"What does 'uh-huh' mean?" Mr. Smooth-as-Silk asked, still completely oblivious to the potentially intimate situation. He probably thought of her like the tailor who measured his inseam and asked if he dressed to the right or left.
But he had cupped her ass.
"It means that you're one of those types," she said. Scrub, scrub. Her knuckles rubbed his abs. "The ones who are just so, you know, sick of being catered to, kowtowed to and sucked up to. You want to be one of the guys. A regular Joe." But not really. "And as for women—"
She stopped, reminding herself to breathe, then forgetting to as soon as Julian Silk looked down at her. His black-as-sin eyes gleamed. "Please continue. What about the women? They want me only for my money?"
"Hardly." Mia gave one final swipe of the sponge. "They want you for your money, your social standing and your looks. Which means that, as the proverbial total package, you can't pin down your dissatisfaction so easily. But you're bored with high-maintenance socialites and ambitious starlets. You're restless. You need more. Suddenly, you're thinking it's time to taste the earthy flavors of a working-class girl."
Mia patted his abdominals regretfully. They were lovely.
He drew in a noticeable breath. "Hmm. Interesting analysis. Are you offering?"
"Not me. But I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding willing prospects, Mr. Silk. Perhaps even in this room." Mia turned away from his intent stare, more flustered than she wanted him to see. Cress was stirring a cup of the chocolate paint, watching her with more than idle curiosity.
Oh damn. She'd been a smart-ass. When would she learn to keep her head down and her mouth shut?
"Call me Julian." He slipped his tie off his shoulder, sliding his hand along the silk length in a way that made her wonder what he'd be like in bed, running his hands over her thighs.
"Sure."
"Or maybe not." His tone was dry. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm too egalitarian."
She shrugged, feeling the warm pink in her cheeks.
Julian gave her a long look, then turned and took several steps before stopping to glance back at her. He cocked an eyebrow. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. You're fired."
* * *
2
The round-bottomed pixie's mouth dropped open. Twin sparks appeared in her vivid peacock-blue eyes. Julian almost smiled. He'd shocked her, as intended.
"Unless you tell me your name," he added. His palm went automatically to his wet shirtfront, as if that would quell the interesting sensations she'd set off inside him with her diligent scrubbing.
"Or I could just call you the laundry maid," he said to provoke her further. There was a bit of the devil in him today—and she'd put it there. Before her, he'd been coasting on boredom, having everything in his empire but his crazy sisters under control.
With her tart tongue, quick mind and ripe figure, Mia Some Body was an intriguing prospect. Soon to be a satisfying conquest, when she'd received a full blast of his charm-her-pants-off charisma. He supposed that was conceited, but false modesty was a waste of time when the truth was that he hadn't met a woman yet who could resist, as Mia had said, the full Julian Silk package.
Ahem. He'd better get his mind off full packages before his own became blatantly apparent.
"I'm no servant," Mia said. She looked as if she might be grinding her teeth.
"Naturally. But I can hire and fire your delectable ass. You said so yourself."
She blinked hard, widening her eyes to half-dollar size. "I don't recall discussing delectable asses."
He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "An oversight on my part."
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"Do you see me laughing?"
Mia glanced at her cohort, the lithe young man she'd called Cress. He'd slid the sunglasses off his nose and was watching them with astonishment, the earpieces dangling down so the glasses hung under his chin like a chrome beard.
Mia motioned to the man. "Start packing up. Looks like the shoot is almost over."
Julian cleared his throat.
"Right," she said, in a way that meant "Oh yeah. You." She tossed her head, regarding him with a smile gone smug. "Lucky for me, this job is over. I don't have to take your orders, Mr. Silk."
The little minx. "So you won't tell me your name?"
She stepped behind the table and made herself busy, gathering a fistful of gloppy paintbrushes. He could tell the sudden activity was so she didn't have to look at him, and that gave him some satisfaction. Not much, granted, but she was proving to be more of an elusive target than he'd expected.
"I'd be happy to," she said. "If you ask nicely."
"I was only teasing you about the firing thing. You're not fired. In fact, I'm actually tremendously impressed by your work, Miss…" He gave her his warmest look, the one he used on orphans, harried secretaries and his sister Nikki when she broke up with another boyfriend.
"Kerrigan. Mia Kerrigan."
"And please call me Julian."
Her head tilted. "Not Mr. Silk?"
"No. Mr. Silk was my dad."
"Was?" A frown flitted across her face.
"He died six years ago. A sudden heart attack. It was in the all the papers. I've been in charge of Silk Publications ever since." Now why had he said all that? Mia had been right on the mark about Julian being sick of his reputation preceding him—even before Celebrity Gossip had made his exploits famous.
Was he trying to impress her? If so, bad try. She'd made it obvious that she wasn't the kind of girl who'd be impressed by an inherited position and wealth, even if the family company had been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy when he'd taken over and he'd saved his mother and sisters from having to downgrade to coach class.
"I don't follow the society and financial sections," Mia said. "But I am sorry for your loss."
Her voice had softened. There was only sincerity behind it. Not a hint of the inner calculation over how much he was worth and whether she could snag him—reactions he'd come to recognize at fifty paces.
Julian gave his rolled-up sleeves a brisk shove. "Thanks."
Mia's eyes met his, and for a moment a warm current flowed between them, sweet and pure, unadulterated by her flip remarks and the surface charm of his initial attempts at seduction, which suddenly seemed rather puerile.
Petra clacked toward them. "Julian, you must join us. The shoot's breaking up, and Victor and I are taking the Sugar High team out for drinks."
"Not this time, Petra." He didn't want to take his eyes off Mia. Certainly not to schmooze a bunch of ad guys.
"Julian…" Petra's dark red lips pooched out. She moved herself into his line of sight, cutting off Mia. "I know it's a bore. But they have bought a six-page spread in the December issue, and Victor's minions are working on a long-term contract for future ad campaigns…"
Yammer, yammer, yammer. Julian let Petra rattle on, but he wasn't listening. He was watching Mia, who'd moved onto the set to lean over the model's dais and begin removing the hard candies. The overalls pulled snugly across her derriere. Even in baggy denim, Mia Kerrigan was all T&A, as ready for plucking as a ripe plum. But she was no easy fruit who'd fall into his open arms after one shake. She was a lofty reward he'd really have to work for, tantalizingly out of reach until a final, supreme effort delivered her to his arms…
Making the first taste of her juicy flesh all the sweeter.
The model rose off her perch, full breasts swinging as she shimmied into the robe Cress held out for her. Julian barely registered the outstanding multicolored body that made the other spectators gape. There was a smattering of appreciative applause as she stepped off the set like a queen, Cress holding her hand aloft.
The pair disappeared behind a door in the darkened part of the vast studio. A murmur of satisfaction came from the suits, while the photographer and production team carried on without comment. For them, a gorgeous nude woman, even one tricked out like a gingerbread house, was business as usual. For Mia Kerrigan, too.
"Julian?" Petra faked a tight laugh. "You're not usually so distracted. I suppose I don't have to ask why."
He nodded. Let her think that. "This cover should fly off the stands."
"It's not exactly a new concept." Petra's sniping tone betrayed tendrils of jealousy, even though she was usually good at giving off the modern woman's anything-goes, live-for-the-moment, no-commitment vibe. "Demi Moore did it on the cover of Vanity Fair ages ago."
"We're doing it better." He paused. "Thanks to Mia Kerrigan. Where did you find her?"
"The artist? Oh, I don't know. She was in someone's Rolodex, I suppose. I think she'd done body painting for the ad campaign of a makeup company. Living Color." Petra shrugged. "Her fee was outrageous."
"She's worth it."
Petra's eyes narrowed as she followed Julian's gaze and realized that perhaps it wasn't the model he was slavering over. "Oh really?"
"As art director, I'm surprised you don't agree."
"But I do. The cover will be … spectacular. I was only saying it's not a new idea."
"Hard Candy should do a body-painting feature. A fashion spread, all in paint. I can speak to the managing editor about it, if you're not keen on the idea."
Petra smiled. "No, no, I'd love to make the proposal. It's a spectacular idea."
"Spectacular," Julian echoed, watching Mia walk to the back of the studio with her arms wrapped around a half dozen containers of edible paint.
"The crowds grow restless." Petra touched his shoulder. "We really should go."
"You should. I don't have to." Once more, Julian counted himself lucky to be the boss. Sometimes, the burden was worth it. "Though I will step over to make my apologies."
As they walked toward the ad group, he touched Petra lightly on the arm, accustomed as he was to escorting the women of his family. Her face took on a glow that he could no longer attribute to the strobe lights. Those were being shut down one by one.
Apparently, Petra still carried a torch for him. Damn. So that's why his father had always said not to dip his pen into company ink. Once again, the old man's advice proved to be true.
Julian grimaced. A couple of years ago, after the Hard Candy launch party, he'd found himself alone in a chauffeured company car with Petra after they'd dropped off other members of the staff. She'd come on to him as if he'd been catnip, finishing up with an invitation to her place. He'd gone.
An obligatory dinner date had followed, then another night of Catwoman sex, then comments at the office about the scratches on his neck. Julian had realized the affair was getting complicated. Petra had surprised him by ending it before he did, parading a new model—an impossibly handsome twenty-something print model, in fact—past his office door.
Julian had been relieved to be replaced. Much later, he'd learned that he was supposed to have been jealous. Behind her mask of cool, Petra hadn't forgiven him for that mistake.
"The dominatrix has her claws in him," Cress said over the sound of rushing water.
"Quit looking." Regretfully, Mia dumped liquid chocolate into the deep sink instead of sticking her face into the bucket like a horse at a trough. She was trying Atkins for the sixth time in an effort to take off her stubborn excess poundage. The water thinned the rich concoction and swirled it down the drain. "I don't care what they're doing."
Cress ignored her. "Ouch. He tried to get away and she grabbed him by the buttons. Or maybe the nipples. Her hands are all over him—pretending she cares about his stained shirt. Aha. Now she's pressing up against him, 'helping' with his suit coat—"
"Cress. I do not care!"
"She's buttoning him up. Smoothing the coat over his shoulders. Clinging to his arm, doing the boob-press thing. Ooh, that bitch."
"I'm not gonna look," Mia said.
"They're leaving."
Mia counted to ten, then spun around. The studio had emptied—except for Julian. He was coming toward her.
"See ya," Cress said. He scooped up his supply kit and stuffed a handful of the remaining candies into his jeans pocket. "I'm taking Angelika to lunch. She has a sweet tooth, and I have just the lollipop for her."
Mia gave a vague wave. "Later."
Doors opened and closed in other areas of the studio. The photographer and his black-clad assistants had retreated to the office area, somewhere behind the large, hanging screens of backdrop material. Mia heard them arguing over whose turn it was to order in Chinese. She got busy, packing up the remainder of her gear in the big industrial toolbox she used as an art caddy.
Julian stole a candy and unwrapped it with a crinkling sound. He popped it into his mouth. "Got plans for lunch?"
"I'm meeting Cress in ten minutes."
"The bald guy?"
"He's a photo stylist."
"Whatever you say. He just left with the model."
"Yes, that's why we're meeting up," Mia insisted, even though he'd caught her in a lie. "In ten minutes." She snatched up a small plastic cup of purple paint that had been overlooked. The crew at the photographer's next shoot could graze on the remaining boxes of Sugar High candy.
She felt Julian's eyes on her. It was hard to ignore the magnetic pull they seemed to generate.
He cleared his throat. "Would you cancel if I asked you to come with me instead?"
"No. I don't do that to my friends."
"You don't like me," he said with the supreme confidence of the adored.
"Oh gosh. What gave you that idea?" Mia angled her head to look up at him, intending to be skeptical.
Not easy. He stood at least a head—maybe a head and a neck—above her five-two. Health and vigor radiated off him. The conservative business suit couldn't hide that his body was as lean and toned as an Olympic swimmer's. She'd know that even if she hadn't touched him through his shirt, or seen the shift of muscles when he'd tossed his jacket over his shoulder. She'd know even if she was locked in a sensory deprivation tank. His masculine aura was that strong.
Worse, he had the chiseled face of a Greek god … if Greek gods had been given hot-towel shaves and herbal facial wraps. Then there was the wealth, privilege and charm, not to mention the caustic humor that cut his arrogance to an acceptable level of confidence.
As far as she could see, the man didn't have a flaw. Not one single flaw. Very irritating.
Mia was both repelled and fascinated by the perfection. Julian was at the other end of the spectrum from her usual Soho crowd of artists, writers and other creative types, most of whom struggled to make rent as they stayed true to their muses.
However, she despised superficial judgments. It seemed only fair that she give Julian a chance to prove that he was more than the sum of his glossy parts and lady-killer reputation.
Oh sure. That's what Miss Hood had said before the Big Bad Wolf got his jaws around her.
Mia knew what she had to do. Put him back in his place and then keep away.
Julian shrugged. "What gave me that idea? Oh, I don't know. Read any gossip columns lately?"
"Nope. I tear Page Six into strips for papier-mâché?"
"What a relief. It's all true, but now we can skip the usual explanations and apologies."
"All true?" Mia blurted.
Julian grinned. "I thought you weren't familiar with my exploits. Most of them greatly exaggerated, if I may add."
Ha! She could just imagine what didn't make it into the papers. "I overhear things. You're a player."
"Assume what you will, little girl."
Little girl? Was that a shot at her height? Maybe the cutesy features that she'd given up agonizing over? She might have been ticked if she wasn't positive his eyes had twinkled when he'd said it. He was deliberately provoking her!
Into doing what?
Mia glanced down into the cup of grape paint. Her grip tightened when Julian leaned even closer. If he tried to kiss her, she'd throw the congealing contents in his face.
He dipped
a finger into the cup. Tasted it. "Very sweet."
"We thickened grape juice." Or, actually, added dollops of juice and food coloring to a concoction of sugar and cornstarch. It probably didn't taste very good at all.
Julian dipped again. "Have you tried it?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His glistering finger touched her lips, drawing slowly across them. First the bottom, then the upper, leaving them coated with the sugary paint. A hundred sensations rushed through Mia's body, surging upward to gather at her mouth. Her tingling lips swelled with anticipation.
Instinctively, her tongue darted out to lick away the thick grape coating. She made herself stop, her tongue curled against her upper lip before she reluctantly drew it back in. Sugar melted into her taste buds, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was on other flavors to come: the taste of hot, hard lips, warm male skin, pungent, salty, sweet … deliciously sexy.
"I want to taste," Julian said.
Her voice whispered, barely audible. "You—you already did."
His face was so close to hers she could have counted his nonexistent pores. His breath was warm and sweetened with the tang of peppermint. She knew that he would taste good, but not because of the candy.
Their noses bumped. "I want to taste you."
She swallowed. "What makes you think I'll taste any different than your thousand other conquests?"
"Every woman is unique."
"But this one doesn't want to be just another note in the Julian Silk hit parade." And yet she didn't pull away when his cheek grazed hers. His fingertips touched under her chin, tilting it up; instead of shaking him off, she felt her lips pout and her lids drift shut.
"No worry. You, Mia Kerrigan, are an entire song."
Big whoop, she thought in some dim, lazy part of her brain, where there was still a sliver of rationality that wasn't dying for his kiss. It was as if he were a spider who'd wrapped her in silken, sticky strands. She could not move. She was at his mercy. But lucky for her…
Julian kissed her.
TASTE ME Page 2
