God, she loved his long, salt-pepper hair, the keen yet false glint of intelligence in his eyes, the way he could work that long tongue of his.
“What did you expect?” There was no small amount of pride in his voice as he spoke of his Angels and completely missed the look of lust crossing Shelby’s face. “After all, I trained them.”
Grinning, Shelby turned back to the meticulous plans she had drawn up while waiting, checking off things that had gone off without a hitch. It wouldn’t be too much longer, would it? Limes couldn’t be that important, could they?
“Now all I have to do is contact Rika and have him start the surveillance. Can you do that, dear?”
If she could get him from behind the bar and near a flat surface -- and making a trip through the lower rooms of Angels would be the perfect excuse to get him somewhere like that -- then she could attack, knock him flat on his back, and have her way with him. Sure, the blood stayed longer in the head on his shoulders than any other model she had ever met, but when it flowed downward, it was reluctant to make the trip back up north.
“Train them? I already did that, Shelby.”
She paused and stared at her man. What the hell was he talking about? “No, not that.” Go downstairs, she mentally chanted, hoping that through telepathy, he would get the point.
“Well, no one else trained them. I should be offended, Shelby, at your lack of confidence, but I’m not, because I love you.”
Shelby blinked, then blinked again for good measure, before she put down her pen and faced her man, making direct eye contact and hoping that would help a little.
“Who’s talking about training? I’m talking about Barika!” And thinking about you on flat surfaces so that I can use your cock as a trampoline, baby!
“I trained him too, you know. I expect nothing but the best.”
“No! Can you get Barika?” And pass the nice large flat couches we have in the mission room!
“Why? I told you I already trained him. Shelby, try and pay attention.”
Deciding she should give it up, Shelby rose to her feet and stalked out of the room -- some of her good humor and a lot of her sex drive leaving her. Had she left the batteries in her office or in the spare bedroom?
“Where are you going?” His call stopped her at the exit door.
“To get Barika myself!” And then get myself off until you come to your two remaining senses, she thought, growing agitated, though Will would never notice.
“Okay, but I don’t think he needs a refresher. He pays attention. I taught him how myself.”
The door slamming was his only answer.
“Hmm,” he spoke to himself. “Too bad she didn’t stick around. A little afternoon delight would be perfect right now! But she’s too hung up on work! She has a wonderful work ethic, but sometimes sex supersedes business.”
Shrugging, he went back to cutting up limes.
* * *
“That color light washes him out,” Delsin whispered in a singsong voice.
His comment was ignored.
“I mean it. That’s too much red! His hair is blood red already. Any more will make him look like a pale corpse,” he continued, as if he knew all the answers to every question in the universe.
“Who asked you?” the photographer finally snapped, rolling her eyes at the long-haired man standing beside her and offering his unsolicited opinion, over and over again.
“Well, anyone with good taste would,” Delsin snorted. He watched the photographer set up while he unobtrusively looked around for potions, daggers, knives, and other implements of destruction. So far, the only death he saw was the death of the modeling career of a good friend, if that photographer didn’t change the red film that was placed over that damn photographer’s light.
“Leave me!” the frazzled photographer growled, hefting her huge and undoubtedly expensive camera in her hands as she glared at the slight man.
But then Shen took over.
“You know, he’s right. You should use a blue… no, a green film. It would brighten his hair and add some depth to his skin. He is rather pale.”
“He is rather Irish!” the photographer snapped, turning her death glare onto the quiet Asian man.
“And in the room!” Blain snarled. He sat on a fake rock in front of the fake background of the bubbling brook. “This is ridiculous! I should be in a metropolitan setting, lass. This is so… body soap commercial!”
“I don’t give a fuck who you think you are!” the lass in question finally snapped as she slammed her precious camera on the small cart set up to hold her equipment. “I am the fucking photographer! You are the fucking models, and you --” She pointed to Shen and Delsin, who both wore suitably shocked expression on their faces. “-- are fucking nobodies!”
“That’s not true,” the familiar and annoying voice of Edgar called out, causing them all to turn toward the rear doors. “He is fucking the European model. And the other one…”
“Model or entourage?”
“What?”
“Model or entourage?” Blain explained, as if his words were not crystal clear the first time. “Because if you are talking about the model, he ain’t fucking anybody, and since Adan and Raidon are not in the room as of yet, then that just leaves me!”
“Are you offering?” Edgar wiggled his eyebrows, his overly developed body straining the cheap green suit as he almost drooled, thinking of having the handsome model beneath him, under him, over him… It was almost too much to take.
“No, not particularly.” Blain shuddered at the thought of those big sweaty hands on his damn near perfect body… “And may I just say… eww!”
That broke the tension-filled air as all parties involved fought to hold in their laughter, including the frustrated and irate photographer.
“Eww?” In one of his rapid-fire mood changes -- a result, no doubt, of several years of steroid abuse -- Edgar’s whole demeanor changed. “How dare you speak that way of me, you… you…”
“Gorgeous hunk of man.”
That was a new voice! A female voice!
They all turned to the new person and Blain held in his gasp of pleasure. Now here was a quality lady!
“That’s surely what you meant, isn’t it, Edgar?”
“Right, Trina.”
The short, curvaceous woman smiled as she stepped into the room, her casual slacks and matching silk shirt fitting her form perfectly.
“I don’t know if you all know who I am, because I’ve been keeping myself out of the loop, but I’m Trina Kensington, owner of this company and the originator of this line. Irish Eyes is my concept and my brain child.”
Trina smiled at the amazed looks that flashed among the people around her.
She was so young to be in control of the company, Blain thought. She must have a lot of power. He noticed how Edgar cowed before the petite woman.
She was pretty -- not as pretty as he -- but she had a level of attractiveness that he could respect.
Her hair was cut in a short, professional style, a pageboy that complemented her heart-shaped face. Her green eyes flashed innocently, but held an inner core of strength that drew him to her like flies to honey. Her teeth were perfect, her nose upturned, and her chin oh so stubborn. Growl! Her skin was a healthy shade of light tan, and was there a trace of Celtic blood in her? Maybe it was the way her skin had an almost luminous glow about it.
Trina, Blain decided, was one hot piece of ass… and he wanted some!
“What are you doing here, Trina?” Edgar asked, trying to regain his composure.
“I saw and heard what was going on, so I decided to come back to check on my baby. Maybe I should have never left it at all, Edgar. It seems to be slipping out of control in your hands… again.”
The oversized man blushed and looked away as the hard rebuff, given so publicly by the woman who controlled his fate in the company, echoed around the room.
“And I tend to agree with the little one,” she said to the photographer, who blus
hed red as Trina pointed to Shen. “You need to use more blue and lose the red. The blue will give his face and hair more depth.”
Shen was not adult enough to resist sticking his tongue out at the harried photographer, who motioned for one of her assistants to change the film on the light.
“You, little one, have a good eye,” Trina said, and watched pleasure blossom on his face. “You should be behind the camera as well as in front of one.”
“Too short,” Shen sighed, rolling his eyes, knowing that he could blow his cover if he overplayed his good looks and intelligence. Models and makeup people were supposed to be brainless, and that was obviously not true with them. Maybe Blain, but not the rest of them! So he answered carefully. It was -- like acting, dude!
“Doesn’t matter in photography,” Trina insisted, circling the man once before turning her attention to Blain. “And this fine specimen, this tall drink of pure, mountain-fresh spring water, is correct. Strike this set. I don’t want to look like every other company out there promising rose petals and puppies when I’m trying to peddle things that will make the average Joe think he can look like… this.”
She purposefully eyed the front placket of his leather pants.
There was definitely lust in her eyes, Blain thought, feeling his reaction tighten the crotch of his pants. Thank goodness he was not still wearing that kilt! He would be raising the front in salute if he were.
“Where are the other two?” Trina asked, after licking her full moist lips, never taking her eyes off of Blain.
“Good question,” Delsin piped in, eyes slightly narrowed.
Why had no one looked at him or commented on his beauty! He was… He was a savage beauty! That was how he’d been billed after his last show -- Delsin the Savage Beauty! Even if he was, he acknowledged, just a bit short.
“Will you go, my pretty?” Trina asked suddenly, her eyes zeroing in on the longhaired man. “Check on them, I mean? I really just need an excuse to see if that hair frames what has to be a world-class ass when you walk across the floor, no sexual harassment intended, and sending you after them is as good an excuse as any.” Her eyes flashed as she stared at him with an intensity that almost made him blush. Almost. Adulation was his due, after all. “I also sell jeans, and you appear to have the rear cheeks that will sell a thousand pairs.”
Delsin grinned and winked, but made his way toward the door.
“Just beautiful,” Trina purred, making him toss his hair over one shoulder and expose the ass in question -- with a little extra jiggle in his walk, of course. He had an idea where to find Raidon and Adan. More than likely, they were just outside the room, on one of the untraceable satellite phones that Rika insisted they all use.
He had to tell them… he kind of liked Miss Trina. Finally, someone with some taste on this job!
As soon as the longhaired man was out of her range of hearing, Trina again focused in on Blain. “You, my lovely, deserve to be courted. Your face, your personality, your image, will make this line a success.”
“But I have no bleedin’ speaking parts that will show off my perfect personality!” Blain snorted, trying not to let his erection, uh, reaction -- no, attraction -- get in his way. “And there are three of us.” His accent was soft and lilting as he spoke to this -- this hottie of a powerful woman and gave her his best seductive eyes.
“But you are my centerpiece.” Trina winked at him.
She then turned to a sulking Edgar, and grinned. He pouted so hard it looked like she’d stolen his favorite toy away before he got a chance to play. Good one, she thought.
“And Edgar, dear,” she added, deciding he’d stewed enough in his own juices. “You did wonderfully picking out this one. I know your other choices will be exceptional.”
Edgar smiled at that faint praise, then turned and left the room as quietly as he had entered.
“Now I’m off to the dressing room to view the rest of the costumes before we head out to a more natural setting.” Trina’s voice was again cheerful and light. “Then we must gather the rest. Yes, the rest of you, I’m sure, are all gorgeous specimens of manhood.”
Chapter 6
The other gorgeous specimens of manhood were standing in the hall outside the huge photography studio, all holding cell phones and trying to look inconspicuous. Besides, wasn’t it natural for a model to hold a phone? They all did on TV anyway -- cell phones and big bottles of designer water.
They all looked damn cool and inconspicuous. Which was rather hard to do when you were dressed up like a pirate/businessman and a Samurai from the Tokogowa era.
“Are you getting anything now?” Raidon asked.
He and Adan were starting to grow disturbed by the lack of decent conversations their bugs were reporting. This was a huge company, for goodness’ sake! Where were the espionage, the subterfuge, the adulterous affairs? Daytime TV and the porn industry had to have something going on, right?
“Are the bugs malfunctioning?” he asked. “We’re sure we placed them all correctly.”
“But I’m getting nothing,” Barika countered, growing agitated himself. It was too quiet over the lines.
“Is it the equipment?” A faint wrinkle marred Adan’s brow, his sign of major distress. Too many expressions caused wrinkles, he remembered as he schooled his features.
“There’s nothing wrong with my equipment!” Barika’s slight British accent grew more pronounced as he bellowed over the phones, ready to toss his chair across his office back at Angels. “I double-checked everything before we left! Will only buys top quality stuff.”
They all nodded in agreement. They remembered the argument Shelby put up when Will presented her with the bill, and the proof that they needed equipment from The Spy Shop. Too bad the proof provided by the employees consisted of manufacturers’ brochures and copies of unsolicited testimonials from magazine articles. He eventually got his way, but he’d had to screw Shelby every time the incident came up in conversation -- and for over two months, too!
Because of all the extreme sex, he lost the ability to walk straight for ages, and they were all hard-pressed to find any ice in the bar for a long while. He was using it all for ice packs for his sorely used cock.
“But I should hear something -- people walking, typewriters, the low hum of conversation, background noises, something other than this total silence! Did you place them all in a deserted section?”
“Section?” This from two separate voices -- Adan and Raidon -- who both sounded equally confused.
“Yes, the halls, the cafeteria, the business offices…”
“Dressing rooms?” Raidon interrupted Barika’s list.
“One or two. Not really a secure enough area for espionage or evil plotting and…” Then he paused. “You put them all in one dressing room, didn’t you?” Barika’s voice was accusing.
Silence confirmed his sudden realization.
“Guys, you have to spread them out!” Barika sounded exasperated. “Who’s going to go into your dressing room and spill secrets?”
He was all ready to go over there and pound some sense, figuratively speaking, into them. Male model code of honor screamed, “Not the Face!” and he took the code seriously. But a few hours of hearing him scream about what they did wrong would equal a good beat down, Barika decided. He reached for his keys while gearing up mentally to let them have it in stereo.
But his exit was halted when he noticed something activate on his recorder, the little red action light blinking on. “Get back with you in a few. Something’s happening.”
He put his keys down and pulled on his earphones carefully.
When Barika’s mutterings had stopped, the three men, now that a weary Delsin had joined them, began to stare. And then begin the finger pointing.
“This is all your fault.” Adan pointed to Raidon, making the Japanese man roll his eyes.
“Equipment is not my job,” he sighed as he stared at his friend. “Why is it not your fault?”
“I’m
ferreting out secrets!” Adan returned, reverting to his more natural Spanish accent. “Equipment is not my thing. Shelby said so.”
“Then we blame Delsin!” Raidon reasoned.
Delsin took a step back at that accusation, dismay filling his eyes. He only came out of the studio to bring Adan and Raidon inside! “Why me?”
“Because you brought the stuff!”
“But I’m too pretty to think!” Delsin growled as his eyes flashed fire, and a fierce stare-down ensued.
After a few seconds of enduring the glare of death, he decided that his honor had been torn into pieces! It was time to defend himself!
Ready to go on the attack, he pushed up his sleeves.
Model fight!
Delsin tossed his hair, looking down his nose at Raidon -- a remarkable feat since he was about an inch shorter than the other man.
Raidon countered by fixing his eyes on his opponent and stepping around him, his graceful form seeming to flow as he sniffed and tossed his hair.
A magical and unseen wind began to blow, or so it seemed, tossing Raidon’s white curls around his head. It was a move that had gotten him a shampoo account years ago, and no one in the industry could match it.
When Raidon was behind the shorter man, Delsin countered by throwing one side of his hair over his shoulder and scoring a direct hit as his long, dark tresses flew into the other man’s face, adding insult by ensuring that he covered all of Raidon’s best features in the silky fall.
But Raidon wasn’t out.
He countered by letting Delsin’s hair flow over his body. He threw his head back in feigned ecstasy, as if relishing every strand of the dark, straight hair, moving as if its caress brought out everything that was sexy and erotic, and let it spill all over him.
At the point before bodies started undulating and clothes started flying, the photographer called for them.
Adan called a halt by screaming, “It’s a tie!” and then all hostilities were broken off as they moved toward the studio.
“I didn’t meant to gesture that you were a skank,” Delsin said to Raidon as they walked side by side into the dangers of the studio.
Shelby's Angels: When Irish Eyes Are Dying Page 4
