“Rick West.” He held out a hand so big it swallowed hers up. No calluses, so forget the cowboy. And his expression was strong and no-nonsense. More like the hard-bitten cop catching her speeding, then patting her down and losing all restraint.
“Samantha Sawyer,” she managed to say, fighting her urge to add, Have I done something wrong, Officer?
He was clearly not here for a photo. Men’s men only came in when they were dragged by the women who’d conquered their hearts. Rick West was alone. And without a ring.
Stop it.
“I’m here about the job,” he said, giving her a blast of remarkable green eyes that made her want to say yes, yes, oh yes. He unzipped his portfolio, biceps tightening. “I’m a photographer.”
“A photographer?” Not the cowboy, highwayman or cop. He was the artist, slowly peeling away her clothes so he could capture her on canvas or film or in clay. “But I’m only looking for an assistant.”
“No problem. I can assist. Hold reflectors, deliver negs, answer the phones.” He snatched her gaze up tight. “Whatever you need me to do.”
Would you wear leather chaps? How about handcuffs? His eyes were a rare green. Not as bright as emerald or as subdued as jade. Nature’s green—a Scottish hillside, a particular moss she’d seen on Oak Creek’s red rocks.
“It would be a lot of errands, some marketing calls, low-skill stuff,” she said, but he’d flipped open the portfolio to get his résumé, and she went close enough to peek at his pictures, bumping the counter, which wobbled. She had to ask Darien’s crew to attach it properly to the floor.
“Wow,” she said. The first photo was a startling shot of a big-winged bird that seemed to dance over a hillock of gold-and-yellow desert poppies. “Is that a falcon?”
“No. Turkey vulture.”
“But it’s so elegant.” She glanced up at him.
“Yeah.” He smiled mysteriously, as if the grace of the bird were his private secret. She could picture that wicked grin beneath a Zorro mask, with him all in black and her in a low-cut peasant blouse. Tell me what you desire of me, mysterious outlaw.
Your breasts, your thighs, your silky skin, your fiery soul.
He turned the portfolio at a better angle, so she could flip through it. Misty was waiting, but Samantha could at least glance at what he had. The second shot held racing clouds dusted by gold over an up-jutting desert promontory in an iridescent blue sky. “Gorgeous.” She glanced up at him.
“Canyon de Chelly,” he said, a flicker of pride in his Scottish-moss eyes. Forget the Zorro mask. She’d want those green eyes boring straight into her soul.
She was close enough to pick up his scent—lime-spice aftershave, fresh air and starch. His shirt was stiff, the sleeves fiercely creased. He’d ironed it? Masculine, but deliciously domestic. Mmm.
She flipped through breathtaking wildlife and landscape shots—mostly Southwest, mostly desert, mostly color, though there were a few dramatic black-and-whites. Subtle emotions played over every print. His work was technically brilliant with an artistry that made even the familiar seem new.
“These are wonderful, Rick,” she said, “but I take specialty portraits, as you can see.” She motioned at the framed prints that surrounded them.
He thrust his résumé at her.
She looked it over. Freelance work for several magazines. He’d also been an automobile mechanic and had served in the army. His references included the photo editor at Arizona Highways, whom she knew.
“You can see my work’s mostly landscape and wildlife,” he said, “and I’d like to add some portraits to my portfolio. Glamour sells.” He shrugged, as if that were an obvious motivation.
“But there wouldn’t be much photography if any. I’m just growing my business. I’m only paying minimum wage.” She extended the résumé, but he didn’t take it, just held her gaze, something flaring in his eyes. Attraction spun hot between them and made the air seem to crackle.
“I’m flexible,” he said, a sexy edge to his words.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she blurted, surprising herself. He stood arrow straight, but there was an animal grace to him that made her want to see him in motion. She felt light-headed and a little weak. “But still…”
She just didn’t see him doing this job.
Now, doing her…that she could definitely see. He’d slipped into her fantasies as easy as a night swim in August. What about making them real? She tugged on her locket, sliding it back and forth on its chain, pondering the idea.
Ask him out. You want him. He wants you. Simple.