Chapter One
Sexless mannequin.
The words reverberated through Bella Jackson’s head as she stepped out onto the catwalk.
“A man could get frostbite touching you. You’re all smoke and no fire, babe. If the world knew what a total fraud you are, you’d never get another modeling job again. Who wants the original ice queen modeling clothes for today’s sensual woman?”
Curt’s vitriolic accusations echoed around her, drowning out the announcer’s modulated voice, even though the confrontation had taken place miles away and days ago.
She couldn’t forget.
Maybe because Curt had taken his story to the press, and her face and body were plastered all over the tabloids with headlines that made her cringe.
Bella Jackson, Ice Queen or Sexpot?
Model Freezes Boyfriend Out of Bed.
Lexi’s Creations Cover Model Fraud.
Ex-boyfriend Says This Model’s Bed Needs an Electric Blanket to Stay Warm.
And the one that had given her mother heart palpitations: Ex-boyfriend Speculates Bella is Gay.
She’d done hundreds of trunk shows in her ten-year modeling career, but never had she been so nervous stepping onto a stage.
Had everyone in the audience seen the stories? Were they laughing behind their hands as she modeled clothes that only a woman extremely in touch with her own sexuality would wear?
That woman was not Bella.
She didn’t have hang-ups, no matter what that jerk Curt said. It was just that she’d been so career minded since her teens the whole man-woman thing had pretty much passed her by. Not to mention the fact that she wasn’t interested in getting intimate with a man who couldn’t see beyond her body to the woman inside.
She’d had her bad experiences with idiots who thought her bra size was equivalent to her IQ, and men who wanted a trophy on their arm, not a living, breathing woman in their life, so she’d pretty much stopped dating. Until Curt.
When he’d pressed for sex, she’d been unable to share her secret—or her body—with him.
The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to.
His kisses and what he’d wanted to do afterward had left her as cold as he’d accused her of being.
She was a twenty-six-year-old virgin with a reputation for extravagant sex and a supposed list of lovers the length of the Miami Yellow Pages. It wasn’t her fault that the press speculated, or that men who hadn’t made it to first base had bragged about their homeruns, but neither had she denied the rumors. Lexi said her reputation was good for the line and Bella had considered it another cost of her career.
Her bad-girl reputation had done its own job keeping her insulated from the type of men she could actually want. The men attracted to the persona she presented to the world were very rarely the type of men she could be honestly attracted to.
Curt had been different, or so she’d thought.
She’d found out too late that the conservative accountant had only wanted the bad girl, not the real Bella. He’d wanted to take a walk on the wild side with her as his tour guide.
The last daywear model was returning up the catwalk when the announcer introduced Lexi’s eveningwear and Bella began her signature glide down the Plexiglas stage, her hands damp and her heart beating too fast.
Subdued lighting made it possible for her to make eye contact with the audience, but that was the last thing she wanted. Still, she couldn’t help subtly scanning the patrons seated in the ultraclassy Dallas hotel, looking for signs that the tabloid stories had done their damage.
But this audience seemed just like all the others, their gazes fixed on her shocking white silk dress.
She was halfway down the catwalk when her gaze snagged on a pair of green eyes. The color of new grass, they were set in a face as hard as granite and as sexy as sin.
The look in those eyes caught her as effectively as if the man’s hands had closed over her shoulders and halted her midstep. She did in fact stop, her body freezing with a blast of
Sexless mannequin.
The words reverberated through Bella Jackson’s head as she stepped out onto the catwalk.
“A man could get frostbite touching you. You’re all smoke and no fire, babe. If the world knew what a total fraud you are, you’d never get another modeling job again. Who wants the original ice queen modeling clothes for today’s sensual woman?”
Curt’s vitriolic accusations echoed around her, drowning out the announcer’s modulated voice, even though the confrontation had taken place miles away and days ago.
She couldn’t forget.
Maybe because Curt had taken his story to the press, and her face and body were plastered all over the tabloids with headlines that made her cringe.
Bella Jackson, Ice Queen or Sexpot?
Model Freezes Boyfriend Out of Bed.
Lexi’s Creations Cover Model Fraud.
Ex-boyfriend Says This Model’s Bed Needs an Electric Blanket to Stay Warm.
And the one that had given her mother heart palpitations: Ex-boyfriend Speculates Bella is Gay.
She’d done hundreds of trunk shows in her ten-year modeling career, but never had she been so nervous stepping onto a stage.
Had everyone in the audience seen the stories? Were they laughing behind their hands as she modeled clothes that only a woman extremely in touch with her own sexuality would wear?
That woman was not Bella.
She didn’t have hang-ups, no matter what that jerk Curt said. It was just that she’d been so career minded since her teens the whole man-woman thing had pretty much passed her by. Not to mention the fact that she wasn’t interested in getting intimate with a man who couldn’t see beyond her body to the woman inside.
She’d had her bad experiences with idiots who thought her bra size was equivalent to her IQ, and men who wanted a trophy on their arm, not a living, breathing woman in their life, so she’d pretty much stopped dating. Until Curt.
When he’d pressed for sex, she’d been unable to share her secret—or her body—with him.
The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to.
His kisses and what he’d wanted to do afterward had left her as cold as he’d accused her of being.
She was a twenty-six-year-old virgin with a reputation for extravagant sex and a supposed list of lovers the length of the Miami Yellow Pages. It wasn’t her fault that the press speculated, or that men who hadn’t made it to first base had bragged about their homeruns, but neither had she denied the rumors. Lexi said her reputation was good for the line and Bella had considered it another cost of her career.
Her bad-girl reputation had done its own job keeping her insulated from the type of men she could actually want. The men attracted to the persona she presented to the world were very rarely the type of men she could be honestly attracted to.
Curt had been different, or so she’d thought.
She’d found out too late that the conservative accountant had only wanted the bad girl, not the real Bella. He’d wanted to take a walk on the wild side with her as his tour guide.
The last daywear model was returning up the catwalk when the announcer introduced Lexi’s eveningwear and Bella began her signature glide down the Plexiglas stage, her hands damp and her heart beating too fast.
Subdued lighting made it possible for her to make eye contact with the audience, but that was the last thing she wanted. Still, she couldn’t help subtly scanning the patrons seated in the ultraclassy Dallas hotel, looking for signs that the tabloid stories had done their damage.
But this audience seemed just like all the others, their gazes fixed on her shocking white silk dress.
She was halfway down the catwalk when her gaze snagged on a pair of green eyes. The color of new grass, they were set in a face as hard as granite and as sexy as sin.
The look in those eyes caught her as effectively as if the man’s hands had closed over her shoulders and halted her midstep. She did in fact stop, her body freezing with a blast of
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