by Alison Kent
Finn snorted.
“Look. I understand your frustration—”
“No, Olivia. You don’t. There’s no way you can.”
She took a deep breath, tried again. “I don’t like being manipulated, either—”
“That’s not what’s frustrating me.”
“Then what—”
“Your dress.”
“What?”
“Your dress. Your dress is frustrating me.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t thought about what she was wearing for several minutes now. She hadn’t known Finn would be here tonight, so hadn’t chosen it with him in mind.
It was simply a dress that seemed to fit the occasion, a showing at a gallery that exhibited erotic art. It was also a dress she loved. She especially liked the way the fabric flowed, as thin as tissue paper, as opaque as frosted glass. “I’m glad you like it.”
A smile ticked at the corners of his mouth. “That wasn’t exactly what I said.”
“Then you’ll be glad to know I wore it because I like it, and because it’s not something I can wear just anywhere.”
“Good. I’d hate to think you wore it to get me to do what you want.”
She didn’t like having the choices she made in her dealings with others reduced to such a crass accusation. “I have a feeling we’re more alike than you care to admit.”
“How so?”
“Neither one of us allows outside influences to impact our decisions.”
“True enough, though there’s still a big difference between us.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t use my body to get my way.”
She was through trying to make him understand, or even to get him to accept. All she could hope for at this point was that he’d see how things were for himself while taking the photos Dustin wanted.
“Do you want to talk about the project?”
“Here? Now?”
She was game, but if he had reservations…“Would you rather meet in my office, make an appointment? Do you want Dustin in on the planning stages, since this is all his idea?”
“We can do that, sure, if that’s what you want,” he said, not seeming enthused by her suggestions.
Was he so confident that he assumed things would work themselves out without looking closely at the particulars? Was this how he did all of his business? Diving in and hoping things fell into place?
“You don’t think this needs to be planned?” she finally asked, remembering their first conversation, his casual nonchalance, which she’d known even then hid a sharp wit and keen mind.
He stepped back, considered her from head to toe. “What I think, no…What I wish is that I had my camera with me tonight. That I’d had it with me that night at Cigar Paolo.”
“You’re thinking spontaneity. Which is great, by the way. I get it. But I don’t think it’s practical for you to follow me twenty-four seven.”
He was following her now. Circling her. Walking around her and looking at her, at her dress. At her. “Not twenty-four seven, no. I was thinking more along the lines of me following you without you knowing about it.”
“And how would that work exactly? If I didn’t know you were there—”
“Then none of the shots would appear to be staged.”
Artistically, his idea was a good one. But he was making a lot of unnecessary work for himself. It wasn’t like she looked for reasons to expose herself, which he might just happen to catch on film. “I don’t see how that makes any practical sort of sense. And it would be a major waste of your time. And then there’s Dustin. As well off as he is, his funds aren’t endless.”
“Is he hiring me, or are you?”
They’d never discussed financing the project. “I’m not sure. It might be we split your fee.”
“Then I charge by the photo. Or we agree on a per diem for the days I actually shoot.”
She gave a quick laugh. “And this is how you make a living?”
“I’d bill enough to make it worth my while. Besides, I usually work more than one case at a time, and I’m sure I’ll find my answering service is holding some Miami inquiries with my messages.”
“I don’t know….”
“Let me ask you something.” He was standing in front of her again, his stance wide, his arms crossed over his chest. When he cocked his head, his hair skimmed his shoulder, a lock falling onto his forehead and into his eyes.
He shook it back. “If you know I’m watching you, will you act any differently than if you’re not sure I’m there?”
Interesting question. “I’ve never been self-conscious about what I do. Not until now, anyway. And it’s not even about being self-conscious. Not really…”
“It’s that you aren’t in control of your audience.”
Was that it? No. She didn’t think so. Not at all.
She’d always had peripheral onlookers; it couldn’t be helped. The public nature of what she did was the reason it worked. Those…extras. They’d never been within her control. Neither had she considered them her target.
Finn didn’t factor in the same way. He fell outside the umbrella of a collateral crowd. She knew him, was attracted to him. She would always wonder if he was there, what he was thinking about her, and what he saw.
But she couldn’t tell him that. It was hard enough to admit to herself that she cared about his opinion. Especially when she didn’t know why she did. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Dustin should have hired the photographer and told me about it after the fact.”
He let that sink in, met her gaze, his challenging her to go forward, to step up and get it done. “So what now?”
“Sleep on it?” It was all she could give him. She needed time.
What she didn’t need was to hear him ask her, “Sleep together? Or alone?”
Fifteen
Finn didn’t hear from Olivia on Friday. He supposed his second question had made her refrain from sleeping on the first, and she’d forgotten he was waiting for an answer on whether or not she wanted him for this job.
She hadn’t seemed particularly affronted when he’d let slip what he’d been thinking. That dress. Her body. Too much champagne. She could hardly be surprised.
He had, though, surprised himself. He was usually much more subtle, and he definitely had more class than to proposition a woman in a public venue. Yeah, sure, they’d been in a corner and more or less alone. That didn’t make things any better.
It was Saturday morning, and having inadvertently put an end to his employment with Dustin Parks, Finn figured he’d better pack his things and get on the road to Key Largo.
Olivia would know where to find him if she decided to go forward with the shoot and wanted to use him as her photographer. Really, he didn’t know why she would when there was a Yellow Pages full of pros to choose from.
He rolled another T-shirt into a tube and shoved it into the depths of his duffel bag, then shook the contents to settle them. He’d already packed up his camera and computer equipment and had those cases waiting by the door.
Once he gathered up the rest of his belongings, he’d be on his way. Er, he’d be on his way after making a quick pit stop at Downtown Blue. He was assuming he’d find Parks there on the weekend. If not, he’d swing by his condo in town.
He hadn’t yet decided on how detailed an explanation to give the other man. He’d run across the evidence of Roland Green’s romantic involvement by accident. It was what he’d been hired to ferret out, yes, but he didn’t want to cause Parks any unnecessary grief.
Finding out that his assistant was banging his boy might be a little grief heavy.
Finn would’ve been just as happy to live the rest of his life without having witnessed the tryst. He had told Olivia good night and had been heading back from the little boy’s room and toward the door when he’d seen movement in one of the gallery’s offices.
Being that it was way after hours, and him being a professional snoop, well, all he’d thought to do was
make sure things in the back offices were copacetic. They had been. At least for Roland Green and Jodi Fontaine. He wasn’t so sure Parks would see things the same way.
That was why he still hadn’t said a word to the other man. Because of Olivia, Finn had made more than Dustin’s casual acquaintance. And he wasn’t much for yanking the rug out from under a bro in deep hurt, which was where he was pretty sure Dustin would be once he broke the news.
“Finn?”
He’d been on his way to the bathroom for the things scattered around in there but turned toward the front door at the sound of Olivia’s voice. “Hey. What’s up?”
“I knocked,” she said, with a shrug, closing the door behind her, leaning against it even after the latch had snapped.
He gestured over one shoulder with his thumb. “Sorry. I was packing.”
Her eyes blinked wide. “You’re leaving?”
“I finished up what Parks hired me to do. No reason to stick around.” He headed back to the bedroom, waved her to come along.
While he dropped toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant in a pocket of his duffel, Olivia tossed her purse on the center of the bed and cocked one hip onto the edge. “Does that mean you’re turning down the photography job?”
“I wasn’t sure if the photography job was still on the table.” He grabbed a stack of boxers, shoved them all at once into the bag. “You were supposed to sleep on it and get back to me.”
“I didn’t realize my sleeping on it had a timetable.”
He shrugged. He supposed it didn’t. He’d just expected her to get back with him Friday. “When I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I figured that was it.”
She sighed, collapsed back, her elbows propped on his pillow. “Yesterday was a disaster. You can’t even imagine the chaos one small delivery can cause. I got wrapped up playing referee between Roland and one of our deliverymen. I thought the two of them were going to have each other’s heads.”
“’Bout what?” A couple more T-shirts, his swim trunks. He was missing a pair of jeans.
“Roland goes nuts if there’s even a hint of damage to any packages Tomás delivers. For the longest, I thought it might be some sort of feud over Carmen—”
“Carmen?”
“Splash’s manager. Roland manages Flambé.”
“You have two stores?”
She shook her head, her hair falling down her back in waves and teasing over his pillow. “Flambé is menswear; Splash women’s fashions. Tomás is Carmen’s boyfriend.”
“And something made you think Roland might be after her?” He stopped himself from mentioning the big African American man’s sexual orientation. He knew the truth, even if Olivia didn’t.
“That’s the thing. I’m quite sure Roland is gay, but he’s never said anything about dating anyone or about a significant other. And if he is straight, well, I haven’t noticed him showing any interest in Carmen.”
This was making no sense. “Then why’d you think she was an issue between the two men?”
“Really bad female intuition?” She sat straight again and laughed, the sound a light burst of fun in the room. “Seriously. I have the worst intuition of any female I know. Case in point. I had no clue Dustin was pining away for Roland.”
Finn found himself breathing a sigh of relief. “He told you that?”
She nodded, her expression melancholy. “Thursday night. We closed down the private showing, including finishing off what was left of the champagne.” She closed her eyes, groaned. “Another reason yesterday was pure hell.”
Finn found himself smiling at that. “I didn’t drink close to what you did, and I spent most of yesterday feeling like a gutted fish.”
“How do you know what a gutted fish feels like?”
“It can’t be good.”
This time she was the one who smiled at him, the one who tilted her head to one side and looked her fill of him, leaving him no choice but to walk away or let her watch him wiggle and squirm.
He heard her follow him into the kitchen, where he made sure he hadn’t left any takeout or beer in the fridge. The beer would go with him; the takeout into the trash he’d haul to the Dumpster on the way out.
He found the kitchen clear, leaving him nothing else to do but load up his Jeep. And deal with Olivia. “I guess that’s it. You want to grab my duffel while I stash the electronics in the Jeep’s lockbox?”
“I can, sure, but are you in a huge hurry? Could we go out to the deck and talk?”
The only thing they had to talk about was the photography job. “Sure.”
He followed her through the main room to the French doors, realizing this was the first time in her company that he hadn’t been able to see through her clothes, or down her clothes, or even up under what she wore.
Today she had on a sarong-style skirt, and it didn’t even blow open when she walked outside and into the breeze. She circled the deck’s table and sat in the far chair.
Finn took the one that was closer, maintaining the distance she’d put between them. He wondered if she’d done it on purpose, or if the far chair was the one she wanted.
“What’s on your mind? Do you want something to drink?” he asked, before remembering he’d just packed. “There’s water, or I could make some coffee.”
“I’m fine.” She pulled her sunglasses from the bag she wore strapped from her shoulder to her hip and slipped them on, hiding her eyes from him as well as the sun, even if that hadn’t been her intent. “I did sleep on things, hoping to figure out the best way to go about getting Dustin his pictures. It’s funny, but all of a sudden I’m committed to the project. Or maybe I’m just ready to get it out of the way so he’ll quit bugging me about it.”
Finn kept mum. It wouldn’t be smart to ask her what role he’d played in her decision. It wasn’t even smart to wonder if she’d considered him at all. Still, he had a hard time believing it was a coincidence that she hadn’t looked at the project seriously until he’d walked onto the scene. “Okay. So tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
She leaned back her head, lifted her face to the sun. “After we talked Thursday night, I realized that it won’t matter if I know you’re there or not. I’m going to wonder if you are. And me being distracted is going to throw me out of the right frame of mind.”
He liked that he distracted her, because she sure as hell distracted him. Even with her body covered and her clothes not revealing a thing. And it wasn’t even about her body, her skin, that damn gold chain. It was about how complicated she was, how there was so much more to her—and he knew there was—than what he’d seen so far on the surface.
She had…substance. And she had it in ways that intrigued him. “I guess that’s that, then. No reason for me to stay in Miami.”
“Not so fast. That’s not the only thing I came to realize.”
“Oh?” He had absolutely no idea where she was going, but again, he was intrigued.
“Unless Dustin had the photos done and told me about it after the fact, I’m going to be distracted by the process. It won’t matter who’s there clicking the camera’s shutter.”
Made sense. “Is that what you’re going to have him do? Hire someone when you’re least expecting it?”
“I should have, but now it’s too late. I’ll always be expecting it. And that’s why I’m here.”
He was lost. The sun on his skin was warm; the sea breeze salty and marine. “You going to give me more than that?”
She laughed and crossed her legs, toying with the charms dangling from one gold earring. “That would help, wouldn’t it? But you have to promise to hear me out and not veto the idea before you’ve thought it over.”
Sixteen
True to her word to keep what had happened between them confined to her office and that one single night, Jodi hadn’t been in touch with Roman since then. He had to admit surprise. As persistent as she’d been, he’d expected to find her camped on his stoop by the time he got home.
Worse
was how disappointed he’d been not to find her there. How much he’d wanted to scoop her up and dump her in his passenger seat and break the existing land speed record getting her to bed.
Some agent he was, exposing himself, blowing his cover, and not giving a holy rat’s ass.
Today, one of his two Saturdays off each month from his farce of a job at Splash & Flambé, he’d sworn to himself he’d do nothing but park his ass on the couch and watch college football.
Operation Bebé Bust was in a holding pattern, and yesterday at the store, Roman had thought the decision to give Tomás more time to hang himself was the worst one the task force could have made.
The man was getting too cocky, true, but a lot of that feeling had been influenced by his own distraction over the big, fat fuckup he’d made Thursday night with Jodi. She’d said she wouldn’t pursue him further, that having gotten what she wanted, she’d let go of her obsession. His words. His assessment. Not hers.
Except he had a hard time believing she’d been able to drop him so easily after her single-minded pursuit. And that had him itching, wondering what he might’ve missed.
He didn’t think she had a clue who he really was or what he was doing at Splash & Flambé, but if she did, and if he’d given her ammunition to destroy all the work the task force had done…
Christ. Shit. Christ.
He grabbed the cordless handset from the arm of his couch and dialed her. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t ask who he was, what he wanted, or why he was calling when he’d set their no-contact rules. “Do you know where I live?”
He did but said, “No.”
She gave him the address. “I’m at the pool. Bring a suit.”
And then she clicked off. He headed for his bedroom, where he stripped out of his boxers to pull on a pair of purple and navy print trunks. He grabbed a matching blue camp shirt, slipped it on, and shoved his feet into his sandals. Wallet, keys, his weapon, and he was out the door and on the road.
