The One He's Been Looking For. Joanna Sims

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      Jordan raised her eyebrows at him. “I will. Give me a minute to emotionally prepare myself.”

      She reached up and pinched her nose as she gulped the liquid down. After she was done, she coughed a few times. “That was disgusting.”

      “It’ll cure what ails you. Guaranteed.”

      “Couldn’t you give me something to chase it with at least?” Jordan held out the empty glass to him.

      “It’s not a shot, it’s an antacid.” He took the glass and with a smile in his voice said, “You’re welcome.”

      “Thank you.” The words were laced with her trademark sarcasm. “Were you trying to cure me or kill me?”

      Ian returned from the kitchen, sat down on the couch, stretched out his long legs with one ankle over the other. He rested his head on his hand as he looked at her. “That’s a new one. I’ve never heard of death by antacid before.”

      “There’s a first time for everything, GQ.” Jordan’s lips quirked up into a smile.

      “I bet you’re feeling better already.” He nodded his head toward her.

      She thought about it before she responded. “You know what? I do feel a little better. That stuff’s a miracle drug.”

      “Told you.”

      Jordan studied Ian for a moment. “You know...I thought you’d be a lot different.”

      “What did you think I’d be like?” he asked. Then he held up his hand. “No, wait. Let me try to fill in the blanks.” He raised his pointer finger. “Arrogant.”

      Jordan nodded and shrugged one shoulder in agreement.

      Ian held up another finger. “Egotistical.”

      She nodded again.

      He held up a third finger. “Womanizer.”

      “That’s a pretty comprehensive list. You must’ve heard it all before,” Jordan said. In truth, he had hit all the major headings she had labeled him with. Maybe she had judged him too harshly too soon.

      “I get how people view me because of the business I’m in. I don’t agree with it, but I don’t have the time to dwell on it. It is what it is.”

      “And your looks,” Jordan said. “People judge you for that, too, I suppose.”

      “That was just the luck of the genetic lottery,” Ian said with an irritated shrug. “But you’re right. That’s part of it. Still, people who know me, people who work with me...know that I’m always thinking about the next amazing image. I genuinely love the art form of photography. And, honestly, the rest of the stuff that comes with the job is just white noise to me.”

      “I can respect that.” Jordan nodded, surprised that she actually had something in common with him. “You’re a perfectionist. I’m a perfectionist about my artwork, too.”

      “Are you a tattoo artist?”

      “What?” she asked, confused. Then she remembered where they had first met. “No. I’m a painter. Starving, of course—what else, right? But there’s a fine-arts gallery downtown that’s sponsoring me. I have my first show starting February 1, so hopefully the starving part will change.”

      Ian nodded as he listened to her. “So how are you making ends meet until the show?”

      “I bartend at Altitude on the weekends,” Jordan said. “And every once in a while I sell one of my designs as tattoo flash to Marty or Chappy. That’s what I was doing the day that we met. I have kind of a small following in the underground music and art scene. One of my friends wanted me to design her tattoo and it took off from there. After a bunch of my friends went to him asking for my artwork, Marty offered me a deal. He does his own custom work, of course, but if someone wants one of my designs as a tattoo, they have to go to his shop to get it, and I get a cut. It’s a pretty sweet deal for me, but the money’s not nearly regular enough to keep me in canvases and paint, I can tell you that much.”

      Ian leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “Then I’d say I have pretty impeccable timing. Because if you agree to model for me, you’ll be able to buy supplies for this show and the next. Isn’t that right?”

      Jordan pushed a wayward lock of hair back off her forehead. “I can’t deny that you have a point. I could really use the money right now.”

      “Then let’s talk business, Jordan.” Ian sat upright. “I really want you for this project. I can’t say it any plainer than that. I like what I saw today—you’re a natural in front of the camera and you’ve got great instincts for someone who hasn’t modeled professionally.” He lifted his eyebrows. “So? What do you think? Do you want the gig?”

      Jordan studied him intently. She crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders a bit. Part of her wanted to jump at the chance. She needed the money and she’d had a blast modeling today. But there was something inside of her that was making her hesitate.

      “What’s holding you back from saying yes?” Ian asked. “Is it me? Do I make you nervous?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe.” She shrugged noncommittally. “But it’s not like you’re going to go all Silence of the Lambs on me.”

      “Then what?” Ian stood up and walked over to one of the copper barrels that were being used as decorative tables. He moved the catalogs aside and sat down so he was directly across from her. “Look, Jordan. I really want us to work together. Tell me what I can do to help you get to yes.”

      “Well. I’m from Montana...” she said slowly.

      “Okay.”

      “And I was raised to believe that if something seems too good to be true, then it is too good to be true. You catch my drift?”

      “Sure,” Ian said. “You think there’s a catch.”

      “Exactly. A famous photographer tracks me down?” Jordan pointed to her chest. “And wants to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars to model for him? I mean, come on—what’re the chances, really?”

      “Okay.” Ian breathed in through his nose and then let out the breath. “I think I get what’s holding you back.”

      “And what have you come up with, oh, Obi Wan?” she asked with a combination of sarcasm and skepticism.

      “You think that I have an ulterior motive,” he said as he watched her carefully.

      Jordan was unlike any other woman he’d ever met—a rare gem in a sea of semiprecious stones. And he knew instinctively that she needed to be handled with care if he wanted to get her under contract for the book. Unfortunately, he couldn’t rely on his usual bag of tricks—she wasn’t impressed with his fame, his money or his connections. And unlike most women, who he typically had to pry off his couch with a crowbar, Jordan looked as if she might try to bolt at the slightest provocation. She reminded him of a beautiful, untamed mare, wild and unpredictable. He had absolutely СКАЧАТЬ