Picture Me Sexy (9 page)

“No, that's really not nec—”

“It's late and it's dark. I'll walk you down.” His voice was flat and brooked no further argument. So much for a swift but grand exit, Delaney thought, unreasonably stung by his abrupt command.

The trip to the ground floor was tense and excruciatingly long. Mundane conversation to fill the silence didn't feel appropriate, so she kept her mouth shut and prayed for this awkward goodbye to be over
as quickly as possible. She peeked a covert glance at his grim profile and then wished that she hadn't. He looked curiously hurt, confused and angry, emotions she recognized all too well. Regret pricked at her heart. Hell, she felt like she'd kicked a puppy. Thankfully, the elevator finally groaned to a halt.

“Well, here we are.” Delaney smiled and reached for her bag. Sam blatantly ignored this gesture.

“Which one is your car?”

Delaney frowned and followed him. “The Lincoln. Look, I can make it from here. You're going to catch your death. It's too cold out here.” Honestly, he didn't even have on a shirt, much less shoes or socks. Come to think of it, he hadn't had on socks at all this evening. What on earth kept him from freezing?

“I'm fine.” Another clipped response.

Delaney pulled the keyless remote from her purse and unlocked the car. Sam hung her bag in the back seat and shut the door, then opened her door for her. Another awkward silence ensued while Delaney tried to figure out what to say. Somehow thank you—while sincere—didn't seem quite appropriate.

“Sam, I—”

His lips fastened hungrily over hers, snatching the air from her lungs and sending whatever thought had been about to come out of her mouth right out of her head. He kissed her hard and deep—possessively—until her knees would scarcely support her and a vi
olent shudder wracked his body, presumably from the cold.

He drew back and that deep brown gaze bored into hers. “I'll call you,” he said firmly, and she knew that the promise had nothing to do with her boudoir photos.

Sam nudged her into the car and closed the door. He patted the hood a couple of times, then sauntered back into the building, leaving Delaney there to sort out what had just happened. Five minutes later, she still didn't know but finally started the car and drove home.

 

O
BLIVIOUS TO THE COLD
, Sam calmly walked back inside, though he felt anything but calm. His insides had twisted into an angry, desperate knot and for the first time in his life he didn't have a damned clue as to how to proceed. Didn't have a clue what to do next.

He'd known the moment that the lights had abruptly come back on and he'd seen that look of blind panic claim those gorgeous features of hers that she'd bolt. He'd known, that's why he made that cock-and-bull crack about checking breakers, so that he could give her a little privacy.

But he'd underestimated her modesty and apparently overestimated what had happened between them, at least as far as she was concerned, anyway. He'd foolishly hoped that she wouldn't manufacture an excuse to leave, and was unreasonably annoyed—
he wouldn't admit that her rejection hurt—when she didn't stay. It shouldn't matter that she didn't want to linger in his bed…but it did.

It did because she was The One.

Sam knew it as well as he knew his own name. Delaney Walker was the woman for him. He would fall in love with her, she would fall in love with him, they would get married have children and grow old together. The end. This was what Martelli men had been doing for centuries. Why on earth had he thought that he would be any different? How damned arrogant could he be?

Sam had resisted the “quickening,” had resisted the entire concept his entire life. Had always thought that the tale was simply that—a tale. But after what had happened tonight with Delaney, he could no longer deny that the Martelli phenomenon existed. His very body had quaked with the power, with the truth. Quite honestly, the idea still scared the hell out of him…but something had happened to him tonight. Something that he couldn't altogether explain. One fear had superceded another.

Sam was still slightly afraid of the power of emotion, of falling in love, but the idea that he might not be able to make her love him in return…now that was just plain terrifying.

He'd experienced the first inkling of that when she'd walked back into the living room, fully dressed and buttoned within an inch of her life. She'd donned her mask, had hid behind face powder and lipstick
and when he'd kissed her just a moment ago, he'd tasted the lingering flavor of chocolate. She had every defense armed and at the ready.

And why wouldn't she? She'd just been jilted again, for pity's sake. Hell, she'd been so hurt she'd been toying with the idea of becoming a lesbian. That sensual creature, a lesbian? Sam thought with a derisive snort. He retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, twisted off the top and took a swig. Smiling, he absently scratched his chest. Quite frankly, after tonight he didn't see how she could continue with that crackbrained plan. He'd made a conscientious effort to pound that notion right out of her gorgeous little head.

Still, with the exception of him—her one-night stand—she'd all but told him that she'd sworn off men, had decided that his entire gender sucked.

Sam grimaced and finished off his water. Given that, he seriously doubted that she would be receptive to the kind of relationship he had in mind.

After all, many men had promised her forever and none of them had delivered. Why would she think that he'd be any different? She wouldn't, Sam knew. She'd offered her heart—her trust—and had it trampled on too many times to think that he would be the one to make it all right. He supposed he could offer up the “quickening” as an excuse, but she'd undoubtedly think he was a nut and swear out a protection order against him.

Sam smiled grimly at the thought, envisioned him
self pleading with the police for his freedom when they came to arrest him.
“Honestly, officer, I know it sounds crazy, but she's the one for me—I've got the goose bumps to prove it.”

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. This was not going to be easy. But then again, nothing worth having ever was…and Delaney Walker was definitely worth having.

Tomorrow he would seek the counsel of his brothers and father, then launch an all-out assault. He had a lot riding on the outcome, after all.

Like their future children.

“I
T HAPPENED
.”

Predictably, the two words momentarily startled Sam's family into silence—forks stalled halfway to open mouths, and every dark head in the room swiveled to stare at him.

Then chaos erupted.

Catcalls, whistles, knowing chortles of joy, and questions flew. The noise vibrated the bric-a-brac stuffed in every nook and cranny in his mother's kitchen.

“Silence!” his father, Gianni, roared from the head of the table. “Mary, mother of Jesus, let the boy speak,” he told the rowdy bunch. “He cannot possibly tell us what we wish to know with all this racket.” His father gestured to him with his fork. “When?”

Sam swallowed. Somehow telling his family made everything all the more real. Permanent. As if it weren't already? Hell, he hadn't been able to think about anything but her since last night.

“Yesterday afternoon,” Sam finally said.

“She came to your studio?” he asked patiently.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what happened?”

Sam searched his frazzled brain to try and find the words to explain something unexplainable. When none were forthcoming, he rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I don't know, Pop. I just touched her, and…”

“And every hair on your body stood on end,” Mario said quietly.

“And your scalp tingled,” Rob added, lost in a memory of his own.

“And you just…knew,” Guy concluded.

Sam forced a laugh to lighten the moment. “That about sums it up, yes.”

His father nodded gravely, then stood and clamped an old hand on his shoulder. Emotion glittered in his dark eyes and clogged his voice. “Bless Mary, I was beginning to wonder. It seemed to be taking you so long, but clearly that is over now.” He smiled and Sam's chest swelled with pride. “Your mother would be so proud.”

Of that, Sam had no doubt. His mother had always wanted to make sure that her boys all found the right woman, for them to all be settled with families of their own. Naturally his father's first thoughts were about how his mother would have taken the news. His dad had always been that way, put her thoughts and needs first, did everything in his power to see to her happiness. His brothers all had wives and families of their own—he'd been the only holdout, Sam thought wryly, and clearly that was at an end. But
he'd watched them do the exact same thing. Their worlds revolved around their wives and children. It was with no small amount of trepidation that Sam absorbed his fate. He hoped that he could live up to their example, that he'd take to love and marriage the way they all had.

His announcement having lost its momentum, they resumed their meals. His father and brothers all worked for Martelli Brick, the company his grandfather had begun after he'd first immigrated to the U.S., and they would have to return shortly to the plant.

Sam had found another path, and while it might have caused a rift in other families, fortunately it hadn't in his. He handled all the photography for their sales catalogue and various other small jobs, but for the most part, he left the company to them and did his own thing.

His father had been a little disappointed initially, but Sam had always moved to a different beat, so it was no great surprise when he didn't go to work for the company. While his brothers had been playing football and baseball, Sam had been holed up in his darkroom. He enjoyed sports to a degree, but he'd always been more interested in art, in photography, in books. Sam smiled. In short, he'd been like his mother.

Mario, his oldest brother, chased a bite of linguini with a gulp of iced tea. “So, does our future sister-in-law have a name?”

Sam mentally winced. Now came the tricky part. “Yeah…Delaney Walker.”

Guy fumbled his fork, sending his linguini bobbing through the air, and both Mario and Rob made choking noises. His father stilled.

“
The
Delaney Walker?” Guy asked, his eyes bulging.

Sam flattened the twitch from his lips and nodded. “That would be the one, yes.”

“The lingerie queen?” Rob clarified. “The one who's always in the paper?”

Again, Sam nodded.

Mario wore a baffled expression. “But didn't she just get dump—”

“The word is jilted,” Sam interjected tightly. “And, yes, she did.”

Three grave “ohs” sounded and his brothers shared an annoyingly dubious look. Sam chanced a glance at his father, who had resumed his lunch and hadn't said a word throughout this stage of the conversation.

“Pop, any thoughts?” Sam asked.

His father swallowed, cast him an innocent look. “She looks lovely in the paper.”

Not exactly the tidbit of wisdom he'd been looking for, Sam thought, but his father was a man of action not words. Still, this was a been there/done that thing for his father and brothers. Surely they could offer some sort of helpful comment. Could give him some sort of perceptive insight.

Sam blew out a breath and looked around the table. “So, now what? Any advice?”

His brothers shared another helpless, blank look that inspired more dread than confidence.

Mario shrugged. “I don't know, bro. You've never had a problem attracting the ladies. Just do what you always do, and remember that this one is for keeps.” He pointed his fork at him for emphasis. “You can't afford to screw it up.”

“Right,” Rob seconded.

Hell, Sam thought, feeling the first stirrings of panic. He knew all that. He wanted them to tell him something that he didn't know. “That's it?” Sam said incredulously. “For years you've been hounding the hell out of me, have been parading women in front of me like cattle on the auction block and
that's
your advice?
Don't screw it up?
”

“What?” Mario's eyes widened innocently. “That's sound advice.”

“I wouldn't tell her about the ‘quickening,'” Guy chimed in helpfully. “She'll think you're a few bricks short of a load.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “I'd already reached that conclusion.”

“Ah, hell,” Mario said. “She's probably like most women. Treat her nice, be respectful, and
do not lie to her,
” he stressed. His brother grimaced and swirled a wad of noodles around his fork. “Women hate that.”

“And a lie of omission is still a lie,” Guy added
self-importantly. “I got snarled up in one of those and ended up spending three nights on the damned couch. Not the new couch either, the old one. My back—”

“Only three nights?” Rob scoffed. “Sheesh. Remember that time I told Theresa that I thought her sister was pretty…”

While his brothers compared tortured-husband stories, Sam's thoughts drifted to where they'd been for the last sixteen-plus hours—Delaney.

After she'd left, he'd been too keyed up to sleep, too overwhelmed with what lay in store for his life, and he'd spent the rest of the predawn hours in his darkroom developing her pictures. They'd been absolutely gorgeous, just as he'd known they would be. Some of his best work yet. The idea of working at the
Chifferobe
still held immense appeal, but Sam instinctively knew that was a minefield best avoided. He made a mental note to pull his portfolio from her company. Would do so at the very first opportunity.

The last thing that he needed was for her to find an ulterior motive in his interest, particularly when that motive was false. Sure, he'd wanted to work for her company—was certain that he could have brought a better edge to the layout—but his goal had taken a radical turn last night.

Now he just wanted
her.

And he didn't have the vaguest notion of even where to start. Sam waited for inspiration to strike and when it didn't, he decided to use a pathetically
transparent ploy, one only a desperate man who was choking on pride would do. Her proofs were in his SUV. For lack of a better plan, he could start by delivering them personally.

 

“Y
ES
,
THAT'S RIGHT
. Free Elvis memorabilia.” Delaney shouldered the phone and pressed her fist to her mouth to smother an evil chortle. Clearly the clerk she'd gotten on the line at the newspaper thought she was crazy, but this was oh-so-much fun. “Yes, in bold print. That's right. And the contact number is 555-4844. Okay. No,
thank you.
” And she meant it.

Delaney ended the call, tossed the phone onto the couch beside her and a let loose a long peal of giddy laughter. She pulled her fist to her chest in a gesture of triumph, then wiped her streaming eyes. Another surprise for dear Roger when he and Wendy returned. She'd placed the bogus ad to coincide with their return and had given his number to boot. Every Elvis fanatic in Memphis—and there were plenty, she thought wickedly—would be calling the happy couple, begging for the “free Elvis memorabilia.” Delaney laughed again, pleased with this new vindictive streak. She
liked
revenge therapy.

Despite little or no sleep, this had really been a productive day. After last night, she hadn't been able to rest. She'd kept alternately thinking about Sam and every wonderfully hedonistic thing he'd done to her, to that horrific moment when the power had
come back on, and finally, that curiously hurt look he'd worn as he'd walked her downstairs.

If that hadn't been enough, she'd also pondered the meaning behind his emphatic I'll-call-you statement. Somehow Delaney didn't think that it had simply been after-great-sex etiquette. She chewed her bottom lip. Mulled it over for the hundredth time. He'd seemed genuine. But how many other woman had thought that when handed the same line? Delaney wondered skeptically. She snorted. Hell, they'd probably all believed it.

Well, not her. Not anymore.

Besides, to be perfectly honest, she wasn't entirely certain that she wanted him to call her. She'd tried to convince herself that it was simply the circumstances—rebound sex—or whatever, that had made last night so unbelievably special, but she knew better. Nothing in her past experience could hold a candle to what she'd shared with Sam last night. Delaney drew her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees.

Something about Sam Martelli and last night had seemed too…big, for lack of a better description. She liked him too much, enjoyed being with him too much. A smile inched across her lips. Enjoyed sex with him too much. Her belly clenched and her skin suddenly felt stretched too tightly across her bones. His naked image swirled into focus and loomed large in her mind, causing a delicate hitch in her breathing. A coil of heat tightened inside her and it took every
ounce of willpower she possessed to force the image away.

No doubt about it, everything pertaining to the hunky Italian made her feel
too much.
And at this point in her life, she couldn't deal with
too much. Too much
simply wasn't an option.

She'd blindly followed that first heady, hopeful rush of interest and anticipation in each of her failed relationships and she'd ended up humiliated and hurt. And Sam Martelli hadn't inspired a mere rush of anticipation and interest—he'd inspired a flood.

And then some.

Only a truly warped glutton for punishment would want him to call. Delaney paused, poked her tongue in her cheek, then winced when the unbecoming truth surfaced. Guess that made her a truly warped glutton for punishment, she thought with a squeal of helpless frustration. What was wrong with her? She didn't want him to call. She did not. It wasn't called a one-night stand for nothing. It was only supposed to be one night. The end.
Finis.

Hadn't she decided to work on herself, to get her head on straight and to quit making wrong decisions? Yes, she had and, more importantly, she would. She simply couldn't trust her own judgment when it came to men and, this close to this last catastrophe, she wasn't going to allow herself to be the least bit inclined to try.
Little victories. Baby steps. Men sucked.
Those three succinct sentences aptly and poetically summed up her new attitude.

In addition to the newspaper prank, Delaney had also arranged for another surprise for Roger—River City Bank had lost her account this morning.

She'd never been completely satisfied with the service, but hadn't moved the account because of Roger. Any time she'd try to broach the subject with him, he'd always turned the conversation to something wedding related, the sneaky bastard. Delay tactics, Delaney realized now. He'd always had a hidden agenda, an ulterior motive.

Had this happened before, Delaney would have left the account there to save face, wouldn't have wanted to add any more grist for the gossip mill. Wouldn't have wanted to be accused of moving the account simply out of spite. No doubt Roger was counting on that old mentality, and she'd dearly love to be a fly on the wall when he learned otherwise.

No, this was just a business decision, Delaney thought slyly…with the added perk of being vindictive.

She didn't think that Roger would lose his job over her forfeited account, but he would certainly be called on the carpet. A small comfort, yes, but one she'd take.

There was only one item left on her to-do list today—sending the wedding gifts back. With a dejected sigh, Delaney looked around her living room at the stacks of boxes and a nudge of disappointment landed in her belly. What a waste. All that time and
energy spent picking out things to furnish their home with and it had come to this.

Sending it all back again.

To be perfectly honest, she could take or leave the majority of the beautiful things in this room—the Lalique vase, the Waterford stemware, the silver tea service—but surrendering her china again really hurt. Beautiful Wedgwood
Floral Tapestry,
inspired by Josiah Wedgwood's pattern book of botanicals. Gorgeous tones of blue and rose on a background of pale saffron. Both the dinner and salad plates were fully bordered with the heartbreakingly serene pattern and rimmed with twenty-two carat gold. It was a pattern that was similar to her grandmother's china—which, to Delaney's endless frustration—currently resided in her mother's black lacquered china cabinet. She shuddered, remembering. That gorgeous china stuffed in that tacky cabinet was an abomination. Sadly, her mother and sisters had horrible taste.