Her expression became neutral, and the light he’d spotted in her green eyes as she talked faded.
“But you’re probably not interested in that. As I said, I thought you were someone else.”
He made out a few words. Paint. Rinse. Together. This woman had an amazing husky voice to go along with her amazingly painted body.
She made to close the door.
Whoa. Time to get with the program. He stuck his foot out to block it. “Wait. You’ve been waiting for me. You’re Dr. Simms. Right?”
The door opened a fraction wider, and the doc poked her head out. “Who wants to know?” she asked, her expression growing guarded. Maybe she should have thought about looking through her peephole before opening the door nearly naked. Maybe he should volunteer to give her a few instructions on personal safety.
“I’m Ian Cole. Of Cole Publishing.” He held up his tripod. “See? Totally legit.”
“I thought Miriam would be coming. Is she with you?” She stood on her tiptoes to see behind him. Lots of luck, she only came to his chin.
“I’m her brother.”
The woman in front of him nodded, a hint of recognition now in her green eyes. “Ah, yes. You do the reports from the war zones. Gripping photos. I did some research on Cole Publishing.” The smile returned to the doc’s face, and she opened the door. “I thought this painting ritual might be something good for the book.”
With the door open, the full impact of the doc’s body crashed into him once more. Paint and a loincloth. That was basically the composition of the outfit.
Cole wasn’t a man who was easily surprised. But Ava Simms stunned the hell out of him.
Vibrant colors of blue, green and black in fancy swirls, circles and lines touched every inch of her body. Her breasts stood bare, although entirely covered in paint.
He’d seen his share of naked breasts in his time. Excellent ones. In all shapes and sizes. Large breasts that spilled out of his hands. Small, high breasts that begged to be kissed. But his favorite had to be the ones before him, covered in paint, fully exposed, yet completely covered. Totally erotic.
She seemed to be waiting for something. With an effort he’d brag about later, he dragged his eyes slowly up her body once more.
“Would you like to join me?” she asked.
Hell, yeah.
And reveal his giant hard-on. No.
The doc turned, and Ian almost groaned. He’d always thought of himself as an ass man. And the doc’s ass confirmed it. Firm, as though she’d performed quite a few of those dances she’d described in her manuscript.
Covered in some white piece of cloth that looked as if it had been ripped and tied around her waist. Paint from her body had smudged the cloth in a few places. He couldn’t imagine the men of the Wayt—the Wabr—the Whateverian would stay in a shower, washing off paint, when they could be screwing. Had he ever seen such a beautiful pair of breasts?
Heaving the gear on his shoulders, he followed the doc inside her apartment. He’d send his sister a thank-you card later. Coles were always polite and followed proper etiquette. They learned it from the cradle.
Ava pointed to her coffee table, covered by tubs filled with paint. “I was thinking that in the book we could give demonstrations on how to paint your lover’s body. That’s not totally in the Wayterian tradition, but we could still include the shower.”
He didn’t spy any paintbrushes. Images of sliding paint on this woman’s body with his fingers, of her running her paint-smeared palms against his skin, then warm water cascading down their naked bodies together left him speechless.
The doc turned and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think men would find the ritual interesting?” Well, interesting was one word for it.
He’d expected boring and painful when he flew to this assignment. Boring was out. He adjusted his pants, but it was going to be painful. Definitely painful.
Dr. Ava Simms was nobody’s grandma.
CHAPTER THREE
“SO WHY DID YOUR SISTER send you? I thought she was coming herself.”
A look of unease crossed Ian’s face. Ava saw his lips move. Did he just mumble? It almost sounded like he muttered something about cowardly sisters.
“Mr. Cole?” she prompted.
“I’ll be taking the photos for the book, and revising the manuscript.” He hunched down to his equipment bag.
Bringing in a photographer was a given. The rituals she wanted to explore were also very visual. Men were very visual creatures and most cultures had adapted to that. Her book would have to include a lot of pictures to be appealing to her target males. “I thought this meeting with Miriam was to refine and make some fixes to my writing. Surely revising is too strong a word,” she prodded.
He pulled out what looked to be a light meter. Her father often used the more sophisticated photographic equipment while on a dig site.
“Mr. Cole, are you listening to me?”
“Call me Ian.”
She narrowed her gaze. This man was trying not to tell her something. Something he didn’t want her to know. She’d studied cultures from all over the world, and men from one continent to another flashed the same visual cues when wanting to avoid a direct question. Especially from a woman.
The shifting weight from foot to foot.
The suddenly moving hands.
The rapid eye movement.
Yes, Ian Cole was in full avoidance mode, exhibiting the number-one classic sign—sidestepping the question.
“Ian, when you say revising, what you really mean is—”
His gaze met hers finally. Clear, brown and full of truth. A truth he didn’t want to tell her.
“Ghost-writing. Miriam feels the pages you sent in have too much of an academic feel to them,” he said, cutting her off with a hint of apology in his voice.
At least he was honest. Disappointed, she slumped against a nearby column. The cool wood cut into the bare skin of her back, and she cringed.
Obviously she’d failed in her quest to find the creative “wow” to impress her new publisher. Maybe her only shot at a publisher. This was a disaster. No one wanted her work in the academic field. Now it seemed no one wanted her work outside of it, either.
Ava wanted to kick the wall in frustration. She hadn’t realized until just this moment how important doing this book on her own had been to her.
“Have a seat,” she told him with a sigh.
Quickly, he shifted his gear. With one direct look into her eyes he sat down. Was that concern she spotted in his gaze?
Now that she knew what she was dealing with, she could move forward. Funny, she’d never acknowledged how correctly her mother had pegged her daughter’s personality. Mom had always compared her to a triangle: didn’t matter which way she pointed as long as she was moving in some direction.
She’d never had her own apartment before. The closest thing she’d had to a home had been her dorm room. She had no idea if she’d placed the couch or the end tables in the right places, but she liked the final result, and that was all that mattered. She watched Ian look around.
He finished his examination with a slow whistle between his teeth after looking up. “Wow, this is some place. That ceiling is amazing.”
“It makes me feel like I’m not so boxed in. I like wide-open spaces.”
“Yeah? Me, too.” A smile tugged at his top lip, and his gaze narrowed.
For a moment, she met his eyes. Where had her instincts gone? She was supposed to be the expert. She should be the one to find common ground. That was how alliances were formed. And right now she sensed she needed Ian on her side to get what she wanted—to write this book on her own.