Joanna Sims - The One He's Been Looking For

Ian turned slightly toward her. “So … you don’t feel like drinking and you don’t feel like dancing. What do you feel like doing?”

Kissing you.

That thought popped into her head instantly, and she was glad that the words hadn’t popped right out of her mouth. But it was the truth. She wanted to kiss Ian and be kissed by Ian. She wanted to be in his arms. She wanted the simple pleasure of holding his hand. She had given a pretty good speech the night before about being “just friends,” but her heart wanted a much deeper connection with Ian than that. She wanted to ignore the flashing warning signs—bad timing or not, her heart was attaching itself to Ian.

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JOANNA SIMSlives in Florida with her husband and their three fabulous felines. Joanna works as a therapist for the public school system during the day, but spends her evenings and weekends fulfilling her lifelong dream of writing compelling, modern romances for Mills & Boon. When it’s time to take a break from writing, Joanna enjoys going for long walks with her husband and curling up on the couch to watch movies (romantic comedies preferably). She loves to answer any questions or provide additional information for her readers. You can contact her at joannasims2@live.com.

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Dedicated to Martha:

Thank you for being a special part of my life.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Excerpt

Chapter One

Jordan Brand opened the throttle of her jet-black Ducati motorcycle and shot through the intersection just before the light turned red. She leaned forward as she aimed her bike between the two cars in front of her, determined to make up time by creating a third lane for herself. Jordan ignored the loud honking as she zipped in between the two lanes of traffic. She couldn’t care less if the other drivers didn’t like her shortcuts. This was California. No one had the right to cast stones.

Jordan cut off a canary-yellow Escalade as she made a right turn onto Broadway. She ignored the posted speed-limit sign. After all, sometimes tiny little rules needed to be broken. Jordan accelerated as she made another right onto Sixth and drove in the wrong direction up the one-way street. After dodging an oncoming car, she invented a parking spot in a no-parking zone and jammed on the brakes. She dropped the kickstand and shut off the engine.

“What lunatic actually thought it was a good idea to give you your license back?”

After she removed her helmet from her head, Jordan smiled broadly at the large, heavily tattooed man standing outside the tattoo parlor. “Which one of us has a better shot at makin’ it to old age, Chappy? Me with my driving, or you with your cigarettes?”

Chappy grinned right before he took another drag from his unfiltered cigarette. “It’s too close to call.”

Jordan swung her leg over the seat of her bike, tucked her helmet under her arm and walked over to where he was standing. She reached up, pulled the cigarette out from between his lips, dropped it on the sidewalk and then crushed it beneath the heel of her boot.

“I just added a week to your life.” She smiled up at him.

Chappy ran a beefy hand over his shaved, tattooed head. “If you come a little closer and give me a hug, I’ll forgive you.”

After she gave him a quick hug, Jordan asked, “Is Marty inside?”

“He’s been waitin’ on you, as usual. Got the client in the chair already. Don’t you own a watch?”

Jordan stepped away from him with an easy laugh and pulled a rolled piece of paper from the inside pocket of her motorcycle jacket. “I have the drawing right here. When have I ever let you down?” She stopped just before she pulled open the door to the tattoo parlor. “You know, for social degenerates, the two of you are really uptight about punctuality.”

* * *

“No.” Ian Sterling slipped the top photo from the large stack of pictures in his hand and dropped it onto the floor.

“No,” he said again, and the second photo followed the first. He sifted quickly through the pile as he paced around his photography studio. “No. No. No. Dammit. No!”

Ian dropped the rest of the photographs onto the floor. He pulled off his reading glasses, marched over to his phone and stabbed at the intercom button with his finger. “Chelsea.”

Dylan Axel, who was leaning casually against the desk, asked, “Is there a problem?”

Ian ignored him. “Chelsea. Come in here, please.”

The door leading to the reception area opened and a tall, rail-thin brunette hurried in. “Yes, Mr. Sterling?”

Ian jerked his head toward the photographs strewn across the polished concrete floor. “Shred those.”

Chelsea looked temporarily stunned but snapped out of it quickly. She lowered herself to the ground in her skintight pencil skirt and began to pick up the discarded pictures.

“I’m starting to think that you don’t approve of the models I found.” Dylan sauntered over to where Chelsea was teetering on her stiletto heels and offered his hand to her. “I’ll take care of it, Chelsea. Thank you.”

Chelsea’s eyes shot to Ian before she allowed Dylan to help her to her feet.

“What I want,” Ian said in frustration, “is just one model who doesn’t have the same face that I’ve seen a million times before!”

Ian walked over to his receptionist. “Take Chelsea, for instance.”

Dylan bent down and scooped up the head shots of the models he had found. He stood up and looked at his friend with apprehension. Usually he could count on Ian to be diplomatic, but lately, he’d become a loose cannon.

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Ian said to Dylan before he turned to Chelsea. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you.” Chelsea’s smile brightened. Receiving a compliment from Ian Sterling was like winning the lottery for an aspiring model.

“But there’s nothing new here, there’s nothing special here. I’m looking for a face that I’ve haven’t seen before, a face that makes me feel...inspired. Is that too much to ask?” Ian looked from one to the other of them questioningly.

His receptionist looked crestfallen and her smile faded. The color drained from her face as she spun on her heel and headed toward the door. She reached for the doorknob and slipped out. Dylan could hear the drawer of her desk being slammed shut. If she came back, he’d have to smooth things over with her.

“I don’t know, Ian....” Dylan frowned at his long-time friend. “Is it too much to ask for you to be polite every once in a while?”

Ian glanced up, surprised to discover that Chelsea had left. He stared at the closed door for a second before he rubbed the back of his neck. He had been trying to make a point to Dylan, not insult Chelsea.