A Taste Of Fantasy

But something about this woman called strongly to him. Made him plenty aware that being alone with her in a studio—even on a closed set with a hair and makeup stylist on call—while Samantha had on next to nothing would bring temptation home.

More than temptation. Torture.

He should avoid her. Listen to the voice in his head shouting, “Run, you idiot, run.” He didn’t need to mess up his life again, now that he’d clawed his way back on track. If he slept with her, as he was pretty sure she wanted him to by the signals she was sending out, and if he got away with it this time, then what would stop him the next time someone offered, and the next? Until he hooked up with another Krista and had his career nuked again. He might not be able to start over a third time and get anywhere he or anyone else could respect.

Jack glared at the putter and unnecessarily adjusted the grip this time. What scared him was that in spite of the well-known, acknowledged, been-down-that-road-before risks, he wanted Samantha in his studio and in his series. He missed the game, the chase, the thrilling, orgasmic victory. He wanted to be tempted by her. Wanted to feel the intense rush of excitement as he had in the bar. A rush he’d denied himself for so long.

He felt like a recovering alcoholic face-to-foam with a big frosty mug of beer. Lifting it, inhaling the sour yeasty scent, bringing it to his lips so the bubbles tickled his—

“What the heck is with you?” His studio manager Maria lifted a dark pierced eyebrow. “You’ve been whackyed-out all day.”

“Whackyed-out?” He smiled at her tough hands-on-hips stance, so incongruous on her tiny frame. But he sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her temper. “How have I been whackyed-out?”

“All day you’ve been wandering and whistling. Usually you’re like a headless chicken running around.”

“Wow, Maria, thanks.” He sent her a look of fond exasperation. “It really pumps me up to be compared to barnyard animals.”

“No problem.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “So what’s this woman’s name?”

Jack tried very hard to recover from extreme shock without giving himself away. “What woman?”

Maria’s eyes narrowed. “The one who has you whackyed-out.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Ha! Cut the crap.” She leaned forward and impaled him with her nearly black eyes. “You can fool some people sometimes, but Maria never. I know you have a woman and she’s crazying up your head. My brother Paulo looks just like that about ten times a year. If my Miguel looks like that even for half an hour, bam!” She made a decisive chop on her open palm.

He grinned and shook his head. “And if I tell you it’s none of your business?”

“I’m making it my business.” She cocked her head so the studio light sparkled off the diamond piercing her nostril. “She better be worth you. Is she?”

He pictured Samantha’s blond hair draping her shoulders, her soft-looking, slightly rosy skin, clear eyes dancing with life. She was probably worth about ten of him. “I don’t know.”

“Then you better find out.” She made a circling motion with one finger next to her multi-earringed ear. “Or you’ll stay wacky forever.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that right.”

“I’m serious.” Her eyes widened in outrage. “This obsession won’t go away by itself. Like a splinter, she will dig in deeper if you ignore her. Take her out. Examine. You can’t get free any other way.”

He rolled his eyes, still grinning. Since the dawn of time, there had never been a more determined matchmaker. “I think you’re reading a little too much into it.”

She shrugged. “If you don’t give love a chance at the obvious time, it’ll come back and bite you in the ass.”

“Love?” He stared at her incredulously. Over the top, even for Maria. “This isn’t love we’re talking about.”

“Oh, right, matters of the dick.” She waved at him dismissively. “I’ve seen you lusting plenty of times. This is different. You watch. You’ll see. In one year, I’ll be dancing at your wedding, thumbing my nose at you.”

Jack laughed. As much as he sometimes wanted to use dynamite to budge her from her strongly adhered-to opinions, Maria lit up the studio like a 2K hot light, and he adored her. “My wedding, huh?”

“You betcha. You blow this you’ll end up alone in a cold apartment with a shriveled you-know-what, eating cold ravioli out of a can.”

“Well, if you put it that way, I better give it some serious thought.” Jack rubbed his thumb along the side of his jaw, pretending to be giving it some serious thought. All kidding aside, and he owed Maria thanks for bringing him face-to-face with the truth this morning, he’d spent the last few days fooling himself thinking he was trying to decide. He’d made his decision about ten seconds after he saw Samantha sitting in the bar, rigid with nerves over being out by herself. She was too perfect for the shoot not to call.

At the same time, he was smart to recognize the rush of fight or flight energy, like a swimmer seeing shadows in the water under him, not knowing if they were coral reefs or hungry sharks. No question he had a struggle ahead to keep the relationship professional.

“Well.” He sighed, long and loud. “If you’ve made up your mind, Maria, then it’s obvious what I have to do.”

Maria nodded firmly, her lips starting a smile that reflected his mischief. “Damn right.”

“I guess…” He shrugged in exaggerated helplessness and let his hands slap down on his thighs. “I guess I have no choice but to call her.”

“MS. TYLER? SORRY TO keep you waiting. I’m Rick Grindle.”

Samantha looked up from the file she’d been studying in the reception area of Eisemann, Inc.

Yikes.

Her nice-to-meet-you smile immediately threatened to slide off her lips and she had to use extra muscle to bolster it back up. Whatever she’d expected Rick Grindle to look like, this wasn’t it. The man was well over six feet and built like a linebacker. The way Tanya, his accuser, had talked about him, Samantha had expected something closer to Elmer Fudd.

His eyes were an intense pale gray set off by the pure white of his shirt and the deeper-gray charcoal of his perfectly tailored suit. The black-and-white impression was marred by a crimson tie that made a silk blood-swath down into his neatly buttoned jacket. His hair had started to go the way of bald things and he kept what was left buzzed military-short. Unlike some guys, the lack of hair reinforced his virility and completed the picture of the imposing giant.

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