Picture me Sexy. Rhonda NelsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
his senses went on heightened alert. With the exception of few, most women who came to him were nervous about putting their bodies on display. They worried about thick thighs, small breasts and that extra ten pounds they’d put on since childbirth. Things that simply didn’t matter to a man who loved them.
Men were visual. That’s why they looked at Playboy magazines, watched the occasional flick, and liked to make love with the lights on. Men liked sexy and naked and, quite frankly, the immediate impulse of the combined two didn’t leave time to log any imperfections. When a man saw a naked woman, the head with the brain instantly ceded control to the head without one. Men were animals. They’d been divinely wired to be fruitful and multiply. ’Nuff said.
Delaney Walker designed some of the hottest, sexiest lingerie on the market. She was a true sensualist. He would have thought that she, of all people, wouldn’t suffer any insecurities about her body. Yet clearly she did, Sam decided as he studied her more closely. What an intriguing paradox. She obviously didn’t have the balls-to-the-wall, wild-child personality her designs—or the local paparazzi reports—implied. He filed it away for future consideration.
“This is a fantastic place you’ve got here,” she said. She’d strolled to the bank of floor-to-ceiling paned-glass windows and gazed at the old downtown Memphis skyline. “Did you do all the renovations yourself?”
“Most of them,” Sam replied. “I did the majority of the cosmetic work, the painting and the floors, but I contracted out the plumbing and rewiring.” He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologize for the mess the building is in. When the owner saw how well my loft turned out, he decided to renovate the entire building.” Sam offered her a smile. “Things are chaotic right now, but it’ll be nice when the work is completed.”
She turned to face him and that sense of déjà vu slammed into him once more. She nodded succinctly. “Without a doubt. Your loft is lovely.”
Irritated with his reaction to her, Sam redoubled his efforts to remain professional and merely nodded. You’ve got a lot riding on this, Martelli, Sam told himself. Don’t screw it up. “So, are you ready to get started?”
She didn’t look ready, Sam noted. In fact, she looked miserable. Indecision vibrated off her tight frame and she tortured that full bottom lip with her teeth. But just when he thought she’d decided against the session, she turned, pulled in a bolstering breath, then smiled and said, “Not ready…but determined.”
He could see that, Sam thought, unreasonably impressed. Delaney Walker had moxie, a trait Sam found both equally attractive and appealing. He nodded, pleased. “Good. If you’ll follow me, Ms. Walker—”
She snorted indelicately. “Call me Delaney. You’re about to see me half-naked. I hardly think we need to stand on formality.”
Sam felt his lips slide into a grin. “Fine. Delaney, it is then. I’m Sam, by the way. The dressing room is down the hall, first door on the left. Go change and don’t forget.”
She quirked a brow and her lips tucked into the shadow of a smile. “Forget what?”
Sam winked at her. “Men suck.”
2
DELANEY MADE HER WAY DOWN the hall he had indicated and felt her muscles marginally relax. She’d needed that bracing thought and decided that, in addition to being one of the sexiest creatures God had ever thought about putting on this earth, clearly Sam Martelli was intuitive as well.
Undoubtedly he’d read about her recent humiliation in the paper, but rather than bringing it up, or embarrassing her by trying to comfort her, he’d instinctively known just what to say. She hoped he carried that keen perception into the studio with him, because she was going to need every single ounce of determination to get through this shoot. Just the idea of putting on some of the outfits she’d brought with her made her entire body clench with dread. Made her throat dry and her palms itch.
But those weaknesses made her every bit as determined to see this through. She stiffened. She would do this shoot. She would wear her lingerie. She could and she would. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she’d attached a tremendous amount of importance to conquering her modesty, to making this personal area of her life work. A new attitude without the actions to back it up was worthless.
Delaney found the dressing room and quietly let herself inside. The room was relatively small, but homey. An Oriental rug covered the dark hardwood floors. A small Duncan Phyfe sofa sat against one wall and a huge, heavily carved mahogany cheval mirror stood in the corner.
Rather than line the wall with hooks for hanging clothes, Sam had attached antique glass doorknobs. The novel idea drew a delighted smile. He’d done a phenomenal job blending the old with the new, and the resulting effect was warm and homey, yet eclectic and very romantic. She couldn’t fault his taste and found herself genuinely intrigued by him. She suspected he was an estate sale/antique mall junkie like herself. Delaney’s antebellum home was stuffed to the rafters with her finds as well. She couldn’t drive past a junk store, yard sale, or antique mall without stopping.
She briefly wondered if a Mrs. Martelli were in the picture, but instinctively knew that wasn’t the case. Of course, it could simply be wishful thinking on her part.
Irritation surged, which was ridiculous since she’d just recently decided to swear off men and possibly change her sexual preference. Honestly, what was wrong with her? She’d been given irrefutable proof—repeatedly—that men sucked. So what if he was possibly the sexiest man she’d ever seen? So what if her nipples still tingled and she still felt the residual heat of that flash fire her body had undergone the moment she laid eyes on him? So what if her wayward sex still throbbed and the moisture hadn’t fully returned to her mouth? Other parts of her anatomy were astonishingly wet.
Delaney angrily jerked off her clothes, slung them over the couch and ripped into her bag. She snagged a white cotton peasant gown pulled it over her head and donned the coordinating thong.
She was 0 for 2, dammit. She couldn’t trust her own judgment when it came to men. Any man. Even that one, though it pained her to admit it. She didn’t need to be wondering whether Mr. Sex out there had a wife or not. All she needed to concern herself with was whether or not he could take a good picture. If his reputation held true, then she should be pleased.
Delaney turned, caught sight of herself in the mirror and wilted like a cheap corsage. Every ounce of self-deprecating anger drained out of her as she stared miserably at the image displayed in the mirror. It was a lovely gown, trimmed with French lace and tiny satin ribbon and she’d even reluctantly admit that it looked lovely on her. The cut was loose, with blousy sleeves, and it hung to mid-thigh. Very romantic. The gown was so utterly feminine, so sweetly sexy, it would flatter any woman.
Still, just knowing that she wore nothing underneath but a pair of thonged panties and her birthday suit was enough to send her heart rate into an irregular rhythm. The familiar weight of dread coalesced in her tummy. She shoved her hands through her hair, watched the long tresses fall over her breasts. Another defense mechanism, Delaney thought, disgusted.
Covering her body with clothes wasn’t enough—she used her hair as well.
Oh, hell. Changing herself in theory sounded great, but could she pull it off in fact, as well? She bit her lip. Could she do this? Could she really do this?
A knock at the door startled her. “Delaney?” Sam called hesitantly. “You about ready in there?”
No, she wasn’t ready by any stretch of the imagination…but like she’d told him, she was determined. Delaney pulled in a shuddering breath. “Yeah, coming right out.”
She squared her shoulders, opened the door and met Sam in the hall. Something about his tall, reassuring presence made her feel marginally better. He briefly appraised her outfit, but his gaze didn’t linger on any particular area. She didn’t know whether to be thankful or perturbed, and decided not to ponder the conundrum while half-naked in the hall.
“The peasant