Picture Me Sexy (10 page)

Having been familiar with Delaney's love of antiques, her grandmother had left her burled walnut dining room suite to Delaney. Delaney'd had the beautifully carved suite completely refurbished and had left it empty, waiting to fill it with her own wedding china. But who was to say that she had to have a wedding to have the damned china? Screw it, she thought, straightening her spine. She'd just buy it and be done with it. Would that all of her hurts could be soothed as easily. Still, she'd undoubtedly get more
enjoyment out of that beautiful china than she would have Roger, anyway.

Once the initial pain of rejection had worn off, Delaney had been forced to admit that his calling the wedding off was for the best. She didn't particularly care for his cowardly, last-minute method—which he would pay for—but better sorry now than later, she supposed.

When she'd really sat down and thought about it, she and Roger hadn't really had anything in common. She'd forced interests in things that he enjoyed, manufacturing compatibility when really none was present. Why on earth had she done that? Delaney wondered miserably. What had made her do such a thing? Why did she feel compelled to change herself in order to hang on to men whom she basically forced herself to love? When she'd looked at previous relationships, she'd noticed the same common denominator—she changed to suit them.

Nicky had loved horses—she'd taken riding lessons. Vince had been a football fanatic—she'd learned the game and faked enthusiasm. With Roger, it had been gardening. She had the original black thumb—had killed her air plants, for pity's sake—and yet from the moment he'd shared his interest in the hobby, she'd set out to become a damned expert.

Oh, she was well versed in the subject, could talk about it intelligently, but so far she hadn't been able to keep a single plant alive. The landscaping company came out once a week and took care of her
lawn, garden and houseplants. Any deceased plants were quietly taken away and replaced with larger, healthier specimens to simulate growth. Roger had bragged and bragged on her skill. Delaney chuckled. Little did he know…

But why had she done all of that? Was she so afraid of being alone she'd settle for any man, even one who wouldn't make her happy? Was she so afraid of never having a family that she'd marry the first sperm donor she could get to the altar? Or was she simply in love with the idea of being in love? She hated to think that about herself, but at this point she simply didn't know. And until she did, she planned to play her hand close to her vest. No more men until she figured out what
she
wanted in one.

Even Sam Martelli, tempting though he may be.

A thread of regret wrapped around her heart, but Delaney remained firm. The doorbell rang, dragging her mind away from the curiously depressing thought. She'd called a moving company to come and pack up all of the wedding gifts, had given Roger's house key to Beth and asked her to meet the van in Germantown once everything was ready to go.

As a last bit of revenge, she'd instructed Beth to make sure that the boxes were stacked firmly against the front door, blocking the entry. Delaney smiled evilly. He wouldn't be carrying Wendy's slutty ass over the threshold when they got home, by God. At least not the one at the front door.

Still smiling, Delaney swung open her own front door—and froze.

Sam.

“Hi,” he said, looking adorably bashful. That lazy grin held just enough uncertainty to melt her suddenly galloping heart. He wore a navy cable knit sweater and well-worn jeans and looked better than good—like capital S-E-X.

“Er…hi,” Delaney returned, thoroughly bewildered. Her brow furrowed. “What—”

“You-hoo, Delaney!” Mrs. Carter, her next-door neighbor and personal watchdog, called from her front porch steps. She eyed Sam with snobbish suspicion. “Is that gentleman bothering you? Should I call John?”

Delaney repressed a grin. “No, that won't be necessary, thanks.”

Sam gave her a quizzical look. “John?”

“It's her son,” Delaney explained. “Occasionally reporters, models and the garden-variety nut drop by. John has been known to physically escort them from my property.” Delaney chuckled. “Mrs. Carter is my own personal pit bull in support hose. She guards me well.” Delaney paused awkwardly. “What are you doing here?

He pushed a hand through his hair, mussing the curly brown locks. “I, uh, was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop your proofs by.”

“Oh.” To her horror, her mind went blank.

Sam's grin faltered and he retreated a step. “But if this is a bad time, I can just—”

Reason returned, along with her manners and a swift diabolical longing. “Oh, no. Now is fine,” she assured, stepping back and opening the door wider to welcome him in. “Sorry,” she murmured apologetically. “I was expecting the moving company.”

“You're moving?” he asked, as he followed her into her foyer.

Delaney's lips curled into a self-deprecating grin. “No—” she gestured toward her cluttered living room where wedding gifts covered almost every available surface “—but all that is.”

He arched a brow and whistled low. “Wow. No wonder you hired movers. Where are they moving it to?”

“Roger's.”

Admiration tinged his smile. “Ah, that'll be a nice surprise when he returns home from
your
honeymoon.”

Delaney grinned and nodded magnanimously. “I thought so.”

Sam glanced around her wide entry hall, his gaze lingering on one of her favorite finds, a Spanish Baroque refectory table. “That's a nice piece.” He ran a finger over the smooth dark wood. “Black walnut. Mid 1700s, right?”

Delaney nodded, impressed. “Right.”

“Where did you find it?”

“An estate sale down in Montgomery.”

He drew a deep breath and cast her a conspiratorial smile. “I've been known to haunt the estate sales myself. Antique malls, junk stores.” He shrugged one splendidly muscled shoulder. “I've even found a few good items on eBay.”

Something warm shifted in her chest and a smile stretched across her lips. The irony of realizing she had something in common with this man—whom she'd just seconds ago mentally swore off—after spending years wasting her time to invent mutual interests with previous losers, wasn't lost on her.

“I've found some good stuff on eBay, too,” Delaney told him. “Who knows? We might have even bid against each other on some things.”

Sam conceded her point with an uplifted brow. “Anything's possible.”

Oh, if only that were true, Delaney thought wistfully. What was it her grandmother used to say? If dreams were horses, then beggars would ride. Delaney blew out a small breath. “So you've brought my proofs?”

Sam started, then nodded. “Yes. Right.” He handed them to her. “They turned out great…particularly the ones on the bed.”

He uttered the last in a low rasp that struck a chord of longing and conjured images that weren't the least bit boudoir-photo–related. Instead, visions of her and Sam, naked and writhing amid a wad of tangled satin sheets, flipped through her mind like still frames from an old reel-to-reel projector. Desire lit a fire in
her loins and her breasts tingled with remembered pleasure.

“Oh, that's nice,” Delaney said, in a breathless squeaky voice.

A beat passed, then two. “Aren't you going to look at them?”

Not so long as you're standing there, no, she thought and tried to come up with some reason why she wouldn't want to look at them now, besides the truth.

Which was stupid.

He'd seen her yesterday afternoon. Hell, he'd even told her that she was the most miserably modest woman he'd ever seen. Furthermore, he'd seen her freak when the lights had come back on. He was perfectly aware of her modesty problem and so far, hadn't been anything but tactful and courteous. She didn't have to come up with some bullshit lie. She could simply tell him the truth. Her chest lightened. How utterly refreshing.

Delaney pushed a hand through her hair and her lips slid into a hesitant smile. “Look, the truth is I don't feel comfortable looking at them with you standing right here.” She waved her hand airily. “I'm weird about it, I know. But if it's all right, I'll look at them later and get back to you.”

Sam's eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, sure. Yeah, that's fine.”

Delaney nodded. “Great.”

Still smiling, he just stood there and continued to
look at her. One beat slid into five, then he looked away, winced impatiently and muttered, “Dammit, I'm blowing this.”

Delaney blinked. “I'm sorry?”

“Nothing. Look, so long as we're telling the truth, I wasn't in the neighborhood and the proofs were just an excuse to see you again.”

Delight mixed with that heady rush of interest and anticipation flooded through her once more, making her all jittery inside. “Th-they were?”

The hesitant voice of common sense was trying to tell her this wasn't a good thing—men sucked, right?—but the excited voice of new romance was doing a happy dance, drowning it out.

“I did. I wanted to ask you—” He faltered and another curiously vulnerable smile twisted his lips. “I wanted to ask if you…”

Delaney waited patiently.

“…if you'd like to, uh…”

Any day now, she thought, growing slightly exasperated.

“…go to Martindale with me this weekend?” he finished, in a rush of what appeared suspiciously like sudden inspiration.

Her brow knitted. “Martindale,
North Carolina?
”

He nodded and breathed a palpable sigh of relief. “Yeah. I'm shooting a wedding up there this weekend and…and I'd like you to go with me.”

Delaney bit her lip and started to shake her head. “I don't think—”

Sam lessened the distance between them and that dark-as-sin gaze searched hers. He laid a gentle finger against her lips and there was an unmistakable intensity in the deceptively soft gesture. “Don't say no, and don't think. Just come with me.”

Delaney sighed. “Sam, I can't—”

He tsked to silence her. His lips formed a tentative smile. “Come with me.”

God help her, she was tempted. Still… “Thanks, but—”

His lips lightly brushed hers, an entreaty, a promise. Once, twice, then he sucked lightly at her bottom lip, and when she opened her mouth in a silent
O
of surrender, he deepened the kiss into a fierce, erotic rampage that promised to push her to the very edge of everything wicked and depraved, drown her in redeeming release, and then lead her back again.

Finally, Sam slowly ended the kiss.

Delaney pulled back and blinked drunkenly up at him.

“Please,” he told her.

Ah, the magic word. How could she resist a man who knew when to say please? Whom she hadn't met through work and didn't have any hidden agenda? No ulterior motive? One who simply wanted to be with her? Delaney sighed, still intoxicated from that incredible mind-blowing kiss, and then uttered the one word that would most likely lead her down the road to additional heartache.

“Okay.”

S
AM DIDN'T KNOW WHAT
on earth had possessed him to ask Delaney to come to Martindale with him. Two days later, with her sleeping form a couple of feet from him in the passenger seat of his Tahoe, he still didn't know.

He'd picked her up just before dawn this morning, and after a few minutes of awkward conversation in which both of them seemed to be wondering just what in the hell they were doing, the weirdness of it all had faded and they'd begun to lapse into comfortable conversation. Delaney had started yawning around Johnson City, and Sam had finally convinced her to take a little nap.

He glanced at her now and something in his chest shifted. She'd dressed for comfort in a soft-green warm-up suit and a pair of broken-in tennis shoes. She'd pulled that sinfully long hair over one shoulder and plaited it into one long, thick braid that slid enticingly over her breast every time she moved. Sam's fingers had been itching to loosen that braid all morning, itching to divide those long strands one section at a time until it all hung loose around her shoulders again.

Delaney'd had a little over a day to call and cancel on him, and Sam had waited grimly for that call. He'd fully expected her to bail, and he hadn't breathed a sigh of relief until this morning when he'd knocked on her door and found her dressed, with her bags sitting at her feet.

When he'd gone over to her house Wednesday afternoon, he hadn't planned to ask her to go to Martindale with him. He'd had no plan whatsoever. He'd just needed to see her again, to make sure that everything hadn't been a fluke. He'd known it hadn't, of course, but he'd still needed to see if he felt the same buzzing sensation when he saw her again.

He had.

And the condition had only worsened.

More goose bumps, more tingling scalp, more desire and, astonishingly, more need. He'd taken one look at her and gone instantly hard. He could have taken her on the refectory table, or against the front door. Wherever. He'd just wanted her. Sam made a mental note to ask his brothers about this. Hell, if this sensation only intensified as their relationship progressed, he didn't know if he'd survive the damned “quickening.”

The combination of anxiety and attraction had all but rendered him mute. His brothers' don't-screw-it-up advice had been ringing in his ears, his scalp had been prickling annoyingly, and his rod had almost swelled out of jeans. Then she'd smiled that awkward
time-to-get-out-of-my-house
smile—Sam knew
that smile—he'd worn it several times—but had never had it directed at him. And he'd panicked. He'd known that he had to come up with something and the only thing that had popped into his near-paralyzed brain was Martindale.

But the more he'd thought about it, the better he liked the idea. He was shooting this particular wedding at Grand Court on Ravenwood Estate, a brand new four-star hotel situated on the pastoral grounds of the Estate, a two-hundred and seventy-five room French Renaissance-style palace nestled in the Blue Ridge mountains. The house was cram-packed full of original furnishing and art objects collected by the late owner, Remington Rutledge. It was awe-inspiring, particularly to history buffs and antique lovers. Delaney, he knew, would love it. She'd confessed that she'd never been to the estate, but that she'd always wanted to go. Her eyes had taken on a particularly keen sparkle while they'd talked about it.

In addition to the house, the grounds in and of themselves were a sight to behold. The gardens were spectacular, and the estate boasted a winery as well. Were that not enough, little antique stores littered the downtown area, a veritable Garden of Eden to an old-stuff junkie.

For a weekend getaway, Sam knew he couldn't have picked a better place. He'd be working off and on throughout the weekend, but there would be plenty of time for them to get out and explore during
the day, and other than the after-rehearsal dinner, they'd have the nights to themselves as well.

Sam didn't want to push Delaney—he instinctively knew that tactic wouldn't work with her, particularly right now. But he also knew that time was of the essence. They'd shared a phenomenal night together and she'd either been so unmoved or spooked by it that she'd left, rather than spend the night with him. Sam preferred to think that she'd been spooked. Given the night they had, the alternative simply wasn't possible.

To further give him pause, when he'd made that unexpected visit to her house, she'd been ready to show him the door only minutes after he'd arrived. Sam knew she wasn't interested in anything permanent with him. Intrigued by him? Yes. Attracted to him? He mentally snorted. No doubt.

But she'd made it perfectly clear that she was no longer interested in any long-term relationship. She was keeping him at arm's length. He could feel it. Though she'd been perfectly amiable, she'd been guarded as well. She'd been just flirtatious enough to let him know what she wanted out of this weekend—sex. She wanted a weekend with no worries, no strings, and no emotional involvement. She wanted to indulge in a little scandalous behavior—the kind she'd been accused of, but had clearly never participated in—wanted to test her limits and stretch her boundaries. In short, she wanted his body, which
under normal circumstances would have been equally agreeable and flattering.

But these were hardly normal circumstances.

Sam didn't just want her for the weekend—he wanted her forever.

His wolflike genes had howled at her, singled her out as The One. As bizarre as it sounded, he
knew
it, and knowing it made it all the more nerve-racking. He couldn't afford to screw things up with her, couldn't put a single toe out of line—to that end, he'd called and formally withdrawn his portfolio from her company. That was a potential bomb he didn't want blowing up in his face and he instinctively knew it had the potential to be catastrophic. He didn't know why, but the warning was there all the same.

Nevertheless, he still didn't know quite how to proceed. He'd been denying the Martelli phenomenon since puberty, had decided when his mother died that marriage simply wasn't for him. He'd honed his seduction skills, but had never—
never
—once considered how one might go about attracting a female permanently. He'd never had the need.

Until now.

Sam blew out a silent breath and his gaze inexplicably darted to the woman in his passenger seat. Need and something else, something desperate, landed a blow to his midsection, making his fingers tense on the steering wheel.

Oh, hell, Sam thought. Hopefully, those wolflike
genes that had pointed her out as The One would also lead him in the right direction when it came to making her his. God knows he was going to need all the help he could get, because frankly, while he knew exactly what buttons to push to make her come, he didn't have any idea how to go about making her happy…or making her his.

 

D
ELANEY DIDN'T KNOW
how much longer she could feign sleep. She'd been awake for the last several miles, though she hadn't betrayed so much as a blink or a muscle twitch. Sam had plugged CCR into the CD player and “Proud Mary” currently played on his customized system.

Though his tastes clearly leaned to the old and eclectic, he nonetheless had a savvy sense of current technology. She'd noticed a sophisticated computer system in his loft, as well as a top-of-the-line plasma TV. Both were pricey items and she'd concluded that his business had to be extremely lucrative to support his discriminating tastes.

For that matter, his antiques hadn't come cheap either. She'd noticed—and coveted—a Victorian Davenport desk, among other things, that would have required a substantial amount of cash to own.

Delaney had been trying since Wednesday afternoon to figure out what exactly had made her agree to come on this trip, and then wondered even more what had possessed her not to call and cancel it.

Now, easily three hundred miles from home, she still hadn't figured it out.

She'd alternately berated herself, and then wondered what to pack. How screwed up was that? Still, Sam had unwittingly hit upon a hidden desire and a weakness—she'd wanted to see the Ravenwood Estate for years, but had never had the time—nor made it—to make the trip. She'd always been too busy at work, or learning some other new hobby to make someone else happy. Never enough time for herself.

If he had asked to go anywhere but there, she most likely would have said no. Common sense, she hoped, would have prevailed. But the combined temptation of the trip and a weekend spent in his bed—on top of, beneath, and next to his wonderful body—was simply more than she could pass up. Given the chance, Sam Martelli could become every bit as addictive to her as chocolate.

It would have been extremely difficult just to pass up the weekend in his bed part—Delaney inwardly shuddered with a blast of desire—but given the wary intensity of her feelings, she was almost certain that she would have told him no.

In fact, though she'd been absolutely melting inside, she'd been ready to show him the door seconds after she'd opened it and found him standing on her front porch. She'd firmed her resolve, had been mentally chanting her new men-sucked, baby-steps, little-victories cheer.

But one thought-shattering brush of his sexy lips
against hers, one tender entreaty, and a promised trip to a place she'd always wanted to go…and every bit of that resolve had been blown away like a dandelion seed in a soft wind.

If he'd taken her lips in a kiss designed to conquer, in one that had made her a slave to the attraction, Delaney knew she would have declined the invitation. She would have been irritated enough to have said no. But apparently—frighteningly—Sam had known that as well, and had done the one thing guaranteed to make her capitulate—he'd persuaded, not pressed.

The fact that he'd seemed genuinely interested in spending time with her—
just her
—and didn't want to further his own career via her success was no small part of her decision as well. Unlike losers one and two, he wasn't shopping for a job, shopping for an account. It was heartily refreshing.

Rather than continuing to chastise and berate herself for being a fool, Delaney had decided to take advantage of what he'd offered. His invitation couldn't have come at a better time. She'd taken off the rest of the week, so her schedule was clear and, despite that one embarrassing moment when the light had blown her cover of darkness at Sam's, she'd still made a tremendous amount of progress when it came to her modesty.

Besides the incredible night spent with Sam, one look at her pictures had told her that.

After Sam had left, Delaney had held her breath
and cautiously opened her packet of boudoir photos. She'd barely recognized the woman in those pictures as herself. To say that she'd been surprised would have been a vast understatement—she'd been completely shocked.

The first few shots, she'd been tense and had worn a hesitant smile but still looked surprisingly…sexy. Looking at them with a critical eye, she could honestly say that she looked good. Not great. She'd never be cover-model material. Delaney inwardly chuckled. Even if she could forego a little thing like food, she'd been genetically built on a small, hippy scale. But she was healthy and toned, and she supposed something could be said for that.

As the session had progressed, she'd relaxed and Delaney could see first the spark of lust, then the steady build of fire, as frame by frame, her lips curled just a little more seductively, her body grew just a little more languid. A wicked gleam had danced in her eyes and she'd looked happy, for lack of a better description. Sam had done a fantastic job of capturing
her
on film. More than her body, and her designs, just her.

Delaney had critically studied the pictures, sized them up professionally, and had come to the conclusion that Sam Martelli had one incredible eye, unparalleled talent. Lighting, composition, positioning, every detail was perfect. Were he not so obviously successful, she'd be inclined to offer him a position
at the
Chifferobe.
Still might, for that matter. Sam's photography was edgy and compelling, very sensual.

While her current staff of photographers did an admirable job, there was always room for improvement and his talent could definitely improve her catalogue. It was something to think about, anyway.

Delaney felt her body shift as he smoothly pulled the SUV off what she could only assume was an exit ramp. She didn't think they'd had time to make it to Martindale yet, but who knew how long she'd been asleep? It could have been thirty minutes or three hours. Still, she hadn't gotten a great deal of rest over the past few days, and her mouth had that dry, stale taste that indicated she'd been out for a while, anyway. She could use a bathroom break and something to drink.

She stretched, blinked sleepily and pretended to wake up. Sam looked over at her and smiled, making her heart skip a beat. “Hey,” he murmured. “Get enough rest?”

He wheeled the SUV into a gas station and pulled up next to a pump. Delaney shifted gingerly. “Yeah, I did.” She stifled a genuine yawn. She looked around, trying to see any distinguishing landmarks. “Where are we?”

Sam shifted into park and killed the ignition. “Almost there. We're about thirty miles outside of Martindale. I'm going to fill up and grab a snack and a drink.” He arched a brow. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nah, I'll get it.” She offered him a small smile. “I've got to find the little girls' room, anyway.”

Sam nodded, and moved to take up the pump. Delaney strolled into the store, found the bathroom and attended to necessary business. When she came out, Sam had already grabbed a soda and was trolling the candy aisle.

The sheer perfection of him, the sheer size, hit her once more and something hot and achy vibrated in her belly. He towered over everyone else, dominated the space around him. Those dark brown locks were windblown, messy almost, and lent a curiously boyish look to his ruggedly handsome Italian features. His lean cheeks were slightly red from the cold. He wore a long-sleeved brushed flannel shirt in shades of green and gray tucked into a pair of worn, comfortable-looking button-fly jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and molded over that fist-bitingly wonderful ass.