One might reckon that Peaches would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.
The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.
She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.
On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice, about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.
She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.
She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”
“Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.
She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”
“I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.
Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”
His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.
“How was your photo shoot?”
“Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.
The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.
A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.
He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.
During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.
Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.
“I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good at what you do.” Whoa. Instant image of him bringing her to orgasm in her dream. “I mean, you’re good with your camera.” She closed the door. Tawny, honey, find a brain cell and grab on to it. She sounded like a dithering idiot.
“You’re very photogenic. You have a great smile and good bone structure,” he said.
He spoke very matter-of-factly. He could’ve been discussing the weather. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to pound as if he’d just claimed her beauty equal to that of the legendary Helen of Troy. She felt as gauche as she had when she’d been a third-grader and Henry Turner had pulled her braids. Except she’d liked Henry Turner. And while she might have toe-curling dreams about Simon, she wasn’t altogether sure that she liked him.
“Thank you. Your equipment should be safe here.” She indicated a spot between the door and the antique cupboard to the right. Hauling that monstrosity up when she’d moved last year had been a party. “Would you like a drink while we’re waiting on Elliott? Red wine?”
Simon placed his camera and equipment on the floor next to the cupboard with more care and consideration than many mothers with babies. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”
Earth to Tawny. She should stop admiring the way his black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and the lean line of his back. She should also stop eyeing the fit of his jeans over his very fine—make that extra fine—ass.
He stood, pivoting to face her in one fluid movement. He arched a questioning brow. “Need any help?”
Don’t mind me. I was just checking out your eye candy. “No. Going right now.” She indicated the sofa with a flick of her wrist. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
She fled the room, silently urging Elliott to arrive soon. Those dreams were seriously messing with her head. She’d felt as if his gaze, hot and consuming, had licked across her shoulders bared by her halter top and across her buttocks snugged into her shorts.
She leaned against the counter and dragged in a calming breath, dismissing her ridiculous notions. Simon had been his usual remote self since he’d arrived. The only heat she’d felt from him had been a product of her own twisted, overactive, inappropriate imagination.
She reached past Peaches to the small wine rack atop the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cabernet. Peaches, who spent most of his time on top of the refrigerator, offered her a lazy slit-eyed look.
Tawny uncorked the bottle. “You know, normal cats curl up on a bed or in the corner of the sofa or drape themselves across a chair back. Why do you camp out on top of the refrigerator?”
Of course, the cat didn’t deign to answer. Tawny pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet. She personally thought Peaches liked to render himself inaccessible. And what did it say about her that she loved that damn cat? “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving now.”
She went back into the den.
Simon sat on her purple chenille sofa studying the room. Self-consciousness surged through her, knowing he was seeing her personal space through the eyes of an artist. Her taste tended toward eclectic. She favored reproduction art, the occasional antique and furniture more comfortable than stylish.
She placed the wine and glasses on the bamboo chest that doubled as a coffee table. Simon focused his attention on her, and she wished contrarily that he was eying her apartment once again instead. The glow from a stained-glass floor lamp at the corner of the sofa backlit him. Dark hair, dark slashing eyebrows above dark eyes, unsmiling visage, black T-shirt and jeans. He was a dark angel come to torment her.
His eyes snared her. The room shrank to just the few feet separating them. If this was one of her dreams, she’d join him on the couch, where she’d nibble and lick her way past his perpetual reserve until they were both getting naked….
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“Thanks, I’ve got it.” Don’t