Anne McAllister: Gibson's Girl

“I won’t be responsible for you!” “I won’t be responsible for you!” Chloe looked at him, startled. “Of course not!” “I won’t fight your battles for you or protect your innocence or mollycoddle you in any way!” “I never asked—” Gib’s finger stabbed the air, making his point. “I just want it clear. If you stay, you’re on your own!” Chloe stood her ground. She even looked mutinous. He thought she might bite his finger. “Yes, certainly!” she agreed. As he turned away, she asked almost belligerently, “Is there anything else?” He whirled back. “Yes! You’ll damned well keep your clothes on!”About the Author ANNE McALLISTER was born in California. She spent long lazy summers daydreaming on local beaches and studying surfers, swimmers and volleyball players in an effort to find the perfect hero. She finally did—not on the beach, but in a university library where she was working. She, her husband and their four children have since moved to the Midwest. She taught, copyedited, capped deodorant bottles and ghostwrote sermons before turning to her first love, writing romance fiction. RITA award-winning author Anne McAllister writes fast, funny and emotional romances. You’ll be hooked till the very last page!Books by Anne McAllister Books by Anne McAllister HARLEQUIN PRESENTS ® 1620—CALL UP THE WIND 1680—CATCH ME IF YOU CAN 1769—THE ALEXAKIS BRIDE 1854—A BABY FOR CHRISTMAS 1890—FINN’S TWINS! 1832—FLETCHER’S BABYI 2005—THE PLAYBOY AND THE NANNY Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3Title Page Gibson’s Girl Anne McAllister www.millsandboon.co.ukDedication For Samantha Bell and Tessa Shapcott —wise and supportive editors both— Gib and Chloe (and I) thank you CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“I won’t be responsible for you!”

Chloe looked at him, startled. “Of course not!”

“I won’t fight your battles for you or protect your innocence or mollycoddle you in any way!”

“I never asked—”

Gib’s finger stabbed the air, making his point. “I just want it clear. If you stay, you’re on your own!”

Chloe stood her ground. She even looked mutinous. He thought she might bite his finger.

“Yes, certainly!” she agreed. As he turned away, she asked almost belligerently, “Is there anything else?”

He whirled back. “Yes! You’ll damned well keep your clothes on!”

ANNE McALLISTER was born in California. She spent long lazy summers daydreaming on local beaches and studying surfers, swimmers and volleyball players in an effort to find the perfect hero. She finally did—not on the beach, but in a university library where she was working. She, her husband and their four children have since moved to the Midwest. She taught, copyedited, capped deodorant bottles and ghostwrote sermons before turning to her first love, writing romance fiction.

RITA award-winning author Anne McAllister

writes fast, funny and emotional romances.

You’ll be hooked till the very last page!

Books by Anne McAllister

HARLEQUIN PRESENTS ®

1620—CALL UP THE WIND

1680—CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

1769—THE ALEXAKIS BRIDE

1854—A BABY FOR CHRISTMAS

1890—FINN’S TWINS!

1832—FLETCHER’S BABYI

2005—THE PLAYBOY AND THE NANNY

Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Gibson’s Girl

Anne McAllister

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Samantha Bell and Tessa Shapcott

—wise and supportive editors both—

Gib and Chloe (and I) thank you

CHAPTER ONE

THERE were six naked women in Gibson Walker’s line of sight. They were slender, lissome women with long legs, smooth thighs, and pert breasts.

And all he could think was, Why in hell weren’t there seven?

He glanced at his watch, tapped his foot, ground his teeth.

“Where is she?” he muttered for the fiftieth time in the past half hour.

How was he supposed to shoot the photos for the brand-new fragrance Seven! if he only had six naked women?

“Can’t we start?” one of the naked women whined.

“I’m cold,” bleated another, hugging herself.

“I’m hot!” purred a third, batting her lashes at Gibson in an all too obvious attempt to make him hot, too.

But any temperature elevation in his body, Gibson knew, would have more to do with the heat of his growing irritability than with any woman’s seductive wiggle. To make that fact clear he glared at her. She immediately edged behind a light reflector to avoid his gaze.

“Gibson, my nose is shiny,” one of them complained now, studying herself in the mirror, tipping her head this way and that and making rabbit faces.

They won’t be looking at your nose, sweetheart, Gibson wanted to tell her. But he knew better. This was Art—in the eyes of marketing, at least. So all he did was say to the makeup girl, “Judi, powder her nose.”

Judi powdered the girl’s nose. She powdered someone else’s cheeks. Sierra, the hair stylist, fiddled for the thousandth time with everybody’s hair.

Gibson tapped his toes, drummed his fingers, yelled at Edith, the studio manager, to find out who the hell she was, this missing female.

Whose fault she was, he meant.

Given a choice Gib always picked his own models—ones he knew, ones he trusted to be reliable, professional, on time.

But he hadn’t picked any of these. The client had.

“We want a little of everything,” the ad rep had told him on the phone. “All beautiful, of course,” he’d added hastily, “but not all...you know, standard brand.”

Gibson had snorted at the time, but he knew what the rep meant.

Seven!, according to the ad-babble he’d been given, was supposed to appeal to Every-woman. Therefore Every-woman—albeit beautiful—was supposed to be in the ad. In other words, not cookie-cutter dark-haired, expressionless models with chiseled cheekbones and pouty lips.

“We’ll look through the head sheets and pick them,” the rep had promised. “Some tall, some short. Curly hair. Straight. A variety of ethnic types.” Like it was somehow bold and daring. “And we’ll send them over.”

Fine with him. Gibson didn’t care who was sent—as long as they could tell the time.

One of them obviously couldn’t.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. He paced. He fumed. The girls fumed, too. They fluttered. The fluttering grew. Agitation was next. Then, who knew?

Gibson, who counted on setting a mood for a shoot, could feel the mood of this one turning grim.

And then, all of a sudden, he heard Edith say, “Yes, yes. He’s waiting for you. Go on right through. Go in.”

The door opened. Slowly. Warily.

As well it might, Gibson thought.

“About time,” he barked at the young woman who appeared in the doorway. “You were supposed to be here at one.”

She blinked round eyes so deep and dark a blue they were almost violet. Gib shook his head. The idiots in marketing strike again. They knew he was shooting in black-and-white. The eyes were wasted.