Bringing Down Sam Page 2

  The stylist finished and left the room, leaving Eve alone. She sat in a tall chair, before a mirror-covered wall. Eve had an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu, remembering the days of makeup and hairstyling, of photo shoots and filming. All the nights of crying, wondering why her father couldn't just let her play with other kids for a change.

  How funny that her three dearest friends, who'd given her the strength to walk away from that life at eighteen, were the ones who'd managed to cajole her back into it.

  "It's crazy," she whispered. But she'd promised. And Eve Barret never went back on her word. So she'd try to do the impossible— bring down Sam Kenneman.

  A soft knock sounded on the door of the dressing room. Glancing up, Eve saw Diana enter the room. Her dark-haired friend bit the corner of her lip, an unfamiliar sheepish look on her face.

  "It's all right." Eve sighed. "I'm not backing out."

  "You can if you want to," Diana assured her. "I mean, it all sounded just fine last Tuesday after a few drinks, but now, well, I will understand if you don't want to do this."

  Eve hesitated, then said, "I don't want to do this."

  Diana looked disappointed. "Okay."

  She let Diana sweat before continuing, "But I'll do it, anyway. I read a bit of his book. And I have some firsthand knowledge of how it's affecting some women's lives. Sounds like someone needs to teach the jerk a lesson. I just wish he liked brassy brunettes like you, or elegant angels like Leanne."

  "But he doesn't. He likes drop-dead gorgeous, big-boobed bimbos."

  Eve groaned. "That's what bugs me. I don't know about this whole bimbo angle."

  "We told you. Over and over in the book he talks about never getting involved with brainy women. He won't go for someone who has anything between her ears, especially not an English teacher from tiny-town Pennsylvania, no matter how stunning she is!"

  Eve nodded. Diana was right. Eve was not a bit ashamed of who she was, or what she did. She loved teaching and was proud that her students seemed to flourish in her classes. She wouldn't trade her days with a room full of fifteen-year-olds for a bunch of directors or photographers. But a man like Sam Kenneman obviously went for flash and style, not depth and substance. The realization was another nail in the man's coffin.

  "It's stupid, it's immature, it's juvenile, but I promised you I'd give it a shot, and I will."

  Diana grinned. "I knew it. Let's go."

  Eve took a deep breath. Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was nearly nine. Just about show time. "Hope the big guy's prompt," she muttered as they walked out of the dressing room.

  Sam was running late. He swung his car into a parking garage across from the magazine's downtown office building and yanked a ticket out of the machine. Of course, there was not one vacant spot on any of the first four levels. Typical.

  Reaching into his briefcase, he grabbed his digital voice recorder and brought it to his mouth. "Chapter eight, keeping the sparkle in her eyes and the spark in your relationship. Pull out the His World article from June '04 for the survey on what women really want in the bedroom."

  Clicking the recorder off, he slid it into the pocket of his tailored suit. He always carried the thing with him because when hit with an idea or question about his writing he had to catch it right away. If he didn't, often the exact wording was lost when he tried to think back on it. His new book, which he tentatively called Keeping Her Satisfied, was rolling right along, but he still needed to keep track of his thoughts.

  He wondered what the public would think of it. Most of his readers expected a follow-up to his commitment book. Not many of them knew he'd written two other humorous books on relationships prior to that one. They hadn't sold well, but he'd sure as hell liked them better than his last one, which seemed to have sparked a controversy no one, himself included, had ever anticipated.

  Even his sister and female friends chided him about it, and they knew better than anyone that the book was a joke. All right, he was willing to concede, it was possibly inspired by a break-up with his last girlfriend. And yeah, maybe the fact that she'd decided a potential career with an ad agency in New York was more important than a two year relationship with Sam had given him a great deal of inspiration. But, all in all, the thing was still a joke. Why couldn't the rest of the world get it?

  He'd be glad when the furor over this book died down, hopefully with the re-release of his first one, which was called A Poor Sap's Guide To Making Amends. It was also a tongue-in-cheek relationship book, but focused more on what idiots men could sometimes be and the best ways to get a woman to forgive and forget. Apologies and foot rubs being his top recommendations.

  Hurrying out of the garage, Sam dodged traffic and ran across busy Chestnut Street. Pushing through the glass-paned double doors at the entrance to the ten story office building, he paused at the receptionist's desk. "Diana Gerard scheduled a photo shoot for this morning...do you know which studio?"

  The woman told him where he was expected, giving him a friendly smile, accompanied by a quick batting of her eyelashes. Sam sighed. Lately he only ever met two types of women—those who hated his guts and wanted to send out the hit squad. And those who wanted to cure him of his wicked ways, wanted to prove to Sam Kenneman that commitment was not a four-letter word. As if he had ever really thought it was.

  Sam knew plenty of guys who were happily married, faithful, devoted. Just because he couldn't picture himself being one of them did not mean he didn't believe they existed. His bachelor status he attributed directly to one factor—he just hadn't met the right woman. But he'd know when he did. And she'd be just about the diametric opposite of the woman he'd jokingly touted in his commitment book. No blonde, built, empty-headed nympho for him. Nor would he make the mistakes his father did and marry the right kind of woman for all the wrong reasons.

  Sam took the elevator up to the fourth floor and made his way to the studio. Pausing outside the door, he glanced down and did a quick mental evaluation. Suit was pressed, shirt was clean, tie was straight. He looked presentable. Good enough for a photo shoot with a bunch of other guys the magazine called Real Men Of The New Millennium.

  Sam wasn't surprised the magazine had chosen him for the feature. With a dozen other publications competing for the same health conscious, modern male reader, His World was looking for anything to boost sales, and their own columnist had a best-selling book out right now. Why not exploit him?

  Sam ran a quick hand through his short, thick hair, then entered the studio, but nearly stumbled on his feet when he saw who was occupying it. “Whoa," he murmured.

  The half-naked blonde was about the most stunning woman he'd ever seen. Sam froze just inside, wondering if he'd wandered into the wrong place. He glanced at the sign on the door as it slowly closed behind him. No, the receptionist had told him the photo shoot would take place in studio four, right where he was. But, obviously someone had made a mistake. A photo shoot was already in progress. "Lucky me," he whispered as he watched in silence.

  The model was tall. He shouldn't have been able to tell, because she was reclining on her side on a chaise lounge. But her legs...well, as his father's old chauffeur Clyde would have said, they stretched from heaven clear down to the ground and would tempt a saint to be a sinner.

  "Okay, sweetheart, almost there, give me the look, you know the one I mean, show me what you want."

  Sam listened as the photographer coaxed the model and wondered what it was the woman wanted. He didn't have to wait long to find out. The blonde rose slightly, lifting one shoulder and her neck so her back was arched and her head tilted. She thrust her chest out and held her body in a physical invitation to anyone who saw her. Sam hissed through his teeth, and shifted in his pants.

  "Never get caught with a hard on in public just from seeing a hot blonde in a white silk negligee," Sam muttered, wondering why he hadn't thought to put that instruction in his book. He nearly pulled out his digital recorder to whisper the comment, wondering if there might come a
time in the future when he'd be able to use it.

  The blonde didn't seem to hear his whispered comment. No one did. So Sam continued to stare.

  She was a virgin bride on a wedding night, who looked like she knew the secrets of a French Madame. Though her gown was pure, innocent white, her heavy-lidded eyes and pursed lips told an entirely different story.

  Her negligee was definitely silk and undoubtedly soft and sensuous. Sam was something of a connoisseur, especially after the in-depth article he'd done last year on the allure of expensive lingerie, and could tell because there were no telltale snags which would have hinted at a cheaper nylon. It had thin spaghetti straps, one of which had fallen loosely over the shoulder she had curled forward for her pose. The neckline was low, the beaded bodice not covering much of her full breasts.

  His gaze lingered there. He didn't figure any red-blooded man's wouldn't have.

  "Fan her," the photographer barked.

  Sam glanced away from the model to watch a young female assistant flip a switch to start an oscillating fan. His stare shifted quickly back to the woman on the chaise.

  The model closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the air hit her nearly naked body. She seemed to savor the coolness, and Sam imagined the standing lights had been too hot on her skin. Her body reacted, too. Even from here, Sam could see her breasts tighten into dark seductive points beneath the silk nightdress.

  "That's it," the photographer crowed.

  His subject smiled a sultry invitation, moistening her lips and dropping them apart. The silk fabric, pushed by the fan's breeze, lovingly cupped her midriff and thighs. Sam amended the thought. It only cupped one thigh. The other was utterly bare, from her red painted toenails up to her naked hip, enticingly exposed by the high slit of the provocative gown. The bare thigh rested on the other, with the white silk caught coyly between.

  "My leg's falling asleep," the model said with a laugh.

  Her voice rolled over him, low and sultry. For the first time, Sam pulled his eyes away from her curvaceous body and allowed himself to study her face. "Perfect," he mused, not surprised.

  He'd never, in his life, seen a woman who looked so like an angel on earth. Her golden blonde tresses blew back from her forehead, teased by the fan, and fell to well below her shoulders. Her face was soft, not thin and gaunt as was the fashion with many runway models these days. Her cheekbones were high, her mouth wide and expressive. Unable to tell the color of her eyes from where he stood, Sam imagined they were deep blue.

  He had never seen her before, Sam felt sure of it. Curious that a woman as obviously comfortable in front of the camera and as utterly beautiful as this one would still be an unknown. She wasn't young, not some teenager just starting out. He figured she was in her mid-to-late twenties.

  No one had seen him enter the studio, and he remained quiet, not even sucking in a breath in case the goddess or her retainers should hear and kick him out before he'd looked his fill. Then he realized he could look forever and not reach his fill.

  "Hello, Sam."

  Sam turned as someone entered the studio behind him. Diana Gerard, the magazine’s brand new senior editor, offered him a cool smile. Sam tried to return it, struggling to appear normal when in fact he was busy trying to hide the physical proof of his instant attraction to the model. Diana didn't seem to notice as he shifted from leg to leg and re-buttoned his suit jacket. At least, he hoped she didn't notice.

  "Hello. Am I in the right place?"

  "Yes, we're just running a little late," the woman replied, following his gaze to the photo shoot going on in the other part of the room. "She's something, don't you think?"

  Sam nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Who is she?"

  Before Diana had a chance to reply, the blonde on the couch sat up and stretched her arms up over her head. Sam just stared. The woman arched her head from side to side, revealing the perfect length of her smooth neck, then gracefully rose from the chaise lounge. The assistant immediately brought her a robe, which she shrugged over her shoulders with a murmured thank you.

  "Come on, I'll introduce you," Diana said.

  Sam hesitated. He made it a point to avoid femme fatales. Too many of them had tried to suck him in, wanting to be the one who brought Sam Kenneman, the writer, to his knees, not caring if Sam Kenneman, the man, was injured in the fall. But curiosity and pure adrenaline pushed him forward.

  "Blue," he muttered under his breath as he joined the two women. Just as he'd thought, the sexy model’s eyes were a rich, deep blue. For one second, when he first caught her glance, he saw a sparkle of amusement, a hint of secret knowledge in the depths of her eyes, then she looked away. He studied the fine curve of her delicate brows, the dark, thick lashes. Her high, strongly defined cheekbones indicated strength beneath the beauty.

  "I want you to meet someone," Diana said to the woman. "This is Sam Kenneman. He writes for His World. He's going to be one of the men in a new layout we're doing later this year."

  The other woman lifted her chin and looked directly at him. This time, though, something was different. Her expression was friendly, very friendly. She blinked rapidly, her heavy makeup causing her eyelashes to look like fluttering bird's wings, and a certain vapidness appeared in her expression. Sam shrugged off the thought as he held out his hand.

  "I'm so pleased to meet you," she chirped. Taken off guard, Sam nearly drew away from her.

  She sounded different. Her voice was high and breathy, like someone doing an obvious Marilyn Monroe impression, nothing like the deep tones he thought he'd heard earlier. Then again, maybe he'd been so captivated by how she looked that he'd imagined the sexiness of her voice.

  Disappointment swept through him. "It's nice to meet you, too," Sam said as she took his hand in a limp grip. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name."

  The blonde widened her eyes and drew a hand to her chest, pulling his attention there. "Sorry. Silly of me. I guess those hot lights just fried my brain and I've forgotten my manners. Why do lights get so hot, do you think? I swear, I wish somebody would come up with cold ones."

  Sam felt his spirits sink as she chattered. Yes, she was absolutely the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. But, damn, she sure didn't seem too bright.

  "We've been working so hard, and I want so much for the layout to turn out right. You just can't imagine how hard it is to get the right expression on my face, to make sure I'm posed in just the perfect way to match the article." She giggled. "But to tell you the truth, I can't even remember which article it is I'm goin' to be featured with most of the time!"

  Finally, when she stopped her breathless recitation, Sam forced a weak smile to his lips. "I'm sure you've been working hard. Tough job. Uh, did you ever tell me your name?"

  The woman laughed, a sultry sound that slid over his body, making him think of the voice he'd imagined he heard earlier. He stared piercingly at her, searching for something to confirm his suspicion that there was more to her than she was letting on.

  She batted her lashes again, and leaned heavily against his arm. Completely distracted, Sam glanced down at her body, pressed so closely against his he couldn't form a rational thought and barely heard her response.

  "It's Eve," the woman purred. "My name is Eve Barret."

  Eve hated playing dumb. But remembering what she'd heard about Sam's book, she swallowed hard and pitched her voice up an octave. "I hope we didn't put you out. Our shoot ran long this morning. I am afraid the first gown they had me wearing was just too revealing, and I insisted something else be found."

  Eve let the terrycloth robe gape open a bit, knowing he would look.

  He did.

  She smoothed her hand down the bodice of the silk nightgown, flattening the material as she slid her palm across it. The man didn't appear capable of speech. It's almost too easy.

  For a brief second, when she'd first seen Sam Kenneman walking across the studio toward her, Eve had wished he was anyone else. She didn't want to play games with h
im, because he was altogether too attractive.

  No one had warned her. Of course, every woman on the planet talked about Sam Kenneman and his nasty book that men quoted like the Bible. She'd heard he was good looking, but Eve had not bothered to open the back cover and look for a photo of the author. She wished she had. Then maybe she wouldn't have been so totally unprepared for the man in the flesh.

  What a hottie. He was tall, which was good. Since Eve was only two inches shy of six feet, she appreciated a man who stood a good bit taller.

  His hair was thick, short, and sandy brown, with streaks of golden blond. She imagined in the middle of winter it would mellow to a deep honey color. She saw he had tiny curls behind his ears which probably drove him crazy. They probably drove women crazy too, for a different reason. The face was strong--jaw square, lips just delicious-looking.

  "So, are you writing this big new feature, Sam?" Eve asked, trying to insert more of a southern accent into her voice. She found it easier to imitate a vamp when she drawled.

  "Actually, uh, I'm one of the men."

  Forcing herself not to simper, Eve stared up into Sam's green eyes. He had lovely eyes, of pale springtime green, and she saw specks of gold scattered like stardust across them. She felt another stab of regret. Too bad the man was such a rat.

  Remembering her purpose, Eve pulled away from him and let her eyes travel down his suit-clad form. He filled it out very well. He was broad-shouldered, and lean hipped, with a flat stomach and strong arms. She did not have to feign admiration. "Well, sure you are, sugar, I can see you're all man."

  He laughed softly, a slow rumble moving up from his chest and spilling across his full lips. Eve felt her breath catch in her throat, startled by her reaction to his genuine smile. He had a dynamite smile. The man had dimples, actual, real dimples.

  "I mean, somehow I got named one of the men of the new millennium," he explained, still chuckling. "I'm supposed to be here for a cover photo shoot with the others."