so magnetic it looked as if they were lit from inside….

“You’re a male stripper.”

He burst out laughing. “Now how did you guess that?”

Samantha shrugged, trying to contain her own laughter. God this was fun. Beat the hell out of staying at home with Blanche and Fudge. “It’s written all over you. Jack the Stripper.”

He laughed again, this time letting his eyes linger on hers after the chuckles died. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away. Holy heat wave. The chemistry was astounding.

“I’m a photographer. I shoot commercial stuff primarily, but I’m also working on a series for a gallery on Carpenter Street.”

“No kidding.”

He grinned, a slow charmer’s grin that made her grab her beer for a long sip. “No kidding.”

Samantha put her glass down and ran her finger around the rim, not at all mystified by her sudden need to touch. “One feeds your pocketbook, one feeds your soul?”

“Yes.” His eyes shifted from lazy sex to sudden alert focus, as if she’d surprised him by being in possession of a brain, lawyer or not. “Exactly.”

“Very nice.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He sat watching her, drumming his fingers on the bar as if he was considering something carefully.

Samantha shot him a look. “So, have you decided?”

He cocked his head in a question. “Decided?”

“Whether to say it or not.”

The same surprised awareness flickered through his eyes before he laughed and leaned his chin on his hand, looking at her like she was a piece of his very favorite chocolate cake. “Yes.”

“And?”

“It’s a go.” He grinned, still watching her intently. “Have you ever done any modeling?”

She let one eyebrow slide halfway up her forehead, while her insides started to jitterbug. Oh. Wow. This could be it. “No.”

“I think you might be right for a project I’m starting soon. Interested in doing a test?”

She let her lids lower suspiciously. “What makes me right where a professional model wouldn’t be?”

“Hard to say. Call it instinct, call it artistic selection. I could easily be wrong, but I think a camera would love you. I think you have exactly what I want.”

His voice was smooth and low, his eye contact direct and no-nonsense. Samantha shrugged and took another sip of her beer, which was pretty amazing considering she felt like gasping and slumping onto the bar. Wow. Unless she was totally wrong, this was the photographer’s equivalent of asking her to come see his etchings. What were the odds she’d find the perfect Man To Do the very night she was finally ready? If she wasn’t so cynical, she’d consider another attempt at believing in Fate.

“I see.” She tipped her head to the side and pushed her hair behind one ear in a consciously seductive gesture, pleased when his eyes followed the movement. “What kind of project?”

“I’m doing a series of photographs of women as pieces of furniture.”

Samantha nearly burst out laughing. Ha! What could be more Swaggering Butthead-y than that? Women as objects! He was getting better all the time. “Furniture?”

“Chairs, dining tables, that kind of thing.” He grinned an I-know-what-you’re-thinking grin.

“Charming. Do you seat men on them? Smoking cigars and flicking burning ashes on their skin?”

“Hmm. No.” He tilted his head and rubbed his chin. “But now that you mention it…”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “Oof.”

“It’s a concept. It has no bearing on how I feel about women. I could just as easily use men.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because women’s bodies are more interesting to me. A man’s body impersonating a wooden object is less of a draw. But take the soft strength of a woman, her beauty, her living grace, and transform that into something without life, something utilitarian. That’s such a clear contradiction, a clear paradox. And beautiful visually.”

“I see.” She swung her legs toward him and away on the bar stool. Something about that furniture thing bothered her. And something about hearing him talk about women’s bodies really bothered her. But in an entirely different way. One that had her wondering if his etchings might be something she’d really like to see.

“So…”

She turned toward him again. “So?”

“Are you interested?”

“In being your dining table?”

That slow grin spread itself across his face. “In coming to the studio for a test.”

She knew what that meant. Knew what it would mean if she said yes. And staring into his dynamite eyes, that were sending signals she didn’t need a translator to decipher, she thought maybe Jack Hunter, Swaggering Butthead extraordinaire, was exactly what she needed. “I think I might be.”

“You think?”

She looked back down at her beer and hooked a finger through her necklace, moving it back and forth. Men were lucky. Fatal Attraction type psycho-females aside, they could generally rely on their physical power to stay safe. Women were more vulnerable. “I just don’t know if you…I mean I don’t know you.”

He nodded. “Understood. Here’s my card. The studio is on West Walton street, not too far from here.”

She accepted the card and studied it. Nice address. If he was legit, he was probably doing well for himself.

“My clients include Henderson, Algram and Cairns, Stoering Medical Systems, the French designer Paul Justin and Watson Sports.”

Samantha tried not to look impressed in spite of the fact that she was. Henderson, et al. was one of the biggest if not the biggest advertising agency in the city; Paul Justin was sweeping the nation designing everything from watches to socks, and the other two companies were just shy of the Fortune 500 list.

Of course successful people could be creeps, too, but somehow in her book it made him less likely to be into tying her up, torturing her, and dumping her into Lake Michigan. Maybe it was false security, but she liked the feeling. And he was definitely the sexiest guy she’d encountered in a long time. Or ever.

She threw him a sidelong glance, designed to get him hot and bothered, which boomeranged unexpectedly off his mega-male presence and got her hot and bothered instead.

To hell with security and common sense. When was the last time she’d encountered chemistry like this? Not since she met Brendan. Maybe not even then.

She was going to do it.

She tucked the card into her purse and smiled at him, pushing back her hair again, as if she thought it had any hope of staying behind her shoulder. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll do it.”

He thumped his fist on the bar and laughed as if he’d been holding in tension waiting for her answer and was finally able to let it out. “Good. I think you’ll be perfect for the project. How does next week sound?”

Samantha determinedly kept the smile on her face while her stomach bottomed out. He really did want to photograph her? It wasn’t just an excuse to get her alone tonight?

“Uh…”

“You should know, though—” He rubbed his chin again. “I can’t do this on regular studio time or use my staff, so it would have to be kind of late. Say eight o’clock.”

Samantha’s determined smile started to feel more natural. “I see.”

“And I should warn you ahead of time…” He quirked an eyebrow and leaned closer as if to whisper. “That the women in these pictures aren’t suffering from an overabundance of clothing.”

Samantha’s stomach resumed its regularly scheduled functions and poured in an extra dose of adrenaline. Late evening shoot. No staff. Barely any clothes.

All was not lost.

He could still be her Man To Do. Just not tonight. Which was actually okay. Guys with true evil on their minds would be more likely to jump on her right now, not wait until a convenient time slot turned up. This way would feel a lot safer, even if it lost something in the passionate spontaneity department. And she could put in some serious fantasy time over the next week.

“I think I could handle that.”

“I think you could.” His grin spread extra slowly; his eyes held hers until she had to look away and fish clumsily in her purse for a business card. “Here’s my work number.”

“Good.” He accepted her card and turned it over in his strong-looking fingers. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Not even a fraction as much as she was.

“So am I.” She grinned back at him and lifted her second beer in a private toast. To Samantha: on her way to moving on from Divorce Hell. To Jack Hunter: Swaggering Butthead and possible Man To Do.

She smiled as an absurd thought struck her. And to whatever and whoever he was doing tonight—Johnny Orion.

RICK DROVE HIS Jeep Cherokee into a space opposite Samantha’s driveway and shifted into park. Good. She was home safely. The guy in the bar hadn’t followed her. And she looked much happier than when she left. He’d driven by her house earlier in the evening, wanting to see the space she lived in, to get more of a feel of the kind of person she was, then driven to her office and followed her impulsively when he saw her come out of the garage. Then he’d followed her home—to make sure she was safe and because she enchanted him and he didn’t want to break the connection until he had to.

He turned on his car radio. An obnoxious pop song came on; he frowned and changed the station to WFMT. The noble music of Bach and Beethoven was better suited to thoughts of Samantha than some prepubescent boy band.

Tonight had been good. He’d approached her at P.J.’s when she first came in and sat at the bar, not to speak to her, to let her sense him. She had. He could tell by the way her body tensed, by the way she turned her head to see behind her. She was looking for him. Wanting him without even knowing she did. Then that guy had intervened. Jack, he called himself. That was okay. Rick was nothing if not patient. He’d had competition before. It complicated things, yes, but also made them more interesting.

Lights went on in her house, indicating that she’d gotten safely inside. The overture to Wagner’s Tann häuser swelled on his car radio as if celebrating that fact. Rick smiled at the glowing windows, at the glimpses of Samantha moving from room to room, closing the curtains. He felt like a Peeping Tom, but if ever there was a woman worth peeping at…

I am not to speak of you—I am to think of you When I sit alone or wake at night alone

I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

“To a Stranger,” by Walt Whitman. Maybe he should write the poem down and send it to her. She’d like it. But not yet. Sending notes was tricky, risky. If he sent them too soon, she might panic and think he was creepy. He’d know when the moment was right. And he needed to extricate himself from this mess with Tanya, his accuser, first, so Samantha would know he wasn’t some sleazeball. He’d simply miscalculated. He knew how to treat women; he loved and respected them. Tanya was the first one he’d ever read so wrong.

Whatever. Samantha would see his side. Then they could be together. For now, he’d keep up her sexual interest with the calls for Johnny. Then segue into the deeper, more powerful aspects of their inevitable relationship.

When the last fabric wall shut her away from him, he gave a long sigh, shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. After tonight, after interference by that Jack guy. Rick needed to pick up the pace, go into higher gear, find out that much sooner everything he could about her likes and dislikes, her passions and tastes and turnoffs. Difficult, yes, but he relished the challenge. Because he knew in the end he’d win.

He grinned and beeped his horn in an impulsive farewell salute as he sped down her block. Johnny Orion always got the girl.

3

From: Tess Norton

Sent: Friday

To: Samantha Tyler; Erin Thatcher

Subject: re: Readiness

YOU GO GIRL! You aren’t going to look pathetic, you’re going to look gorgeous and sexy and oh, so ripe. BE PICKY! You can have any man you want, and what you want is someone who can get it up and keep it up until you’re damn ready to call it a night. Check his feet, his hands, and if they’re short and stubby, move on. If they’re long and thick and his lips are perfect and his…oh, um, sorry. I was thinking about Dash. Here’s the bottom line, kiddo. This is a present to you. Don’t be stingy. Give it all you’ve got.

Love, Tess

P.S. I want DETAILS

From: Erin Thatcher

Sent: Friday

To: Samantha Tyler; Tess Norton

Subject: re: Readiness

Well, hell! It’s about time. And I gotta say it’s good to read a more upbeat you. And, no. You will not look pathetic. Available is one thing. Available is good. Available will have men flocking. And you’ll get to pick and choose your fantasy. If I hadn’t already found mine, I think I’d be totally envious! Don’t worry about right and perfect and all that relationship crap. Just go find a piece of body candy and spend the night smacking your lips. Oh, and make sure he smacks his!

Love you! Erin

Samantha finished reading the notes, grinned and launched into a new message. Details? She’d give them plenty.

From: Samantha Tyler

Sent: Saturday

To: Erin Thatcher; Tess Norton

Subject: Last Night!

I did it! I went! I met someone! (Is that like I came, I saw, I conquered?) He’s totally gorgeous and a Swaggering Butthead to boot. Thinks he’s brilliant and is obviously used to the chicks falling at his feet (okay, I was one of them, I couldn’t help it). He’s a photographer and he wants to photograph me one night next week. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more!

I feel so good! Like I’m coming out of a coma. I love this. I couldn’t fall for this guy in a million years. He’s perfect.

I’m so happy!

By the way, have you guys gotten into When Amber Burns, yet? Sheesh! No wonder I had sex on the brain. Which guy do you think Amber’s going to go for at the end, Adam or Mark—or both at once (ha!)?

Somewhat deliriously,

Samantha

Samantha hit the send button to blast the e-mail off to Erin and Tess, and spun her computer chair to face her home office, arms stretched blissfully wide, an entire Saturday at her disposal. In this mood, staying home doing work wasn’t going to cut it. She’d already begun investigating the latest sexual harassment case by interviewing Tanya Banyon, a temp employed by ManForce who brought charges against Rick Grindle. The woman had been convincing, certainly, but Samantha should spend the day preparing for her interview next week with the accused to get his side before she made any decisions.

Samantha rolled her eyes. Lighten up, woman. She’d done a million of these cases. Who needed to give up a Saturday afternoon preparing for the expected? She wanted to go out! She wanted to live! She wanted to…shop!

Frankly, her hot-night-out wardrobe was about five years old. She and Brendan had very sensibly dated for two years before they got married, and he’d made it clear she didn’t have to dress sexily to be sexy to him. At the time it had seemed so honest, so genuine, so beautiful. Until she recognized it as part of the pattern of suppressing her personality to please him.

God how insidious those little things became when you looked at them as part of the whole.

She liked getting dressed up. She liked wearing clothes that flattered her figure. Not like she was trampy. But if she felt good about her clothes and the way she looked, she felt good about herself. If that made her shallow and insecure, tough. She’d made friends with her flaws. At very least, they were loyal company.

Onward! She jumped up and grabbed her purse and keys.

Three hours later, she burst back in through her side door. Success! A black tiny-strapped skintight top with built-in bra, tight stretchy black jeans, and a clingy hot-pink sweater. She hadn’t felt this good in ages. Not only clothes, but she’d taken herself out to lunch and the cute guy in the next booth had flirted with her.

She danced into her kitchen, dumped the bags on a chair and grabbed her cell phone to check messages, so full of energy she very nearly got the urge to scrub the floor. This was serious. Maybe she should take some medication.

Her cell phone display showed one missed call; she crossed her fingers, imagining Jack’s deep voice, dialed up her voice mail and crossed to get her new clothes out of their bags, so she had something to do if it wasn’t him.

“Hello, Johnny Orion. It’s Kate. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Samantha froze. What was the deal with these women and their faulty dialing habits? And for Pete’s sake, how good could one man be?

“I worked all day to cook that dinner for you. But the look in your eye when you came in…God, I wasn’t hungry for food after that.”

Samantha walked to the window, new black camisole clutched in her hand, and stood watching her garden as if she could somehow see the caller in the overgrown bushes if she stared hard enough.

“I’ll probably never get the sauce out of the rug. My mom will never forgive me for Aunt Ruby’s broken china. And I still have no idea where my thong is. But ohhhh, Johnny. You were worth it.”

Samantha pursed her lips in a silent whistle. An instant picture came into her head. The door opening. Johnny Orion standing there—looks by Hugh Jackman, body by Russell Crowe, smoldering intensity by Colin Firth. Male perfection. Slamming the door behind him, head tipped slightly forward as he moved, so his eyes would shoot passion from under lowered brows, so he’d have the appearance of a dark, charging bull.

“I’m still sore, I’m still ragingly horny, I still want you, Johnny. Call me.”

He’d walk forward, and without speaking lift her in his arms, clear the dining table of its carefully laid meal with one sweep, clear her body of its carefully arranged outfit with another, and go to it with hands, mouth, tongue and—of course—the industrial-sized penis.

Mmm.

Passion. Sex. Wild passion. Wild sex. She and Brendan never quite got there. There was always something polite in the way they treated each other. Always something slightly apologetic about their lovemaking, as if they felt bad about those pesky animal instincts, and were making do as best they could, since escaping their own humanity was impossible, darn it.

Wild messy passion. Wild messy sex.

She leaned back against the counter, rubbed the shiny camisole top over her body, then downward so it bunched into a soft ball between her legs and she could push against it. Jack might do that for her. The way he’d looked at her in the bar, like he wanted to devour her…

She’d let him.

The top slid between her fingers to the floor; she undid her jeans and pushed her hand inside. Jack Hunter. Right now, in this crazy hormone-charged mood, she wanted him. Badly. She wanted to get naked for him, feel that glorious sense of female power, that explosive chemical reaction at the beginning of an affair, when just the sight of her body would send him into a state of mating-readiness. When the toss of her hips, or the slide of her hands on her own thighs could turn him into a stiff groaning mess of desire. When just the touch of her fingers on his bare skin was enough to get him ready.

She wanted Jack to be her Johnny Orion. To come to her and take his fill of her, giving as much as he took. She wanted that. She wanted it.

Her jeans crept down farther on her straining legs; she rubbed herself harder, breath accelerating, imagining that beautiful meal spread on her dining table, Jack sweeping it to crash on the floor and spreading her on the dining table, stripping her, taking her.

“Oh.” The orgasm hit, hot and hard and she rode the wave, keeping the image of Jack’s naked thrusting body firmly in her mind until she came down, legs cramped and stiff, zipper straining open.

Blanche and Fudge chose that moment to investigate the kitchen and demand dinner in loud no-nonsense yowls.

Samantha blinked and burst out laughing. God what a sight she must be. Masturbating in her own kitchen, fully clothed, in front of her cats. But it didn’t feel pathetic. It didn’t feel pathetic at all. She pictured Jack again and smiled, doing up her pants, pushing the hair back from her face, body still glowing.

It felt damn good.

“CAN WE GET THE wrinkle out of the left shoulder there?” Jack pointed to the digital image of a Watson Sports T-shirt his assistant Beth handed him. “And try getting the folds to run left to right instead. Maybe straighten that seam a little more. I like the look, but the client won’t want the logo distorted. That should do it. Let me know when it’s set and I’ll shoot it.”

“Done.” Beth pointed to another table where a prop stylist was lovingly adjusting Watson golf shoes on a small mat of Astroturf. “They’re ready for you to check the shoes.”

Jack wandered over, hands in his pockets, whistling carelessly through his teeth, eyed the shoes critically and nodded. “Looking good—I like the angle. Let me see a test when it’s ready.”

He strolled back past the T-shirt table, still whistling, a rambling melody completely at odds with the techno-pop assaulting the studio’s airspace, and stopped to check the next shot—a putter to be shot on outline, against a neutral color for the client to fit into its own background.

Unfortunately, with no one else at the table demanding he do his job, no matter how hard he focused his eyes, his brain refused to take in the concept of “golf club.” Thoughts of her invaded immediately, as they’d been invading all weekend no matter how hard he tried either to push them away or sort out the dilemma to a workable solution.

He should call her today. He probably should have called her over the weekend. Samantha was perfect for the human dining table series. Tall, slender, not overly curved. More than that, she had the perfect look. Class, innocence, sensuality, all built into the striking planes of her face, so that even immobile and deadpan, those qualities would come through in the shot.

So why hesitate? He absently adjusted the head of the putter, which a barely conscious part of him knew didn’t need adjusting.

Because he wanted her. Because in her classy innocent sensuality, she represented a danger to the control he held tight to. Since Krista he’d been careful to find models who fit the shots but held little or no appeal for him personally. He wasn’t going down that road again.