One week later, Saturday, 12:00 p.m.

WITH THE SUNSHINE SENDING shimmering shafts of gold through the front window of Picture This, Adam stared at the contact sheets from his photo session with Mallory Altman and blew out a long, slow breath.

She looked…incredible. Soft and feminine. Wicked, yet somehow innocent. Tempting and enticing and aroused and so damn sexy he found himself shifting uncomfortably to relieve the strangulation occurring behind the fly of his jeans.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by his reaction. Hey, show him a guy who wouldn’t be turned on by these pictures, and he’d show you a dead guy. He’d told her that her boyfriend was a lucky man, but what he should have said was her boyfriend was the luckiest damn guy in New York. And for a brief, magical time nine years ago, Adam had been that lucky guy.

Damn, seeing her again had felt like a punch in the heart. Stunned amazement followed by that mind-boggling rush of pleasure. The appointment book had read M. Allory-or at least that’s what he’d thought it said, as Nick’s handwriting was atrocious. One look at her, at her smile, at those brown eyes that had always reminded him of warm, melting chocolate, and the years had slipped away, inundating him with a flood of memories…memories that had haunted him all week and that threatened to take over now.

Forcibly pushing them aside, his gaze riveted on one particular photo of her. She was lying on her side on the bed, her dark hair spread across her shoulders in a disheveled fall of loose, shiny curls. With her head propped up on one hand, her other arm rested along the sinuous indent of her waist and the curve of her hip. One stocking-clad knee was bent, her moist lips slightly parted and her eyes stared directly into the camera. She looked like a succulent silk-clad morsel waiting to be plucked from an hors d’oeuvres platter. Actually, daring someone to pluck her from that platter.