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Primal Instincts
Jill Monroe


Who are they to argue with biology? Subject A, photojournalist Ian Cole, is sent to ghostwrite a book on sex in various cultures. Instead of finding a white-haired professor, he is greeted by Subject B, anthropologist Ava Simms, wearing only a teeny loincloth and body paint….Observations… Sexual energy between subjects increases exponentially. Note the male's quickened breathing and barely restrained urge to do lusty and inappropriate things. The female, in turn, decides to demonstrate her extensive knowledge of seduction, play and ritual…claiming it's "research."The results? Neither Subject A nor B want the study to end….












Primal Instincts

Jill Monroe








As always, thanks go to my husband and family, who are always patient. I love you, Pink!

To Gnomey, may you someday find your way back to me. To Lobby, may the day come soon when I can give your brother to Gena. But never you. You I’m keeping.

Thanks always goes to Gena Showalter, Sheila Fields, Donnell Epperson, Kassia Krozser, and Betty Sanders. Kassia—I put the serial comma in there just for you.

To Jeff Z, my BFF and all my friends from PCHS—you rock!




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18




1


Middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma

WHAT WAS SHE DOING? Or had just done? Miriam Cole sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes tight. It didn’t change a thing. He was still there.

Miriam peeked over her shoulder at the man smushed up against her body. His legs were tangled over hers and his hand gently gripped her breast. The angle was awkward, but she could make him out perfectly in the morning light.

She sucked in a breath as she gazed at his sexy, slightly curling dark hair. That full bottom lip that did such dangerous things to her body. That face that looked almost boyish in his sleep.

Boyish, because the man beside her was twenty years old.

Twenty. Twenty? She had to get out of there.

How had this happened? Two days ago, getting a rental and driving from Dallas to see a prospective author in Oklahoma had seemed like such a great idea. A couple of hours in the car with the top down. See a part of the country she’d never seen before. Relax. Take a break.

But the clean air smelled weird, the wildflowers untamed, and after mentally going through her to-do list, she remembered why she hated time alone with herself. She had nothing but work on her mind.

When she returned to the office, she’d fire the person who’d suggested she take a vacation. Even if he was her brother.

The man beside her shifted and snuggled closer into her pillow, burying his face in her hair. She closed her eyes again, loving the feel of his skin against hers. Miriam began to curve her hand along the hardness of his biceps. Nothing felt as good as a man’s strong arms. Jeremy’s strong arms especially. Maybe a quick—

Her body jerked. Stop. If she went down that road again, he’d be awake. What had it been, four? Five times? Besides a little bit of sleep, the man didn’t need much else to be up and raring to go. As tempting as round five or six sounded—escape was what she needed.

She slowly tugged her hair out from under him and slid gracelessly to the floor. He shifted, and she made every muscle in her body go still. She held her breath. After counting to ten, she slowly stood. Although way more prudent, she refused to crawl. Some dignity must be maintained. She was a major player in the publishing industry after all.

Oh, her brother Ian would laugh his head off if he knew she’d tiptoed naked to the bathroom. Brought down. Brought down by a temperamental sporty little red car and no bars on her cell phone. Stranded. Stranded somewhere in the middle of a place called Arbuckle Wilderness.

Her cell phone beeped and she dashed for it. No way did she want Jeremy waking up. He’d want to do something gallant like fix her breakfast or slay some kind of dragon.

“Hello?” she answered quickly.

That’s when she realized that what she held in her hand wasn’t her phone. What had seemed so funny the day before, that she and Jeremy had picked out the same built-in ring tone, now was another in an ever-growing list of events that had led her to the colossal mistake of falling into his arms last night.

The long pause on the other line was ended by a strangled throat clearing. “Who is this?” the woman demanded, her tone clearly not expecting any subterfuge.

Rather than answering, Miriam padded across the floor and shook Jeremy’s shoulder. “Phone call for you,” she told him as he opened his eyes and she met the blueness of his gaze, reminding her just why she’d kissed him that first time.

With a sexy shrug, he sat up in bed, the sheet slid down his legs. Don’t look.

“Hello?” His voice sleepy and so appealing to her.

Oh, what did she have left to lose really? Her gaze drifted lower.

And Jeremy sat up straighter. “Oh, hi, Mom.”

She shouldn’t have looked.

She was going to be sick.

Two Weeks Later

“YOU LOOK LIKE HELL,” Miriam said.

Ian Cole slumped into the burgundy leather chair in front of his editor’s glass-and-chrome desk, ready for his latest assignment.

“That’s a bit harsh,” he told his sister.

“It’s true. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?”

Maybe she had a point. He certainly felt like hell, and he probably looked it, too. Yeah, well, what else was new? “I’ve just spent three weeks tracking drug runners. You’re lucky I caught a shower before catching the redeye back to the States.”

“Maybe you should try catching a shave and a haircut. And three days worth of sleep.”

“The boys gave me a good send-off before I broke for the airport. A little R & R,” he said, rubbing his temples, and trying to remember just what they’d done.

Maybe too good a send-off.

Miriam’s lips thinned. “I’m not sure the parties those guys cook up could be cataloged as either rest or relaxation. They’re certainly not good for you.”

“We were all of legal age, and you didn’t have to bail me out of jail, so I’m calling it good,” he said, blinking against the light beaming through her large office window overlooking Manhattan.

Miriam shuddered, as she walked toward the window to close the blinds. “Thanks for the reminder. You should have heard me explaining to our accountant that bail money was a legitimate tax expense.”

“You’re lucky you got to bail me out. There are quite a few pissed-off officials who’d just as soon kill me as have me share the luxury of their penal system. There’ll be no welcome mat for me in Mexico.”

“True,” his sister said, reaching for the wand on the blinds.

“Come to think of it, there’ll be no welcome mat for you, either.”

Miriam turned on her heel and glared at him. “You’re right, and I have a time share in Mazatlan I’ll never see again. I left my skinny swimsuit there, so screw your hangover. It’s your own darn fault you’re in this condition, so you can live with the sunlight. I like my view and I like my rays.”

Ian looked around the office. “You worked hard enough to get here.”

“Damn straight,” she said, her angry attitude vanishing. He knew his big sister could never stay mad at him for long.

Kicking off her pointy black power heels, she rounded the corner of her desk. She tossed a manila folder on her brother’s lap. “I have a new assignment for you. In fact, I think you’ll like it. You’ve talked in the past about doing more feature writing, less fieldwork. I have a book for you to look over.”

It physically hurt to make the face that expressed how he felt inside.

“You’re going to tell me you’re the only reporter who’s never secretly longed to write their own book?” she asked.

“A book is a long way from a feature spread in a magazine.”

“Think of it as one hundred features strung together. I need this to work. Cole Publishing has just acquired the rights to an exciting new concept book,” she told him as she reached for her ever-present bottle of water.

Ian sat up in his chair. “Ah, the side trip to Oklahoma. I see it went down smoothly.”

Miriam coughed on her water.

Expanding into books had been a dream of their father’s, which he’d inherited from their grandfather, who’d founded Cole Publishing. They’d spun off a few books from their newsmagazine to other publishers in the past, but the dream of becoming a major player had eluded their father. Since Miriam had taken the reins, his big sister had streamlined production, lowered costs and developed a nice, healthy bottom line.

Looked like Miriam thought the time to revisit the dream was now.

Apparently she planned to drag him along, too.

“And you want me to do the writing? Isn’t that backwards? Aren’t authors supposed to bring the completed manuscript to us?”

His sister straightened in the large executive leather chair. It had been their father’s. That and the two leather seats in front of the desk were the only things she’d kept. The rest of the office had her stamp: rounded corners, sunburst motif—art deco all the way. “She’s an academic, a doctor of anthropology as a matter of fact. Her writing is somehow, well, awkward.”

How like his sister. She was tough as nails, battled reporters, distributors and every yahoo who didn’t think she could run a company with the big boys. She was all business. But when it came to talent, she never liked to criticize anyone.

Years ago, Ian had found his sister’s weak spot; she feared an utter lack of talent in herself. Artistically speaking. And to be honest, her fears were quite well-founded. She couldn’t sing, dance, paint and her writing was terrible. Even her carefully worded memos to staff needed a good editor. So unlike their graceful and talented mother. So unlike him, minus the graceful.

Well, he liked to think he exuded grace in one area. In bed. No complaints there.

His sister called the doc’s writing awkward. That must mean it read like an academic snooze fest.

“Why me?” he asked.

Miriam didn’t meet his gaze. “Because you’re my best reporter and photographer.”

Ian dropped his elbows to his knees and leaned forward. “Reporter being the operative word there. Why would you want me to help write it?”

“You can work magic with words. And this project definitely needs some sparkle.”

“Don’t say sparkle around any of the guys. So what’s the story about?”

“I haven’t settled on a title yet, but she’s calling it Recipe for Sex.” Miriam’s brown gaze dropped from his.

Ian snorted. “Just to ensure I’ll never be taken seriously in the world of journalism again?”

His sister shook her head, her dark hair not budging from the neat knot on top of her head. “You’re a crime and war reporter. You’re jaded. It’s time to do a little something different.”

Yes, and here it came. The big lecture on his lifestyle. He’d walk if she called him a danger junkie. But his sister was a businesswoman, and he knew how to fight dirty. He’d attack her bottom line.

He settled back against the leather chair. “Jaded appears to be selling. Readership’s up twenty-five percent.”

“And my migraines are up forty-five percent. One hundred percent because of you.”

She couldn’t be serious about yanking him. Hot stuff was brewing in South America. He itched to cover it. “What is it you’re saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve become a pain in the ass. After your last series of escapades, I need to keep an eye on you.”

Ian gritted his teeth. “You may be my big sister, but I’m plenty capable of taking care of myself.”

“How about three arrests in two years in countries that change names as quickly as the next coup can be organized? How about the broken ribs you got while fighting some rebel over the film you shot? How about the—”

He cut her off before she really got into this topic. His dangerous lifestyle tended to prove a favorite of hers. “Those are occupational hazards.”

Miriam smiled, her eyes taking on a serious gleam. Crap. Now he was in for it. A smile was never good from his sister. He’d seen too many smiles induce too many lawyers, investment bankers and arrogant reporters into a false sense of security. She would get what she wanted.

But then, as her beloved brother, he was usually immune.

“This book is important to the company. It’s important to me. I want this transition to go smoothly, and I know you can deliver it.”

His immunity held firm. “Not gonna happen.”

“I promised Mom.”

Well, hell. And yes, the smile still worked. He’d been sucker punched, and it was a low blow. Miriam was the only one who kept in semiregular contact with the woman who’d left when Ian had been a toddler.

Theirs was a relationship filled with uncomfortable telephone calls, stilted conversations and now an extra drink at dinner to make it all not seem so bad.

Ian didn’t need that lone semester’s worth of psychology to realize all three of them held some strange, undeniable need to gain the distant, nonmaternal woman’s approval. The fact that his mother showed even a bit of concern was infuriating.

And gratifying.

“Think of it as a favor,” his sister suggested.

He raised an eyebrow.

“A mandatory favor.”



MIRIAM COLE WAS NOT a wimp. Although she certainly saw the advantages of acting like one now. Sending her brother to Oklahoma so she could practice her new-found faith in avoidance was really a new low for her.

Oh, well, it would be good for him.

But still…she’d never evaded anything in her life. And if anyone actually commented that the wadded-up pink While You Were Out slip shoved in the back of her desk drawer was a wee bit out of character for her usual tidy self, she’d add denial to her growing list of bad habits she didn’t plan to shed.

She should run that message slip through her shredder. It had already been a week since Rich had placed it on the middle of her desk. Why was she still holding on to it? She had no intention of returning the call of good ol’ five-times-in-one-night Jeremy. Or was it six?

She suppressed a shiver and smoothed her hair, even though she’d twisted her dark hair into a tight not-a-chance-of-escaping knot. Anything not to remind her of how Jeremy’s fingers had sifted through the strands.

Okay six. It had been six times.

Miriam slumped in her chair and gave herself permission to wallow in her mistake. She was due. Why should her torment only be reserved for nighttime when she was alone in her apartment? Why not let Jeremy and his six times invade the one place she’d always been able to control?

She’d never given much thought to Oklahoma as a state. Nothing much more than football, cows and musicals about dancing cowboys. She hadn’t been prepared for Jeremy.

The place had brought her down. One moment she was driving and singing badly with a song on the radio. The next she was on the side of the road kicking her foot in frustration at the red dirt aligning the highway.

She’d have the magazine do an exposé on the hazards of scenic drives. They should be synonymous with stranded and not seeing another person for miles. The unsuspecting public ought to know.

One thing was for certain…she never planned to go there again. She could only hope her brother would fare better.




2


Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

“ANYONE EVER TELL you that you have too much sex stuff?” Thad asked.

Ava Simms looked up to see her brother unpack a wooden replica of Monolob, the penis god from an ancient Slavic tribe.

“Careful with that,” she told him. “It took me weeks to find someone who could craft that out of the native wood. I’d hate for anything to break off.”

“By anything, I’m assuming you mean this ginormous penis.”

Thad examined the lean figure with the gigantic proportions. Male proportions. There was only one protruding object that could break off. Disgusted, he set the figure on the shelf, then turned it so the statue’s large appendage faced the wall. “It’s hard enough to get a date without the womenfolk being exposed and comparing others to this.”

Ava paused as she broke down another shipping box. “Since when do you have a problem getting a date? Usually there’s a cadre of broken hearts left in your wake.”

“I’m doing this for other men. We’ve got to stick together when battling forces like these.” Thad flexed his bicep in a symbol of unity.

Rolling her eyes, Ava tossed the now-flattened box in the pile of cardboard ready to go to the recycler. “For your information, the men of the tribe carved those as they reached puberty. Some would even string smaller replicas around their necks.”

Thad laughed, and looked pointedly at the backside of the figurine. “You’ll need to do a bit more research on this one, little sister. I can’t imagine any man, from any century, parading penises around. Certainly not around his neck.”

“Ah, yes, sometimes I forget about the male rules of the early twenty-first century. You know, there’s a whole anthropological study there in itself. ‘No talking in the bathroom,’ ‘eyes straight ahead at the urinal,’ ‘never acknowledge another man’s penis.’ Honestly, it’s like ignoring the elephant in the room. Hey—”

Groaning, her brother raised a hand. “Don’t even think about asking me to take you back to the men’s room at the airport. It was a mistake. You and your scientific study.”

“There might be valuable lessons there. Think about what a trained, yet unbiased eye could glean. Maybe true insight into the differences between the sexes.”

“Yes, the differences are very obvious at a urinal. You could call it the Stall Theory. Sorry, Sis, but I doubt any serious academic publication would pick it up.”

Ava sighed and returned her attention to the boxes. “Well, that would be no change from what’s going on now. No peer-reviewed journals want to publish my research on the lost sexual customs of the world, either.”

Thad stooped to pick up another box. “So that’s why you decided to write it up as a book.”

“That, and the fact my research funding dried up, and it’s too late now to find a teaching job. No university would take me on until fall. And now the publisher wants to help me fine-tune it, make it more attuned to today’s reader. Whatever that means. As if people won’t find the way I’ve written on socio-cultural and kinship patterns attention grabbing.”

“Yeah, I can see how that wouldn’t be a problem,” he told her drily.

Ava glanced over to see her brother’s lips twisting into a smile. “Okay, maybe I could do with a little lightening up.”

“Face it, Sis, you haven’t been living in the real world for…well, at all. Mom and Dad toted you around to every dig since you could carry a shovel. Then you went straight to college and basically never left.”

“You had those same experiences,” she pointed out.

“Except I chose to have a life between classes.” Thad placed his hands on her shoulders and she looked into the green eyes so much like her own. “You know what, I think not finding a job is a good thing for you.”

Ava scoffed, her bangs ruffling. “Apart from the tiny problem of paying for food and utilities.”

Thad wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her beside his tall frame. Why did he have to inherit all the height genes?

They’d always been close. Sometimes they were the only two children on a dig site, and they’d grown to read each other’s moods. “Ava, listen. This is your opportunity to fly. Mom and Dad didn’t give you that name for you to sit and mope. Avis, our eagle, now’s your time to soar. So you’re not teaching anthropology to a bunch of freshmen who probably don’t want to sit in your class anyway. That’s a good thing.”

“I just thought I’d always teach and lecture. Share the love of traditions and learning of other cultures to fresh, new young minds.”

Another huge disappointment in the daughter department. She’d chosen to go for anthropology rather than follow her parent’s path and continue their research in mythology and the ancient Greek cultures. They’d have loved nothing better than to always have her by their side at the digs in Greece—the magical place where her parents fell in love.

She had no doubt if she’d pursued archeology she would have found half a dozen jobs at any major university across the country. Her last name alone would guarantee it.

But she didn’t want to rely on that last name even on such short notice.

So she didn’t have a job. She didn’t have anything published impressive enough to get her a job in her chosen field.

So what? She did have a prospect. In two days, Miriam Cole from Cole Publishing would be here to “help” her explore the concepts best suited for her book. Writing her book with a little bit of help wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to earn a paycheck…but she’d adapt. Wasn’t that one of the cornerstones of her teaching anyway? How cultures, people, throughout time changed to meet the problems that faced them?

She could be flexible. She’d show Miriam just how interesting ancient dead cultures and their sexual habits could be. Show her that they were relevant to the twenty-first century woman.

“That’s it,” she said, suddenly ready to clear the moving distraction out of her way. She had a stage to set for the head of Cole Publishing.

“What’s it?” Thad asked.

Determination filled her, and Ava squared her shoulders. “I’m going to demonstrate that this book can be exciting. That people will want to read it. I’m going to knock her socks off. When Miriam Cole gets here, I’ll greet her in the ceremonial wedding attire of the Wayterian people.”

Thad lost his smile. “Isn’t that basically just pa—”

Ava smiled. “Exactly.”



IAN CIRCLED AROUND THE one-way streets of downtown Oklahoma City for a third time, looking for a place to park. Why couldn’t the doc live in a normal place, not some converted old warehouse? Like maybe some place that didn’t need to be validated.

For that matter, why’d she have to live in flyover country anyway? At least he’d had no layovers. He estimated he’d lost two years of quality life just sitting in a plane due to a lack of direct flights. The skills paid off this time. With no connections, he had some uninterrupted hours to review the project.

Just as on any assignment, he liked the broad details, but kept away from the finer points so he wouldn’t be biased in one direction over another. He’d spent the flight to Oklahoma reviewing the doc’s work that she’d turned in to Miriam. The writing style was abysmal. Something between technical anthropological jargon and absolute incoherence.

The sex stuff was the only thing that seemed remotely promising. But discussing it with a grandma-like Margaret Mead stretched before him and seemed as tantalizing as many hours of cuddling and spooning.

Finally, he parked in the red brick garage he’d found, paid his five bucks and hiked the few blocks to her warehouse loft apartment, lugging his camera, minirecorder and laptop. He looked down at the paper in his hand confirming her address. Top floor. Of course. She buzzed him in, and he headed for the elevator. He hated elevators. Every family member he had insisted on living on the top floor. He’d rather be chased to the border than be trapped in a metal box suspended by a string.

This kind of elevator was awful, one of those large service lifts. He’d have to pull the top and bottom gate closed. He’d take the stairs. He’d hiked through worse, and with all his equipment strapped to his back.

There was no mistaking which apartment was the doc’s. A brown ceramic snake stood beside the front door. A snake with large breasts and fake red flowers coming out of its mouth. Weird.

This photo shoot and discussion was going to be worse than he’d first imagined. His sister owed him something good after this. She’d have to send him someplace dirty. Somewhere he could trudge through swamps and fight off rebels as he followed a band of radicals, a camera in one hand, a knife in the other. Ah, good times.

He knocked on the door. A strange exotic scent lingered in the air, tantalizing his nose. Subtle, yet almost…arousing. He took a few more sniffs of the air, then realized the scent came from underneath the door. At least the doc would smell better than the radicals.

Impatient, Cole knocked again. He already hated the assignment. And the doc. Now she wasn’t even here to greet him. He’d make his sister cook for that. She hated cooking. He was about to leave when he heard a noise behind the door. Then some strange, elemental music. Was that drums?

The knob twisted and the door opened.

“Welcome,” said the woman in front of him, a smile forming along the red fullness of her lips.

“Pay—” he managed to get out then stopped.

He’d had a thought. It was there just a second ago.

The woman took a quick step backwards, the smile fading from her face. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Paint.”

Her eyes lowered, following the elaborate swirls and colors that adorned her skin. Paint and nothing much else. He tried to swallow. He’d obviously prejudged this assignment too harshly.

Her eyes met his squarely. Not a trace of embarrassment or awkwardness in her body language. “Yes, the Wayterian people would adorn themselves in paints before their wedding, signifying their past. After the ceremony they rinse off in each other’s presence, starting clean and fresh together.”

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.




3


“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.

On to step two: Slowly layer in personal experiences so that it’s harder for the target to say no. Her gaze slid upwards. “When I saw the high ceiling, I knew this had to be my apartment. This used to be an old warehouse.” She pointed to the exposed ductwork, painted a warm taupe. “The nearly floor-to-ceiling window allows in great natural light, which just feels more normal to me, even though I’m living six flights up.”

“You spend a lot of time outdoors?”

Ava laughed softly. “Since I can remember. Not many hotels in the isolated regions my parents took me to. My father liked to sleep under the stars.”

“This your first time living in a city?” he asked.

Questions. Of course, she should have realized. Ian was a reporter. He’d be a man who’d ask a lot of questions. Was she slipping that fast now that she wasn’t active in the field?

Hmm. He was making her a subject. He’d apparently acquired his own approach—to remain distant.

Questions were fine. She could handle questions. Her mission was to make sure her answers steered him away from viewing her as a writing project.

“Other than college towns, I don’t think I’ve ever lived someplace with over a thousand people. To go to someplace with more than half a million people was a pretty big leap. I thought about living in the rural area of the state, then I figured, what the hell?”

His brown gaze met hers. Did she see a bit of understanding in the depths of his eyes? Clearly he was a man who understood a what-the-hell? sentiment.

“I have a gorgeous view of Oklahoma City’s skyline. The city is literally my backyard. And I have plenty of space to show off the artwork and sculptures I’ve collected from some of the places I’ve visited. Before he left, my brother installed shelving on almost every available wall space.” She loved the results.

Ian nodded, and ran his finger along the fine woodwork of the nearest bookcase. His hands were work-rough appealing. Obviously he didn’t use a phone or computer to do his research, he was in the field. Just like her.

Ava smiled when she realized his attention had settled on a small collection of naked fertility goddesses.

“Ah, you’ve found my harem. As you can see, most fertility deities are shown with large breasts and protruding bellies.”

Ian pointed to Danisis, a voluptuous-looking goddess. “She’s different from the others.”

“She’s my favorite. She’s the goddess of war and fertility. Kind of ironic, huh? One destroys life, the other creates it. I love the spear she’s carrying, the detail work is amazing. There’s a very erotic love-play ritual associated with her.”

His hand lowered and he went back to his bags. “Where do you want me to stash my gear? I’ll need to plug in my laptop. My battery’s shot—I used it on the plane.”

“We can just use my computer. My manuscript is already right there.”

Ian shook his head. “It would work better to use my laptop. First, if we go from your manuscript, it’ll be too tempting to use what’s already there. We need to start fresh. A total rewrite.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for her next question. She had to know. “It was that bad, huh?”

The left side of his mouth lifted. Was that almost a smile? “A woman who wants me to tell it like it is.”

“Always,” she replied. She wasn’t one for sugar-coating, she wanted total honesty.

“It sucked. And not in a good way.”

Ava gasped. Okay, maybe not that much honesty. “Is there a good way to suck?” she asked.

Ian coughed behind his hand, then looked at her strangely. “If you were going for campy humor, then bad writing can make it more fun. Sometimes. Probably never.”

She nodded. A flash of alarm crossed Ian’s face. His eyes widened, and for a moment Ava was confused.

“Your concept is excellent,” he hastily reassured her. Awkwardly. What did he think she was going to do, cry? That explained the alarm she’d sensed in him a moment ago. Often in patriarchal societies, men backed away from tears. Anything squishy, like emotions, were very much off limits.

“Thanks,” she told him firmly. But he didn’t need to worry about her. This was science. There was no emotion in science.

“It’s just the writing. The rituals and foods you chose were perfect examples of new and unusual, yet didn’t morph into the freak zone.”

Her eyes narrowed. That would be a relief for the cultures who’d shared their revered customs and ceremonies with her—that they hadn’t moved into Mr. Cole’s freak category.

Which then drew the question—what was Mr. Cole’s freak category?

And would it mesh with her freak categories?

No, she didn’t care. This man simply didn’t get what she was trying to do here. She didn’t want his help, plus he didn’t have the sensitivity. Although she hadn’t expected to spend any time with the man, his name had come up when she’d Googled Cole Publishing. Her search proved him to be a man more in tune covering the world’s hot zones. How would a man like that possibly understand what she was trying to do here? He’d have to go.

“We’ll go over each chapter. We can take the pictures as we move along or do them all at once at the end. At night in my hotel room, I’ll edit.”

“You’ll edit?” she asked, her tone unbelieving.

Ian ticked off these items as if they were on a to-do list. He’d only reduced her life’s work and passion into something resembling an inventory sheet. “You can simply crank these out?” she asked, wanting to make sure.

“I’ll have this book whipped into shape in no time.”

“You’ll have it whipped into shape?” Yes, and there was her limit. Ian Cole had just stepped over the line. She squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. Ian’s gaze lowered a fraction before returning to hers.

She shook her head. “No. I can’t possibly have you do the writing.”

“Why?” he asked. His voice held no offense. And yet that one word sounded unbending. As if he fully expected to get his way.

“It’s clear you don’t appreciate what I’m trying to do with this book. You’re thinking to spice up the time in the bedroom, not how the act of lovemaking can be enhanced with a few delicacies and rites from other cultures.”

Ian moved toward her, towering above her. Something sparked inside those jaded eyes of his, and the firmness of his lips softened. Grew more sensual. For the first time, she felt crowded in her apartment.

“Oh, really?” he said.

She gulped. “Yes, really.”

“This book is supposed to be about passion,” he said, his voice soft, like warm honey. “Fire. The words and pictures should put a fire in your blood. Bring a woman and a man closer. Sharing the deep-rooted coming together of men and women from the beginning of time eternal. From all over the world. It should connect. It should be elemental. Raw. Man. Woman. Sex.”

Ava swallowed. Her blood felt heated, and yet she shivered.

Okay. So maybe this man got it. Her heartbeat quickened with each word from his mouth. With every firm declaration he stated, a picture formed in her mind. A picture of bringing woman and man closer. Of bringing Ian closer to her. Elemental. Connecting and raw.

She took a deep breath. Bad move. He smelled good. Real good, like the rain forest after a heavy downpour. Earthy and clean.

Pheromones. That’s all it was. Ian Cole exuded pheromones she just happened to respond to. It was science. It wasn’t emotion. Now was the time for her to think logically. To be fair, he’d conveyed the concept better than she had, and it was her creation.

Now that made her mad.

“What you have is more along the lines of insert tab A into slot B with a lot of history thrown in to make sure you’d rather mow the lawn than spend hours making love to a sensual woman,” he said. His words were laced with amusement.

Though to her they were like a splash of cold water to her heated skin.

Okay, she was not about to have her project be just another in a long line of screwups because of a little estrogen. Maybe Miriam’s idea of bringing in Ian Cole would work. He might have something to add. But there’d have to be some ground rules, and she’d have to make the final decisions.

“Maybe we can try this,” she hedged. Ava tapped her foot. What she needed was some brainstorming, paradigm shifting. She’d planned on this project being solely her creation, she’d not factored—

“Don’t you want to cover yourself up?”

Ava shrugged, and looked down at her body. She’d been so used to walking around nearly naked from one setting to another, she’d almost forgotten she wore little else but paint and a loincloth. Most cultures didn’t have a fully-clothed policy the way her homeland did. It wasn’t uncommon to go topless.

Was Ian a prude?

His gaze never left her face.

Come to think of it, when she’d opened the door to him earlier, there had been a sudden leap of something in his eyes, something base and hot. His jaded exterior had quickly masked that.

Once or twice it had seemed his gaze drifted downward, but he quickly raised his eyes right back up to meet hers. Or he looked at her high ceiling. Or her statues.

This was something telling. Ian Cole wanted to avoid looking at her body. Now this was good to know.

Maybe he did share that erotic picture his words had conjured up in her mind.



IAN KNEW HE WAS in trouble the moment her eyes turned assessing. Damn it, he was usually much better at hiding his naked interest in a woman. But then, that was the problem. Ava stood before him basically naked. His body liked it. He liked it.

He watched as Ava glanced at her paint-covered body. Some of it erotically smudged right now. She tilted her head and he made eye contact with the brilliant green of her eyes.

Keep looking up, buddy.

“Why?” she asked, her voice not sounding confused or innocent. Just curious.

Why what? He forgot what they were talking about. And he had a sneaking suspicion he was the one who’d started this particular vein of conversation. “Uh…”

Trying to get her into bed while they worked on the book was a bad idea. If he had to work without sleep to get this book written quickly, that would just have to be the price he paid. Hell, he’d go without food, too.

Had he just decided to sleep with Ava Simms? When had he decided that?

About two seconds after spotting her.

That was a bad idea. Really bad. He’d list the multitude of reasons right now. Except none really came to mind at the moment because a nearly naked, gorgeous woman stood before him. How was a man supposed to work in these conditions?

This woman must be covered as soon as possible. Cover. That was it. That’s what he asked about. “Don’t you want to put something on?”

She shrugged again. “Not really. And this way I can show you some of the pattern work.”

It had been his experience that most women had at least one body part they felt self-conscious about. He wouldn’t have complained if his former girlfriends had wanted to parade around in next to nothing. It’s just that they hadn’t. In fact, he’d seen them go to Herculean efforts to cover their thighs with a sheet, or hips with a towel.

It was all ridiculous. Women were beautiful. The key was to find that one part they hated, and then issue compliments. It never failed.

But this woman seemed to have no problem parading around in barely anything.

She lightly touched a rounded circle of blue on her arm. “You see, the woman begins by painting the color blue on her body. This represents the sky and water. Sky and water play a large role in the lore of many cultures around the world.”

He nodded, his gaze shifting from her face to her arm. Don’t look to the right. Although he already knew what he’d see. Her beautiful breasts painted yellow.

“Now did that bother you? That insertion of a little history?”

Not a bit. He shook his head as his mouth watered.

“That’s the approach I think we should take.” Ava trailed her fingers along the green lines crisscrossing on her thighs. “The green represents the earth. New and unknown. Ready to be explored.”

He grew harder as she touched and stroked her skin. His fingers ached to do the same. To trace the green lines, to smudge the blue paint on her body.

“Yellow is the past. The Wayterian people don’t place value on virginity, so a woman may have had several lovers. Do you?”

“Do I what?” he asked, suddenly feeling as if he’d been jerked out of a sex fantasy.

“Place value on virginity?”

“I’m not one if that’s what you’re asking.”

A smile curved along her lips. “Good. I wouldn’t want you cowering in the corner.”

She was laughing at him.

Toying with him, in fact. He should be irritated. Instead he found himself turned on more. Well, two could play that game. He deliberately lowered his eyes to her yellow-painted breasts. “That’s a very bright color.”

“The Wayterian women coat the yellow paint on their breasts. Once the new husband and wife are alone, she takes his hands and places them on her breasts.”

Her nipples hardened before his eyes. She might be toying with him to get a reaction, but she wasn’t immune to him, either.

“The paint never completely dries, so some of the color gets on him, as well. Together they wash the paint, the past, away. They become one, joined by sky, water and earth.”

Ian closed his eyes for a moment, imagining washing the paint off this woman’s body. And Ava washing the color from his skin. Erotic and charged. It was perfect for the book.

“I think this ceremony is beautiful.” Her voice lost its challenging playfulness of earlier. “I’m always moved by the meaning behind the acts.”

And surprisingly, he was, too.

She swallowed, and took a step away from him. “Well, since you’re familiar with this particular rite now, I’ll just hop into the shower and remove the paint. I won’t be long and then we can get started.”

Ian raised his hand, not bothering to hide the look of disbelief he was sure was on his face. “Wait a minute. Are you about to go and take a shower leaving a man you’ve known about ten minutes alone in your apartment?”

For the first time since she’d opened the door, Ava looked unsure. She shifted her balance, and crossed her arms. “I, uh, guess that I was.”

“Lady, you’ve been out in the wild too long. You can’t be so trusting.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You’re Miriam’s brother. It’s not like she’d send a serial killer. It will only take me a few minutes.”

He couldn’t picture sitting calmly on her couch waiting while she showered. Imagining her naked. And wet. He almost groaned.

No. Not going to happen. He had to get out of there. “I’ll check in to the hotel while you’re getting ready. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. The sandwich on the plane could pass for a hockey puck.”

“Oh, I’m getting hungry, too. Why don’t we meet at one of the restaurants down on the canal for a late lunch? You up for Mexican?”

He was up for anything about now. “Sounds good.” Ava turned on her heel, and once again he got a view of her great ass. “I’ll pick you up from here.”

She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Is this about the shower thing? Don’t worry, I don’t need an escort to keep me safe. Besides, you looked pretty trustworthy to me.”

Trustworthy. Trustworthy? No one had ever accused him of being trustworthy before. Like a teddy bear. Or a cute puppy. That was almost insulting. Ian straightened his shoulders. He was dangerous. A man of the world. Wanted by the law in three countries. At least. He was not a teddy bear.

He’d put an end to that. “Let me know if you need some help with the second part of the ritual,” he said.

“The second part?” she asked.

“The washing off.”

Her full bottom lip curled upward, and a naughty twinkle appeared in her eyes. “I’ll let you know,” she told him.

Now why did that come out sounding like a promise?




4


WHILE THE WATER for the shower heated, Ava quickly typed in the Web site for Cole Publishing. She punched his name in the search fields.

“Bingo.” Over thirty results popped up on her screen. She selected the one at the top, and her screen immediately filled with his image. Obviously the picture on his bio page must have been taken a few years ago. In the photo, he had a friendly smile and the look of someone ready to tackle the world.

Much how she’d felt five seconds before she opened the door to him.

Now Ian wore that world-weary air. The stress lines around his mouth were deeper now than the laugh lines around his eyes. She’d seen his type in the airport. They huddled around their gates, ready to hit the next political hot spot.

She headed anyplace but there.

A puff of steam enticed her into the bathroom. Tugging off her loincloth, Ava stepped beneath the spray.

The warm water glided around her body, smearing the paint further. The yellows and blues fused together, turning green and pooling at her feet before sliding down the drain. Long, hot showers. Steam and heat and the scent of honeysuckle. Now this was something she had missed.

Ava reached for the soap and bubbled up a rich lather. Although the paint was easy to smear, it wasn’t the easiest to remove from her skin.

Of course Ian had offered to help. She smiled again, thinking how his brown eyes had turned darker when he’d made the invitation. Ava had seen the desire in his direct gaze. He hadn’t tried to mask it. She liked that about him.

A direct man voiced exactly what he wanted. Sought to fulfill his woman’s desires. She would have hated to take suggestions on her book from a man who couldn’t handle the naturalness of sex. Afraid of his own desires.

And of hers.

There’d been sex in his eyes. Sex on his mind. Despite the warmth of the water, her nipples hardened as she remembered that brown-eyed gaze of his sliding down her body.

When had sex come into play? She wondered as she reached for a bright yellow sponge. When did sex not come into play between a man and a woman? Despite Ian’s obvious assumption that she was a bit on the naive side, she’d studied gender differences enough to know that one thing shared by both men and women was a charged curiosity whenever they were in each other’s presence. A curiosity about nakedness. Would he groan? Would she scream?

It all happened within the first five seconds of meeting someone new, the mind and body put that person into three categories. Yes, no and maybe.

And right now her body was thinking yes. What would sex with Ian be like? Sex had been in Ian’s eyes, which placed Ava in his hell-yes category.

If they were going to collaborate, attraction between them probably wasn’t the best situation. Far off the mark from professionalism. But then, who was she to shy away from sexual attraction?

Come to think of it, sexual tension and desire between the two of them might be a good thing. Heat might translate onto the pages, into their very writing. Craving the carnal would implicitly lace their words with an intense hunger for sex.

A shiver raced down her spine. Now this was something that would sell. She should go for it. Why not suffer for her art?

Anxious to get to work, she sudsed her arms and legs, the water and bubbles turning her already sensitive skin into taut nerves waiting to be touched. Caressed. Her skin tingled.

She reached for the soft washcloth, and twisted out the excess water. Ava stroked the cloth against her breasts, wiping away the more stubborn yellow paint. As she rubbed the cloth against her nipple, the skin along her neck and her breasts turned bumpy and sensitive. Tingles from her nipples shot downward.

She washed her other breast, then slowly trailed the cloth down along her ribcage, around her navel. The material felt rougher now against the heightened sensitivity of her flesh. She imagined Ian’s work-roughened hands on her. Imagined him caressing her the same way as the washcloth.

A bit of the cloth tickled the skin of her inner thigh and she sucked in a breath. Steam surrounded her, a light caress against her body. The humid air inside the shower filled her lungs and she leaned against the tile wall for support.

The water ran between her legs, and she followed the trail with the washcloth. She clamped her eyes shut when the cloth grazed her clitoris. Delicious sensations quivered along every nerve. She stroked herself and moaned.

Some ancients believed a couple learned to please their mate only after watching them pleasure themselves. She imagined Ian outside her shower door, watching her touch herself. Becoming aroused.

Then she imagined him joining her in the shower, imagined herself watching him take his cock in his hand. Seeing it grow harder and bigger as he stroked himself, showing her how he liked to be touched. How he wanted her to touch him.

She pressed against her clit, her body growing tense. She gasped and her muscles tightened.

No.

If she brought her own release now, some of the tension and heat that zinged between them wouldn’t be as strong. She wanted her pleasure to be on the edge, near the top. Not satiated.

An old woman she’d met in Australia once had told her the greatest aphrodisiac for a man was a woman’s arousal.

Maybe now she would put that woman’s theory to the test. Might make an interesting chapter for the book. Goose bumps rose on her skin as the spray massaged every muscle. She’d definitely suffer for that chapter.

With her body still humming, she quickly finished her shower.



IT DIDN’T TAKE IAN long to check in to the Bricktown Hotel; a chain hotel that catered to businesspeople, where the staff was usually friendly and efficient. Since his laptop battery was dead, he plugged the computer in first thing. This hotel promised to be the “most wired hotel in Oklahoma City.” Most hotel claims were wrong, but he needed this one to be right.

He was used to traveling light. He’d packed for a week, but figured that would be more than enough time to get this book on track.

If Ava Simms didn’t kill him. Some women shouldn’t be allowed out of the house. She definitely needed a warning label. Loss of blood to the brain.

Crossing to the sink, he turned on the taps. He splashed water onto his face, washing away the travel grime. Ava would be in the shower now. Naked and wet. No matter how good-looking a woman was, she always looked just a little bit better wet.

He imagined Ava wet and nude under the spray of the shower.

With a groan, he wiped his face with a towel. Glancing at his watch he saw he still had about fifteen minutes to kill. His cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his waist to check at the caller ID. His sister. Good. He was in a mood to harass her over this assignment.

“Did you meet the doc?” she asked.

“Two days. I’m giving this two days, then I’m out of hell.”

“I have every faith in you.”



OVER THE YEARS, HER brother had been shoved into filthy, rat-infested prisons, slopped around in some of the world’s most disease-ridden swamps and suffered weather hardships and clean-water deprivation of the likes she could only imagine. All to get the story.

And yet this assignment was the one he compared to hell. She almost laughed.

Miriam fingered the glass paperweight on her desk. She should feel guilty about sending her brother someplace she knew he’d hate. She should, but she was in full self-preservation mode.

Her brother’s vehemence had been surprising. She’d dwell on it if another pink message slip hadn’t appeared under the paperweight. Miriam wadded the paper up into a tight ball and aimed it toward her trash can. She missed by a good six inches.

Her aim was going the same way as her judgment. She was making a poor business decision and that wasn’t like her. Things would have been smoother if she’d gone to Oklahoma with Ian. That was her element. What she did. Some people could cook. Some could write. She could multitask.

Miriam was a whiz at juggling millions of details, all while keeping overblown egos and hurt feelings to a minimum. Nothing was ever personal and people left her office with a smile even if they came away with less than their asking price.

A few days with the doc and her brother and this book would be complete and ready to go into production and she’d be making more money for the company. So why not?

Jeremy.

If she went back to Oklahoma, she would surely contact him.

On the one hand, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Who couldn’t handle six or seven times a night?

Her nipples hardened and her skin tingled under her clothes. What was she mulling over a moment ago? The book she’d risked her reputation and quite a bit of money on. That book.

This was why six or seven times a night would be bad. She’d get nothing done. Her skin grew hot. She felt uncomfortable. No. Not uncomfortable…irritated. She’d think of it as irritated and chafed. In fact, that’s exactly what she should be doing. Word association when thoughts of Jeremy popped into her mind. All of them bad.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his. Same color as the first car that ever side-swiped her.

Those long showers together. Dry skin.

Seven or eight times a night? Bladder infection.

Miriam slumped in her chair and scanned her office walls. Here was her family history, the legacy she was now in charge of safeguarding. Rows of framed magazine covers lined each wall. Some black and white, others in bold color. Through war, the baby boom, flower power, disco to iPod, Coles had guided the company sensibly and competently.

And not a single Cole had ever blown it over a romance. Although her dad had come close when he’d married her mom. Miriam had always thought herself more like her grandfather. Now it was clear she’d inherited her father’s self-destructive romantic habits. Obviously embraced them because she couldn’t get that man out of her mind.

Her glance hit upon one of the covers. Woman in a business suit, power bun with the buttons on her silk blouse undone to reveal a sexy red bra.

Is All Work and No Play Making Jane a Dull Girl?

She reread the caption once more. Her shoulders relaxed and a smile slowly started to spread across her lips. It was strange how often something on one of these covers would trigger an emotion or a decision.

Yes. She had become a very dull girl. Miriam had been nothing but work for a very long time. When was the last time she’d gone out? How many times had she turned down her friends’ invitations to hit the town? When was the last time she’d been inclined to wear a sexy red bra?

What was wrong with her? She lived in the town that never slept. And she’d been in most nights by nine. She needed to get out. Meet new and interesting men. Laugh, dance. Of course, seven or eight times seemed great when you hadn’t gotten any in seven or eight months.

This had nothing to do with Jeremy at all. She picked up her cell phone to call Jenna. That speed-dial setting hadn’t been used in ages.

Except Rich buzzed in over the intercom.

“Ms. Cole, there’s someone here to see you.”

She scanned the schedule Rich placed on her desk every morning. She didn’t have any appointments. Rich would know not to announce a drop-in. Something was odd.

“It’s a Mr. Kelso.”

Miriam could tell by Rich’s tone that this name was supposed to mean something to her. It didn’t.

“A Mr. Jeremy Kelso.”

Miriam clicked her phone closed.




5


IAN GRIMACED. He studied his hotel room. Already he had done all he needed to do. And still he felt restless.

So what else was new? Seems he’d battled restlessness for as long as he remembered. Why stay in the same place when something else beckoned around the corner? Hell on relationships.

But then, he wasn’t much of a relationship kind of guy.

So then why did the doc get to him?

She was just another woman. Same as any woman from any other part of the world. Granted her parts were naked and covered with paint…but still.

Ian paced toward his window. He needed outside. He needed the sun on his head and a breeze against his face. Sixth-story windows in hotels did not cut it. He pushed himself away from the glass. He’d walk back to Ava’s apartment, and skip all elevators. That should burn off some energy.

Like Ava’s place, the hotel faced the winding canal of downtown Oklahoma City, and so the walk to meet her wouldn’t take long.

He hiked down the stairs and emerged into the sunlight, giving in to the restlessness. The canal waters rippled bluish-green a few feet away from him. Trees and flowers flanked the stonework path beside the water. He weaved among the mothers pushing strollers who seemed to be the predominant occupants of the walk during the middle of the day.

Old warehouses being turned into stunning homes had renewed many an old downtown area suffering from urban blight. Oklahoma City obviously reaped the same benefits. Restaurants bracketed the walk, so he suspected couples would be replacing the moms and joggers once the dinner hour arrived.

A bright-yellow boat floated below him, passengers waving to the pedestrians. They waved back. His lips twisted. Flyover country. People didn’t wave to one another in the places he’d been.

He found Ava waiting for him outside the entrance to her building.

A blonde.

Ava was a blonde. He hadn’t been able to tell earlier. All the paint was gone, and her hair was still damp from her shower. Natural highlights from the sun streaked her hair. He’d never gone for blondes before, preferring the dark and exotic over the coolness of many fair-haired women. And those green eyes of hers were anything but cool.

He felt anything but cool around Ava. She smiled and came toward him, and his eyes were immediately drawn to her body. His normal life felt a world away from the utter temptation that was this woman. His days and nights were filled with the exciting challenges of chasing down people who did not want to be found, rough terrain and hanging out with guys who smelled like something rotten.

So on the blessed, and lately, more rare occasions when he was with a woman, he wanted soft curves, sweet scents and her dressed in pure glamour. When they weren’t naked, that is.

None of that remotely described Ava. Oh, he liked her curves, but there was nothing sweet about this woman. And nothing wrong with the casual jeans and animal-print top she wore.

She hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup, and he liked her natural like this. A light layer of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. Like him, Ava was apparently a woman who’d spent some time in the sun.

She also smelled like cinnamon.

And he loved the smell of cinnamon.

“I found the Mexican place on my way over here. You ready?” he asked her. Ready to get back on the move. Bad things always happened when you stayed in one place.

Ava nodded. “At night they cook their tortilla chips, and I can smell it for hours in my apartment. Sometimes I wake up craving Mexican food, and I didn’t even do that when I lived there.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.” He adjusted his larger steps to hers. Her head just reached his shoulders. The scent of cinnamon surrounded him once more.

“How’d you wind up in Oklahoma?” he asked, digging up a way to get his mind off the smell of her hair. He was a reporter. He asked questions.

“My grandparents live here. In fact, that was their building. I wouldn’t have been able to afford this many square feet. My parents were always moving us from one place to another, but we’d always spend our holidays in Oklahoma. It seemed natural to set up a home base here when I returned from overseas.”

“Was that often?” he asked. Talk. Talk was good. It took his mind off wondering what she wore under her shirt. Wondering whether she preferred animal print in all the clothes that touched her skin…

Hell, it’d been a while since he’d been with a woman, but usually he could go longer than ten seconds before imagining her naked.

“From my earliest memories. The longest I can remember staying anywhere was two years. It feels kind of weird to be opening boxes instead of packing them. Some of these things I haven’t seen in years.”

Her apartment had been filled with statues, masks and pictures. It didn’t feel like a home base to him. A home base was more like his apartment, a place to sleep and watch football until the next assignment put you in harm’s way. There was nothing permanent about a home base, and Ava’s apartment felt very permanent.

“Were your parents anthropologists like you?” He did not need to know this. Knowing her background wasn’t important for the writing of this book. He’d only meant to talk, to pass the time, to distract himself. But he found himself curious about her answers. He’d met a lot of different people during his travels. Why did he care?

A smile touched her lips, and she laughed softly. He liked the sound of her laugh. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that it isn’t very often people don’t know who my parents are, but then, I’m mainly hanging out with a bunch of academics. My parents, Carol and Alex Simms, uncovered a temple to Isis in ancient Greece and set the archeology world on its ear.”

“Oh, really? And how would one do that exactly?” During his flight to meet Ava, he couldn’t have imagined anything more boring than having a conversation about archeology. Now he was intrigued.

“One would do that by saying that that temple proved the ancient Greeks patterned their gods and goddesses on those of the Egyptians, in the same way that the Romans took over the Greek gods and goddesses. It’s not even too far a stretch to get from Horus to Zeus.”

He whistled. “Wow, pretty radical.”

“And pretty controversial.”

“So why anthropology?” There was the curiosity again. He didn’t need to know anything personal about her to make this book work.

“It wasn’t too far a stretch. Apparently, wanting to uncover something is in the genes I inherited from them. But on the digs, I was always more interested in the people who’d evolved from the particular culture my parents were studying. How many of the same practices they kept, and which they didn’t. That kind of thing.”

They rounded another corner and found themselves standing in front of the Mexican restaurant. A hostess quickly took them to a balcony table overlooking the canal water.

Ian cut a glance in her direction as she silently perused her menu. His reporter instincts reappeared. There was something interesting here about the doc. Ava had a degree most people only used for teaching. Also, she wasn’t out in the field—another possibility with her degree. And she hadn’t followed in the family tradition.

Forget about her. Write the book, then move on.

“What do your parents think of you writing this book?” he found himself asking. Subtle, you jerk.

She lifted an eyebrow. “The sex research? Well, as they, too, were researchers, sex was pretty much part of the dinnertime conversation with my parents.”

Sex never figured into his family’s dinnertime conversation.

“Just look around a Roman coliseum or inside a pyramid, and you’ll see sex everywhere. Both Mom and Dad were very matter-of-fact about it.”

That explained a lot. Ava could talk about sex the way some way people talked about their laundry. And yet, her voice took a husky dip when she said the word sex. Maybe prancing around nearly naked in front of him had affected her, as well. Now this was starting to go somewhere.

“You’re not answering the question. Do they like what you’re doing?”

Her eyes met his, and she pushed a strand of her drying blond hair behind her ear. “They hate it. They think I’ll never be taken seriously in the academic field.”

“You’re writing a book.”

“A pop-fiction book. That’s like intellectual prostitution in their opinion. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’re not snobs, they’re just…”

“Academics?” he suggested.

Ava nodded, and that lock of hair fell forward again from behind her ear. He itched to touch the strands. To let them fall through his fingers. “They don’t think anyone will ever take my research seriously after this.”

“Will they?” he asked, and wondered why he’d be concerned about that. Cole Publishing was in the business of making money, and although he wasn’t sure about it on the plane, he knew they could make a lot with this book…with the proper execution.

“Probably not,” she said, her tone rueful. “But then, no one has really taken my work seriously. More like facts to parade out at Valentine’s Day. Colleges prefer professors who get published in professional journals, and bring in grant money. Groundbreaking—not titillation.”

If they didn’t take her seriously before, they certainly wouldn’t now. Maybe he should give her one last warning. He’d hate for her to regret writing the book. The enthusiasm had faded from her voice, and a line formed on her forehead.

Then her face brightened and she stunned him with a beautiful smile. His pulse quickened. “Screw ’em. That’s why I’m doing the book.”

“Beat them at their own game.” He liked that about her. He was beginning to like a lot of things about her.

“So why call the book Recipe for Sex? That title is all wrong, by the way. I’ll brainstorm a list tonight, and give you a heads-up in the morning.”

“Why don’t I brainstorm a list and give you the heads-up in the morning?”

His lips twisted for a moment, then he grinned. “Going to be like this, is it? Fight me every step of the way?”

“As the writer, I should make the final decisions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I was brought in to fix some of those decisions.”

“And I’ll take your suggestions under advisement,” she told him.

Ian laughed. “Glad to hear it,” he said in the tone of a man confident he’d get his way. “The title still won’t work. It sounds like a cookbook.”

“Well, originally I thought I’d just include the foods that put couples, and particularly men, in the mood.”

“Why men?” he asked.

“It’s been my experience, and I can document this with culture after culture, that men don’t often use food in their seduction.”

Now wait a minute, he made a mean lasagna. He’d be happy to make it for her. And if they managed to get a little messy and needed to clean up together…so be it.

“I can see by your face you don’t agree. In cultures where couples routinely push back marriage and family, then yes, the male will cook. In fact, most men have one ‘signature’ dish they believe is the ultimate key to the hookup.”

Ian cleared his throat. Okay, he made other things besides lasagna. “That’s ridiculous.”

She smiled then nodded. “Research only gives us generalities. Individuals can always surprise you. One thing that is a fact is a man’s sense of smell. It’s very powerful. A potent scent can stimulate blood flow to the extremities, including the penis, and can evoke all sorts of feelings.”

“In the book, we’ll use another word other than feelings for the male readers.”

“You know, straying from gentler emotions isn’t universal among men.”

“It will be for the men we’re trying to sell this book to.” And if he had to hear the word penis from her lips again, he’d have to resort to phoning this book in.

Change the subject. “Let’s get back to this smell thing. Why is it women are always wanting to smell flowers? I could care less.”

“Because that’s the wrong smell for a man. Believe it or not, the scents more attractive to men are food-related. There’s something to be said for that old saying about the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Pumpkin, for instance, elicits very strong responses from men. And the smell of doughnuts.”

“We can keep a running list of places for women to meet men. The pumpkin patch. The doughnut shop.”

“I can see you’re not taking this seriously. Let me do a demonstration.” She signaled the waitress. “Can we have some of those churros, please?”

If the waitress thought it strange Ava was asking for dessert before they’d even been served their entrées, she didn’t show it.

Ava returned her attention to him. “Have you eaten one of these? They’re delicious. Sugar and cinnamon. Mmm.”

The way she said mmm with such a level of carnal enjoyment made his stomach clench.

A moment later the waitress dropped off a platter of churros, as well as a basket of chips, salsa and queso.

“Cinnamon is another scent men respond to on a primal level. Plus the food has the added bonus of being somewhat phallic.” Her voice had turned husky, as if her very words aroused her.

She cleared her throat, her green eyes never leaving his.

“I think it’s most effective when a woman teases her face with the food a bit, running it along her chin. Her lips. Makes men think of a woman running her lips along his—”

Her words didn’t drift off. He cut them off in his mind. He knew exactly what seeing a woman with something like a churro, seeing Ava do with that churro, made him think. It made him think of her lips on his erection.

“The key is to keep the man in a steady state of semiarousal at all times.”

Semiarousal? He’d just gone from zero to performance status in about half a second.

She dropped the churro onto the platter. “You see? Food is one very important ingredient for sex. You show me a man whose mind doesn’t immediately turn to a blow job at the sight of a woman eating a banana or carrot—I’ll show you a man whose balls haven’t dropped yet.”

Or one who wasn’t into women. He turned to face Ava, whose expression was teasing. “Okay, you have a point,” he admitted, speaking around the lump in his throat.

She smiled, bit off the tip of the churro with gusto, then tipped it his way. “Bite?”

“No, thank you.”

The scent of cinnamon drifted back to him. Was that the food or the woman? And more importantly, was she wearing it on purpose?

“Food-sharing is also very erotic. The significance more than likely dates back to when humans were in survival mode. To share your food literally meant to share your life. Now, eating from your lover’s hand reveals an innate trust. All this academic talk, I’m not boring you am I?”

Hell, no. If the classes he’d taken in college had been half this interesting, he might have stayed to finish his degree. He shook his head.

“Good. Do you like churros, Ian?” her voice husky again and full of playful invitation.

He nodded.

Once more, she tipped the food in his direction. “See how sexy, almost carnal it can be to eat from my hand? It’s especially effective if you’ve never kissed your partner.”

She used the food to trace his bottom lip. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do a thing.

“To have your lips touch where just moments ago hers had been. Her tongue, her saliva…it’s like sharing a passionate kiss. A prelude of more to come.”




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