Don't Tempt Me...

DON’T TEMPT ME…

Dawn Atkins

To Renata,

for generously sharing your gifted eye

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Coming Next Month

1

“LEATHER SHOUTS, lace whispers,” Samantha Sawyer said to her new client, who’d flung off a red silk cloak to reveal her outfit for the portrait Samantha was about to snap of her.

The black leather bustier, red fishnets and glitter-flecked stilettos did not flatter the softly feminine woman before her. In that god-awful platinum flip, Misty looked like a plus-size dominatrix from a 1950s sci-fi movie.

“From what you told me earlier, I believe you want to lure Tony to bed, not chain him to the headboard and whip him into submission,” Samantha said gently.

“But Tony loves leather. Leather clothes, leather furniture, leather everything.” Misty swirled diamond-heavy fingers through the air.

“Tony loves you, Misty. And your body screams for lace.”

“It screams for air, that’s for sure. I can’t breathe.” Misty unhooked the top two grommets and exhaled in deep relief.

It saddened Samantha that instead of showing off her zaftig curves, Misty had crammed them into torturous fashions. Too many of Samantha’s clients did the same—wore too-small clothes, stripped their hair of natural color and turned their faces into exhausted masks with chemical peels and BOTOX shots.

“What did Bianca wear?” Misty asked. “However you fixed her, fix me. My Tony is…wandering.” Her summer-gray eyes went murky with worry.

“Let’s see what set feels right,” Samantha suggested, determined to cheer the woman. “And we’ll choose an outfit that suits you.”

“Okay.” Misty loosened a third grommet with a whooshing exhalation. “Bianca told me you’re a miracle worker. She says Darien’s a new man.”

Bianca Sylvestri, who’d sent Misty here, believed the boudoir photo Samantha had taken of her had saved her marriage and since then had referred a dozen family members, friends and associates for photos. In fact, her grateful husband Darien had offered Samantha a killer lease on the ground floor of his empty building and now she had Bedroom Eyes, plus shops for three friends—a massage studio, a hair salon and a lingerie boutique.

Samantha led the way to the velvet love seat in the corner of the anteroom, and Misty sat beside her, corset creaking like a saddle. Samantha put The Book of Fantasy in Misty’s lap. Her portfolio featured tasteful erotic shots in a range of settings from exotic harem to medieval castle to country meadow.

Samantha believed the shots had special appeal to her clients because they came from her own sexual fantasies. Fantasies she planned to bring to life once she found the time. And the man.

Six months ago, she’d made the decision to break out with her photography and her personal life. At the ripe age of twenty-seven, it had dawned on her that her strict upbringing had cramped her style more than she’d realized.

Enough already. She’d launched Bedroom Eyes and soon enough she’d go for some heart-stopping, take-me-now sex.

Her first step to a bolder Samantha had been giving herself permission to have sexual fantasies: elaborate ones with exciting lovers—pirates and princes and highwaymen and cowboys and cops—in imagined settings similar to the ones Misty was slowly flipping through, pondering each with a smile, a sigh or a closer look.

Misty studied the woman on the tiger chaise in a revealing dress of liquid velvet. This came from Samantha’s fantasy of willing ravishment—being gently tied and invited to surrender to passion by a lover who knew her white-hot core as well as his own. Her personal favorite.

Next, Misty came to the shadowed nude—Samantha’s friend Mona, owner of the massage studio, with her head thrown back, a faint smile on her face, light falling provocatively on her lush curves. Despite its simplicity, the shot required the precise use of fill and reflector to create a sensual, but modest, effect that suited Mona perfectly. Samantha matched pose, set and costume to personality, which gave her photos their special magic.

Misty flipped past that one fast. She didn’t have the confidence for nudity. Not yet, anyway. Samantha’s mission was to help her clients honor their natural beauty, but she never pushed them beyond their comfort level.

Two pages later, Misty gasped and put her fingers to her mouth in delight. Light zinged from her diamonds, as if from a magic wand. “This is it. What I want.”

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty. I love this one.” In this fantasy, Samantha was awakened by the kiss of a prince who’d searched the world over, risked his life to possess her with his hot mouth, tender fingers and thrusting—

Stop it.

Soon, Samantha would live these scenes instead of imagining them. Once she’d hired her assistant—which she’d just decided to do—she’d have more free time for her manhunt. She had to take action soon, before the ache between her thighs became a permanent charley horse.

“I know the perfect costume for you,” she said to Misty, closing the portfolio and pushing to her feet. “Come on.”

Samantha led Misty to the dressing room, with its two changing stalls, elevated try-on area with mirrors, lit makeup table and racks of fantasy clothes for men and women. Exotic shoes—spike heels, marabou slides, elaborate platforms and boots—were stored on racks along one wall. Hats, tiaras and headdresses rested on foam heads lining the top cupboards.

The overall impression was that of backstage at a theater—in fact, she’d scored most of her costumes, props and furniture from a defunct theater company. The lingerie, stockings and garters were on consignment from Valerie’s lingerie shop.

For Misty, Samantha flipped past the red teddy, black silk kimono and white peignoir and grabbed the pink satin camisole with an organdy robe that would flatter her curves. Clear acrylic kitten heels and a satin cone hat with a sheer train completed the princess effect.

Samantha swept the robe around the teddy, held it under Misty’s chin, then turned her toward the mirror. “Gorgeous, huh?”

“Very nice,” she said with barely a glance.

“You’re nervous you won’t look how you imagine?”

Misty nodded.

“That’s normal, but don’t worry. The lights I use, the angle, the costume and, mostly, who you are, Misty, will shine right through.”

“Really?” Misty’s don’t-dare-hope smile filled Samantha with renewed fire. Her very best work shored up an uncertain woman’s sense of her own sexual power.

“Absolutely.” Samantha grasped the locket she always wore, the talisman reminding her of her mission. “You’ll have fun, I promise.” She thrust the clothes at Misty. “Change and meet me in the first studio on your left.”

Misty headed for the dressing stall and Samantha took off for the fairy-tale studio to bring Misty’s fantasy to life.

One day soon, she’d do something about her own. She had a whole mental checklist of sexual adventures besides her fantasies—drizzling chocolate on naked bodies…sex in a hot tub…sex under the sky…beneath the stars…in an elevator…in a rainstorm. Tons of ideas. For when she had time.

Her focus so far had been on launching Bedroom Eyes. She had a five-year plan with firm benchmarks and steep targets. Specialty photography required a huge client pool to survive and her corporate accounts and catalogs could only sustain her so long. If she did well, she would consider expanding, perhaps adding a second photographer when the time was right.

The unexpected bounty of having Darien offer her the entire floor had complicated things. Managing the space had proved time consuming. For one thing, construction seemed continual. Darien was a nut about storage. The lingerie shop could hold Valerie’s inventory twice over and extra cupboards were being hammered into place in the hair salon right now.

Because she’d talked her friends into opening their shops here, she felt responsible for handling the tenant snafus. She’d dealt with the phone-line crash in Val’s lingerie shop, but she still had to look into the plumbing problem in Blythe’s salon and the AC glitch in Mona’s massage studio.

She planned to hand off the property management duties to her assistant, too. Just yesterday she’d slipped a help-wanted sign in her window and ordered a classified ad for next week’s paper.

Now she checked the digital Canon for image space—plenty. She used the digital for test shots to show the clients, but made prints from the richer film images. Ensuring the Hasselblad on the tripod held a full roll, she pulled down the castle backdrop, dragged the bed into position and was draping a garland of white silk roses over its canopy when the front door buzzed.

Damn. She had no time for a walk-in now. Maybe it was just Valerie wanting to pin down the details for the afternoon—Samantha had promised to help her arrange her stock and dress the mannequins in her windows. Her artist eye and all.

But it wasn’t Valerie at her counter. It was a man. Handsome and tall, wearing a chambray shirt and 501s, with crisply cut black hair and a stance as square as his jaw, he was so masculine he made the studio look as froufrou as a dollhouse. And he seemed so familiar….

She knew immediately why. He was the spitting image of the weather-beaten cowboy in her fantasy—the sexy loner who smelled of wood smoke and leather and tenderly ran his rough palms over her delicate skin.

He set a scuffed leather portfolio on the counter and gave her a wicked smile. Maybe he was more like the highwayman risking arrest to enter her bedchamber by moonlight and possess her utterly.

“May I help you?” she asked, managing to sound normal.

“Rick West.” He held out a hand so big it swallowed hers up. No calluses, so forget the cowboy. And his expression was strong and no-nonsense. More like the hard-bitten cop catching her speeding, then patting her down and losing all restraint.

“Samantha Sawyer,” she managed to say, fighting her urge to add, Have I done something wrong, Officer?

He was clearly not here for a photo. Men’s men only came in when they were dragged by the women who’d conquered their hearts. Rick West was alone. And without a ring.

Stop it.

“I’m here about the job,” he said, giving her a blast of remarkable green eyes that made her want to say yes, yes, oh yes. He unzipped his portfolio, biceps tightening. “I’m a photographer.”

“A photographer?” Not the cowboy, highwayman or cop. He was the artist, slowly peeling away her clothes so he could capture her on canvas or film or in clay. “But I’m only looking for an assistant.”

“No problem. I can assist. Hold reflectors, deliver negs, answer the phones.” He snatched her gaze up tight. “Whatever you need me to do.”

Would you wear leather chaps? How about handcuffs? His eyes were a rare green. Not as bright as emerald or as subdued as jade. Nature’s green—a Scottish hillside, a particular moss she’d seen on Oak Creek’s red rocks.

“It would be a lot of errands, some marketing calls, low-skill stuff,” she said, but he’d flipped open the portfolio to get his résumé, and she went close enough to peek at his pictures, bumping the counter, which wobbled. She had to ask Darien’s crew to attach it properly to the floor.

“Wow,” she said. The first photo was a startling shot of a big-winged bird that seemed to dance over a hillock of gold-and-yellow desert poppies. “Is that a falcon?”

“No. Turkey vulture.”

“But it’s so elegant.” She glanced up at him.

“Yeah.” He smiled mysteriously, as if the grace of the bird were his private secret. She could picture that wicked grin beneath a Zorro mask, with him all in black and her in a low-cut peasant blouse. Tell me what you desire of me, mysterious outlaw.

Your breasts, your thighs, your silky skin, your fiery soul.

He turned the portfolio at a better angle, so she could flip through it. Misty was waiting, but Samantha could at least glance at what he had. The second shot held racing clouds dusted by gold over an up-jutting desert promontory in an iridescent blue sky. “Gorgeous.” She glanced up at him.

“Canyon de Chelly,” he said, a flicker of pride in his Scottish-moss eyes. Forget the Zorro mask. She’d want those green eyes boring straight into her soul.

She was close enough to pick up his scent—lime-spice aftershave, fresh air and starch. His shirt was stiff, the sleeves fiercely creased. He’d ironed it? Masculine, but deliciously domestic. Mmm.

She flipped through breathtaking wildlife and landscape shots—mostly Southwest, mostly desert, mostly color, though there were a few dramatic black-and-whites. Subtle emotions played over every print. His work was technically brilliant with an artistry that made even the familiar seem new.

“These are wonderful, Rick,” she said, “but I take specialty portraits, as you can see.” She motioned at the framed prints that surrounded them.

He thrust his résumé at her.

She looked it over. Freelance work for several magazines. He’d also been an automobile mechanic and had served in the army. His references included the photo editor at Arizona Highways, whom she knew.

“You can see my work’s mostly landscape and wildlife,” he said, “and I’d like to add some portraits to my portfolio. Glamour sells.” He shrugged, as if that were an obvious motivation.

“But there wouldn’t be much photography if any. I’m just growing my business. I’m only paying minimum wage.” She extended the résumé, but he didn’t take it, just held her gaze, something flaring in his eyes. Attraction spun hot between them and made the air seem to crackle.

“I’m flexible,” he said, a sexy edge to his words.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she blurted, surprising herself. He stood arrow straight, but there was an animal grace to him that made her want to see him in motion. She felt light-headed and a little weak. “But still…”

She just didn’t see him doing this job.

Now, doing her…that she could definitely see. He’d slipped into her fantasies as easy as a night swim in August. What about making them real? She tugged on her locket, sliding it back and forth on its chain, pondering the idea.

Ask him out. You want him. He wants you. Simple.

Mona claimed Samantha used Bedroom Eyes as an excuse to back-burner her love life. Mona thought she was chicken.

Brrock, brrock.

So prove her wrong. This is the man. This is the place.

Still watching her, Rick braced a hip on the counter. When it shifted under him, he turned to jiggle it. “I could fix this. Someone could get hurt.” He winked. Hire me. You know you want to.

“I can’t offer you the job, Rick,” she breathed, “but how about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Or maybe just dessert.” She’d blurted the words before she’d absorbed the utter surprise on his face. He evidently hadn’t been flirting so much. Oh, God. She’d gotten so caught up in her imagination, she’d assumed they were doing that sexy subtext repartee she loved in the movies…and her fantasies.

“Just kidding. Heh-heh.” She laughed a fake laugh, madly grinding her locket along its chain, embarrassed as hell.

“Uh, that sounds…tempting….” He nodded a little, awkward, opened and closed his mouth, as if not sure what to say next.

The door buzzed and they both turned to watch Bianca Sylvestri rush in, her timing either perfect or rotten, Samantha wasn’t quite sure which.

Bianca, a chubby dynamo, wore a knitted dress of multicolored nubby yarn with a matching pillbox hat. Her own creation, no doubt, since her ankle boots were trimmed in the same wool. Bianca loved to knit and was about to open her own yarn shop.

“You have to help me, Sammi,” she said with breathy drama. “My niece Angela and her new husband Joey are desperate for a photo.”

“I’ve got a client right now, Bianca. Misty’s here.” And I just asked a man out for dessert. Dessert, can you believe that?

Even mortified to her roots, Samantha wasn’t done fantasizing about Rick. Even now she could picture drizzling chocolate over his naked chest and flat belly, could see him licking her own swells and dips absolutely squeaky clean.

“Misty? Bless her heart, she does need you. But Joey’s going to Chicago for three whole months and Angela needs a picture to keep her warm while he’s gone. They’ll be here in a blip. Joey doesn’t know and we can’t give him a nanosecond to think. Strip-sit-click, you know, before he starts whining.”

“I’d love to help, Bianca, but Misty’s waiting for me.”

“Is she in the fairy-tale room?”

Samantha nodded.

“Great, because we need the exotic studio. You just go on and finish up with Misty.” Bianca waved her away with diamond-heavy fingers. “I know exactly what we want and I’ll set up for you.” Bianca had helped with several friends’ shoots, so this wasn’t unusual behavior.

“I don’t know…” Samantha said.

“I can help her.” Rick said. “So you can finish.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Rick.”

“Sure you can,” he said, low and steady, coaxing her.

“Perfect!” Bianca sang out. “Rick, is it? You’re a lifesaver.”

“Anything I can do,” Rick said, keeping his eyes on Samantha, still angling for the job.

He could save her time. Plus, moving props on Bianca’s command would undoubtedly prove to him he didn’t want the job.

Now dessert…that might still be on the table. She’d have to wait and see.

2

MAYBE JUST DESSERT? Damn. Rick followed the hot photographer deeper into her studio, figuring his next move. He’d meant to be friendly and helpful—a Boy Scout, not a horn dog—but his attraction to her obviously showed.

Now the woman didn’t want to hire him; she wanted to screw his brains out. He’d been close to saying, How about dinner and dessert? As if he regularly traded sex for a W-4.

He was rusty at this.

Granted, the old Rick would have been happy to share dinner, dessert, a midnight snack and breakfast in bed with a woman like her. Not the new Rick and certainly not the Rick who was on duty.

He hated undercover work, despite the prestige. He hated wearing a different persona, keeping his lies in order, cozying up to suspects and scumbags. He liked things clean and straight and honest and simple. But his photography background made him ideal for the assignment, so here he was.

And he’d struck gold already, whether or not Sawyer hired him. He was about to question the wife of the mobster they were after. Darien Sylvestri owned this building and had set up Sawyer and her friends in business.

Exactly what kind of business the organized-crime task force hadn’t yet pinned down. Money laundering, stolen goods or bookmaking, if Sylvestri stuck to his Chicago specialties. Pornography? Possible, considering Darien’s in-town associates and all the strippers and hookers prancing through the Mirror, Mirror Beauty Center, the complex that housed the studio, salon, lingerie shop and massage place.

Something was definitely happening in Bedroom Eyes, they knew. Just before Sawyer had opened shop, the task force had triangulated a juicy call between Sylvestri and an associate. The photo studio’s prime, he’d said. We’re all set with the tenant…. God bless Bianca. The caller had said something garbled about a shop and some deliveries, then they’d lapsed into small talk. That was enough to move on the building.

Whatever was going on, Rick’s job was to expose it from the inside as an employee. Which meant he had to get the damn job. Say whatever he had to say to get Sawyer to hire him.

He’d have to work the attraction angle. Just enough to get the connection going. Keep a tight rein on his reactions, of course. Go by the book, but he could be friendly, couldn’t he?

She’d caught him off guard with that offer. Very direct. She almost seemed to have surprised herself.

She was hotter close up than she’d seemed from the surveillance. Smarter, too. And more intense.

Interesting.

He followed her down the hall, scanning every detail of the place in case this was his only chance to check it out.

Sawyer stuck her head into the first room. “Go ahead and pick out a CD to play, Misty, and I’ll be right back.”

Misty Simone, Rick knew. He and his partner Mark had watched her enter the studio earlier. Her husband Tony was small potatoes compared to Sylvestri. So was Joey Balistero, Sylvestri’s son-in-law, whose shoot Rick was about to help with, but the more they knew about everyone who frequented the center, the tighter the case would be.

He wondered how deep in Sawyer was with Sylvestri, who’d relocated from Chicago a year ago, supposedly to retire, making a few quiet property purchases—a big house in Paradise Valley, a small commercial lot in Scottsdale, some horse acres outside Cave Creek and this two-story office building in a faded Phoenix strip mall.

Sawyer’s help-wanted sign had been the first solid way onto the scene. Infiltrating the cleaning crew had failed—Sylvestri’s people handled that—and trying for a lease or posing as shop customers was too short-term. Once he got hired, he could freely search the building, get to know the players, locate the action.

In a few minutes, he was about to see Balistero stripped to Skivvies. Not a pleasant prospect, but if it helped with the case, he’d hold the guy’s, uh, belt for him.

Glancing into the first studio as he passed, Rick caught sight of a medium-format camera on a tripod pointed at a castle backdrop, a couple of lights on stands, a three-panel reflector, and Misty, who gave him a shaky smile.

Dressed in a pink nightie and a party hat, the woman was obviously not there for a porn shot. Probably didn’t even know her husband was dirty. The wives were always the last to know.

Farther down the hall, Rick noted another studio to the right, followed by a service door to the parking lot, then a tiny office, which he was staring into when Sawyer stopped short.

He bumped into her full on, enjoying her firm backside, and got a blast of flowers. Her thick red-brown hair snagged in his chin stubble.

She turned and looked up at him, her burned-in blue eyes wide with surprise. “Well, hello there,” she breathed, trying to act cool, but flustered. Very flustered.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be.” Her eyes gave him a once-over, her pink tongue peeking out. “It was nice.” She dragged a medallion on a chain, which drew his gaze to her spectacular set of nature’s own.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Yeah. Very nice.”

For just a second, case or no case, he wished he’d met her before he’d decided to settle down, start a family, back when he was content with an occasional night with a warm and willing female.

“Here’s Bianca,” she said, waving him into the next studio, where Sylvestri’s wife was rummaging around in the fake fur, pillows and vases on shelves. The room looked like backstage at a strip club, with elaborate furniture in animal prints and a black metal arch, along with photo equipment and three rolled backdrops.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Samantha asked him, her eyes twinkling. “It’s nothing like snapping a sunlit vista, you know.”

“I’m up for anything,” he said, letting the sexual undertow tug at the sand beneath their feet. He would have to tactfully backpedal if she went for what he was hinting at, but for now he had to keep her interested.