Fierce (Not Quite a Billionaire)

by Rosalind James

  And then one of them streaked past her as if she were standing still, turned and waved an arm, and Faith looked, too. Which was lucky, because the ball was headed towards her like a missile.

  She shrieked a little and threw an arm across her face to block it, but even as she did, the man planted a foot, swiveled in mid-step, and was leaping, stretching sideways to intercept the ball. His arms were across her body, the ball was smacking into his palms, and his feet were tangling with hers. She went down on the sand, flat onto her back, the breath knocked out of her by the fall—and by him falling on top of her.

  He shoved himself off her where she lay gasping, sprang to his feet in one quick motion, and reached a hand down. “All right?” he asked a little breathlessly. “Bloody hell, I’m sorry. Tell me I haven’t hurt you.”

  Ooh. Her fantasy man had an accent. And the sweetest smile as he hauled her to her feet, looking so relieved at the sight of her smiling back. He started to laugh, white teeth flashing in his tanned face, and she laughed, too.

  “Yes, dear?” Mrs. Johnson asked. Because Faith wasn’t actually lying on a beach beneath a half-naked man with muscles that required their own ZIP code. She was wringing out a mop into a toilet in an eighty-five-year-old woman’s apartment in Las Vegas, and it was January.

  “Nothing,” Faith said. “Just something I thought of. Or the general ridiculousness of life, I suppose.” She gathered her bleach solution and her plunger. Onward and upward.

  “Laugh or cry, that’s the choice.” Mrs. Johnson’s smile launched a spiderweb of tiny wrinkles across her face, and her blue eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “Getting old isn’t for sissies, and sometimes the rest of life isn’t either, is it?”

  “Nope. It’s not. But, please, next time? Flush more.”

  After that, she headed back to her apartment again for a shower she didn’t have time for, because there was no way she was showing up smelling like Mrs. Johnson’s bathroom. No time to dry her hair, either, so she shoved it into a messy bun instead. She was more than twenty minutes late by now, and it was raining. And she still had to pick up the coffee.

  Just in Time—Sacrifices

  “Not exactly Hollywood,” Will Tawera said dubiously when his mate Solomon Salesa pulled into the strip mall parking lot on West Charleston Boulevard and stopped in front of a blank storefront with Calvin Quisp Photography painted on the single glass door. “You sure this is legit? Because if anything ever looked like a porn studio, it’s this.”

  “And if it is,” Solomon said cheerfully, “that’s your job. Drag me away before I get myself into trouble.”

  “Yeh, right. How about if I get carried away myself?”

  “Then all bets are off,” Solomon said. “I’m not going to promise to drag you away, whatever Lelei thinks. Such a thing as living vicariously.”

  Will had agreed to come along on this adventure a couple days earlier, when Solomon had invited him to dinner in true hospitable Pacific Islander fashion. Will had turned up at the modest tract home in the Vegas suburbs to eat roast pork and sweet potatoes with Solomon, his pregnant wife Lelei, and their two kids, and it had been one of his better nights in the States.

  “Cuz,” Will had told Solomon after his first reverential bite, “you know how to make a Maori boy homesick.”

  “Aw, had to do it,” Solomon said with a grin. “Lelei says you’re too skinny.”

  Will laughed out loud, Solomon joining him, as Lelei stammered out her own laughing protest. And that was another thing he missed. Laughing. Pakeha—white people—didn’t laugh enough, especially here in the States.

  “But I should probably be on the two-grapes diet,” Solomon said. “For the audition I’ve got coming up.”

  “Oh, no,” Lelei said comfortably. “You’re perfect as you are.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be you doing the judging,” Solomon told his wife. “Or I’d be in, wouldn’t I?”

  “Really.” Will accepted another serving of pork. “You going to be on the big screen? Thought you were all about the football.”

  He’d met the other man when they were both running through drills for the Las Vegas Outlaws, the NFL’s new expansion team. Will’s agent had got him the tryout, which was why he was here—that, and to do some offseason training during the break from Southern Hemisphere rugby. Will still wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but he hadn’t felt like he had anything to lose, either. He was feeling reckless just now, and that was the truth. If the Outlaws wanted a rugby-style kicker and were willing to pay millions to get one, why shouldn’t he at least entertain the idea? The States hadn’t been in his life plan, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be.

  For Solomon, though, the tryouts meant more. They meant the difference between working construction and a continued career in the NFL for the big Samoan free agent, who’d spent the last few seasons bouncing on and off various teams’ practice squads. Solomon had seemed fit to Will, and he’d have said the other man would be in with a good chance at the linebacker spot. Of course, what he knew about gridiron would have fit on the head of a pin, so he might not be the best judge. But Solomon was going after an acting career as well?

  “Not the big screen,” Solomon said. “The small one, more like. If I get lucky and they choose me.”

  “Or unlucky,” Lelei said. “I still don’t like it.”

  “It’s four thousand dollars,” Solomon reminded her. “Which would pay a lot of rent. For a few weeks of work—a few days, more like—and I’m laid off anyway.”

  “Still,” Lelei said. “What if the kids find out?”

  Solomon cast a glance at four-year-old Sefina, but she was poking her little brother in the side and giggling, not listening to the adults’ conversation. “They’re not going to find out. I probably won’t get it anyway, and if I do?” He shrugged a huge shoulder. “It’d be ten years before any of them cared enough to look at something like this, and by that time, it’d be long buried.”

  “Something like what?” Will asked. “Or should I ask?”

  Solomon sighed. “Nothing that bad. And no, it isn’t,” he told his wife, who had opened her mouth again. “It’s a few photo shoots over three weeks. Five or six times, maybe. They’re looking for a brown brother with a tribal tattoo and a set of muscles, willing to strip down to his jeans—and all right, maybe his undershorts, and pose with a pretty girl in some…compromising positions.”

  “Uh-huh.” Will tried to keep the smile from showing. “Sounds like you ought to be paying them.”

  “See,” Lelei burst out. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Aw, baby,” Solomon said. “You know I don’t want anybody but you. I’m not interested in some skinny blonde with no…” He coughed. “Curvy parts. But a man’s got to work, and for what they’re paying? You bet I’ll do it. I’d do just about anything for you and the kids, you know that. I’d dig ditches if it came to that. And if I get this? I’ll be happy to have it. You want to come with me and check it out?”

  “No,” she sighed. “Of course not. I trust you. I don’t like it, but I trust you.”

  “Tell you what,” Solomon said. “We’ll get Will here to come along with me. He can check it out for you. Be my chaperone.”

  “Will?” Lelei laughed, her mood changing in an instant, back to cheerfulness, and that was another thing Will had missed, that cheerfulness. “I doubt he’s had much experience at that.”

  “Well, no,” Will admitted with a grin of his own. “But this is an audition? Just for the blokes, or…”

  “Oh,” Solomon said, “both. That’s what they said. Both.”

  “And there’s going to be some stripping down involved?” Will asked.

  “Well, I don’t imagine you’d be invited to watch that part,” Solomon said. “I’m guessing it’s going to be a lot of sitting around and waiting. But with some pretty girls in the room.”

  “With nothing to do,” Will said. “Nervous, like. Needing a bit of a chat-up to distract them
while they wait to see if they’re, what? Blonde enough? Sexy enough?”

  “Both things.” Solomon pulled his phone out of a pocket, punched a few buttons, and handed it over. “Here’s the ad.”

  “One male,” Will read. “Pacific Islander, tattooed, muscular, minimum height 6’0”, max age 32. One female, petite build, delicate, blonde, angel look, under 5’6”, max age 25. Erotic imagery, no full nudity. Model release required.”

  He handed the phone back to Solomon. “Sounds like a big ask. But…” He sighed. “I’ve eaten at your table, haven’t I. I’m obligated.”

  Just in Time—Mr. Muffin

  Faith hopped out of the truck, juggling her purse, her laptop case, the drink tray, and the bag of muffins. To add to everything else, it was raining, and the drive-through window at Starbucks had been closed. She’d had to run inside, and now she was wet as well as late, and a little flustered, too, because she didn’t do late.

  She dashed across the glistening asphalt, through the pelting rain, trying and failing to avoid the puddles, arriving at the front door of the studio at the same time as two guys. One of them noticed her, pulled the door open for her, and motioned her in.

  She nearly dropped the tray. He was tall, at least six-two, and…and built. Nearly-black hair cut sharp and close to his head, his skin a velvety bronze, his eyes dark under strong black brows, with just enough black beard going on to spell “danger.” To spell “testosterone.” With a capital T.

  Model, she thought, getting herself under control with an effort. Pretty person.

  “Thanks,” she said, preparing to duck under one muscular arm. Which featured a swirling deep-blue tattoo, the intricate pattern twining up from his forearm and disappearing into the sleeve of his white T-shirt, which was a little damp now. And clinging to a whole lot of chest. Oh, boy.

  That was when the bag broke, the brown paper weakened by the rain. She grabbed for it, but she couldn’t get it, not with the drink tray in one hand.

  He could, though. Somehow, he’d let go of the door, snatched two muffins out of midair, and come up laughing.

  “Half of them,” he said. “That’s something, isn’t it.” Because, indeed, there were two more muffins lying in a puddle, getting soggier by the second. His friend bent down and grabbed them, handed them to her with a kind smile, but nobody was going to be eating those.

  “This was mine,” she told them, juggling the tray to stick the ruined muffins onto it. She held up the carrot one, or what was left of it. “Which I didn’t need anyway. But thanks. You may have just saved my job. My boss hates it when he misses his muffin.”

  The bigger man was holding the door for her now. Another massive arm decorated with a tattoo, but somehow, she wasn’t looking at him. She shut her mouth, because she was standing here in the rain, babbling—worse, babbling about why she shouldn’t be eating muffins—just because one of them was her fantasy come to life, accent and all. Time to shut up, go inside, and get to work, so she did.

  “What d’you want me to do with these?” her rescuer asked, holding up the muffins.

  “Oh.” She pulled herself back into some poise. “I’ve got no hands. Bring them back for me, will you?”

  He followed her through the door at one end of the outer office—which was already half-full, because nobody else seemed to be late—and into the studio proper. She led the way into the little kitchen at one end and set her burdens down gratefully, ignoring Calvin’s fulminating gaze. Time enough for that.

  Her rescuer set his two lonely muffins down on the butcher-block counter as she dumped her own into the trash.

  “Thanks,” she said. “If you’ll just…”

  “Yeh,” he said with a smile that was—that was her guy. Her guy who had tackled her, in her bikini. All right, her guy had been blond, and this one was anything but—but he was her guy all the same.

  In your stupid daydream, girlfriend. He’s not your guy.

  “I’ll go back out there,” he said.

  “You here for the shoot?” she asked, then snapped her mouth shut. Why else would he be here?

  “Nah. Just an interested observer.” One dancing brown eye closed, and yes, her dream man was winking at her. “See ya.”

  He walked away. More of a lope, really. All fluid motion, like his joints were better-oiled than other people’s. An interested observer? Yeah, right.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Calvin said as her helper disappeared into the anteroom, leaving the studio charged with a few extra attraction molecules.

  Faith pulled two coffees out of the cardboard tray and took one to Calvin. He was in a temper, clearly. Well, he was nervous. He had a lot riding on this.

  “Want to hear the story of Mrs. Johnson’s toilet?” she asked him. “It’s all to do with her colitis, you see. She has to use extra paper.”

  He paused with his cup halfway to his lips. “No,” he enunciated. “I do not. I think you’re fired.”

  “I am not fired. You need me too much.” Her anxiety was settling now that she was in control again. She hated being late, but she was here now. It was all good. She went back and grabbed the folders out of her bag, then handed a couple to Calvin. Portfolios, with the photos attached, one folder for the men, and the other for the women. “I put them in order. Of who looked best to me, but you tell me, of course.” She handed him another list. Alphabetical. Six men, six women, here for an audition in front of the cameras, because you never knew which one would be right until you actually got them into the studio. “You tell me,” she repeated.

  “You think I haven’t gone through them?” he growled, fixing her with a pale-blue stare. “I’ve gone through them.”

  “Right. So give me a number, boss. One to six.”

  “Who was that one just now?” he asked absently, scanning the list, flipping through the portfolios, because he’d have looked at them, sure. But he wouldn’t have put them in order, not like she did. It always amazed her, how other people did things.

  “Which one?” She sat down opposite him on a stool with her own list, poised to take notes.

  “Mr. Muffin,” he said, and she had to choke back a laugh.

  “Oh.” Her poise faltered for a minute, because she didn’t know which one he was. She flipped through her own copy of the portfolios. “Uh…unless he’s a Master of Disguise, he’s not in here. A drop-in?”

  “I don’t allow drop-ins.”

  “No. Want me to tell him to go away?”

  “What are you, stupid? No, I don’t want you to tell him to go away. I want you to get his portfolio.”

  “Right. So…order?”

  “Him first. And then…” He flipped a little more, gave her the rundown. All he needed was the nudge, and she was a champion nudger.

  “One and one,” he told her as he finished up. “One boy and one girl at a time.”

  “Of course.” She took her folders to the door, opened it, and went on out there.

  He was there. Sitting beside his friend, totally relaxed, unlike most of the rest of them. His head back, laughing. Next to a pretty, petite blonde. Well, they were all pretty, petite blondes.

  Gretchen Galveston, she thought automatically. Number One on her girl-list. Her Fantasy Man had good taste.

  “Hi, everybody.” She cast a smile around the room. “Thanks for coming. We’re going to get through this just as quickly as we can. Any questions before we start?”

  She did her best to be respectful, because she’d hate to be the one auditioning, the one hoping for the callback that meant the auditioning could stop. The one depending on somebody else’s approval to say that she was acceptable. Calvin didn’t normally do this kind of project. He usually had his models pre-selected by the client’s art director, and Faith was glad, because she didn’t have a thick enough skin for auditions. Even being on the other end of them.

  “This isn’t porn, right?” one of the girls asked. A nervy, anxious look to her, too tightly wound. She wouldn’t be picked, Faith knew
, and her heart went out a little bit to her.

  “No,” Faith said. “But if you’re uncomfortable being in some pretty skimpy underwear, or being in one of these guys’ laps…” She paused, got a little laughter out of that one. “Maybe a good time to re-think. Anybody else?”

  Nothing, and she looked at her folder again. “Gretchen?” she asked, and yes, the perky little blonde next to Fantasy Man bobbed right up. “And…” Faith looked at her muffin-rescuer. “I don’t have you on the list. Do you have a portfolio?”

  “Me?” He pointed to his broad chest, widened those spectacular eyes at her, the liquid whites setting off the most delicious dark chocolate centers, and laughed. “Nah. I’m just along for the ride, aren’t I. I’m the chaperone. Looking after Solomon here, making sure he doesn’t get excited.”

  “Dude,” the big man with him said, looking pained. “No.” But he smiled all the same.

  “Right,” Faith said. Not here for the shoot? She looked down at her list. “All right, then, Solomon. Come on back.”

  Calvin didn’t mess around when they got there. “I didn’t ask for him first.” He jerked his chin at Solomon.

  “Don’t mind him,” Faith told Solomon, who looked a bit taken aback. “He’s grumpy because his coffee was late.”

  Calvin snorted. “Excuse me? Who’s in charge here?”

  “You are,” she said equably. “Go on.”

  “Thank you. Where’s the other guy?” Calvin demanded.

  “Ah…” Solomon scratched his nose. “You saw Will,” he said with resignation.

  “Yeah. I want him.” Calvin cast a dismissive eye over Solomon. “You’re too big.”

  Solomon grinned. “Not what my—” He stopped, shot a look toward Faith and Gretchen, and clearly re-thought his words. “Never mind. I’m done, then?”