Slow Burn (Book 1 of the Fitzgerald Family)

Slow Burn

E. B. Walters

Copyright © E. B. Walters 2011

Published by Firetrail Publishing at Smashwords

Firetrail Publishing

Logan, UT

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it

is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names characters, places, and incidents are products

of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to any actual events or persons, living or dead,

actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Firetrail Publishing

P.O. Box 3444

Logan, UT 84324

Slow Burn

Copyright©2011 by E. B. Walters

ISBN: 10: 0983429707

ISBN: 13: 978-0983429708

Edited by Melissa Maytnz

Cover by Keary Johnson Landon

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

manner . Whatsoever without permission, except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews

First Firetrail Publishing electronic publication: May 2011

www.firetrailpublishing.com

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mother, Margaret Jane,

and father, Walter for guiding me and telling me I can.

May you rest in peace.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my editor, Melissa Maytnz.

Thank you for streamlining

and weeding out the unnecessary words.

I couldn’t have done this without you.

To my critique partners, Dawn Brown, Teresa Bellow,

Katherine Warwick/Jennifer Laurens.

Thank you for being there when I needed you

and sticking with it through the changes and modifications.

To my beta-reader Chicki Brown, thanks

for reading and reading this over and over again.

You’re amazing. To my husband, Mike, and my children,

thank you for their continued support.

Love you, guys.

ENJOY AN EXCERPT FROM

My USA Today Bestselling Series

IMPULSE (book 1)

(Sneak peek)

EXCERPT 1

Lex slid in the front passenger seat and brought with him his masculine scents. The effect on her didn’t surprise her anymore. Heat pulled low in her belly. The spacious car suddenly seemed too small.

He glanced at her. Why did you leave? I was going to show you the rest of the plane.

Jillian had to clear her voice before saying, I didn’t want to intrude. You ready to go? she asked, shrugging off her jacket.

Somehow I know I’m going to regret letting you drive, he said, buckling up.

You have trust issues, Lex. She put the car in gear and eased out of the tarmac.

I’m letting you drive, aren’t I?

Jillian rolled her eyes. She turned right toward Victory Boulevard instead of taking Vanowen. You know what your problem is? You control everything and everyone around you, so you don’t know how or when to let go.

Does that mean I control you, too? he asked in a voice gone husky, his arm coming to rest on the edge of the back of her seat.

She laughed. If he moved any closer, she might just forget she was driving, turn her head, and kiss him again. In your dreams.

You have no idea what things I do to you in my dreams.

Not as naughty as what she did to him in hers. No man will ever control me, Alexander.

Oh, sweetheart, never issue a challenge to a man with a single objective. He lifted her hair from her neck and ran feather-light strokes along her nape.

The car swayed as Jillian lost control. Dang it! She trembled and hoped he didn’t notice. We’re going to end up in a ditch if you continue with that, she warned.

Am I bothering you?

No. Yes. She leaned back and pretended his touch wasn’t distracting her.

His fingers slipped under her collar. Her breath quickened. This time she couldn’t control the shudder that rocked her body. Worse, her nipples pebbled under her silk shirt.

What are you doing, Lex?

Trying to prove a point, he said in an amused voice. Real trust is putting your life in the hands of someone with the power to take it. You have a sensitive neck, he whispered, moving closer. How about this? He lifted her hair out of the way, stroked her ear, and then trailed his finger down to her collarbone.

Jillian shuddered. She really should tell him to stop, except she didn’t want to. It had been too long, and this was the most fun she’d had with a man in almost a year.

And these. He grazed her nipple closest to him.

Jillian sucked in a breath. If this was his way of proving he trusted her, he should do it every day. The wanton in her wanted to see how far he’d go. The daredevil liked that he was doing it while she was behind the wheel.

She turned left onto Victory Boulevard and headed toward Burbank. It was almost eleven and there was still some traffic, but it was dark enough to hide his sensual exploration.

Your belly button? He reached down and slipped a hand under her shirt to caress her stomach.

Jillian jerked, her foot pressing on the gas pedal. The car accelerated. Lex chuckled, but his hand kept stroking her belly. The feel of his large hand on her skin was heavenly.

Remember, I don’t have control over you.

Oh so that was what his sensual exploration was about? His movements were unhurried, his voice silky with decadence. He was driving her crazy. She glanced at him and caught the wicked gleam in his eyes. He was watching her every reaction, probably noting that she was beginning to breathe erratically and her nipples were pushing against her shirt.

Eyes on the road, sweetheart, he warned and Jillian’s eyes flew forward. The next second, she whispered Fuck! as his fingers swept under the waistband of her stretchy pants.

I’d love to, but you’ll have to settle for this. He slipped under her silk panties.

Jillian tensed with anticipation. Her leg, the one not pressing the pedals, fell back against the door as she tucked her hips forward to give him access.

Hmm, he murmured as he moved over her nether hair, parted her labia, and found the sensitive nub. You are so wet and hot.

That was an understatement. She was burning and dripping. Her thighs trembled, hips lifting as he moved one finger over her moist clitoris. Jillian closed her eyes as sensation rocked her body.

You can’t close your eyes, babe. Remember, I trust you to get us home safely.

Jillian glanced at him again. If this was a lesson, she’d failed it the moment he’d flicked his finger across her nipple. She nodded and tried to focus on driving. But how could she when each stroke across her sensitized flesh was driving her insane? More fingers joined the first one, two parting her, while the middle one teased her and pushed her higher and higher.

She tried to move her hips and push against his hand, but everything worked against her—her jeggings, the seat belt, Lex’s hand holding her firmly in place. He was in control.

Please, Jillian begged. I have to pull over.

No, keep driving, he ordered.

Her ass was almost off the seat, her heavy breathing filling the car and mixing with the wet sounds he made as he pushed his fingers in and out of her pussy. Sex on the highway was a first for her. Possibly, the most insane thing she’d ever done, and it was exhilarating. Cars zipped past them. She was going at half the speed limit as the pressure built inside her and pleasure fanned out from her core.

Lex, she moaned.

Focus on the road. You are in control.

Damn right she was. She took one hand off the steering wheel and grabbed his wrist. At the same time, she widened her one leg and anchored it firmly against the door. She was setting the pace now, racing toward a mind-numbing orgasm.

Lex reached with his other hand and firmly guided her hand back to the steering wheel while he continued to stroke her, his movements fast, firm, and smooth. Jillian knew she was going to blackout when she came.

That she could still be rational amazed her, but she flipped on the turn signal, pulled up on the shoulder of the road, and shifted gears to park. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as she arched her back and yelled words she’d never dared utter with a lover as the first wave hit her.

Her body convulsed around his fingers, but he didn’t stop. Her body shook as she curled and hugged the steering wheel, her breathing shallow, her thighs wrapped tight around his wrist. The convulsion didn’t stop.

Fuck yeah!

Through the blood pounding through her veins, she heard him say, Beautiful.

Beautiful couldn’t begin to describe what had just happened. Insane. Possibly the best hand job she’d ever had. She rested her sweaty forehead on the steering wheel and exhaled, willing her head to stop spinning, her heart to cease its offbeat rhythm, and the ringing in her ears to ebb. It took forever.

Funny she wasn’t even embarrassed by what had just happened. How could she be when he’d opened up a possibility she’d never considered before? Sex could actually be better than all the daredevil activities she loved.

Suckling sounds filled the car, and she turned her head to find the source. Lex was licking and sucking on his fingers.

Hmm, love how you taste, he said. She could hear the laughter in his voice.

You are insane, she said.

But we’re not in a ditch.

This couldn’t be a lesson in trust. This was about control. That he could make her curse like a sailor and scream his name with a touch of his fingers. And what beautiful, long, and talented fingers they were. Jillian squeezed her thighs, the remnants of the orgasm making her throb.

Nice way to prove a point, she said, sitting and trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t involve her sensitized organ rubbing against her panties.

Nice? I thought that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I wished we weren’t in such a public place. I would have turned on the lights and appreciated it better.

Now he worried about being in public? Jillian’s eyes went to his crotch, and a fierce longing washed through her. She wanted him. Wanted to see him naked. To hold and stroke him, and drive him crazy the way he’d done to her.

Do you want to drive the rest of the way? she asked, her eyes lifting to his. The light from the headlights wasn’t enough to show his expression, but she heard the amusement in his voice again when he responded.

No, sweetheart. I’m perfectly fine letting you be in charge.

Yeah. Right. Jillian’s eyes dipped again to his erection. Her palm itched with a need to touch him. I can take care of that for you.

He chuckled. I know. He palmed her wrist and placed it on the steering wheel. Jillian hadn’t realized she’d reached for him. Not here.

I don’t believe in double standards, Lex. It skews things. You mess with my head, I mess with yours.

I’m counting on it, he said, and anticipation shot through Jillian.

I hope you loved The IMPULSE Sneak Peek.

If you wish to read more about Jillian and Lex get your copy for free today.

IMPULSE http://www.author-ebwalters.com/impulse-chapter-1-and-2

NOW, ENJOY SLOW BURN, book 1 of the Fitzgerald family series.

CHAPTER 1

Ashley woke up gasping for breath, acrid air clogging her lungs. She jerked up as her eyes darted around the room. There was no smoke and no fire, just the familiar high ceiling of her loft. The light streaming from the downstairs windows reflected on the full-length mirror of her dresser, causing her to squint. She flopped back on the bed and took deep, calming breaths.

The nightmares were becoming more and more vivid. She was safe, not trapped in a burning house with her parents. And the shrill sound was the telephone, not a fire truck. She leaned sideways and picked up the phone from the cherrywood nightstand.

Yes. Her voice came out muzzy and faint.

Ashley Fitzgerald? an unfamiliar, deep male voice said.

This is she.

Ronald Douglass. I left a message in your voicemail last night.

Ashley frowned at the slight censure in his tone. I haven’t gotten around to checking my messages yet. What can I do for you, Mr. Douglass?

May I stop by your studio for a brief talk?

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. It was seven-thirty—too early for someone who’d gone to bed at two in the morning. Worse, the male model for her next erotic series was due in less than an hour. Ashley groaned. She’d need a pot of coffee to function.

I’m sorry, that’s not possible, she said. I’m busy this morning.

I have a slight problem, Ms. Fitzgerald. I want to surprise my grandmother with a portrait on her birthday and I’m told you’re the person to go to if I want a first-rate work. I promise you, I won’t take much of your time. In fact, I’m only a few blocks away from your studio.

I’m sorry, Mr. Douglass. I’m not accepting any more commissioned works, not for a while. But I can recommend a very good friend and colleague.

I don’t want anyone else, Ms. Fitzgerald.

His words were very flattering, but his timing sucked. With the grand opening of the new children’s museum next month, the wall murals must be completed before then. Then there was her erotic series show. She didn’t have time to take extra work.

I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you, Mr. Douglass. I’m really swamped.

Listen, I know I’m being particular about this, he said after a brief pause. You see, my grandmother doesn’t have long to live, but she loves your work and owns several of your original pieces. Having you do her portrait would mean so much to her.

A lump formed in her throat and her insides softened. She’d lost her grandmother when she was in her teens, just before her parents died. Like the caller, she’d adored her grandmother.

Ashley sighed. Okay, Mr. Douglass. But we can’t meet now.

Later today perhaps?

If she photographed the model in the morning, her afternoon would be spent sketching. Her evening was taken, too. It was the girls’ night-out with her cousins. She dared not cancel or they’d have her hide. Besides, she preferred to meet potential clients in their homes.

I’m completely booked today. Monday evening would be much better.

I’ll be out of town the whole of next week. He sounded frustrated. What about tomorrow?

No way. Sunday was her day off. I’m sorry I can’t. Listen, why don’t you call me when you get back from your trip and we can pick a more suitable time?

This time the silence on the line was longer, uncomfortable.

Fine. Have a nice day, Ms. Fitzgerald. The line went dead.

Not a happy camper, was he? Ashley shrugged, scooted to the edge of the four poster king size bed and stepped down. Her feet sunk in the egg shell shaggy rug covering the wooden floor. Without bothering with slippers, she hustled down the winding metal staircase to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker, then headed straight back upstairs to shower.

The hot water didn’t ease the tension coursing through her, the effect of the nightmare. Would they ever stop? At this rate, she’d go crazy. She pulled on a floral working kimono, slipped on loafers and hurried down the stairs. After pouring herself a cup of coffee and added hazelnut creamer, she scribbled a few notes on a Post-it and pressed it on the fridge door.

Sipping the coffee, she walked to the H-shaped, floor easel and smiled at the piece she’d finished the night before. What a beautiful kid. So unfair he had died so young, like her parents.

Here I go again, thinking about Mom and Dad. At this rate, she wouldn’t accomplish much today. The problem was, the nightmares tended to remind her of her loss. She frowned at the door as though she could make the model appear through sheer will. Where was he? Dee’s models were usually very professional and rarely tardy. Maybe she should have asked to see the portfolio of this new guy, talked to him first. No, that would have been pointless. Dee had never failed her in the four years they’d worked together.

A sigh escaped her. She needed to relax before the man arrived or their session would be a waste of time. There was only one way to deal with the angry energy twirling inside her.

Ashley drained her coffee and placed the cup on top of the chest of drawers that held her paints. Then she propped the finished oil painting on a shelf to dry, replaced it with a blank canvas and put a bucket of water on a stool by the easel. She squirted dime-size globs of paint on a palette, picked up a brush and started working. No pencil sketches to begin with, just bold sweeps across the canvas.

Her hand trembled, but she didn’t stop working. Couldn’t stop was more like it. Time stood still as her past and present collided, as the demons threatening her very sanity coalesced on the painting before her. She dropped the brush and the palette in the bucket of water and shuddered. How many times had she painted this house? The exercise didn’t stop the nightmares.

She dragged her gaze away from the painting to the myriad of cloth-covered canvases on wooden shelves around along the walls. People commissioned and paid thousands of dollars for her one-of-a-kind paintings, yet she was locked in a loop—fifteen years old at night and twenty-five during the day, all because she couldn’t let go of the past.

There was only one solution. She wanted the house razed to the ground. Ripped through to its foundation until not a single block, beam or panel was left standing. Call her childish or vengeful, but completely obliterating that place from the surface of the earth would fill her with a great deal of satisfaction, and give her the closure she sought.

Ashley turned and snatched up the telephone from the kitchen counter. Her glance touched the surface of the clock. It was nine o’clock and Toni should be in her office. She speed-dialed the realtor’s number.

Morning, Toni. Did you meet with Nina Noble’s agent yet?

Ah, yes. He walked me through the house and the compound. It’s in great condition and has lots of old trees, but I think you could do better.

No, I want this one. She leaned against the counter and glowered at the painting on the easel. Accept whatever they’re asking for it and bring me the papers to sign.

Are you kidding? That’s not the way to get the best deal, Ash. I intend to check the market value first, then offer them ten percent less than—

Don’t. She reached forward, flipped the painting so it faced the easel. I’ll pay whatever they want.

O-okay. But her agent hinted that it’s important to Nina who the new owner is and what he or she plans to do with the house.

Ashley grimaced. Only Nina, the grandstanding diva, would add such a stipulation to something she was selling. But there was no telling how the actress would react if she knew Ashley wanted to buy her house.

I don’t think giving them my name is a good idea. But if her people want to know what I intend to do with it, tell them I mean to turn it into a commune for artists, a place where in-house artists can offer dance, voice and art lessons to kids. It was the dream her parents had wanted before they died, and Carlyle House had been their chosen building. Now the dream was hers to fulfill except hell would freeze over before she used that house. Call me when you have everything set, okay? I’ve got to run. Bye.

Ashley pressed the off button and placed the phone back on its cradle. For a beat, she stared at her shaking hand, her breathing shallow. She fisted her hand and took a deep breath. She was weary of being haunted by her past, longed to be free. No, she deserved to be free, to live a life without doubts and phobias, some of which neither she nor her therapist could explain. With the house destroyed, she’d begin her healing process.

Now that’s settled, I need to focus on something else. Her glance went to the door, again. Where was her model? Dee had some explaining to do.

Ashley rinsed her brushes and palette, took one look at her kimono and groaned. In her haste to exorcise her demons, she’d forgotten to put on a smock to protect it. She hurried upstairs to change.

***

You should have dropped in on her unannounced. I know I would have.

What would that accomplish? Ron leaned back against the leather passenger seat and glanced over at his long time friend Kenny Lambert, ex-FBI-agent-turned-private-investigator.

A lot. In my line of business, Kenny continued, being nice gets you zip. You want to get to the bottom of this, forget your corporate image and your scruples, and start playing dirty. You’re already on the right path…Ronald Douglass. For an alias, it has a nice ring to it, he added with a smirk.

Ron grimaced. It wasn’t much of an alias. Douglass was his middle name. I couldn’t tell her my real name, man. I’ve gotten nothing but ice from my father’s fire buddies. They don’t mind reminiscing about the past until I mention Carlyle House. Then they have places to go, things to do. I didn’t want her shutting me out, too. But you’re right. It’s time to stir things up a bit. They entered NoHo Art District in downtown L.A. Head to Lauderhill Boulevard. I want you to drop me off outside her building.

He exchanged a grin with Kenny, but his inside wound like a spring. He hated to lie, but finding out what happened the night of the fire meant a lot more than a few principles. And the wall of silence from these firefighters only made him more determined to get to the truth. To top that, guilt weighed hard and heavy on him. He shouldn’t have allowed his uncle to dissuade him from investigating the fire when his father died. Granted he’d been twenty at the time and his mother had needed him, but he should have gone with his gut instinct and hired an investigator. He’d given up too fast, ran away from the rumors and the innuendo that his father started the fire. This time, he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Someone out there knew what went down that night. Though their motive for leaving him the clues remained questionable, he’d not live with himself if he didn’t try and find out the truth. Maybe he could even clear his father’s name.

They entered Magnolia Boulevard, passed a light and turned left on Lauderhill. Ron waited until Kenny pulled up and parked before he spoke.

What’s the plan? he asked, glancing at Kenny.

A former colleague at the bureau owes me a few favors. I’m heading to Wilshire Boulevard and handing him these. Kenny indicated the Ziploc bag from the tray between the seats. In it were the two envelopes someone had left Ron in the past two weeks.

The first time Ron saw the small envelope stuck under the windscreen wipers of his car, he’d thought it was a parking ticket. Needless to say, he’d tugged at it, opened and left his fingerprints all over the envelope and the letter. That was two weeks ago.

The second time was yesterday afternoon. He’d been in his office and his car parked in the underground garage of the building housing Neumann Security offices, the Los Angeles branch of his family’s company. His car was still in the same spot, waiting for Kenny. This time, he’d covered his hands before he took the envelope and opened the letter.

The letters had a list of three names and the question, What really happened that night? The weirdest thing was each letter was cut out of the newspaper and glued to the paper, very archaic. A simple text message would have sufficed. And the words ‘really’ and ‘happened’ were spelled with one L and P.

It had taken Ron days to identify the three men on the first list. All of them had worked at the fire station where his father used to volunteer as a firefighter. But was it a coincidence that they had quit right after the fire at Carlyle House? That question was driving him nuts. He had yet to talk to anyone on the second list. Ashley Fitzgerald’s name topped it.

As for the cryptic message, he’d reached the conclusion that whoever sent him the letters either wanted him to reopen the case or had come up with a wacky blackmail scheme. Both the Fire Marshal’s office and L.A.P.D.’s finest had refused to take the letters seriously. Not enough evidence to suspect foul play and reopen the Carlyle fire case. Neither did they consider the letters threatening. It didn’t matter. Nothing would stop him from going ahead with the investigation, including Ashley’s busy schedule.

When do I get back my ride? Ron asked Kenny. The P.I. had taken a detour to pick up Ron at his Hollywood Hills home.

Sometime today…as soon as my friend dusts it for prints. You said you spoke with the building security?

Briefly. The recordings from their surveillance cameras didn’t show anyone loitering near my car. But feel free to have another look at them, I might have missed something.

Or someone. I’ll also have another chat with your father’s closemouthed fire buddies.

Good. Thanks for the ride. Ron stepped out. Calling Kenny had been a brilliant move. Hopefully, the P.I would help him ferret out the person sending these damned letters. Let’s get together later.

Kenny saluted him with a finger. I’ll let you know when the car is ready and what my friend finds out. Are you still going to the convention in San Diego?

As a volunteer wildfire firefighter, he rarely attended the firefighters’ conventions. This year was different. His father’s former chief’s name was on the second list.

Yes. I heard Jonathan Blackwell is receiving a medal. I hope to catch up with him there.

Watch your back. Whoever is doing this must have something to gain. No one stirs up a ten year old case for shits and giggles. Kenny squinted at Ashley’s building and added, Let me know what the lady says.

Ron couldn’t agree more with Kenny. No one did things from the goodness of their hearts, not from his experience. He stepped away from the car, waited until Kenny pulled away before he started for the entrance of the building.

The building, like many in the area, used the products and services of Neumann Security. His family manufactured and supplied state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment and custom-designed software to businesses, homes and even P.I. firms like Kenny’s. The branch Ron ran also managed highly trained security guards. The one on duty recognized him and stood before he reached the desk.

Ron headed for the elevators after speaking with the guard. He fought the tension knitting his gut as he watched the LCD panel flash numbers. What if she recognized him and refused him entrance? Ten years was a long time for someone to remember details of an accident, especially one that changed her life. He’d be screwed if she chose not to help him.

When he stood outside Ashley’s door, Ron took a deep breath before he pressed her doorbell. He waited a few seconds then angled his head to listen for movement from inside. There was not a whisper from inside, yet he knew she was home.

He leaned his thumb on the doorbell, held it longer than necessary. When there was still no response, he sucked in a breath and pivoted on his heels. Two steps away, the door opened and a low, throaty voice hit him from behind, sending a jolt through his system.

Quit with the ruckus. You’re, uuh…. Her voice tailed off.

He turned and took in her creamy, flawless skin, the pert nose and lush lips. Her almond-shaped eyes the color of honey drops flashed and the glossy, abundant auburn hair with coppery highlights struggled to burst free from whatever pinned it back.

Could this gorgeous woman be the frightened girl of ten years ago? The image of her from that night had stayed with him over the years. He couldn’t even explain why.

Ashley Fitzgerald?

You’re late, she said in a cool, impatient voice.

He raised an eyebrow. I am?

She thrust a delicate wrist under his nose. Her gold watch caught the overhead light and sparkled. It’s after nine-thirty. You were due at an hour ago.

Her feminine scent drifted to his nose. Something flowery. Roses? He frowned, annoyed with himself for letting his mind wander.

He cleared his throat, readying himself to explain his present. I believe you’ve mis—

Never mind, she said, took a step back, and with her other hand clutching a cell phone, gestured him into the loft. You’re here now. Come in.

She was obviously mistaking him for someone else. But after the obstacles he’d encountered in the past two weeks, he’d be a fool not to take the advantage of the situation. Being invited inside her home was one step closer to achieving his goal.

Thank you. He flashed a grin as he strode into the loft.

What’s your name? she asked, closing the door.

Ron.

Make yourself comfortable, Ron. She waved in the direction of a leather lounge. I’m on the phone. I’ll be with you in a sec.

He watched her sashay towards the kitchen, the phone at her ear, and found himself enjoying the way the silk one-piece outfit shifted and flowed around her curves.

Ron tore his gaze away, shook his head to rattle his brain back in place and grimaced. He needed to get a grip, quick. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Ashley knew a lot, but from the stubborn gleam he’d glimpsed in those eyes, she wasn’t going to roll over and spill her gut just because he asked.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee pulled him farther into the room. He took a deep breath and looked around with interest. The sheer numbers of cloth-draped canvases along the walls combined with the effect of the light pouring inside the loft from large windows were startling. He wished he could see some of the pieces. The ones he’d seen around town, including the two his grandmother owned, were truly magnificent.

A piece on the easel drew his attention. It was facing backward, but something about it pulled him closer. He tilted it for a better look and sucked in his breath.

Carlyle House was unmistakable. Its massive front door was missing, flames leapt from every window and a face…no, a pair of large eyes watched from the smoke billowing over the turrets.

Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?

He let the canvas go, backed away from the painting and shifted his gaze to meet hers. Her hand was on her hip, drawing his attention to its enticing curve, and her hazel eyes smoldered. He’d be damned if he didn’t admit she looked glorious.

I apologize. I shouldn’t have looked at your work without asking you first. He waited, his gut tightening with each second that passed. Way to go, Noble. Now she’ll kick you out, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. He gave her an apologetic smile.

She looked ready to read him the riot act. Then the anger seemed to drain out of her. She leaned against the counter and let out a long breath.

There’re two things I will not tolerate from a model—tardiness and peeking at my work. Her voice was firm, but neither rude nor angry. Dee told me you’ve done this before, so undress there. She pointed at a partitioned area in the corner. Since you were late, I’ll just do a few shots. We’ll start with upper torso, so the shirt goes and the pants stay for the moment. If you want to listen to music, I have classical, jazz, rock…whatever you wish. We’ll work there. With a nod, she indicated the black leather chaise lounge near a window and the easel. If we have time, I’d like shots of you in briefs. What?

Briefs?

Ashley ignored his incredulous expression. Why had her request for a mature male model been filled with this six-foot mass of male arrogance? Beautiful to look at but trouble to work with. Dee already apologized for the man’s tardiness during their brief telephone conversation, but swore he was a joy to work with. Yeah, right.

Yes, briefs. She pushed off the counter and approached him, taking in his sun-kissed skin, which screamed outdoorsman. But the combination of Monet’s cobalt blue eyes and short-cropped hair the color of midnight was more suited for a corporate office with a view. He was a contradiction, and her fingers longed to pick up a paint brush and immortalize him on canvas.

Slowly, she circled him, eyeing his tall, well-built body from every angle, wondering if he was tanned all over. The black T-shirt and blue jeans didn’t do much to hide the lean muscles beneath. She wasn’t into men with facial hair, but the shadowing on his jaw contrasted with his golden skin and gave him a sexy, rakish look. A tattoo of something was partially visible on his upper left arm. Did he have more on his torso? Not that it mattered. She easily imagined him with nothing on but a red, silk