Unlaced

by Jaci Burton

  “Then why doesn’t he just hire a model to practice on?”

  Holding up the ad, Lorie pointed. “Because he wants a real woman. Not some model-thin, unblemished young thing. According to him, it’s all about showing off a real woman’s beauty.” She shrugged, as if only a man could come up with that line. “He’s sweet, but I don’t think he’s going to get a ‘real’ woman to pose. If anything, he’ll get a reply from some skank.”

  Margo smiled at the face Lorie made. “Right. No ordinary woman would go for that. I mean, what if he put the pictures on the Internet or something?”

  Lorie shook her head. “Oh, he’d never do that. Dirk’s your boy-next-door type. I’m just waiting for the right woman to come along and sweep him off his feet.” She snapped her fingers. “Not to mention finding someone for my brother. Now talk about a perv.” Lorie rolled her eyes, but Margo knew darn well she adored her younger brother. Tossing the ad on the coffee table, Lorie narrowed her eyes. “And don’t think you’re fooling me. You’re trying to sidetrack me so I’ll forget our discussion about Richard and why you’re not moving on.”

  Lorie had it wrong. Margo wasn’t avoiding at all. In fact, she was terribly intrigued. With Dirk, and his ad. He might be the perfect solution to her “pensiveness,” as Lorie called it. She could have a hot interlude, give her self-esteem a boost, then walk away with no one the wiser, not even her best friend.

  Margo memorized the e-mail address at the bottom of the ad.

  The A-frame house nestled among the pine, oak, and redwoods was ablaze with icicle Christmas lights.

  Of course, once she’d gotten home that night after dinner with Lorie, Margo had vacillated. In the end, though, it was the echo of Richard’s accusations that had her finally answering Dirk’s ad. Richard claimed she was unwilling to take a chance and worried excessively about what everyone else thought, especially her mother and her mother’s friends. That drove him crazy. It was ultimately why he left. It wasn’t Katrina, as she’d let Lorie believe, it was Margo herself. Just once, she wanted to do something wild and crazy, kinky and hot. She wanted to prove to herself that Richard was wrong. She could get down and dirty, and have fun while she was doing it.

  Parking her sedan by the stand-alone garage, Margo shut off the engine, and the silence of the forest settled in around her. The house was isolated. She’d passed several driveways coming up the long, winding road, but the homes were set too far back to see more than a porch lamp beaming through the trees.

  The boy next door, Lorie called him. The Christmas lights twinkling along the roofline attested to it. And Lorie had vouched for him, not to reiterate the fact that Lorie’s brother had known him since college. Dirk Araman. The name appealed to Margo in a warrior kind of way. If someone accosted a woman in the street, a guy named Dirk would run the mugger down.

  Over the week, they’d exchanged several e-mails. He was articulate, funny, and well, sweet. She felt like she knew him. Mentioning how she came to see the ad, she’d asked him to keep it quiet. Explaining herself to Lorie was out of the question. All right, the secrecy was shades of excessive worrying, but honestly, even Richard would agree she didn’t have to broadcast her intent. Dirk agreed to keep it to himself. She also made it abundantly clear that the pictures would be for her use only. Not for this contest of his, not even for him to keep.

  She’d told him her age, and though he was twelve years younger, it hadn’t fazed him. All he wanted was to take her picture while she . . . The photos were hers after they’d looked through them together and he’d made all his notes. He explained about the competition, that if he won, he stood to get national attention for his work. His goal for their session was to work on posing, lighting, and a host of technical jargon that had passed right over her head. He’d also asked her measurements for some special lingerie he wanted to photograph her in. The competition was for nude portraits only, but he was honest enough to admit he’d added the erotic part for the titillation factor. Well, hell, she was in it for the titillation, too.

  That made them equal perverts.

  Could she get naked for a stranger? She took care of herself. Her breasts were small, but they didn’t sag. She didn’t consider herself a bad-looking woman. But it was one thing to say you’d do it, another to actually do it. And touching herself for him? A hot shiver raced through her. Yes, she was nervous, but she wanted it. The idea was kinky, decadent. She’d just wasted one precious year ignoring her needs, and she wasn’t about to lose another.

  Margo threw open the car door and stepped out. The chilly December night bit through her coat. Opening the rear door, she stuffed her small purse, phone, and keys in her gym bag, which was packed with makeup (camera lights could be harsh), lingerie (despite his having something special for her to wear), a bottle of wine (she liked the sweet stuff), and her vibrator. She didn’t know if she could use it for him, yet the fantasy had haunted her. Her toy had seen extra duty every night this week.

  The three-story A-frame loomed above her. A balcony ran the length of the second floor, and the third was obviously a loft. The scent of wood smoke tinged the air. Stepping up on the porch, she detected the soft sound of a woman’s musical voice drifting through the panes of opaque glass in the door.

  This was it, her last chance to rethink. She might have except for the distant echo of Richard’s voice alleging that, just like her mother, she’d grow old in her pristine, picture-perfect life, and find out she hadn’t done a damn thing with it. No risks, true, but no rewards either.

  Margo pressed the bell.

  A giant answered her ring. Oh. My. God. Though she was five-six, with four extra high-heeled inches, the man at the door towered over her like the Incredible Hulk. He had to be at least six-five. His thighs in black jeans were the size of tree trunks, his chest beneath a red-and-black flannel shirt rippled with muscles, and his hands would span her waist, with room left over. With a face made up of blunt angles, square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a slightly crooked nose that had been broken at least once, he looked like the warrior his name implied.

  Margo clutched her bag to her chest, and her heart pumped fast and hard. What had she gotten herself into?

  “I’m glad you didn’t change your mind, Margo.”

  His voice was liquid smoke easing over her nerve endings. The stuff of wet dreams, it trickled down her spine, settling between her legs. She’d always been around average men, and Dirk was anything but average. Truth to tell, there was something bone-melting about his sheer body mass, all muscle and no fat.

  He watched her watching him, his eyes an extraordinary shade of blue totally unexpected beneath that short cap of thick, dark sable hair. “Maybe I should have sent you a picture before you agreed to meet me,” he said.

  Then he smiled, and Margo’s libido went into overdrive as a single boyish dimple appeared at the left corner of his mouth. It transformed his face from Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein to . . . well, Margo didn’t know exactly. Except that the combination of his smile and size made her panties damp.

  “You can back out right now, if you want.” He held the door wide, standing slightly to the side so she could enter. If she wanted. Yet he didn’t touch her with anything but that smile.

  Right. That’s exactly what Richard would expect her to do. Turn tail and run. You’re so afraid someone might actually find out you’ve got a dirty mind. Newsflash, Margo, most people have dirty minds. You’re nothing special.

  She realized she’d been staring rudely. “I’m sorry. You’re just so . . .”

  “Big,” he supplied. “You’d never believe my mother is only five-one and a hundred and five pounds.”

  Margo gaped. “No way.”

  He nodded, a hank of brown hair falling across his forehead.

  “What about your dad?”

  “Five-eight and the proverbial ninety-pound weakling. He always claimed I belonged to the milkman.” The dimple appeared again, his blue eyes twinkling like Christmas tree lights, and Margo
imagined everyone laughing over the family legend.

  The night air was creeping beneath her long wool skirt, and all his central heat was whooshing through the wide open door. She couldn’t take forever to make up her mind. She’d wanted the titillation of doing something out there and kinky. She wanted the erotic photos. She needed to feel alive again, needed a connection. But whereas before she’d fantasized of stripping down for a total stranger, now she realized she wanted to do it for this man.

  Dirk Araman held out his hand. And Margo took it.

  “Would you like to take off your coat?”

  He said it almost gently. In the kitchen, he’d poured her a glass of wine out of the bottle she’d brought with her, adding a couple of ice cubes to cool it. Then he’d retrieved a beer from the fridge for himself. Yet in all that time, she still hadn’t let go of her gym bag or removed her coat.

  “I won’t bite.” He quirked one dark eyebrow over a scintillatingly blue eye. The dimple bloomed once more, and she knew what he’d left unsaid. I won’t bite unless you want me to.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted him to. She hadn’t planned on letting him touch her, but the idea was a bud waiting to bloom in her mind. He smelled so good, all woodsy, as if he’d been out splitting logs for the fire that burned in the living room. The Christmas tree stood tall in the corner, wrapped in tinsel and red and blue ornaments, a star winking on the top. Braided rugs covered the hardwood floors. Margo set her wineglass on the burnished oak coffee table, tossed her gym bag on the brown leather sofa, and undid her coat.

  Dirk’s fingers brushed hers as he took it, and a tiny shock raced through her body. Her thank-you sounded a bit strangled. He tongue-tied her. What did you say to a man you were about to undress for?

  After hanging her coat in a closet, he held up a hand—God, he had huge hands, with long, supple fingers—and pointed past the entry hall to the stairs. “I’ll show you the studio.”

  Slinging her gym bag over her arm, Margo picked up her wineglass, and the sudden cold on her fingertips made her nipples peak against her soft, cowl-neck sweater. He tipped his head, his lids lowered, and she knew he saw, but he was gentleman enough not to mention it. Polite boy next door, just as Lorie had said.

  The second level had three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a montage of pictures adorning the long hallway wall.

  “Are these all your photos?” Her wine sloshed slightly in her glass as she pointed. “They’re beautifully done.”

  Good God, the man blushed. It was adorable. “My sisters are a bunch of hams, always wanting their pictures taken.”

  She counted four women about his age, all gorgeous and petite, and surrounded by varying numbers of children, husbands, and animals. There were also three shots of a stunning lady dressed in a flowing caftan cavorting amid long meadow grasses. Margo leaned in to study the trio of photos.

  “That’s my mom.”

  Margo felt her jaw drop. “You’re kidding.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know the pictures are . . . unusual, but she wanted me to take something special for her new lover—”

  “The milkman?” She didn’t mean to be funny; she was astounded, and by more than the milkman legend.

  But Dirk laughed, a hearty sound she felt in her chest. “Naw. My dad made her dump the milkman after I was born.”

  Certainly none of his sisters were of his same behemoth proportions.

  “My dad died of a bad heart about three years ago, but my mom met this great guy, and she wanted to give him some special . . .” His face reddened. “I didn’t know how to tell her no.” Then he flipped up a hand. “Not that they’re that sexy.” Yet he seemed embarrassed, like a little boy.

  Margo studied them once more. They were sexy, but not because of the clothing or the poses, nor from anything the photographer had done. Rather, the sensuousness came from the woman herself, as if she’d been thinking of her lover.

  “How old is she?”

  He shrugged, as if he couldn’t figure out why she’d even ask. “Sixty-two. No, wait, she’s almost sixty-three.”

  “She’s not sixty-three until she’s sixty-three.” Which is how Margo’s mother would think. Her mom certainly wouldn’t be thinking about “lovers.” According to her, women over fifty didn’t even like sex. Her mother probably hadn’t liked sex before she was fifty, either, when Margo’s dad was alive.

  “I stand corrected,” Dirk said. “Mom would kill me.”

  “Not that she even looks sixty-two.” The photos were gorgeous. Every single one of them, not just his mom, but his sisters and the family, even the family dogs and cats.

  Margo wanted him to do that for her. To make her feel beautiful and dazzling in front of the camera, young and alive.

  And she planned on giving him a show like no other he’d ever had.

  Two

  “Well, I’d certainly say you have talent,” Margo said at last, indicating the wall of family pictures with a wave.

  Dirk didn’t quite meet her eye. “Thanks.” Then he held out his hand. “Enough of my family.”

  Her perusal of his photos made him self-conscious, as if he were uncomfortable with receiving approval. Artists could be touchy, she knew, and his photography was definitely an art. His loving touch had made a magnificent array of family photos.

  Her hand in his, she let him guide her up the spiral staircase to his loft. Large hands, warmth. She’d never been a woman who needed pampering, but it was somehow sensual being taken care of by such a big man. Her high heels clicked on the metal stairs, and he ducked his head to avoid a rafter as he pulled her up into the surprisingly spacious room.

  Margo dropped her bag by the railing. Good Lord, what a setup. Lights, camera, action.

  In the loft’s far corner, next to a cast-iron potbelly stove, he’d arranged a vanity with mirror and lights, presumably for his models to make themselves up, and a screen behind which they could change. Outfitted with two backdrops, one blue, one black, he’d created separate settings for the actual photographs. Surrounding both were several light stands, each fitted with umbrellas to direct the lighting from the sides and overhead. Shiny silver and gold inserts inside the umbrellas would cast the model with different shades of coloring. A complicated digital camera topped a tripod, and an impressive array of lenses and other technical-looking equipment were laid out on a table. The black backdrop was graced with a classy burgundy chaise lounge, and before the blue, he’d set a single wooden barstool.

  For a moment, she could only stare at that chaise. She was going to get naked for this man. Right now, right here. He’d see every flaw. What had been a naughty fantasy would soon be reality.

  She wanted to do this. She just needed to . . . calm down, talk about something else because she refused to let him know she was nervous. What better way than pouring on admiration for his impressive setup? “No fooling. You are a photographer.”

  “No fooling.” He moved farther into the room so he didn’t have to stoop beneath the sloped, raftered ceiling.

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “About five years. I’ve got some of my stuff on stock photo sites.” He flashed her that dimple, looking boyishly proud. “I received my first royalty check a couple of months ago.”

  “So you’re making a living at it. That’s cool. Making your dreams come true in life is the most important thing.”

  He glanced up, in the process of lighting two candles on a small carved oak table by the divan. A peach scent perfumed the air. She couldn’t read his expression—assessing maybe, gauging the veracity of her compliments.

  Taking her wineglass, he set it within easy reach of the chaise. “Far from making enough to pay the mortgage.” Yet the blue of his eyes intensified. “Someday, though.”

  “So what do you do for a living now?” she asked, then immediately regretted the question. It was too personal.

  But he gave her a smile. “Nothing of much consequence.” And thus forgave her intrus
ion.

  Really, she didn’t want to know anything more about him. This was a hot interlude between strangers. Something she could trot out of her memory banks years from now and say, “I took a risk. And God, was it worth it.” That was all she wanted.

  “We can begin with you on the stool and work to the lounge.”

  At least he was starting her out easy. “That’s fine.”

  “Let’s do some test shots to make sure the lighting’s okay.”

  He positioned her, seating her on the barstool, his hands in her hair, fluffing it, tilting her chin, fitting the cowl neck of her sweater just so. His body heat seeped through the wool of her skirt, and rather than frighten her, his light touches set her blood on simmer. When he stroked away strands of hair that had wisped across her cheek, she wanted to lean into his palm.

  “Tilt your head.” His voice whispered across her hair as he tapped her temple. Then he squatted beside her, flaring her skirt around the stool, fingers brushing gently.

  He rose to survey his work. “Perfect.”

  His words made her feel perfect, even if he was only referring to his own arrangement of her body.

  Removing the camera from the tripod, he held it to his eye rather than looking at her on the viewfinder. He clicked off pictures, murmuring instructions as he did so, then finally held the camera away and looked at what he’d taken.

  “Hmm.” He grimaced. “The silver’s too harsh. Better if we use one gold and no silver.” He tore a couple of the colored Velcroed panels from inside the umbrella lights. “Okay, now lean over the stool like a World War Two pinup girl.”

  She smiled as she posed like Betty Grable. Bracing her elbows on the seat, she gazed over her shoulder at him.

  He smiled his approval. “You’re a natural.”