Sweet Talk Boxed Set (Ten NEW Contemporary Romances by Bestselling Authors to Benefit Diabetes Research plus BONUS Novel) (85 page)

Mr. Muffin

Faith hopped out of the truck, juggling her purse, her laptop case, the drink tray, and the bag of muffins. To add to everything else, it was raining, and the drive-through window at Starbucks had been closed. She’d had to run inside, and now she was wet as well as late, and a little flustered, too, because she didn’t do late.

She dashed across the glistening asphalt, through the pelting rain, trying and failing to avoid the puddles, arriving at the front door of the studio at the same time as two guys. One of them noticed her, pulled the door open for her, and motioned her in.

She nearly dropped the tray. He was tall, at least six-two, and…and
built.
Nearly-black hair cut sharp and close to his head, his skin a velvety bronze, his eyes dark under strong black brows, with just enough black beard going on to spell “danger.” To spell “testosterone.” With a capital
T.

Model,
she thought, getting herself under control with an effort.
Pretty person.

“Thanks,” she said, preparing to duck under one muscular arm. Which featured a swirling deep-blue tattoo, the intricate pattern twining up from his forearm and disappearing into the sleeve of his white T-shirt, which was a little damp now. And clinging to a whole lot of chest. Oh, boy.

That was when the bag broke, the brown paper weakened by the rain. She grabbed for it, but she couldn’t get it, not with the drink tray in one hand.

He could, though. Somehow, he’d let go of the door, snatched two muffins out of midair, and come up laughing.

“Half of them,” he said. “That’s something, isn’t it.” Because, indeed, there were two more muffins lying in a puddle, getting soggier by the second. His friend bent down and grabbed them, handed them to her with a kind smile, but nobody was going to be eating those.

“This was mine,” she told them, juggling the tray to stick the ruined muffins onto it. She held up the carrot one, or what was left of it. “Which I didn’t need anyway. But thanks. You may have just saved my job. My boss hates it when he misses his muffin.”

The bigger man was holding the door for her now. Another massive arm decorated with a tattoo, but somehow, she wasn’t looking at him. She shut her mouth, because she was standing here in the rain, babbling—worse, babbling about why she shouldn’t be eating muffins—just because one of them was her fantasy come to life, accent and all. Time to shut up, go inside, and get to work, so she did.

“What d’you want me to do with these?” her rescuer asked, holding up the muffins.

“Oh.” She pulled herself back into some poise. “I’ve got no hands. Bring them back for me, will you?”

He followed her through the door at one end of the outer office—which was already half-full, because nobody else seemed to be late—and into the studio proper. She led the way into the little kitchen at one end and set her burdens down gratefully, ignoring Calvin’s fulminating gaze. Time enough for that.

Her rescuer set his two lonely muffins down on the butcher-block counter as she dumped her own into the trash.

“Thanks,” she said. “If you’ll just…”

“Yeh,” he said with a smile that was—that was her guy. Her guy who had tackled her, in her bikini. All right, her guy had been blond, and this one was anything but—but he was her guy all the same.

In your stupid daydream, girlfriend. He’s not your guy.

“I’ll go back out there,” he said.

“You here for the shoot?” she asked, then snapped her mouth shut. Why else would he be here?

“Nah. Just an interested observer.” One dancing brown eye closed, and yes, her dream man was winking at her. “See ya.”

He walked away. More of a lope, really. All fluid motion, like his joints were better-oiled than other people’s. An interested observer? Yeah, right.

“Nice of you to show up,” Calvin said as her helper disappeared into the anteroom, leaving the studio charged with a few extra attraction molecules.

Faith pulled two coffees out of the cardboard tray and took one to Calvin. He was in a temper, clearly. Well, he was nervous. He had a lot riding on this.

“Want to hear the story of Mrs. Johnson’s toilet?” she asked him. “It’s all to do with her colitis, you see. She has to use extra paper.”

He paused with his cup halfway to his lips. “No,” he enunciated. “I do not. I think you’re fired.”

“I am not fired. You need me too much.” Her anxiety was settling now that she was in control again. She hated being late, but she was here now. It was all good. She went back and grabbed the folders out of her bag, then handed a couple to Calvin. Portfolios, with the photos attached, one folder for the men, and the other for the women. “I put them in order. Of who looked best to me, but you tell me, of course.” She handed him another list. Alphabetical. Six men, six women, here for an audition in front of the cameras, because you never knew which one would be right until you actually got them into the studio. “You tell me,” she repeated.

“You think I haven’t gone through them?” he growled, fixing her with a pale-blue stare. “I’ve gone through them.”

“Right. So give me a number, boss. One to six.”

“Who was that one just now?” he asked absently, scanning the list, flipping through the portfolios, because he’d have looked at them, sure. But he wouldn’t have put them in order, not like she did. It always amazed her, how other people did things.

“Which one?” She sat down opposite him on a stool with her own list, poised to take notes.

“Mr. Muffin,” he said, and she had to choke back a laugh.

“Oh.” Her poise faltered for a minute, because she didn’t know which one he was. She flipped through her own copy of the portfolios. “Uh…unless he’s a Master of Disguise, he’s not in here. A drop-in?”

“I don’t allow drop-ins.”

“No. Want me to tell him to go away?”

“What are you, stupid? No, I don’t want you to tell him to go away. I want you to get his portfolio.”

“Right. So…order?”

“Him first. And then…” He flipped a little more, gave her the rundown. All he needed was the nudge, and she was a champion nudger.

“One and one,” he told her as he finished up. “One boy and one girl at a time.”

“Of course.” She took her folders to the door, opened it, and went on out there.

He was there. Sitting beside his friend, totally relaxed, unlike most of the rest of them. His head back, laughing. Next to a pretty, petite blonde. Well, they were all pretty, petite blondes.

Gretchen Galveston,
she thought automatically. Number One on her girl-list. Her Fantasy Man had good taste.

“Hi, everybody.” She cast a smile around the room. “Thanks for coming. We’re going to get through this just as quickly as we can. Any questions before we start?”

She did her best to be respectful, because she’d hate to be the one auditioning, the one hoping for the callback that meant the auditioning could stop. The one depending on somebody else’s approval to say that she was acceptable. Calvin didn’t normally do this kind of project. He usually had his models pre-selected by the client’s art director, and Faith was glad, because she didn’t have a thick enough skin for auditions. Even being on the other end of them.

“This isn’t porn, right?” one of the girls asked. A nervy, anxious look to her, too tightly wound. She wouldn’t be picked, Faith knew, and her heart went out a little bit to her.

“No,” Faith said. “But if you’re uncomfortable being in some pretty skimpy underwear, or being in one of these guys’ laps…” She paused, got a little laughter out of that one. “Maybe a good time to re-think. Anybody else?”

Nothing, and she looked at her folder again. “Gretchen?” she asked, and yes, the perky little blonde next to Fantasy Man bobbed right up. “And…” Faith looked at her muffin-rescuer. “I don’t have you on the list. Do you have a portfolio?”

“Me?” He pointed to his chest, widened those spectacular eyes at her, the liquid whites setting off the most delicious dark chocolate centers, and laughed. “Nah. I’m just along for the ride, aren’t I. I’m the chaperone. Looking after Solomon here, making sure he doesn’t get excited.”

“Dude,” the big man with him said, looking pained. “No.” But he smiled all the same.

“Right,” Faith said. Not here for the shoot? She looked down at her list. “All right, then, Solomon. Come on back.”

Calvin didn’t mess around, when they got there. “I didn’t ask for him first.” He jerked his chin at Solomon.

“Don’t mind him,” Faith told Solomon, who looked a bit taken aback. “He’s grumpy because his coffee was late.”

Calvin snorted. “Excuse me? Who’s in charge here?”

“You are,” she said equably. “Go on.”

“Thank
you. Where’s the other guy?” Calvin demanded.

“Ah…” Solomon scratched his nose. “You saw Will,” he said with resignation.

“Yeah. I want him.” Calvin cast a dismissive eye over Solomon. “You’re too big.”

Solomon grinned. “Not what my—” He stopped, shot a look toward Faith and Gretchen, and clearly re-thought his words. “Never mind. I’m done, then?”

“Yeah,” Calvin said. “I want your friend. Send him on back here.”

Solomon shrugged. “Good enough.”

“Have a seat,” Faith told the young woman hastily. “Gretchen, right? We’ll be right with you.”

“I’m not worried,” the girl said. “It’s exciting.” She sat down and actually bounced a little. Perky was the word, all right. “When you get my guy, I’m ready.”

Faith gave Solomon an apologetic look as she led the way to the doorway again. “Thanks for coming. Calvin can be a little abrupt.”

“No problem. My wife will be relieved, tell you the truth. I’m destined for better things.” He laughed, a rumbling sound, and Faith found herself laughing back. “Yo, bro,” he called out, entering the anteroom again. “They want you. Story of my life.” He heaved a gusty sigh from somewhere in the depths of his six-foot-five frame. “You’re going to have to find your own way back to your place, because I’m not hanging around.”

“What?” Mr. Muffin looked startled, off-balance for the first time.

“If you have a few minutes,” Faith said, trying her best for brisk, “Calvin’s interested in taking a look at you.”

Some of the other guys looked disgruntled, and no wonder.

“Dunno.” He sounded bemused. “I’m not a model.”

“Would you come back here and talk to him anyway? Just for a minute,” she coaxed. She could see why Calvin wanted him, because he was perfect. Absolutely perfect. For Calvin.

Model Behavior

Will followed her into the studio again. So far, this wasn’t going anything like he’d expected. He’d just been along for the ride.

She was pretty, the coffee girl, in a healthy sort of way. He’d been enjoying taking in the scenery in the outer room, but Solomon had a point about the…curvy parts, he decided as he walked along behind her. Her waist was small, and her hips weren’t, and that long-sleeved T-shirt was working pretty hard, too. Her jeans were nothing but practical, her hair was brown, wet, and tied into some sort of deliberately messed-up knot with the ends sticking out, and if she was wearing any lipstick on that luscious pink mouth, he’d just say it looked natural. But she had a tiny mole just above the outer edge of her perfectly carved upper lip that any man would long to kiss, right before he got down to business on that mouth. Her eyes were blue, wide-set, and clear, and her smile was something special.

He got a bit distracted by the sight of Gretchen, whom he’d met in the outer room, doing a few unselfconscious stretches. Leaning back with her arms overhead, hands clasped, so her tiny T-shirt rode up over some very nice flat little belly. Yeh, there was heaps to look at in Vegas.

“Hi!” she said with her sunny smile.

“Hi.” He gave her a smile in return, then turned to the older fella, sitting and frowning over a folder in his lap.

“Morning,” Will said. “What can I do for you?”

The older man looked up, still frowning. “Who are you?”

Will had to laugh. Well,
that
was dead rude. “I’m the Designated Driver, you could say. Will…Will Taniwha.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t given his real name. Well, because he wasn’t sure what this was about. “Who are
you?”

“Calvin Quisp. Photographer. Looking for a model, which hopefully you know.”

“I’m not looking for a modeling job, actually,” Will said. “I’m just here on holiday for a few weeks.”

“It’ll only take a few weeks. Six days’ work. If I want you.”

“Well, if you don’t want me, there’s no point, is there?” Will was getting a bit narky now.

If the other man noticed the narkiness, he didn’t show it. “Take off your shirt,” he said, “and we’ll talk.”

“You know,” Will said, “when I try saying that to somebody, it almost never works.”

The coffee girl was trying not to laugh, he could tell. “He wants to see your chest,” she told Will. “That’s all.”

“And I don’t have all day,” Calvin said. “So take it off, or leave. Shoes, too.”

What the hell. Will stripped his still-damp T-shirt off in one quick motion and tossed it onto a chair, then kicked off his sandals. “There you go,” he said. “Those are the goods.” 

Calvin stood up. “Come on. Over here.” He pointed Will to a spot against the bare wall, painted a dull black like the rest of the studio space, went to a camera mounted on a stand, and looked through the lens.

“Get those softboxes in there,” he told the coffee girl, and she moved to oblige, carrying a couple of rectangular lights on stands and positioning them in some way that must have made sense to the photographer, because he grunted at her, turned back to the camera, and took a couple of snaps.

“Fold your arms across your chest,” he told Will, “tattooed arm on top.” Will did it, then moved some more at the other man’s direction, feeling like a bit of a fool in just his jeans, his bare feet cold against the engineered flooring.

“You,” the photographer told the blonde, who’d been sitting and watching. “Got a bra on under there?”

“Yes,” she said, and giggled.

“Then take off your shirt, too,” he said, “and your shoes, and go stand over there with him. Your back against his front.”