by Sarah Hegger
“Hi, I’m looking for Tiffany?” A deep voice spoke from behind her.
Tiffany whirled on her four-inch heels and looked up. And up some more. Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus. Her white boy was here and he was totally gorgeous. His blond hair was cropped close to his scalp. It brought all your attention straight to that face. And what a face. You could break rocks on that jawline. The straight blade of his nose rescued him from pretty, but the mouth beneath it curved full and etched, made for nibbling on.
Tiffany did a quick, happy two-step. He even had beautiful blue eyes. He might be a shade on the tall side, but they could fake that a bit. Not as young as she’d first thought, but makeup would fix that. Two vertical lines between his eyebrows gave off a sort of “don’t mess with me” vibe. She beamed at him. “You’re perfect.”
He raised an eyebrow, and returned her smile cautiously.
Oh, yes, yes, yes. He had one of those smiles, all innocent on the outside until you looked into those bad boy eyes. Scrap the Botox, those laugh lines were totally dreamy. So unfair, men got yummier-looking as they aged. She did a quick body scan. Nice. Very nice. If he looked as good out of that tight T-shirt as he did in it. Seriously, where had this boy been hiding himself?
Tiffany patted the sort of forearm that could be best friends with a jackhammer, and mentally forgave the casting agent. “Okay.” She stretched her fingers to capacity to grip his arm. Wow! And this from a girl who worked with wow every day. “We are going to have to hurry. Strip and let’s get you all pumped up.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Piers snarled. “Your call time was one thirty.”
Blondie opened his mouth to reply. Tiffany spun him toward makeup. It did no good to argue with Piers when he was on a tear. A waste of time they didn’t have. Things were turning around. The white boy was here, and he was smoking hot. The shoot would finish on time, and then she could deal with Lola. And still have time to prepare herself for the night.
Blondie stood there giving the other models a thorough eye scan. Gay. What a shame.
She shook her head at herself. What did it matter? She was practically an engaged woman.
Blondie hovered at her side.
Tiffany rolled her eyes. Clichés sucked, but some of these boys had no brain between all that brawn. Hooking her hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, she tugged. “You have to take this off for makeup.”
“Are you taking my clothes off?” Blondie folded his huge paws around hers and stopped her. He had a great voice, like hot chocolate laced with rum. The sort of voice that would do great bedtime stories.
She hauled back on her thought path. “You have to strip.”
He looked right at her. Not past her or around her, but right at her as if he wanted to see straight into the center of her. A snap of something she didn’t want to put a name to crackled through the space between them. A shiver snaked down her spine, but she didn’t seem able to break his eye lock.
“Strip?” Up went one eyebrow.
Sweat prickled her palms. Her hands were still fisted around his shirt, exposing about two inches of stomach. He had a garden path trail of hair disappearing below the low-slung waist of his jeans. That would have to go. Pity. Tiffany dragged her stare off his navel and focused on the writing on the front of his T-shirt. It read: NEVER TRUST AN ATOM—THEY MAKE UP EVERYTHING.
Cool shirt. She and Blondie were probably the only two people in the world who thought it was funny. The shirt needed to come off and now, before Piers went into orbit. “Yes, strip.”
She pulled at the shirt and his hands tightened over hers. Tiffany glared up at him. An attack of modesty? Unbelievable. Did he think he would be modeling undershirts and long johns? “You have to take it all off.”
“Normally I get dinner first.” Those bad boy eyes danced at her, inviting her to share the joke. For a second, she badly wanted to.
“Tiffany, sweetie.” Tyrone appeared beside her. “That’s not your model.”
“What?” Tiffany stared at Blondie. Of course he was her model because otherwise she was stripping … a whimper caught in her throat.
He looked back at her.
Tyrone took her by the shoulders and spun her around. “That’s your model.”
He pointed to a beautiful Rocky (as in the Picture Show, not Sly) lookalike talking earnestly to Piers. Piers lapped it up. Waving one hand through the air and patting the pretty, blond boy on the arm.
“I …” Tiffany peered over her shoulder. Please let the last two minutes be a figment of her imagination. Her figment grinned at her and tucked his hands into his back pockets.
“Tiffany,” Piers bellowed. “Get Mark into makeup. And get him a cup of coffee. The poor boy has had a horrible day.”
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” Mark approached her, his big blue eyes awash with apology. “I’m new in town and I got lost.”
“Sister,” Tyrone cut across him. “Save it for the preacher and get your ass all prettied up. We are not getting any younger over here.”
“Yes, of course.” Mark scurried over to makeup, leaving Tiffany standing with Blondie.
“Well.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing as much as she thought she was. A red face would seriously clash with her hot-pink top. “I thought you were one of the models.”
“Thank you, I think.” His voice held enough of a laugh for Tiffany to see the funny side. The corners of her mouth tilted up.
“Tiffany,” Piers demanded from across the room. “Do we like the color of these?” Piers waved his hand over a pair of briefs and frowned.
No, no, no, no, no. And just when things were looking up. Thank God she’d had the foresight to pack different colors. “You don’t like them?”
“It’s just …” Piers plucked at his bottom lip, thrust one hip out, and stared down at the models’ skimpy underwear. “He has this lovely skin and I don’t think these do anything for it.”
Tiffany clenched her belly in protest. Piers looked ready to take one of his stands. This would throw her whole schedule off. There wasn’t enough of those briefs for anyone to give a shit about the color. And the model wearing them had an honest-to-God eight-pack, all carved out of his deep chocolate skin. She went with the tried-and-true response, guaranteed to win the argument. “That’s the color the client wanted.”
Tiffany held her breath as Piers glared at the yellow briefs. Take the shot, Piers. Please, please, please, take the shot.
“I don’t know why I must always work with people who have such fetid taste.” Piers stalked over to his camera. Tiffany let her breath out.
“I wouldn’t wear yellow underpants if you paid me.” Blondie’s heavy baritone stroked her eardrums. His voice sent goose bumps frog-marching up and down her spine.
“Well, we’re paying him.” She turned to frown at him. “If you’re not a model, then what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
Goddamn it. Her phone slipped out of her hand. Blondie caught it in one paw.
“Do I know you?” Tiffany snatched her phone back and tried to do the same with her dignity.
“Nope.” He shook his head slowly. “We’ve never met. But I know of you. I’m a friend of your husband. Lola told me where to find you.”
“What?”
“I’m a friend of Luke’s. Your husband?”
That’s what she thought he said. Her heart skipped a beat. “Ah, fuck!”
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Hegger
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters feat
ured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3741-5
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3742-2
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3742-5
