Skin by Karin Tabke

from sexy to hard, then bitter, in less time than it took her to snap a round of shots.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked, and she realized she really wanted to know. When had this man’s feelings become important to her?
    He turned the water off, his actions abrupt. He grabbed the towel from the rack and briskly dried off. Skin still damp, he wrapped the towel around his waist and shot her a dangerous look. “I’d like a little privacy.”
    Frankie nodded, and for the second time in the last few moments shame coursed through her. She turned and hurried out of the bathroom.
    Pacing the living room floor, Frankie realized she was reverting back to her old emotional involvement habits. She reminded herself what mattered was getting the shot. Period. Feelings, emotions, whatever they were, had no purpose in getting “the shot.” This was business, and her business was to launch
Skin
off the charts. To that end it was all about the shot.
    The door to the bathroom opened and she watched Reese walk into his bedroom and shut the door. The click of the lock was not lost on her. That was okay. She didn’t want any more pictures of him in the condo anyway.
    She hustled into the bathroom, still steamy from the man who just exited it, and jumped into the shower.
    She’d washed her bra and panties the night before. Without his permission, she borrowed a black button-down shirt. She’d change when she got to the office. She had an overnight bag and extra clothes she kept there in her little powder room.
    When she strutted out of his bedroom, he looked her up and down. “Nice shirt,” he drawled.
    “I’ll send it out to be laundered. You’ll have it back by the end of the day.”
    “Polite people ask.”
    Bent on putting more distance between them, she picked up her camera bag and purse, careful of her stitches. “I’m not polite.”
    Few words were spoken as they drove to the studio. Reese’s closed face and body language offered no opening for conversation.
    Frankie didn’t push it. She’d let her guard down last night and blabbed too much. It was retreat time. Professional-distance time. Time to be the bitch she needed to be to not only survive in this world she lived in but to succeed in it.
    When Frankie walked into her office with her hair hanging damp down her back and Reese following close behind, Tawny raised a brow and choked back a smile. Frankie ignored her assistant’s smug look and put the key into her office door.
    Her gaze immediately zeroed in on the wrapped box on her desk. The gaily wrapped package beckoned her. Setting her camera bag down, perplexed, she picked up the box.
    “Birthday?” Reese asked.
    She shook her head and pulled the ribbon, then removed the lid. Just as she lifted it, Reese grabbed her hand. “Let me do that.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t you think it’s a bit unusual to have a gift on your desk in your locked office?”
    Her gut lurched and she felt sick to her stomach. Her hand slid from the box top. Reese moved between her and the box and pushed her back with his right hand. “Do you have a ruler?”
    “Top drawer.”
    Reese slid open the desk drawer and pulled out a plastic ruler. Stepping as far back from the box as he could while still touching it with the tip of the ruler he slowly lifted the lid. Frankie’s muscles tightened, and the feeling of nausea swelled. What she expected, she didn’t know. When nothing exploded or leapt from the box, Reese stepped closer and peered into it. His brows slammed together and he shot her a disturbing look.
    “What?” Frankie asked, afraid of the answer. Her fear angered her. And what angered her more was the distraction. She didn’t have time for this crap. She stepped over to Reese and looked down into the box. Her blood chilled. Son of a bitch! She stepped back, tripping on her feet. Reese caught her, then steadied her.
    “What does it mean?” he asked.
    Frankie’s hand shook and she put it to her throat to still it. The alarm