She felt spectacular.
Turning on the shower to let the water heat up, she tried to look at her backside in the mirror. Of course, being a guy, he had no hand mirror, so she had to crane over her shoulder, starting when he walked in, yawning and enticingly rumpled.
He patted her bottom. “Don’t worry—I didn’t leave any marks.”
She stepped into the glass shower and he straddled the toilet, peeing. It all seemed so...familiar. Intimate.
“It feels like there should be. Marks. Like it should show on the outside.”
He joined her in the shower, hands roving over her with casual affection as he adjusted their positions under the hot spray. “I like that only you and I know.” He dipped his head, capturing her mouth and sending her body humming. “We’ll take it a bit easier tonight. Your nipples are still swollen.”
“They don’t hurt,” she lied and ducked out of the shower, leaving him to soap and shampoo.
“When do you leave?” he asked, voice muffled by the water. Wet, the fine black hair on his chest and thighs looked darker, like calligraphy lines on his parchment skin. His cock hung half-erect, full and heavy. The desire for him shook her.
She wrapped the towel tighter around herself. “I should leave by eight—I need to get down to the docks.”
“Not what I meant and you know it.”
She had known it. “Sunday.” Just a day of the week. “I need my overnight bag.”
By the time she’d fetched it from the hall closet—odd to get to walk up the stairs to his place—and washed out yesterday’s thermos, he’d vacated the shower and was clattering in the kitchen, singing along with some French-sounding tune. She applied her makeup, smiling at his false notes, loving even that about him.
Shit.
“What the hell are you doing, Dani?” she asked her reflection, who didn’t answer.
“What’s that, chère?” Prejean called down the hall.
“Nothing,” she answered, in a bright tone. She hesitated over the outfit she’d hung up to relax in the steam, then spotted the negligee he’d hung on the bathroom door. Very short, skimpy and a lilac-tinted gray that likely matched her eyes exactly. Had he bought it just for her?
She put it on—at least she wouldn’t be naked for breakfast this time—and followed his pleasing tenor into the kitchen.
“I am making you an omelet to die for. A little garlic, some Boursin, ham and fresh peppers. Plus a secret ingredient.” He winked at her and slid a cup of his miraculous coffee in front of her. “If you can guess it, I’ll give you a kiss.”
“You kiss me all the time, anyway.”
“True. Already she tires of me.” He shook his head at the omelet, making a sad face. “My kisses mean nothing.”
She giggled. An actual giddy, girl giggle. This did not look good.
“And how do you feel today?
“Surprisingly good. Light and energized.” She wriggled her bottom on the stool, the soreness reminding her of the sensational sex.
“Catharsis,” he agreed and slid the omelet onto a plate, handing her a fork, then propped his elbows on the counter. “Try it. See if you can guess.” Gary leaped up onto the stool next to her, observing the plate with great interest. “Don’t mind him—and don’t give him any. He’s had his breakfast.”
“I get to feed myself?” she teased. “And what about catharsis?”
“Clearly last night’s chastisement did not make you less impertinent.” He mock scowled at her, moving easily around the kitchen, loose-limbed, a smile immediately chasing away his frown, curving his lips framed by the glossy black beard. “Catharsis is Greek for cleansing or purging.”
“I thought it was a theater thing.” The omelet, of course, tasted amazing. Crispy on the outside, perfectly fluffy within, the peppers bright with juice, the cheese creamy. And a something else. Hmm. She made herself not gobble it down. Small bites. Chew slowly.
“Yes. The Greeks thought we love plays because they take us through emotions like grief, fear, laughter, but without the life consequences of, say, actually taking revenge on your spouse by murdering your children.”
“Onion?” she tried.
He dried the skillet he’d just washed with a white cloth, lips twitching and dark eyes sparkling. “No. That was a terrible guess.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. Took another bite and waved her fork. “So, why catharsis?”
The kitchen once again sparkling clean, he cupped his coffee mug in his hands and leaned back against the counter. “Pain, pleasure, fear, desperation, relief—all those things you felt last night were real emotions, experienced safely, released into the universe.”
“That’s awfully profound for a chef. Mushrooms?”
“Closer. And I do have a college education.”
“Ha-ha. An eclectic one.”
A Gallic shrug and a grin. “I also know how to read. That’s your last bite. What’s your final guess?”
“If you want me to guess which kind of mushroom, it won’t happen. Mushrooms are mushrooms.”
“Cretin.” He took her empty plate. Washed it. “I feed my lover the finest truffles and she doesn’t care.”
“I’ve never had truffles before. Normal people don’t eat stuff like that.” She made her voice playful but, in truth, hearing him call her his lover had arrowed straight into her heart. Not that it meant anything, because they obviously met the definition. Still, the romance of the word hummed in her.
“Do you wash everything immediately?”
“Yes.” He dried the plate. “Long habit.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I will later. I like to exercise first.”
Something she had not been doing all week, since the B&B had no exercise room. “Do you run?”
His lips quirked and he titled his head. “Yes. You’re full of questions this morning, Lady of Mystery.”
Oops. “Sorry. I guess I am. All that catharsis.”
He laughed, that lovely tenor. “Don’t apologize to me. But I figure that gives me, hmm...three questions I get to ask you.”
“I should get dressed.”
“All right.” He followed her down the hallway, leaning a shoulder against the bathroom door, watching her dress. And, not incidentally, blocking her exit. “Where do you go when you fly away on Sunday? Not back to New York, I think.”
“Paris.” Her usually comfortable bra pressed her bruised nipples painfully and she hissed.
“Here.” He tugged down her bra straps and the cups, freeing her breasts, then rubbed more cream on them with a tender touch. “Use lots of this stuff. I don’t want you to be in pain.”
“You didn’t mind last night.”
“That’s different, chère.”
“What do you get out of it?” she blurted and he raised an eyebrow. “I mean if it’s catharsis for me, what is it for you?”
“I thought it was my turn to ask questions.”
“This isn’t a personal-information question.” She pulled on her pants and the pearl-gray sweater set that ought to provide the right layering for the day.
“Isn’t it? It seems profoundly personal to me.”
“Then I withdraw the question.”
“More time for mine, then. You know what I do for a living. I think it’s only fair that you show me yours.”
She fixed her lipstick. What could it hurt to tell him? “I work for a fashion magazine. I design
spreads—setting up locations for photo shoots, hiring and supervising the models and photographers, that kind of thing.” She glanced at him. “You seem surprised.”
“The fashion, no. The rest, maybe.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “It sounds like a job where you watch other people do things instead of doing them yourself.”
That stung, though she knew he wouldn’t understand why. “Yes, well, too short to be a model, remember? I write some too—about trends.”
“Like which color is the new black?”
“You laugh, but fashion is art that’s part of people’s everyday lives. Art that they wear, that expresses who they are and gives hints about how they feel that day. It’s like a window into their secret selves.”
“So you write about those things?”
“Well—not so much. Mostly I create glorified ads for designers. But the idea is there.”
He looked unconvinced, seemed about to say something more, then visibly let it go. “I’ll get your thermos ready.”
She finished gathering her things, wishing what he’d said hadn’t bothered her. There was nothing wrong with having a good job that paid real money, and she really did believe what she’d said about art and fashion. Everybody was constrained by what the market would bear, what readers would buy. And she might be taking a bit of a hit with the Paris job, but—duh—Paris Vogue! It was one thing that her mother didn’t get it, but Prejean should understand ambition. Only weaklings settle for less than total victory.
He waited for her by the top of the stairs. The giant pink dildo perched on the square banister cap, lurid and faintly silly in the bright light of day.
“I knew you wouldn’t really use it.”
“Some other time perhaps.” Taking her bag from her, he tucked the silver thermos inside, then set it on the floor. Hand on her waist, he drew her close and kissed her lightly, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “You’ll come over tonight, yes?”
It wasn’t really a question. “Yes, sir.” She gave him a little salute and started to pull away, but he held her tight.
“I get one more question.”
“I need to get going.”
“A cab is on its way, so relax, New York.”
“Fine.” She extricated herself, picked up her bag and crossed her arms. “What?”
“Why did you tell him no?”
“Who?”
“Chris. The guy who wanted to marry you.”
“I told you already.”
“No.” He shook his head, folding his arms to mirror her pose. “You ducked the question with a flip answer.”
A knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs.
“Why do you care?”
“Why do you care how I like to exercise?”
She sighed. “Geez—I was just curious.”
“Call me curious then.”
Another knock and she headed down the stairs, Prejean following behind. He put his hand over hers on the doorknob. “Tell me the answer, Ruby,” this time in that stern voice, the one that made her instantly wet. How he did that, she had no idea.
“I don’t know the answer,” she told him with impatience. “He’d even asked me what kind of diamond I liked. I knew he was shopping, that my mother had planned the party because she’s really terrible at keeping secrets, and all that time it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d say no until the word came out of my mouth and he was staring at me like he didn’t know who I was.”
It had poured out in a rush and now she pressed her lips together.
“Ah.”
“That’s it?”
He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “That’s it, chère. Have a good day at work. I packed you a lunch—it’s in your bag. See you tonight.”
Scooting her out the door with a little pat on her bottom, he closed it behind her with a solid click.
* * *
He’d packed her a lunch. Who did that? And how had he found the time? It was like the man waved his hands and food magically appeared. The same way Mr. Pirate Kink could melt her with a look and a lurid promise.
She thumbed on her phone and squeaked at the number of voice and emails that had piled up. And text messages.
Adri had sent her seventeen texts—the last of which said, WHERE ARE YOU?!?! Cringing, she scrolled back. Cassidy was pissed about the extra requests. The dock guy hadn’t come through because the river was too low. They couldn’t shoot by the river this morning because the cruise lines had objected. Since Dani wasn’t available, Adri had called off the shoot and was drowning her sorrows in beignets at Café du Monde. Dani could meet her there.
And if she wasn’t there by nine, Adri was filing a police report.
Shit shit shit. All afterglow lost, Dani told the cab driver about the change in destination. He simply nodded, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel along with the blues on the radio. She listened to the voice mails.
More of the same thing. And, as a special treat, two from her editor, Cassidy—former editor, really—ripping her up one side and down the other. Didn’t she understand the concept of a budget. How hard was it to do one simple fucking Mardi Gras shoot. What she’d sent looked like stereotypical crap that Cassidy could have shot at her kid’s costume party. And couldn’t they slap some fucking foundation on Areatha once in a while? The model looked positively dreary.
Thank all the gods for the Paris job. She couldn’t take another day of Cassidy and her drama. One from her mother too. She made a mental note to call her mom before going international.
Adri sat at one of the tiny white wrought-iron tables at Café du Monde, glowering as Dani approached. The effect was somehow diminished by the dusting of powdered sugar on her black shirt. “Where have you been?”
“Excuse me?” Dani put on her frostiest, you-don’t-question-me voice. Geez, she sounded like Prejean.
“I’m sorry! It’s just—arrgh.” Adri plowed her thin fingers into her bobbed blond hair. “Okay. Okay. Cassidy has been calling me every ten minutes and—” Her smart phone squealed, pumping out “The Bitch Is Back.” “Dammit. There she is again.”
“Don’t answer.”
“I’m not. That’s so your job, Dani. I don’t get paid enough.”
“I know. I apologize. My, um, phone ran out of juice and I didn’t realize.”
Adri stared at her, perfectly made-up eyes wide. “It did not. You would never let that happen.”
Which was true. She’d charged it fully back at the B&B and then turned it off so it wouldn’t search itself to death while locked away in Prejean’s closet of incipient sex.
“Okay.” Dani pulled out her tablet. A winner never quits. A quitter never wins. “Let’s list the problems and do damage control. Then I’ll call Cassidy. And Adri—I don’t have to tell you not to let her hear that ringtone, right?”
Adri smiled for the first time and blinked angelically. “I never let anyone hear their ringtones. Why would you call me if you’re with me?”
Dani gave her a narrow look. “What’s mine?”
“You will never, ever know.” Primly, Adri silenced her phone. “Where do we start?”
Chapter Eleven
It was a day from hell. In all ways imaginable.
Mitigated only by the phenomenal brie and cranberry sandwich on homemade b
read that tasted of hazelnuts she discovered in her packed lunch. Along with a baggie of sliced jicama and stuffed green olives.
She’d given Adri half, reasoning that she’d reduced her calorie load by at least ten thousand that way. Adri said as how brie was the absolute worst cheese you could eat if you were dieting—and then inhaled it, demanding to know where Dani had bought the sandwich. Some little deli, she forgot where.
They’d gotten no shots that day. The models went to a spa for hydrating facials and soothing massages. Dani put it on her credit card—hoping the investment in getting Areatha to look a little less dreary would settle Cassidy down. As much as anything would.
Cassidy wanted something more. The unusual. Something fucking creative, for once. And Dani shouldn’t think the Vogue Paris job was a done deal, because Cassidy had fucking connections and not to forget that.
By the time she arrived on Prejean’s doorstep, Dani felt completely drained. She’d looked at her neatly made bed at the B&B and nearly crawled in to pull the covers over her head. If she’d had his number, she would have texted that she couldn’t make it. The great disadvantage of the anonymous kinky sex relationship, not having normal ways to communicate. She even tried calling the restaurant, but he wasn’t there. When she said she was a friend and needed his home or cell number, the girl on the phone laughed at “Ruby Tuesday” and told her to go hang her name somewhere else.
She couldn’t not show up, either. Her mother would die if she did that. Even without knowing why, some motherly manners alarm would go off in her brain and she would fall over dead, her last thought that Dani had failed her.
The melodramatic image made her smile and she fumbled in her bag for the key. The door opened and Prejean stood in the doorway, casual in a Saints T-shirt and faded jeans.
“You coming in, chère? Or just lurking on my doorstep? I could set out a saucer of milk for you.”
“I’d like to come in.” Her eyes slid to the collar waiting on the table. “But—”
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