WickedSeduction

by Tina Donahue

  Marnie trembled with desire, unable to push aside what she felt.

  If forced to choose what part of him she liked best, his eyes would have won easily, followed by his full, chiseled mouth, the dimples in each cheek when he grinned. Simply remembering his welcoming smile caused Marnie’s breathing to pick up and spoke to everything she’d longed for in a partner but never had.

  He seemed to be a man who smiled often…who wasn’t mean, controlling, dangerous. How to be certain though? A few exchanged glances or even an initial conversation wasn’t proof a guy was good.

  Why are you even thinking this?

  Looking for a hookup or a lasting relationship with any man wasn’t what Marnie could risk at this point in her life. Sure, she was lonely but her survival mattered the most, along with going through with what she’d planned to do today.

  This time, she’d only managed to get as far as the front of Wicked Brand. Finding enough courage to go inside and ask for what she needed to was more than she’d been able to handle.

  Kneading the back of her neck, Marnie entered Alice’s Wonderland, the high-end giftshop where she worked. A blast of icy air washed over her, cooling her sticky skin. She blew out a sigh.

  Alice Peters, the owner, turned at the sound of the front bells jingling. Well into her sixties, Alice wore her gray hair shorter than most hairstyles for men. Elaborate, beaded earrings hung nearly to her shoulders, the bright-purple color matching her cat-eye glasses. Her vintage top and skirt were a blast from the hippie-sixties past, both garments in black with sparkly silver embroidery.

  Two elderly couples roamed the shop, glancing at imitation Tiffany shades, wrought iron and crystal chandeliers, elaborate candelabras and no end of funky stuff, each piece as unique as Alice.

  Giving Marnie a broad smile, Alice gestured her toward the door to the stockroom, the area deserted.

  Marnie pointed over her shoulder at the couples and mouthed, shouldn’t I wait on them?

  Alice shook her head and gestured Marnie closer.

  The moment she was near, Alice leaned in, sending a wave of her scent toward Marnie. The older woman smelled sweet and powdery, the way a mom should, at least in Marnie’s opinion. Since losing her mother, she appreciated Alice filling some of the emptiness.

  “Did you talk to him?” Alice asked quietly. “What did he say?”

  Marnie held back a sigh, feeling like a fool for not having done what she’d set out to do. Hell, she wasn’t helpless, never had been really, and should start behaving like the adult she was.

  “He was busy,” she finally said, not liking to hedge but not wanting to get into the details of what happened either.

  Alice took Marnie’s hand, squeezing her fingers gently.

  “No biggie if you didn’t go in,” Alice said, clearly guessing what had happened. “These things take time.”

  “I’m twenty-seven. I should be able to go into a tattoo parlor without too much thought.”

  “You will.” Alice cradled Marnie’s cheek, her touch light and loving. “Quit being so hard on yourself. Small steps, remember?”

  The same advice Marnie’s therapist kept repeating, telling her there were no defeats unless she gave up.

  “I don’t know if I can go to him or if I should,” Marnie said without thinking.

  “Why? Does he remind you of—?”

  “No, it’s not that—we looked at each other.” Marnie’s body flooded with heat at the memory, her nipples peaking more at the image of Tor in her mind than the chilly air in the shop. “Our eyes met for minutes—maybe seconds. I don’t know. Everything seemed to stop.”

  “In a good or bad way?” Alice asked.

  Marnie lifted her shoulders. “Felt good. Probably better than it should, given what a lousy judge I am of men.” Recalling how clueless she’d been in the past, her face and throat got even hotter.

  “Could be he looked at you because you’re beautiful,” Alice said.

  Marnie shook her head.

  “You are.”

  “You didn’t see the other women there.”

  “Did he stare at them?”

  No. Thinking back, Marnie recalled how he’d glanced at the others, not focusing on anyone for long…until he’d seen her staring—or rather ogling.

  Oh crap. She nearly groaned. No wonder he’d reacted as he had; she’d behaved as badly as the others had.

  “What?” Alice asked.

  “He grinned when he saw me gawking at him. God, I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Why?”

  Clearly, Alice needed to act more like a woman her age. “Because.” Before another “why” came her way, Marnie decided to change the subject. “His pictures in the paper don’t do him justice. He has dimples.”

  “Wow. Sounds hot.”

  Very. Marnie smiled.

  “From what I’ve read about him and seen on TV, he seems like a nice guy too,” Alice said.

  Marnie’s smile faded immediately. “Maybe.”

  “Sweetie, there are good men out there. I was married to one for forty years before the bum died on me.”

  Marnie laughed before she could stop herself and quickly slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I’m not making light of your loss.”

  “I know.” Alice hugged Marnie hard. “You’re too serious though. You need to loosen up, have some fun and start trusting.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “That’s all anyone asks.” With her arm around Marnie’s waist, Alice led her to the business end of the shop. “During lunch tomorrow, you can try again. Or make a call to the parlor now.” She started to lift the receiver of the landline phone on the counter.

  Marnie eased Alice’s hand away. “I need to do this in person.”

  As soon as she got the guts.

  Chapter Two

  Several days later, Tor stood next to his sketches, warning himself not to get too excited about a possible sale. Polly Kitchum, a tourist from Minnesota, couldn’t decide which of his pieces she liked best—one of his black-and-white, stylized portraits or a whimsical image, depicting a carousel at a local park. The pastels he’d used on the second illustration evoked an idealized version of childhood, hazy and golden.

  “Hank.” She turned to her husband.

  The old guy was dressed in a red polo shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, running shoes and white socks covering his spindly calves. He alternately squinted at photos of tats on the wall and at Van Gogh, who was inking a middle-aged tourist in the chair in front of the window. The man had chosen a design with a series of green buttons running down the right side of his beer belly with the buttonholes on the left. A black gap in the middle gave the illusion of his unbuttoned skin separating over the nothingness inside him.

  The guy grinned like a fool. His wife stood nearby, shaking her head. On the other side of the window, men who looked to be in their fifties and sixties watched raptly. While Tor’s audiences were mainly women, Van Gogh drew men who were primed for a midlife crisis.

  “Hank,” Polly said again, her voice louder than the recording of Maná and Shakira’s Mi Verdad filling the parlor.

  Hank held up his forefinger. “In a sec.”

  He moved closer to Van Gogh, who’d bulked up quite a bit since Tor had joined Wicked Brand.

  Six months ago, Van Gogh had been a skinny, weird-looking kid. With the help of thirty extra pounds and lifting weights, he sported actual muscles now. Gone was the scraggly goatee. He’d even stopped shaving his head, letting his hair grow out.

  Tor figured the change in Van Gogh was because he had to ink clients in the front window. Like anyone else, he wanted to look good.

  His dour expression, however… Poor guy didn’t like being the center of attention and his feelings showed big-time, no doubt chasing away the babes.

  Hank seemed more impressed by the bullet wound tats on Van Gogh’s arms than his personality. Each of the 3-D holes seeped blood in glorious color. Peeking out from the top of Van Gogh�
�s tank top was the outstanding design on his chest, which he’d actually inked himself.

  The moment Van Gogh had finished with another button on his client’s belly, Hank cleared his throat loudly. “Ah, hi. I read about your chest tattoo on the Internet. Can I see?”

  “Why?” Polly asked, crossing the room to her husband.

  Tor held back a sigh, telling himself this sale definitely wouldn’t go through. Polly looked ready to haul her husband out of there before he could sign up for a tat.

  “I just want to see,” Hank said to her.

  Van Gogh turned to his client. “Give me a sec.” He put down his tattoo gun and lifted his top.

  Hank’s eyes rounded at the design. The image showed what appeared to be Van Gogh’s skin ripped away to reveal his guts underneath—ribs, heart…

  Hank whistled. Polly made a face.

  “If I were thirty years younger,” Hank said.

  Polly smiled weakly and slipped her arm through his. “I need your help, sweetie. I don’t know which drawing to take.” She hauled him back to Tor.

  While the couple went back and forth over which sketch was best for their home, Tor waited patiently, pretending his pulse wasn’t sprinting in anticipation. Usually when people behaved like this, the husband told the wife to sleep on her decision, promising they’d return the following day for the purchase.

  They never had.

  Don’t put too much hope in—

  “Aw hell,” Hank said. “Take both if you like them so much.”

  Squealing, Polly threw her arms around him.

  Tor might have done the same if the gesture wouldn’t have been weird. “Let’s get you rung up. Jasmina?”

  She came down the hall, clipboard in hand. “Yep.”

  “Can you write up Polly and Hank’s purchases?” Tor pulled the drawings off the wall, both of them nearly as tall as he was. “Be back as soon as I wrap these.”

  “I’ll bring the car around,” Hank said and left the parlor.

  Tor made fast work of slipping the pieces into packaging at his station.

  Lauren popped in. “Wow, heard about your huge sale. Major congrats.” She high-fived him. “Next time, make it three sketches.”

  He laughed. “I was sweating bullets through two.” He spoke as softly as she had so those up front couldn’t overhear. “Three might kill me.”

  “No dying until you sell everything on the walls.” She backed out of his station and winked. “I know you will.”

  Grinning like a kid at Christmas, Tor hauled the artwork to the front.

  Polly touched the packaging carefully, as though she might damage the drawings inside. “I’m so excited.”

  “Me too,” Tor said.

  Laughing, she gestured to the front door. “Hank just pulled up. He’s double-parked.”

  “I’ll hurry.”

  “Not too much. I don’t want you hurting my drawings.”

  “Absolutely not,” Tor said, liking how she’d said my drawings, taking emotional possession of his work. Always a good sign for a return visit to buy more. “I’ll be careful.”

  Just past the front door, he stopped abruptly. Facing Tor was the young woman from earlier in the week. Her slender eyebrows lifted slightly, as though she hadn’t expected to see him.

  Tor grinned, excited and pleased as hell to be this close to her, his heart slamming into his chest. “Hi.”

  Color rose to her cheeks, making her even prettier, soft and vulnerable in a good way. “Hi.”

  “I’ll be with you in a sec,” he said to her. “Soon as I finish with this.” He lifted the artwork.

  Her blush deepened. She glanced past him to Van Gogh. Had Tor made a mistake? Was she interested in having Van Gogh do whatever work she had in mind?

  Tor’s smile felt dumb, suddenly. Damn, he’d really misjudged what had happened the other day, thinking they’d shared a deep connection. Apparently not for her.

  “Ah, Van Gogh will be with you as soon as he can,” Tor said. “If he doesn’t have another client, your wait shouldn’t be too long.”

  “I don’t…” She didn’t continue.

  “Don’t what?” Tor asked.

  She shifted from foot to foot, her gauzy, white skirt fluttering around her ankles. This afternoon, like the previous one, she’d covered up most of her body, her long-sleeved, white shirt tied at the waist rather than above her midriff. He wondered if she had to dress that way for work.

  After glancing at Van Gogh again and looking torn, she suddenly turned to Tor. “I can talk to you—I want to. Whenever you have a minute.”

  Tor wished he had one right now. If he could have tossed his artwork at Hank without pissing off Polly, he would have. The woman kept tapping his shoulder.

  “Hank’s double-parked,” she said again.

  “I know the cops around here,” Tor said. Actually, his brother Dante did, being an attorney. “I promise, no one will give you a ticket.”

  “Hank’s still waiting.”

  Right. She wanted Tor to act like the professional he was supposed to be. He gave the young woman a gentle smile. “Be back in a sec.”

  “You will be careful, right?” Polly asked. “You won’t rush.”

  “Never.”

  Tor forced himself to take more time than needed as he put the sketches in the rear of the couple’s Toyota hatchback.

  Before he could move away, Polly touched his arm. Looking up at him, she squinted at the brilliant sun. “How do I take care of my drawings?”

  Without thinking, Tor glanced at the parlor. Rather than having gone inside, the young woman waited for him by the door. If he’d been a gambling man, Tor would have bet she was debating whether to leave.

  Reining in his desire to join her, he turned to Polly. “Don’t handle the drawings unless you absolutely have to. No touching the surfaces to see how they feel. Your fingertips have oil on them you don’t want to leave on the artwork. Wash your hands first or wear gloves if you absolutely have to touch the drawings to move them or whatever. Never place them in direct sunlight or they could fade. Keep them in a cool, dry place and—”

  “Wait. I need to get this down. I’ll send myself a text.” She pulled out her smartphone, fiddled with the device, and finally nodded. “Okay, repeat what you just said.”

  Good God. Although he’d be forever grateful that Polly liked and had bought his work, Tor still wanted to get back to the parlor before the end of today. Suppressing a sigh, he repeated what he’d said earlier, adding information on the extra care one had to give drawings in ink and those in pastels.

  Seconds after he’d finished, Polly kept tapping on her phone. At last, she beamed. “Got it. I’m so excited.” She gave him a hard hug. “I’m telling my friends about this place and you.”

  Tor’s face got hot with his grateful blush. “Thanks, I appreciate you spreading the word.”

  She dismissed his appreciation with a wave of her hand. “You have talent to spare. Someday you’re gonna be big. And I’m gonna get rich because I have your early work.”

  He laughed.

  Hank cleared his throat. “Babe, we are double-parked.”

  After Polly hurried into the passenger seat, Tor waved them on their way, watching until they’d turned down another street and disappeared from view.

  Hot damn. Tor approached the young woman, relieved she was still there. “Hi.” He offered his hand. “Tor Avana.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her fingers across his palm.

  Every nerve-ending in Tor’s body fired, sending a tsunami of delight through him. Her skin was achingly soft, delightfully warm. Hell, if merely touching her hand did this to him, what was going to happen when they engaged in something truly intimate? Kissing. Stripping. Crawling naked over each other, mouths, tongues, hands exploring with shameless desire.

  “Marnie Cruz,” she said.

  Marnie, short for Marina? Tor smiled at her nickname and fragrance, a light, floral scent fresh as
spring flowers, enticing as the caress of a heated breeze. “Nice to meet you, Marnie.”

  She hesitated for a moment, smiled but eased her hand from his. “You too, Tor.”

  Clearly, she didn’t want him coming on too strong. Her call. He’d always respected a woman’s boundaries.

  “Want to go inside? It’s cooler.”

  Again, she seemed reluctant. “Maybe I should ask what I have to first.”

  “Sure.” Many people were hesitant about getting tats or piercings, needing to weigh the pros and cons first. “What do you want to know?”

  She moved away from the parlor, as though worried someone might overhear what she said.

  Tor followed. Once she’d stopped and faced him again, he shielded his eyes from the sun. The rays backlighted Marnie’s hair, bringing out the red highlights, making her tempting as hell. Even from where he stood, Tor caught a whiff of her shampoo, the scent sweet and seductive.

  “Do you do special tattoos?” she asked.

  Her question surprised him. He’d expected her to ask about pain and sanitary conditions—if she could get an infection from the ink or, God forbid, a blood disease. Some women wanted to know what the tat would look like in forty years. If wrinkled skin would make the design too awful for words.

  “Special?” he asked. “You mean like a unique design? Sure. I can create whatever you want. The same goes for giving an image depth, the illusion of 3-D, until the flower, butterfly, lace or whatever looks more genuine than the real thing.” He grinned. “We have Fluorescent tats too. They’re practically invisible until you turn on a black light then pow you can see the design. Totally amazing.”

  She smiled weakly. “I’m sure, but that’s not what I meant.”

  Oh. Tor thought he’d seen everything but hey, he was only human. Some stuff did get by him in the ink world. “You have a design you’ve seen somewhere else? A picture maybe?”

  “No.” She seemed daunted then oddly resolved. “Do you have any tats to cover scars?”

  Without thinking, he glanced at her long sleeves and skirt. Rude, he knew, but Tor hadn’t been able to help himself. No wonder she wore the kind of clothes she did, her decision to do so in this horrible heat finally making sense. He wondered if she’d been in a car accident and figured she had. “Yeah. Sure. Do it all the time.”