Excerpt of Don't Tempt Me? by Dawn Atkins

"LEATHER SHOUTS, lace whispers," Samantha Sawyer

said to her new client, who'd flung off a red silk cloak to reveal her outfit for the portrait Samantha was about to snap of her.

The black leather bustier, red fishnets and glitter- flecked stilettos did not flatter the softly feminine woman before her. In that god-awful platinum flip, Misty looked like a plus-size dominatrix from a 1950s sci-fi movie.

"From what you told me earlier, I believe you want to lure Tony to bed, not chain him to the headboard and whip him into submission," Samantha said gently.

"But Tony loves leather. Leather clothes, leather furniture, leather everything." Misty swirled diamond- heavy fingers through the air.

"Tony loves you, Misty. And your body screams for lace."

"It screams for air, that's for sure. I can't breathe." Misty unhooked the top two grommets and exhaled in deep relief.

It saddened Samantha that instead of showing off her zaftig curves, Misty had crammed them into torturous fashions. Too many of Samantha's clients did the same — wore too-small clothes, stripped their hair of natural color and turned their faces into exhausted masks with chemical peels and BOTOX shots.

"What did Bianca wear?" Misty asked. "However you fixed her, fix me. My Tony is...wandering." Her summer-gray eyes went murky with worry.

"Let's see what set feels right," Samantha suggested, determined to cheer the woman. "And we'll choose an outfit that suits you."

"Okay." Misty loosened a third grommet with a whooshing exhalation. "Bianca told me you're a miracle worker. She says Darien's a new man."

Bianca Sylvestri, who'd sent Misty here, believed the boudoir photo Samantha had taken of her had saved her marriage and since then had referred a dozen family members, friends and associates for photos. In fact, her grateful husband Darien had offered Samantha a killer lease on the ground floor of his empty building and now she had Bedroom Eyes, plus shops for three friends — a massage studio, a hair salon and a lingerie boutique.

Samantha led the way to the velvet love seat in the corner of the anteroom, and Misty sat beside her, corset creaking like a saddle. Samantha put The Book of Fantasy in Misty's lap. Her portfolio featured tasteful erotic shots in a range of settings from exotic harem to medieval castle to country meadow.

Samantha believed the shots had special appeal to her clients because they came from her own sexual fantasies. Fantasies she planned to bring to life once she found the time. And the man.

Six months ago, she'd made the decision to break out with her photography and her personal life.At the ripe age of twenty-seven, it had dawned on her that her strict up- bringing had cramped her style more than she'd realized.

Enough already. She'd launched Bedroom Eyes and soon enough she'd go for some heart-stopping, take-me-now sex.

Her first step to a bolder Samantha had been giving herself permission to have sexual fantasies: elaborate ones with exciting lovers — pirates and princes and highwaymen and cowboys and cops — in imagined settings similar to the ones Misty was slowly flipping through, pondering each with a smile, a sigh or a closer look.

Misty studied the woman on the tiger chaise in a revealing dress of liquid velvet. This came from Samantha's fantasy of willing ravishment — being gently tied and invited to surrender to passion by a lover who knew her white-hot core as well as his own. Her personal favorite.

Next, Misty came to the shadowed nude — Samantha's friend Mona, owner of the massage studio, with her head thrown back, a faint smile on her face, light falling provocatively on her lush curves. Despite its simplicity, the shot required the precise use of fill and reflector to create a sensual, but modest, effect that suited Mona perfectly. Samantha matched pose, set and costume to personality, which gave her photos their special magic.

Misty flipped past that one fast. She didn't have the confidence for nudity. Not yet, anyway. Samantha's mission was to help her clients honor their natural beauty, but she never pushed them beyond their comfort level.

Two pages later, Misty gasped and put her fingers to her mouth in delight. Light zinged from her diamonds, as if from a magic wand. "This is it. What I want."

"Ah. Sleeping Beauty. I love this one." In this fantasy, Samantha was awakened by the kiss of a prince who'd searched the world over, risked his life to possess her with his hot mouth, tender fingers and thrusting —

Stop it.

Soon, Samantha would live these scenes instead of imagining them. Once she'd hired her assistant — which she'd just decided to do — she'd have more free time for her manhunt. She had to take action soon, before the ache between her thighs became a permanent charley horse.

"I know the perfect costume for you," she said to Misty, closing the portfolio and pushing to her feet. "Come on."

Samantha led Misty to the dressing room, with its two changing stalls, elevated try-on area with mirrors, lit makeup table and racks of fantasy clothes for men and women. Exotic shoes — spike heels, marabou slides, elaborate platforms and boots — were stored on racks along one wall. Hats, tiaras and headdresses rested on foam heads lining the top cupboards.

The overall impression was that of backstage at a theater — in fact, she'd scored most of her costumes, props and furniture from a defunct theater company. The lingerie, stockings and garters were on consignment from Valerie's lingerie shop.

For Misty, Samantha flipped past the red teddy, black silk kimono and white peignoir and grabbed the pink satin camisole with an organdy robe that would flatter her curves. Clear acrylic kitten heels and a satin cone hat with a sheer train completed the princess effect.

Samantha swept the robe around the teddy, held it under Misty's chin, then turned her toward the mirror. "Gorgeous, huh?"

"Very nice," she said with barely a glance.

"You're nervous you won't look how you imagine?" Misty nodded.

"That's normal, but don't worry. The lights I use, the angle, the costume and, mostly, who you are, Misty, will shine right through."

"Really?" Misty's don't-dare-hope smile filled Samantha with renewed fire. Her very best work shored up an uncertain woman's sense of her own sexual power.

"Absolutely." Samantha grasped the locket she always wore, the talisman reminding her of her mission. "You'll have fun, I promise." She thrust the clothes at Misty.

"Change and meet me in the first studio on your left."

Misty headed for the dressing stall and Samantha took off for the fairy-tale studio to bring Misty's fantasy to life.

One day soon, she'd do something about her own. She had a whole mental checklist of sexual adventures besides her fantasies — drizzling chocolate on naked bodies...sex in a hot tub...sex under the sky...beneath the stars...in an elevator...in a rainstorm. Tons of ideas. For when she had time.

Her focus so far had been on launching Bedroom Eyes. She had a five-year plan with firm benchmarks and steep targets. Specialty photography required a huge client pool to survive and her corporate accounts and catalogs could only sustain her so long. If she did well, she would consider expanding, perhaps adding a second photographer when the time was right.

The unexpected bounty of having Darien offer her the entire floor had complicated things. Managing the space had proved time consuming. For one thing, construction seemed continual. Darien was a nut about storage. The lingerie shop could hold Valerie's inventory twice over and extra cupboards were being hammered into place in the hair salon right now.

Because she'd talked her friends into opening their shops here, she felt responsible for handling the tenant snafus. She'd dealt with the phone-line crash in Val's lingerie shop, but she still had to look into the plumbing problem in Blythe's salon and the AC glitch in Mona's massage studio.

She planned to hand off the property management duties to her assistant, too. Just yesterday she'd slipped a help- wanted sign in her window and ordered a classified ad for next week's paper.

Now she checked the digital Canon for image space — plenty. She used the digital for test shots to show the clients, but made prints from the richer film images. Ensuring the Hasselblad on the tripod held a full roll, she pulled down the castle backdrop, dragged the bed into position and was draping a garland of white silk roses over its canopy when the front door buzzed.

Damn. She had no time for a walk-in now. Maybe it was just Valerie wanting to pin down the details for the afternoon — Samantha had promised to help her arrange her stock and dress the mannequins in her windows. Her artist eye and all.

But it wasn't Valerie at her counter. It was a man. Handsome and tall, wearing a chambray shirt and 501s, with crisply cut black hair and a stance as square as his jaw, he was so masculine he made the studio look as froufrou as a dollhouse. And he seemed so familiar....

She knew immediately why. He was the spitting image of the weather-beaten cowboy in her fantasy — the sexy loner who smelled of wood smoke and leather and tenderly ran his rough palms over her delicate skin.

He set a scuffed leather portfolio on the counter and gave her a wicked smile. Maybe he was more like the highwayman risking arrest to enter her bedchamber by moonlight and possess her utterly. "May I help you?" she asked, managing to sound normal.

"Rick West." He held out a hand so big it swallowed hers up. No calluses, so forget the cowboy. And his expression was strong and no-nonsense. More like the hard-bitten cop catching her speeding, then patting her down and losing all restraint.

"Samantha Sawyer," she managed to say, fighting her urge to add, Have I done something wrong, Officer?

He was clearly not here for a photo. Men's men only came in when they were dragged by the women who'd conquered their hearts. Rick West was alone. And without a ring.

Stop it. "I'm here about the job," he said, giving her a blast of remarkable green eyes that made her want to say yes, yes, oh yes. He unzipped his portfolio, biceps tightening. "I'm a photographer."

"A photographer?" Not the cowboy, highwayman or cop. He was the artist, slowly peeling away her clothes so he could capture her on canvas or film or in clay. "But I'm only looking for an assistant."

"No problem. I can assist. Hold reflectors, deliver negs, answer the phones." He snatched her gaze up tight.

"Whatever you need me to do."

Would you wear leather chaps? How about handcuffs? His eyes were a rare green. Not as bright as emerald or as subdued as jade. Nature's green — a Scottish hillside, a particular moss she'd seen on Oak Creek's red rocks.

"It would be a lot of errands, some marketing calls, low- skill stuff," she said, but he'd flipped open the portfolio to get his résumé, and she went close enough to peek at his pictures, bumping the counter, which wobbled. She had to ask Darien's crew to attach it properly to the floor.

"Wow," she said. The first photo was a startling shot of a big-winged bird that seemed to dance over a hillock of gold-and-yellow desert poppies. "Is that a falcon?"