hungry, too.” She put him down in front of his food bowl.
Peaches, a five-year-old declawed Maine coon abandoned by his former owner and promptly rescued from the animal shelter on his last day before the big E—as in euthanasia—in no way resembled a peach in either coloring, countenance or personality. However, Tawny had named him that because it reminded her of her Georgia roots without bringing home too close. Which probably made no sense to the rest of the world but perfect sense to Tawny.
One might reckon that Peaches would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.
The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.
She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.
On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.
She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.
She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”
“Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.
She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”
“I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.
Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”
His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.
“How was your photo shoot?”
“Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.
The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.
A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.
He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.
During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.
Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.
“I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good