Sam knew he was going to make love to Delaney Walker
Delaney’s soft green gaze searched his face. “Are you by any chance psychic?” she asked. “Because if you’re feeling what I’m feeling, then I want you to read my mind.”
Liquid heat slid through his veins. He didn’t need to possess any telepathic talent to know exactly what she was thinking. Yet he hesitated. Something inside him knew that once he took this step—once he was with her—he would never be the same. He would be irrevocably changed…and it scared the hell out of him.
“Why?” he asked, stalling for time.
Delaney stared hungrily at his mouth. “So that you’ll do what I want you to without having to be told.” She closed her eyes tightly. “Because telling you is too hard, makes me responsible and—And tonight I don’t want to be responsible.” She opened her eyes and her beseeching gaze met his. “Tonight I just…want.”
Sam’s thin thread of resolve snapped. “Reading your mind might be beyond my talents,” he said, reaching up and running the pad of his thumb over her mouth. His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “So why don’t I start by reading your lips?”
Dear Reader,
This story was born when I read an article about a woman who thoroughly enjoyed sex, was very uninhibited…so long as the lights were off and her partner never saw her naked. Being a tad modest myself (ahem, vast understatement), this really struck a chord and I started wondering What if…?
What if the heroine was an unbelievably modest lingerie designer who’d been jilted twice? (Bless her heart.) What if she planned to overcome that modesty by giving her fiancé boudoir photos? (Hmm. Gutsy.) And what if the cheating worm dumped her, taking another woman on the honeymoon and leaving our poor heroine with an appointment for boudoir photos she no longer needed? (What an idiot! Good riddance!) So then, what if she decided that men were scum, and she wanted those photos anyway? (Humph. More power to her.) And what if the photographer epitomized sin in the flesh…and then she found herself trapped overnight with him in his loft? (Ooo-la-la!) And what if the photographer was the faithful hero she’d been looking for and he was willing to do whatever it took to make her see he was the one for her? (Yes, yes…yes!)
Picture Me Sexy is the result of all that chaotic wondering. (Ah, the workings of an author’s mind. It’s almost scary, isn’t it?) I had a ball writing Sam and Delaney’s story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much.
Enjoy,
Rhonda Nelson
Picture Me Sexy
Rhonda Nelson
MILLS & BOON
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In this world, there are men and there are heroes.
And if a woman is lucky, she’ll wind up with the latter—a man who will love, protect, guard and defend her at all costs, who will be her best friend and more, a great partner, a great father. My brother-in-law, Tracy Vanderford, is one of these men—a true hero.
I’m so thankful that he’s there for my sister and niece.
You’re a special person, Tracy.
I’m so glad you’re part of my family.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Prologue
MEMPHIS LINGERIE QUEEN Delaney Walker jilted—again!
Delaney muttered a soft oath as she stared grimly at the newspaper. Given the state of the economy, the scandal with the Catholic Church, and the recent war, one would think that the River City Herald could feature something besides her pitiful social life on their front page. It was ridiculous really. Journalism and the state of society was at an all time low if her busted love life was considered news. Hell, it wasn’t news, Delaney amended—it was entertainment. She grimaced.
She was entertainment.
The moment she’d gone from being a struggling designer to an overnight success, Delaney had become Memphis’s bad-girl icon. Never mind that the moniker didn’t fit, that the reputation was a complete figment of society’s imagination. She designed hot, racy lingerie, ergo she must be hot and racy. Her lips curled wryly.
Ha. Nothing could be further from the truth.
That mentality coupled with her penchant for dating the occasional baseball star and for her alarming tendency to get engaged and—just as quickly un- engaged—didn’t help matters in the least. Memphis journalists followed her every move with avid interest, got paid to print her humiliations as if her life were merely the next chapter of a running joke. Most of the time, Delaney didn’t care. Any publicity was good publicity as far as she was concerned. She’d always fumed about it in private, then laughed all the way to the bank.
But for reasons she didn’t understand, it was harder to summon the laughter this time, and even harder to laugh her way to the bank.
Delaney suspected that glum realization stemmed from the fact that Roger worked at the bank.
Her spineless ex hadn’t even had the common courtesy of calling off their engagement in person—he’d taken the hi-tech approach and e-mailed her. That had been a first. She’d been dumped over dinner and over the phone, but this was the first time she’d been given the old heave-ho via the information superhighway.
But it would be the last. She was absolutely, unequivocally finished with men.
Delaney read through the article, winced at the accompanying picture. Hogsville. She looked huge. She was no dainty miss by any stretch of the imagination—she’d been an overweight child and still suffered the effects of that mentality—but in all fairness, the photo wasn’t an accurate depiction of her true self. Her lips curled. If that were the case, then Roger would have scales and a long forked tongue, which more accurately matched his character.
“Delaney…I have bad news.”
Delaney looked up from her desk and met the worried gaze of her personal assistant. She blew out a breath