Test Shot (2 page)

Deciding to move had been a no-brainer. As much as she’d loved their hometown of Lincoln, she didn’t love it more than Aidan. He was her best friend, the person she’d happily envisioned spending her life with. Growing old beside. Until a few months ago, she’d been certain he wanted the same thing. The change had sneaked in as insidiously as carbon monoxide, just a little at a time. She could no longer tell if she was breathing clean air or if she’d wake up in a room with sterile white walls.

Alone.

Still sipping, she wandered over to the kitchen window and lifted her hand to the glass. Her diamond caught the moonlight, and her throat tightened. Why was she getting so upset? Just because Aidan hadn’t wanted to touch her as much lately didn’t mean anything other than he was tired. True, he’d once had a drive to rival any sex god’s, but classes and his students required a lot of his energy. New home, new city, new job. She was his constant, always there for him. No matter what. Maybe they were just going through growing pains as a couple.

It had been four years, after all, since they’d bonded over textured paint at a hardware store. Four years since he’d offered to stop by her new apartment to help her redo her living room. She’d ignored her concerns about inviting over a stranger and followed her gut, giving him her address before they’d even left the store.

He’d come by that night. They’d painted, then made love until dawn. He’d moved in two months later.

She curled her fingers into a fist so she could feel the press of her engagement ring. Since then, they’d lived in a romantic haze that had gradually become less of a dream and more of a reality. Aidan had had a demanding career, first as a doctor and now as a professor. She’d had her own busy career in advertising and an active social life with her lifelong friends. Coming to the East Coast had been a huge adjustment for them both. She’d wait out this rough patch, and they’d get through it stronger than before. Whatever it took to get to the other side, she’d do it.

Even if it meant indulging his wishes to bring someone else into their bed.

Aidan might want to see her have sex with another guy, but that guy couldn’t be Sawyer. Because if she signed him, there couldn’t be anything more to their association than business. She didn’t work that way. Besides, Aidan wouldn’t expect her to put her professional reputation on the line. Would he?

The subject had come up before. They hadn’t talked about it in a while, and even when they had, the conversation had stayed strictly in the fantasy realm. Or so she’d thought. She’d chalked it up to his devotion to pleasing her, in bed and out. Before these last few months, Aidan had never left her unsatisfied. In any way. He always sent flowers for anniversaries and birthdays and often called just to say that he loved her. Aidan McMurray was the kind of man other women wished they had. Now she did too, because it sure didn’t feel like he was hers anymore.

And that could very well be the problem. He might’ve found someone else.

No.

She refused to consider that possibility, as she had every time the thought reared its insistent, mole-like head. Aidan wouldn’t do that to her. They’d been so much more than soon-to-be spouses for so long. If he was cheating, she’d know it.

Her gaze drifted across the expansive kitchen to the granite counter, offset with gleaming copper pans. Their townhouse in Park Slope wouldn’t be their forever home, but she liked it a lot. There was a good amount of space, plenty of light.

Lots of room for them to hide from each other.

Her attention dropped to the cell phone lying on the counter, and she squeezed her hand tighter.
No
. She wasn’t a spy, and she wasn’t about to start now. She’d never looked at Aidan’s cell, had never poked into his e-mail account. There had been no reason to.

She crossed the room before she could stop herself and picked up his phone. Keeping hold of her almost empty glass, she scrolled through his recent calls and texts, both made and received. Nothing unusual. Relief drenched her, and she let out a long breath. Thank God. Everything was as it should be.

And she’d violated Aidan’s privacy. God, what had she become?

Just before she closed the phone, she saw the message for an unread text. It had come in earlier, and she’d somehow flipped right past it. The message was from a Dr. Kilmartin.

I miss you.

She set the phone down and swallowed the sudden rush of fear. Innocuous, really. Aidan had plenty of friends back home. Of course they missed him. And why wouldn’t they text him past midnight to tell him so?

Besides, she knew Dr. Kilmartin. Both of them. Husband and wife, both physicians, both friends of Aidan. Tricia was beautiful, but Layla had never seen sparks between her and Aidan. As for Josh—

She stopped short. As for Josh what? He was Aidan’s friend. Just his friend. Aidan didn’t swing both ways. He wouldn’t touch a colleague, male
or
female.

But he’s not in Nebraska anymore. Josh and Tricia are no longer his colleagues.

Biting her lip, she rinsed out her glass and set it in the dishwasher. Put away the bottle of wine, closed the curtains she’d opened to let in the moonlight. And climbed the stairs to crawl in bed beside the man she loved with all her heart.

She slipped into bed and smiled at the soft “Lala,” he murmured before slipping away into dreamland again.

But the last thought she had before dropping off into an exhausted sleep wasn’t of nicknames. It was of what she’d do to keep the man she loved.

Absolutely anything.

* * * *

He’d always been drawn to a pretty face. This, however, was the first time he’d been drawn by a pretty voice.

Sawyer Blake stood outside the tall, boxlike building on Brooklyn’s Lower East Side and clamped down on the urge for a cigarette. His ma had ingrained in him years ago what a bad habit it was, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish now and then he was a little less responsible.

If he decided to let go of a few of his inhibitions, there was always that appropriately seedy-looking bar, JJ’s, right next to the office building. Even from the sidewalk, he could see the dim lighting within bouncing off the shiny balls on a pool table in the corner.

Pool would settle his nerves some. So would a cool longneck, tipped back against his throat to ease the sweltering mid-September heat. Or maybe it was nerves making him so hot. Either way, an icy brew would take his mind off what waited for him on the third floor of the Nelson Building.

So would going up there and facing Ms. Layla Palmer, junior agent and dirty picture purveyor.

With a grin, he pushed a hand through his hair and headed inside. He bypassed the elevator and took the stairs instead, ending up in front of the polished oak counter that bore the words Hot Shots in record time. Plush rose carpeting stretched as far as the eye could see, a soothing counterpoint to the glossy glass-covered black-and-white modeling shots that adorned the cream-colored walls. The pictures were head shots mostly, with the occasional lifestyle photo thrown in for contrast.

The place definitely didn’t look seedy, though he’d guesstimated it wouldn’t from his online research before he applied to an ad in the
Brooklyn Beat
, an alternative newspaper that specialized in things off the beaten path. In this case, way off the beaten path. He’d never heard of an erotic talent agency before. Nor had he ever pictured himself considering applying to one.

“May I help you?”

Sawyer dragged his attention front and center. A crystal chandelier dripped prisms of light over the front desk, spotlighting the beautiful woman sitting behind it.

Holy shit, was
this
Layla?

“Well, hello there,” the woman purred, leaning up so that her emerald green blouse gaped just enough for him to glimpse white satin. “You have an appointment, sugar?”

Damn, the voice was off. Layla had been all business on the phone, though she’d had enough of a lilt to her voice to make him wonder what she was wearing. Slacks and a man-styled shirt, hot pants, and a little lacy top, maybe a flirty sundress?

Or more likely, a pinstriped business suit with a discreet hint of blouse peeking out between her lapels. If she wore glasses, that’d be a bonus.

But this woman didn’t seem the spectacle-wearing type. In fact, she seemed like she’d be just as comfortable wearing nothing at all.

“Yes, I do. Sawyer Blake,” he said, extending a hand. “And you are?”

Please let me be wrong. Please let this be Layla Palmer in the luscious flesh.

“Manda Destin, agent trainee. Aw, where’d you come from? How’d that Layla snag you first?”

Disappointment coursed through his veins even as his smile widened. He loved the Texas in her voice. It reminded him of home, though his hometown was a few states north. Still, Texans were his kind of people. Real, honest folk, even when what they were being honest about included the blatant blur of lust in Manda’s jewel-bright green eyes.

Before he could answer, she shoved a form across the desk. “Disclosure statement saying you’re eighteen and able to work legally in this country. Sign it.”

He scanned the short form and signed it, then passed it back to her. “Trainee, hmm?”

“Yes.” She gave him a bright smile. “I wouldn’t mind taking you on.”

“Hands off my find, Manda.” A redhead strolled around the desk, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. “Mr. Blake? I’m Layla Palmer.” She pumped his hand while he continued to size her up. He’d called the glasses correctly and whoa, she wore the sultry librarian look well. “Come on back to my office,” she added.

“Our office,” Manda called as Sawyer followed Layla down a short hallway lined with several doors.

Layla shot Sawyer a blinding smile over her shoulder while she pushed open door number three. “Mine while she’s out front.”

“Ya’ll share an office?” Sawyer asked, grimacing at both the idiocy of the question and the drawl that had crept into his voice after speaking to Manda.

He had a bad habit of picking up accents, just like he tended to mirror the nervous gestures of people around him. Too much time spent studying actors and models and trying to become the perfect mimic. He’d had to pretend to sun himself on a summer beach while forty-mile-an-hour winds sheared him to the bone just enough times to know how to fit, chameleonlike, into his current environment. Whatever that happened to be.

And right now, Layla’s environment was…warm. Comfy. As if he’d entered the domain of a woman who could as easily haul out a rocker and some knitting as ask him to disrobe for a camera or just her ridiculously long-lashed brown eyes.

“Sawyer?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Man, his mind was not in the game today. Probably another way of distancing himself from what he was about to do. For money. Working just for the cash was a level he’d vowed never to sink to, no matter how much he struggled. His ideals were worth it.

Too bad ideals didn’t pay the rent. Or give him enough to send home, which was a big part of the reason he’d aimed his crappy Datsun east to begin with.

“Manda and I share this space. Her side is over there.” Layla gestured to a messy desk piled high with an assortment of stuff he’d never seen in an office before. Namely, sex toys. In plastic wrap, but still. “This one is mine,” she said, dropping down behind a glass-topped desk that held approximately three items: a phone, a Day Planner and a filigreed heart-shaped photo frame of a smiling couple. “She says the only reason I’m so neat is because I haven’t settled in yet. I’ve been here four months, so I know she’s full of shit.” This was said with a grin so broad he felt like he had no choice but to respond in kind.

“This you?” he asked, picking up the frame.

“Think it looks like me?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, still smiling.
Smart-ass
. If he had a weakness for breasts cupped in white satin such as those belonging to the lady out front, he had a damn near fixation on women with a sense of snark.

He let his gaze roam over the picture, his attention squarely on Layla’s features. Ginger hair, faintly curved rose lips, and cinnamon freckles sprinkled over vanilla-latte skin. She wore one of those pinstriped suits he’d imagined, with her arm linked with a tall guy who smiled for the camera while she smiled at him.

“Boyfriend?” he asked, rubbing his thumb absently over a smudge that blotted the guy’s face. Did she pick up the picture often or was it her nosy office visitors who’d left their fingerprints on her man?

She crossed her arms across her open Day Planner. “Fiancé.”

“Ahh.” It figured. The wholesome type always married young. And, well, from the white doctor’s coat her fiancé wore in the photograph. “He approves of your career?”

“You could say that.”

“A doctor approves of his fiancée booking deals for models who’ll spend a good part of their time in front of the camera naked?”

“Not all Hot Shots’ jobs require nudity, and even if they did, I’m an agent, not a performer. Besides, he’s secure in our relationship.”

Sawyer set down the picture frame. “Glad to hear it.”

“I’ve spent the last couple of days checking out your body of work.” Coolly, her gaze swept up and down Sawyer’s body. She wanted to see him naked, of that he had no doubt. But were he to guess, she’d judge his goods about as dispassionately as she might the ripeness of a cantaloupe at the supermarket. “You’ve built up a rather significant portfolio in a short amount of time.”

He shrugged. “I like to keep busy.” Plus he needed the money, but she didn’t need to know that. At least not yet.

“You’ve done a lot of underwear modeling.”

“I have.”

“So you’re not averse to possibly going beyond that if the price is right?”

He scratched his clean-shaven jaw, taking her measure. Despite her assiduously professional demeanor, he could sense nervousness bubbling under her skin. “Depends what you’re offering, Ms. Palmer.”

Abruptly, she pulled back. Not just physically, but a shield dropped down in front of her eyes, as well. “I don’t mean to rush this along, but I have two more appointments this morning, so we may have to set up another meeting.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m a bit behind schedule.”