Kristin Gabriel - Sheerly Irresistible

“Here we go,” Evan exclaimed, pulling a raspberry pink beret out of the satchel. He brushed off the lint, then handed it to her. “Put it on.”

She placed the beret on her head. “How’s that?”

“Perfect! I can almost hear the theme song to the show.” He adjusted the brim, then stepped back and framed her between his fingers. “Now lose the blouse.”

She looked down at her yellow cotton blouse, then shrugged and took it off, leaving only the white tank top underneath to go with her khaki shorts.

“Much better,” Evan said, looping the camera strap over his neck. “Now stand up and lean against the door. Pretend it’s a man and make love to it.”

Claire rose to her feet, frowning at the tattered screen door streaked with rust. “I don’t remember Mary making love to any doors.”

He heaved a tortured sigh. “It’s all we have at the moment. Just work with me here.”

The screen door suddenly opened, catching Claire in the shin. “Ow!”

“Excuse me,” muttered a man backing out of the door. He was tall, dark and shirtless.

He turned to face her, a crate of empty beer bottles in his arms. But it was the sight of his bare, broad chest that had Claire’s mouth watering. Along with the raven hair slicked back off his forehead, the shadow of whiskers on his square jaw, and his startling blue eyes. She swallowed hard to keep from drooling.

The man raised his voice, laced now with impatience. “Excuse me.”

She stumbled off the step to let him pass and he set the crate of beer bottles next to a recycling bin, then disappeared inside the nightclub once more.

“Sir,” Evan shouted after him, bounding up the back step. The man appeared at the door a moment later carrying another crate of empty bottles.

“Can you help us out here?” Evan asked.

“What do you need?”

“My name is Evan and this is Mary,” he said, motioning to her.

“Claire,” she corrected.

“Whatever,” Evan replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And you are?”

The man hesitated a moment, taking stock of them both. “Mitch Malone.”

“Well, Mitch, I’m trying to finish up a photo shoot and Mary here, I mean Claire, is having trouble making love to the door. I thought if she had a human prop it might work better.”

Mitch didn’t even blink at the odd request. “Sorry, but I have twenty more crates to haul out here.”

“Perfect. That’s just what we need.” Evan reached out and positioned Claire in front of him. “You find him attractive, don’t you?”

She cleared her throat as Mitch’s gaze moved to her face. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “I’m…I mean…he seems very nice.”

“Mitch is more than nice.” Evan told her, grabbing his camera once more. “He’s everything you’ve ever desired in a man. Now show me how much you want him. Try to seduce him with some great body language as he moves in and out of the building.”

Claire turned to Evan as a hot flush crept into her cheeks. “Is this really necessary?”

Evan held up both hands. “No questions, remember? I am the artist here.”

“I’m going back to work now,” Mitch said, setting down the crate.

“Yes, go right ahead.” Evan began snapping a rapid succession of pictures as Mitch walked back inside the building. “Okay, now wait for him, Claire…there he is…now remember, we want hot. We want sultry.”

Claire sidled out of Mitch’s way as he deposited another crate on the ground, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. It didn’t help matters that he seemed totally oblivious to her. She tried sultry. She tried pouting. She even tried opening the door for him and striking a sexy pose against it, but she only succeeded in popping out the screen.

“Keep going. We’re getting there,” Evan told her, snapping a few more pictures as she just stood there with her hands on her hips while Mitch strode past her once more.

It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. Of course, the man was only half-dressed. A light sheen of perspiration glowed on his tanned skin, his powerful muscles flexing in his thick chest and broad shoulders.

She’d seen scantily clad men before on her travels, but there was something mesmerizing about the way this man’s body moved. He had an easy grace that made most of the men at Penleigh, in their tweed jackets and loafers, seem stuffy by comparison. Mitch was definitely a product of his environment. Solid. Earthy. Primal.

Somehow he made the alley seem even hotter than before.

“Not bad,” Evan said at last, popping another roll of film into his camera. “Now let’s try some Mary poses. We’re going for the carefree look. Try tossing the beret into the air.”

She stepped away from the back entrance of The Jungle, more than ready to finish this photo shoot. “Like this?” She threw the beret high into the air, squinting against the bright June sun.

“Good,” Evan said as the camera whirred. “Now do it again. But I want you to catch it this time.”

Claire picked up the beret, hearing the screen door squeak once again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mitch set another crate on the ground. Determined to show him the same amount of indifference he was showing her, she tossed the beret high into the air. Only her throw was a little off and she had to walk backward as it fluttered toward the ground. She skidded on a crushed tin can, lost her balance, and landed against something hard and warm.

Mitch.

He braced his large hands on her hips to steady her. “You okay?”

She gulped in a deep breath, well aware of his long fingers spanning her waist. Her back was against his bare chest and she inhaled a musky aroma that was all male. “I’m fine.”

He let go of her, then bent down to pick up the beret. “Here you go, Mary.”

“Claire,” she breathed through dry lips.

“Whatever.”

AN HOUR LATER, CLAIRE forced both the photo shoot and Mitch Malone completely out of her mind. Excitement fluttered in her chest as she climbed out of a taxi at Central Park West, then waited while the driver retrieved her bags from the trunk. The Willoughby towered in front of her, a high-rise apartment building with art deco trim on the facade.

Her godmother, Petra Gerard, lived here and Claire couldn’t wait to see her again. But first she had to get past the young man who sat sprawled on a lawn chair inside the glass-enclosed foyer of the building. He wore baggy blue polka dot swimming trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and green-tinted zinc oxide on his narrow aquiline nose.

As she dragged her suitcases through the heavy plate glass door, he didn’t even look up. Just sat there humming to the music emanating from the boom box, his skinny feet soaking in a blue plastic wading pool.

She paused to catch her breath as the Beach Boys began singing about “California Girls.”

“If you don’t give me the password,” the man said, his head propped on the lawn chair with a rolled-up orange beach towel. “I will be forced to stop you with the Venetian death grip.”

“And you are?” Her gaze fell on his pale, hairless chest. Then she noticed the tattoo on his upper left bicep. It looked like a small schnauzer.

“I’m Franco Rossi. Aspiring actor, black belt in karate and judo, and temporary doorman.” He slid his sunglasses up on top of his head, then followed her gaze to his arm. “It’s Toto. The tattoo, not the password. I happen to be a big fan of The Wizard Of Oz.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering if he was mentally stable.

He smiled, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from Indiana.”

“Same difference.”

Claire set both her suitcases on the polished marble floor. “I’m here to see Petra Gerard. She’s expecting me.”