Rhonda Nelson - Picture me Sexy

Really wanted him.

The breath stuttered out of her lungs in a whoosh of longing, her womb clenched, her nipples tightened and her very bones seemed to melt beneath the heat of no-holds-barred raw, primal desire.

Mr. Sex anchored one hand at his waist and held a camera loosely in the other. He had great hands, big and tanned with blunt-tipped fingers. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands, Delaney thought absently.

“Men suck, eh?” he asked in a voice that was smooth and deep and sang in her ears like a soulful jazz tune.

Delaney moistened her suddenly dry lips, managed a nod. Yes, they did…and mercy she’d just bet this one would be great at it.

SAM HAD ENVISIONED his first meeting with the legendary lingerie queen Delaney Walker as many things, but he could honestly say that hearing her cheerfully chant “men suck” in that sweet southern drawl as the elevator lifted her up to his loft apartment/studio and then having her stare at him as though he were one of those chocolate bars she purportedly loved to eat, was not one of them.

Sam was accustomed to garnering female interest—he was a Martelli after all, and, among other curious phenomena, his family had never lacked general sex appeal.

But something about the heat in Delaney Walker’s bright green eyes was different from what he typically encountered, went beyond lust, beyond desire. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it made his scalp tight, his skin prickle and, curiously, the very air around him seemed to change as she blinked out of her lust-trance and breezed past him into his loft.

His gut clenched with trepidation as a thought suddenly occurred to him, but he dismissed it as ludicrous. This bizarre feeling couldn’t possibly be what he suspected.

It could not.

Even if Sam had any intention of ever marrying and starting a family—which he most assuredly did not—he didn’t believe in the “quickening”—the supposed almost supernatural ability for a Martelli to choose his mate. According to family history—and the testament of his various cousins, uncles, brothers and father—all of whom had never strayed and never divorced—a Martelli man simply knew when he’d found the one woman he was supposed to spend his life with. Supposed physical symptoms included gooseflesh, tingling skin and a sense of déjà vu…much like he’d just experienced, Sam realized with mounting disquiet.

Nah, Sam told himself, refusing to even consider the idea. He’d made the decision to remain single years ago, when he’d watched his father mourn his mother until the man was only a shadow of his former self. When he’d watched his brothers—big tough, rough, gruff men—become hopelessly besotted fools over their wives, watched them actually cry when their children were born. The idea of losing that kind of control over himself and surrendering said control to another person completely unnerved him. Sam grimaced.

He’d pass, thank you very much.

Clearly some melodramatic Romeo lurked in the Martelli family tree and had passed the story down from one generation to the next. Sam mentally harrumphed. If there was one thing an Italian loved more than a good marinara, it was a good story. Men simply fell in love and, to preserve the family tradition, called it a “quickening.”

Sheesh.

As for fidelity and divorce being non-existent—the most damning evidence to contradict his theory, particularly in this day and age of the quickie divorce—that too could be easily explained. No brag, just fact, but Martelli men were smart. They were loyal, had a strong sense of family. Particularly his. Case in point, his family met for lunch every day at his father’s house and woe be to he who didn’t show up. His father expected them to be there and so far, regardless of how inconvenient, Sam nor his brothers had ever missed the mandatory meal.

Sam told himself that his peculiar reaction to Delaney Walker was only his overwrought imagination. Just a product of nerves. He’d hyped this meeting up in his head for the past couple of months, had been obsessing over it ever since she’d first called and scheduled her appointment.

Frankly, when the tabloids had reported that she’d been jilted again—bless her heart, the woman didn’t seem to be able to get one to actually say “I do”—Sam had fully expected her to call and cancel the appointment. Curiously, she hadn’t. And he’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sam’s portfolio had been sitting in limbo at Laney’s Chifferobe for months now and this meeting offered him the prime opportunity to showcase his talent and possibly secure a job with her company.

Sam loved women. Skinny, fat, short, tall and all species in between. There was something so intrinsically beautiful about the female form. All that soft skin, those gentle swells and valleys, the intriguing curve of a womanly hip, a silky thigh, a well-rounded rump. Women were utterly gorgeous and their bodies had always held a particularly keen fascination for him.

He’d never understand them, of course—what man in his right mind would even try? Everyone knew they were the most fickle creatures God ever created. But he loved them all the same and he had a real knack for capturing them on film.

With luck, Delaney Walker would see that.

Sam enjoyed doing the boudoir photos and the occasional wedding. It helped pay the bills, after all, and supported his rummage sale and estate habit. But ever since Laney’s Chifferobe had hit the lingerie scene, he’d been itching to get a shot at it.

Delaney designed every piece of clothing and personally oversaw the layout of each issue, a monumental job in and of itself. She was a slave to detail and would settle for nothing less than total perfection. He had to give her credit, she was one helluva hard worker. She’d built the company from the ground up and hadn’t simply hired someone else to oversee the details when she’d finally gotten the business operating comfortably in the black. No doubt about it, she had character.

But given that drive for perfection, that keen eye, why on earth did she settle for mediocre photography? It baffled him. The spreads lacked finesse, were almost clinical and not the least bit compelling. Honestly, why even bother with temperamental models? Why not just lay it all out and do still shots? The effect would be the same.

She didn’t know it yet, but she needed him, Sam thought determinedly. Given the chance, with her creative ability and his expertise, they could make her catalogue sizzle.

And speaking of sizzle…Delaney Walker was hot.

Sam’s artist eye quickly roved over her lush Marilyn Monroe body, summarized her finer features. She was small, generously curved in all the right places. She actually had hips, Sam noticed, pleasantly surprised. These days most women starved them off. She had a smooth heart-shaped face, a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth, a dainty chin, bright green eyes, and long hair the color of moonbeams that hung like a silky curtain down to the middle of her back. Anticipation spiked. He couldn’t wait to look at her through his lens.

That curious tingling gripped him again, made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end, and the familiar tug of reciprocated attraction gave a particularly vicious yank. Sam scowled, ruthlessly tamped it down, and made a conscious effort to get back to business. Honestly, gawking at her while she absently roamed around admiring his loft was hardly professional.

“I see you brought your own bag,” Sam said. “How many outfits will you be changing into?”

The graceful line of her back tensed and she pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “Three. Is that too many?” she asked hastily. “Because I can forego a couple of them. I don’t have to—”