“Yeah, I know all about that. It’s amazing how many guys lose their balance around me when we’re by ourselves in the walk-in.”
He blinked. “Oh.” He let go of her and stepped back. “I never actually thought of it that way,” he said after a moment.
“I know. Maybe it’s some kind of testosterone thing. The men who fall on a woman in a walk-in are always convinced they’re special.”
He frowned, then shifted to make sure there was a good meter of distance between him and her. Violette followed immediately of course. She wasn’t going to let him get away with a thing.
“What happened to the rest of the photos from the shoot?”
“Destroyed,” Chase said firmly. “Are you sure your fingers didn’t brush my ass? Because I could have sworn…”
“Destroyed?” She didn’t mean to let her voice squeak, but darn…that seemed like a sinful waste.
“Except for one copy, of course.” Chase slid her a glance and then diligently examined the shelves—linking his fingers through the wire shelving above his head so that he was very clearly not touching her…and then lifting himself just slightly so that his butt tightened and his shoulder muscles flexed. “Which I have. It would be incredibly hard to convince me to share it. I’m not sure what someone would have to do.”
Oh, boy, did Vi have some ideas. She could handcuff those strong wrists of his back against her bed and probably get him to do anything she wanted. Oh, yes. She had ideas.
He’d strain against the ties at his wrists, all those muscles in his arms bulging, his back arching as she…
“—Ms. Lenoir.”
“Hmm?” She blinked up at the face bent toward hers.
His hair was streaked brown and gold, his eyes blue. Lines at the corners of them suggested that he had squinted into a lot of sun and wind and dust for his age. A broad forehead and strong cheekbones and straight dark brown eyebrows. A relaxed, amused mouth that, just occasionally, briefly, firmed until it seemed to belong to someone else entirely.
Only it didn’t. Both those looks belonged to him.
And if she got him tied up to her bed, she’d not only get those photos out of him but she’d crack through that teasing manner, just shred it off him, until he was…
“Ma’am? Ms. Lenoir? Honey?”
She blinked slowly at him. He inclined that handsome chin toward the right.
Toward her hand curled over his biceps. Which he was quite politely keeping taut and bulging just for her. With a tiny smug smile on his mouth that he was trying valiantly to suppress.
She jerked back so fast she teetered. Nearly ran into the shelves behind her, jerked away before she could ruin anything for tomorrow, and—he caught her by both elbows before she could fall straight against him.
Just this firm, easy, confident catch, strong and sure. He righted her and released her, stepping back with his hands spread wide to prove their innocence.
“You really do have a scar,” she said, startled. A hair thin, barely visible line that ran from just below his eye down to his jaw. If he hadn’t mentioned it and his face hadn’t been so close, and if she herself wasn’t used to paying attention to hair-fine details in her quest for a third star, she never would have noticed it.
“Disfigured for life,” he said dejectedly. “My chances are ruined. Only a woman with a good heart would look past me now to the man I am inside.” He gave her the kind of piteous look the kitten had probably given him from that tree as he reached to save it.
She snorted with laughter before she could stop herself.
“Which you clearly don’t have,” he said severely. “Mocking my pain.”
“Sorry.” She tried to control herself. She really should not let someone as impossibly cocksure get to her. “It’s just—your chances are—” Laughter exploded and she clutched her stomach. “What do you have to do to pick up women when you walk into a bar, snap your fingers at the door and then sort through the masses that throw themselves at you until you pick the one you want?”
He looked thrilled with himself. “Damn. You think I’m hot.”
Merde, she needed to be more careful. He was definitely the type of guy who would jump on the slightest encouragement like a duck on a breadcrumb. “Are you sure that scratch wasn’t from a woman trying to gouge your eyes out?”
“You don’t think I’d save a kitten?” He looked offended.
“Oh, probably.” Flexing muscles the whole way. She sighed.
“I get no end of crap about it.” Sad look. “All the other guys, they get scars from knife fights and bullet wounds. Mine—a kitten.”
“You do know that this scar can barely be detected without a microscope?”
“You want to look closer?” He proffered his cheek.
Maybe she should invest in some kind of foam pot. It seemed like it might come in handy with him. Something she could use to beat him over the head regularly, without actually ending up in jail for battery.
Wait. Now why would she need to make any long-term investments into ways to handle him?
“Or I could help you with the knife scar problem?” she offered dryly.