Gibson's Girl. Anne McAllister
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he noted with some satisfaction, now turned an even deeper shade of red. “But,” she added after a moment, “when Gina told me I could come she stressed that I had to what you told me, that I was obligated to do whatever was required.” A pause. “Jobwise.”
Their gazes met. Clashed.
But she didn’t look away. Gib had to give her credit. Chloe Madsen was a tryer—and she didn’t back down.
She was breathing so hard he could see her breasts heaving slightly behind the soft terry fabric. He had a memory flash of what they’d looked like bare.
As blonde as she was, Chloe Madsen didn’t have a blonde’s fair skin. Her breasts had been a warm honey color, the peaks a dusky rose. Now she was wrapped in the equivalent of a terry bath sheet. He preferred her naked.
He suspected he wouldn’t get to see her naked again.
Just as well, he thought, still very aware of how the sight of her had affected him.
Definitely just as well.
“Why you use zat girl?” Tasha’s eyes flicked from Gibson to Chloe and back accusingly. “You cannot use zat girl! I am ze Zeven! girl!” She slapped hands on hips and glared at him.
“Tasha...” Gib began to placate her.
She took his face between her hands and planted a kiss on his mouth. “You ztart over, yes? You forgive Tazha for being late, yes?”
“Yes,” Gib said automatically, stepping out of her reach. His gaze flicked back to Chloe who hadn’t moved an inch. She was still looking at him—and he was looking back at her, not making any move to shoot.
“Gibzon,” Tasha said impatiently.
He jerked his gaze toward her. “Huh?”
She tapped her bare foot. “We zhoot now?”
“Uh, yeah. We zhoo-shoot now.” At last Gibson managed to tear his eyes away from Chloe Madsen. “We shoot.” He turned back to the camera. “All right, let’s start again,” he said to the other women. “We’ll take it easy. You know what to do.”
They started to move in the circle again, Tasha sliding into the formation easily, not jiggling, Gib was happy to note.
“What about me?” Chloe asked. “What should I do now?”
Gibson looked at her once more. His mind saw everything the white terry robe covered. His body tightened.
Fortunately so did his resolve.
“Go home.”
Go home?
Go home?
She would never dare to show her face in Collierville, Iowa again!
Not after baring everything else in New York City! Chloe huddled in the tiny dressing room and listened to Gibson Walker’s gruff seductive baritone encouraging the models to reach and stretch and swim. Just the way he had encouraged Chloe to reach and stretch and swim.
Oh, God. She pressed her palms to her cheeks—the ones on her face!—and tried to stop them glowing. Fat chance.
Her whole body was glowing. Burning. From the inside out. If this was what hot flashes were like, she had no desire to hit menopause. Ever.
Not that she would.
She would surely die of embarrassment first.
She pulled on her underwear, then yanked her dress over her head, all the while breathing as if she’d just run a marathon. She could barely get the dress buttoned, her hands were shaking so badly. She stuffed her feet into her sandals, and thought she would never get the straps fastened. She didn’t even try to refresh her gnawed-off lipstick. She was sure, if she did, she would look as if a demented three-year-old had colored all over her mouth.
So finally she was finished. Dressed. Armored.
And absolutely unable to leave the dressing room.
There was no way she was walking back out into that studio. No way on earth she was going to face the world—or Gibson Walker—again.
She was mortified.
And he’d been furious.
What did he have to be furious about?
She was the one who had taken off her clothes! He’d merely asked her to.
What had she been thinking?
Well, she hadn’t, really. That much was obvious. If she had, she’d have realized that a photographer of Gibson Walker’s stature had no interest at all in photographing a silly bumbling twit from Iowa, for goodness’ sakes!
But at the time, with his demand ringing in her ears and the memory of his sister Gina telling her that Gibson might ask her to stand in for a model while he sets lights and things, well, she’d misunderstood! That was all.
Heck of a misunderstanding.
A tiny giggle escaped her.
It wasn’t much of a giggle. The misery of it, the disgrace and embarrassment of it were still too new and raw. But if she was honest, there was a funny side to it.
What on earth would Dave say?
Of course, he’d never know because Chloe was never, ever going to tell him! Dave Shelton, her fiancé, had enough misgivings about this summer job she had taken in the “big bad city.” He still couldn’t understand why she needed to go to New York at all.
“New York? You want to go to New York? What do you want to go out there and get corrupted for?” he’d asked more than once.
“It’s a wonderful city. A fascinating city. There’s so much to see and do. I just want to experience it. I’m not going to get corrupted,” Chloe had assured him.
And she wasn’t! But even so, he didn’t need to hear how she’d paraded around naked in front of her employer!
No one was ever going to hear about that!
Unless—and here she gulped—unless Gibson Walker told them.
He wouldn’t! Would he?
That thought zapped her with another flush, even hotter than the first. Oh, please, no! He couldn’t!
“Kissing, ladies. Purse those lips,” she heard him say.
She put her hands over her face, remembering how she’d looked straight at him and pursed hers. Merciful heavens! She truly might die.
And then, at last, he said, “Okay, that’s it. Thanks a lot. I think we got some great stuff.”
At once she heard the models begin chattering, the redheaded latecomer with the sexy accent—her replacement!—louder than all the rest. It was all “Gibzon thiz” and “Gibzon that.” And Gibson answered, gruff but perfectly matter-of-fact, as if he worked with beautiful naked women every day of the week.
For all Chloe knew, he did!
There was the sound of shuffling bare feet as the models came toward the dressing cubicles and doors opened. Someone rapped on her door.
“I’m...n-not ready,” Chloe managed.
She would never be ready. If she could, she would stay in here the rest of her life.
Her fingers were trembling less. So she finished buttoning up her dress—closing it clear to the neck. Then she ran her palms down her sides, cinched the belt, and drew in a deep and—she hoped—steadying breath.
She tried to look sensible, demure, competent. She did look sensible, demure, competent—if you discounted the disarray of her wavy blonde hair and the hectic blush on her cheeks.
Yet scant moments before she had been anything but!
Beyond